Smile, dear Jeeves!

I have now slowly begun to make sense of the non-filmy, real-life British sense of humour. Three instances from the recent past:

Sometime in December 2023...

A bus to "Paignton" arrives. As I board it, my Indian/Malayali insecure self is turned on.

Me to the driver: "Does this one go to the 'Paignton Bus Station'? (Abbey bhootni ke, Paignton dekh ke chadha kaahe ko?)

Driver, a faint smile breaking out: "If you insist..."

I go hide behind a seat.

...

Sometime in January...

Gayathri and I get chatty with a cab driver. Now, imagine him as the Jeeves type -- mid-40s, balding, chin up, and stone-faced.

"Are you from around Paignton?"

"Born and bred in Paignton, sir. Never left town. Though my wife is the other kind."

"Ah ok. Difficult imagining you as a couple. One who never left town, the other who never saw Paignton till marriage."

"Not much to complain about, sir. We have a good relationship. Especially financially."

"How is that?"

"I earn, she spends."

....

Last week, on a bus...

A couple walks in with a handsome black labrador. Settles somewhere in the back seat of the lower deck of the double-decker.

A little later, another couple walks in with a breed that looks like a smaller version of a boxer. Active chap, this brown dog. Sits across the aisle from me.

Still later, a lady in her 40s walks in with a beagle-like breed. The driver has a brief chat with this one -- the lady, I mean.

She walks up to the boxer-like dog's owners and speaks (Here, imagine the voice of Bernadette of the Big Bang Theory): "Darling, could you take your pet to the upper deck. The driver says only one per deck. I would have gone up, but mine's broken its leg. I am sorry."

The boxer-like dog is taken up without any fuss. Then an elderly lady reminds the Bernadette-like one: "But there's another one behind, my love."

The lady with a Bernadette-like voice takes a peek at the back of the bus, nods with a smile and screeches, but politely: "I know, but what could be done? Anyway, they are better behaved than most people on a bus. Drivers should start throwing bones at people boarding, you know? Who knows, they could be trained, too!"

Go, garbage, Goa!

The garbage disposal system in Paignton is even more complicated -- and involves a steeper penalty (£1,000) if done wrongly – than in Swansea. There are four different types that garbage-generators need to segregate before disposal in 3-4 separate bins.

But then, why should that matter to the garbage collector’s Kerala-Goa plans this winter?

We haven’t been able to lose the rubbish since moving into Paignton. The house was filling up. Today, finally, I was ready to clear it all after days of confusion over the time and day of collection.

So, I was up at 5.30am at -2 degrees, having readied cardboard cartons – the local council’s new bins haven’t yet arrived and the old ones are a mess. Here I was waiting for the 6am collection truck that finally arrived only at 7 am, with a bunch of three men and a woman – all jolly and friendly.

I walk up to inform them of my situation without waste-bins. They brush aside my concerns and ask me to get all the garbage I want.

As I get the first carton down, one of the four asks me, “Are you from India?”

Trying to hold on to the plastic covers flowing out, I answer hurriedly in the affirmative. As I turn around to get the next one, he asks, “Which part?”

“Kerala…” and I hurry back. “Oh, Kerala…great…” I hear from behind.

On arrival with the next box – aluminium foil, food wrappers, milk cartons etc – he says, “I’m going there, mate. End of the month.” Meanwhile, the freezing sea breeze is killing me. But I’m amused, nevertheless.

“Nice. Been there before?”

“Nope. But heard a lot and am really excited…”

I smile. And return for the next carton -- and also to get away from the bite even if only for a few seconds.

This time it is thermocol, bubble-wrap, and the like. Light, but large, and even more unwieldy in the breeze…Gayathri’s trying to pick and collect whatever I’m dropping or what’s flying away…

But the man is irrepressible. “This is my schedule…first stop, Condolim,” he pulls out his smartphone to show me.

I’m trying to keep a straight face from behind the bubble wrapper that’s fluttering into my eye.

“Condolim isn’t in Kerala. That’s Goa. But it’s the same region, climate, and topography,” I manage to say with a smile.

His colleague then comes over to cheerfully explain what I need to do with my valuables the next time, which is the next weekend. He helpfully hands me labels for the bins that will arrive from the council shortly. “You’ll have to manage the plastic covers on your own the next time. There’s a public utility around…”

“How far is Condolim from Kerala? You been there?”

I am now strung. What or whom should I focus on? Garbage man explaining garbage, garbage man looking for tourist guide, garbage woman jumping on a cardboard box to flatten it, or the garbage-flutterer breeze…

Luckily, the explanation is done easier – so is the flattening. And I can’t do much about the breeze anyway. The tourist guide slips into me. I give him a brief of what to expect, talking about tropical heat and humidity in -2.

“Dad there’s one more…” Gayathri calls out. Oh, the food waste…

I head back again for the smallest cover and return quickly. “I’m looking forward to the warm sun…the beaches.”

“You have fun…”

Garbage man-going-Goa finally bids farewell because, before Goa there is more garbage. Two weeks more of garbage.

The truck, with its disco lights going crazy non-stop and bringing images from Koyi kahe, Kehta rahe to my mind, moves on.

Go, garbage, Goa!

I was returning from Aylesbury yesterday after having spent some time with my sisters Lakshmi Menon and Srilatha Menon and brother-in-law Harish Nair. I took a train from Paddington to Swansea. A minute into the journey a man and his little girl came and sat beside me. I was reading Art Buchwald — the article was on the Iraq war.

The man suddenly asked me what the book was about. I answered. He didn't let up. He asked me about Art...and then went on to suggest the podcast "Empire". Heaped praise on Dalrymple.

I gave up and shut my book to engage with him.

Turns out, Asim Vane is a Kashmiri -- Gilgit native -- from Lahore. A doctor who immigrated to the UK seven years ago and now works as a GP here. His wife's an anesthesiologist and he has another, elder, daughter.

He became visibly happier on realising I'm from India. Quickly slipped into Urdu. Very charming fellow in his 30s or early 40s.

Asim had moved to the UK for the sake of his daughters after seeing the conditions in his country deteriorate. As expected, he asked me about my move. I only said, "Humme zyada fark nahi hai, Asim." Didn't bother to elaborate.

Before stepping off at Cardiff, we exchanged contact numbers, hoping to keep in touch.

Interestingly, only two weeks ago, while returning from Leeds, I got into a taxi and was whistling "Ye raat bheegi bheegi..." when the taxi driver -- Gilgit native, again -- asked me politely if I could sing the song instead of whistling. I did. He was so thankful. Before driving away, he said: "Aap se milke bohut sukoon mila..."

I mentioned this to Asim...and he simply said: "You never know...we Kashmiris are separated only by a few degrees...he could be related to me."

The Malayali in me felt that familiar surge of endorphin at that moment.

:D

"Teff...I'm deaf, too"

Sometime in early July…

“Hello! May I join you at this table if it’s alright?”

The elderly but spry man approached me, looking to sit in the chair opposite mine at the Swansea city library. I welcomed him, and we immediately hit it off.

The Englishman-turned-honorary Welshman’s friendly demeanour was warm and welcoming, like those of so many other elderly persons I regularly meet at the library nowadays.

“I’m quite deaf…” he often said, reminding me to speak slightly louder than usual even though we met in a library. I thought of informing him about my own defective auditory problem but skipped it for now. His 85 years and my 43 weren't really comparable.

Like any good Englishman, he rarely missed a quip on the weather. Sometimes I’d, too, go faux British with a “Great day, eh?” if only to amuse him. He’d look out of the library window with stretched arms and a happy smile.

Around the fourth or fifth time we met, I walked away after the usual pleasantries, then turned around and walked back to him to finally ask: “Hey, I keep forgetting this…what is your name?”

He was lost as my voice hadn't reached him. I repeated my question, only slightly louder. He smiled, put his hand to his pinna, and said, “Teff…”

….

Over the next few months, we greeted and politely enquired about each other’s well-being and weekends, before passing the day’s edition of The Telegraph. I would often do a slightly louder-than-usual, "Hello Teff..." for his benefit.

We bantered; Teff briefly narrated his 85-year history as an Englishman in Wales, a banker, and an average British Joe. On my part, I fed—often twice over, given his hearing problem—his curiosity about India and my job as a journalist.

Teff is chubby but looks at least two decades younger than his age. A Tory voter, he is also a practitioner of Tai Chi and meditates regularly. He was widowed 25 years ago. He then made a girlfriend with whom he lived in his home of eight decades till she, too, died two years ago. Now he lives alone and is enjoying it.

“I am not going to be around forever, so I’m giving these last few days of mine my everything,” Teff said.

Two weeks ago, I told him that I needed someone to give me the British view on current affairs. Two days after he promised to look around, he offered his own service.

I was glad. I couldn’t have asked for a more experienced and enthusiastic Briton. So that was fixed. The first two and most obvious subjects for starters: The average Briton’s relationship with the monarchy and next year’s national election. Yesterday, over a cup of mocha, we had a good insightful hour-long discussion on these subjects.

After wrapping it up, I told him we should next go with “Israel-Palestine” and Britain's controversial “High-Speed Rail”. He put his hand to the ear and said, “Sorry…?” Teff then suggested I email him the subjects so that he could come prepared.

“Sure, gimme your ID.”

He wrote it down: davidmaddox****@gmail.com

I looked at him, perplexed. “David Maddox?”

Teff put his finger to his pinna again and said, “Eh? Sorry…Deaf”

I sighed, nodded, and mumbled: “So am I Teff, I mean David…So am I!”

All reac

Like

Comment

Share

We are chatting a lot with nothing much to say

 

“Mazha undo avide?” (Malayalam for "Is it raining there?")

This question, asked without any genuine interest or reason, is a filler in most Malayali telephonic exchanges. It changes slightly with seasons: mazha replaced by choodu (heat), thanuppu (cold) and what not. A recent favourite is "Entha corona vishesham avide?” (What’s the latest on corona there?)

Others in the genre are “Pinne enthokkeya?” and “vere enthundu”, both meaning “What else?”, evoking the anodyne “Ingane ponu” (Going on as usual) response.

The moment these questions are asked, you know the dialogue has emptied out and could end anytime now. They indicate boredom and some level of impatience.

In recent times, these questions have begun to spring up much earlier than usual. Calls and video chats are, thus, getting shorter on average. The reason: The frequency of calls (to the same person) has increased, thanks to technology and cheaper data charges.

In the mid-1990s, mom used to call us on the landline from Kuwait once a month. Today, living in Thane, I often chat with people in Kuwait, London, Bahrain, and Kerala simultaneously -- every day.

Result: There is only so much you have got to say to individuals. Most of it has already been conveyed over WhatsApp. Calling over the phone is now more of a boring formality (A video chat may still carry some flavour, with its novelty yet to wear off).

The ease of communication has led to a paucity of content, thanks to mindless overuse.

Besides, it is also killing nostalgia. Fewer memories are being formed and retained as precious. Because there is no real separation, the glue that builds memories.

Take a class of school students, for instance. Till some 20 years ago, graduating meant most classmates are unlikely to meet for a long time and some never again. That gave our brain space to build an aura around old chums, switch on the mind’s sepia mode after a while, and indulge in the mythification of our pasts (Trust me. Most great things from our past were never really that great. We puffed them up to feel good about ourselves).

That doesn’t happen anymore. We are all only a message/call away -- often annoyingly enough. Chat groups have absolutely destroyed the process of nostalgia creation. Worse, they have even destroyed the treasures of the pre-internet generations’ mindscapes by pooling the old-timers back into reality.

So today, we chat, we don’t converse. We share random info, philosophical memes, and reactions (sometimes extreme and mostly miscommunicated) with each other -- and quickly forget. We don’t take time to internalise.

What we need is less chatting and more shared real experiences. Only those will revive conversations -- and nostalgia.

"The UK is busted": Wales Independence March, Swansea

 

Thousands of natives of Wales, along with their supporters from outside the country, marched cheerfully today (May 20) in the bay town of Swansea, demanding independence from the United Kingdom.  

A police official deployed to the march reckoned at least 3,000 people participated in the march that proceeded along the arterial roads of the town centre before congregating in the open ground near the Swansea Waterfront Museum.

The march saw cheery participants from at least three different political parties, including the Communist Party and the Wales Green Party. It was, dominated by Plaid Cymru—the Party of Wales. The event was organised by YesCymru, a non-party political campaign for an independent Wales. 

"This is a call for the UK government to take notice," said Clement Louis, a member of Plaid Cymru. "There is growing awareness of the neglect of Wales...Over half the people here today, at least, don't speak Welsh. They have sympathy...," said the 73-year-old retired English language teacher.    

The key issues that, according to the marchers, have fueled the demand for Welsh independence include the general "contempt" the central government allegedly has for their country, the economic neglect it has suffered over the years, and the steady effacing of the Welsh language.

The marchers also seemed to espouse, alongside the Welsh identity, a bouquet of causes, from trans rights to "Black Lives Matter" to "Tory racism". Britain's Conservative Party seemed to have evoked much snark in the marchers, some of whom carried placards ridiculing the ruling outfit.

Why Wales feels neglected

"The United Kingdom is busted. We keep trying to resuscitate it. I don't see any way out of it, except for breaking it up and starting again, really," travel writer Mike Parker, a native of  England himself, told me at the end of the march. 

"It (Wales) is only ever an afterthought. The UK is such a centralized economy...the country is so skewed towards its southeast corner. London is this great planet that eats up all the resources. It is so disproportionate, and that's why I say we need to rebalance," said Parker, author of Rough Guide to Wales.

A pamphlet issued by the marchers today asserted that Wales needed "a change of direction", with policies that will help its economy recover, provide good jobs for people and raise living standards. 

Another leaflet, emphasising why the country needed independence from the UK, focused specifically on the "Great Train Robbery." This was an allusion to the great rail project planned to connect Manchester, Birmingham, and London, but designated an "England and Wales" endeavour. The notice claimed Wales had been shortchanged by £5 billion. 

It also alleged that Wales had some of the highest energy bills in the UK, with some parts of the country "clocking in at £120 a year more than" the cheapest region in England.  

While most participants of the March that I spoke to did not venture to set a time horizon for their efforts to fructify, some, like Parker, felt a lot of change could happen over the next decade. However, a poll of more than 1,000 people in the month of March reportedly showed an all-time low of 18% support for Wales to be an independent country if a referendum "was held tomorrow". 

Nevertheless, participation in today's march indicates that the urge for independence, even if relatively slim, is alive and kicking just under the skin.

Orphaned: SL Bhyrappa

(English translation of Tabbali Neenade Makane -- "Son, You've Been Orphaned" -- from Kannada)

Outstanding. Powerful. Absolutely heartwrenching. The novel is so powerful, it moved even me, an ardent beef fan.

Ok, let's say "almost moved me".

Because the book is also perhaps the best work of bigotry -- even outright racism -- that I have read among Indian works of fiction. And I am worried that Hindutva will see it as a tool in India 2023.

The story's primary themes are straight from Hindutva's playbook: the cow is our mother and Indian-versus-western civilisation. And underpinning it are older ideas: The village Brahmin is noble, he is the guide, and that others must follow him--and traditions—without asking questions.

Bhyrappa, however, unwittingly exposes the Brahmin, too. Be it birth in the family, death, local issues, or politics, it is always the Brahmin who gains materially. Question that "daana", and get savaged.

The following is an example of such casteism which sticks out despite Bhyrappa's best efforts to put the Brahmin on the pedestal. It is clearly an extension of the blindly favoured and quoted "Karmanye Vaadhikaraste...":

Gomootraanaacharet snaanam vrittim kuryaasca gorasaih

 Gobhirvarceccha bhuktaasu bhunjeetaatha govratii

(Bathing in the cow’s urine, earning livelihood using only the nourishment the cow provides in the form of milk, curd and others, always walking behind the cow, and eating only after the cow has finished eating.)

This was the lifestyle prescribed for one who had taken a sacred vow to serve the cow all his life. This was what Gowda (cowherd) had learnt when he was still a very young boy. In fact, it was this Jois who had taught him this mantra and explained its meaning. Gowda was unfailingly practising this sacred vow in accordance with the tradition handed down to him by his lineage, to the best of his abilities...

So crudely is the caste system alluded to in the book that you immediately wonder why non-Brahmin Hindus of India have not risen up yet in outrage and thrown the system into the sea.

And that's when you come to this line—"In fact, it was this Jois (Brahmin) who had taught him this mantra and explained its meaning"—and arrive at the obvious conclusion that the priestly class has been benevolently brainwashing us, all along, too.

Girish Karnad and BV Karanth watered down the powerful rubbish in the book considerably for the movie. If you haven't yet watched "Tabbaliyu Neenade Makane" in Kannada or "Godhuli" in Hindi, do not waste one minute.

The book translation itself is rudimentary. Perhaps that added to its charm. I could imagine the translator Sandeep Balakrishna thinking in Kannada and writing in English.

What stands out beyond the ideological wrestling in the book is the legend of Punyakoti, the foundation of Bhyrappa's story.

"Satyave Bhagavantavenda Punyakotiya Katheyidu..."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ptohZQYc-1U

Translation: "This is the story of Punyakoti the cow who said is god."

Only, the imputation is misplaced by Bhyrappa.