A Valentine's Day (aka Aam Pappad day) tale

I wrote this about five or six years ago...Aam Pappad still works its charm with bharya priyaa...shall get her some today ...

On Sunday I was driving in the Niagara area where I saw all these billboards advertising fantastic getaway deals with one’s loved and beloved one, for Valentine’s Day, on Monday. They talked of jacuzzis, saunas, candlelight dinners and all that. Looking at those advertisements I remembered what a hotelier friend of mine told me once. He said, ‘What we do not advertise so blatantly are the afternoon lunches and afternoon getaways for those who cannot come out openly with their beloved and be seen eating out dinners or checking into hotel rooms…’ ‘Interesting,’ I told myself, ‘there is an underground market in everything…even love…’ Perhaps there is a fast check-in counter at these hotels where you do not have to wait in line and risk being seen checking in on Valentine’s Day afternoon after you have told your boss that you have a cold and do not want to pass the germs around, and, will be working from home.

 

I returned home and had just settled in my arm-chair to read a book, when my daughter walked in and said, ‘Dad. You should give Mum a Valentine’s day gift…’ ‘Uh…um’ I said continuing to read the book. ‘Dad, I said, you should be more romantic with Mum…give her a gift for Valentine’s Day’ this came through with the customary vehemence of a twenty something woman with ideas on life, and, had the necessary impact of making me put the book away.

 

Now, my only experience of being romantic and giving a gift to a woman I fancied had been in Grade 8, when I spent my entire week’s allowance on buying a bar of orange-coated candy (that was what I thought the then love of my life fancied). After keeping the candy for three days I had mustered up the courage to present my deep desire coated in orange flavour to the 12 year old woman of my dreams who was then in Grade 6.

 

I had imagined that she would have taken me in her arms like Jane taking Tarzan after he had coaxed a particularly ugly looking orang-utan away from her, and, smothered me with kisses and words like, ‘I Jane, you my man…’ et al in appreciation of my choice of a gift. That was not to be. My dreams were dashed to the earth when the said femme fatale informed me as she disdainfully crushed my orange-coated feelings that her boy friend from England had got her Smarties, and, that she loved Smarties. With this ‘Summer of ‘42’ trauma I had never again ventured into the field of romance and buying gifts for women. In fact, often times I would wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat imagining men coming off the plane from London Heathrow carrying boxes and boxes of Smarties to take away the women I fancied.

 

My daughter had just suggested something romantic. Notwithstanding my teenage trauma, I pursued the matter, totally strange to me, asking her, ‘What do you think is romantic ?’ ‘Let’s see what the younger generation has to suggest…’ I told myself in a moment of braggadacio, ‘maybe she will suggest some gold jewellery or a night at the revolving tower on top of the CN Tower…’

 

Little did I expect it when the daughter quietly, in a calm manner suggested, ‘Lingerie…’ as if it were the sort of thing that my life’s experiences had trained me to buy.

Ooh, did that send me reeling... Of course, right from the age of ten or so I had been a great connoiseur of magazines advertising women’s lingerie, and, I could have well written a thesis on the development of women’s lingerie over the last half century, based on my surreptitious examination of lingerie advertisements. But, catch me walking into a store and actually buying the contraband stuff.

‘Dad, that’s what everyone gets for their sweetheart…’ the daughter continued.

As I heard my child tell me this, my mind went back to the only occasion I had come close to lingerie shopping. On Toronto ’s Spadina Avenue there is a Chinatown where there are several bargain shops. One day my wife and I had gone shopping there and she had seen some stockings priced at a giveaway price. The shopowner, like all good commercially minded shopowners from Asia did not take, VISA or Mastercard, let alone AMEX. Such things result in your having to pay GST, PST (Canadian Sales taxes) and are to be avoided like the plague. And, on that day, we did not have enough cash on us to buy the stockings.

 

So, the next day I was given cash and asked to go and pick up the stockings. A distant cousin of the shopowner was in the shop when I went in, not the same person who had turned down with disdain, the VISA card we had offered. This man was of sterner upbringing, and, had been taught by his ancestors to beware of the different sexual proclivities of people in the sinful West. So, when I went in asked for the said stockings (flesh coloured) he looked me at if I were the very moral ogre his grandmother had warned him about as he boarded the boat that brought him to the West. To add to his fears, I asked him if they were free size. ‘Oh, my God, a cross dresser, here in my store…’ the distant cousin of the shopowner told himself and wanted to summon his ancestors to throw me out by moral force. However, his commercial sense had the better of him, and, refrained from that and accepted the cash, saying, ‘Yes, yes. They fit all size…’ He said a quiet prayer to his ancestors, particularly his grand-mother and her grand-mother for having taken me away from the store and protected his soul from eternal damnation.

 

Nevertheless, my sense of courage and adventure, made me accept this challenge the child had thrown. After a basic 101 course in cup size and other details, which I shall not repeat given the family readership of this tale, from my daughter, I donned my balaclava not to keep out the Toronto cold, but, to protect anyone from seeing me and identifying me. Looking like a terrorist who had just successfully stepped past the border post with criminal intent in my mind, I walked into the mall. Jacobs, La Senza all of them glittered and I made a preliminary round walking around, casing the joint. Surprisingly there were not many shoppers at that time, and, I thought I would be able to make a quick dash, choose the item and quickly dash out. I made two more rounds, mentally trying to pick the stuff, and, was just about to enter La Senza when I heard a voice, ‘Uncle…naughty man, walking into a lingerie store…are you buying something for aunty ?...can I help you ?’ it was my daughter’s friend, Neeta, playfully accosting me outside the shop. She worked there.

 

I quickly turned around and said, ‘Oh, I did not realize it was a lingerie store…’ and started slipping away. Neeta looked at my somewhat quizzically. ‘Strange, old man, dirty old man…’ she must have said. Visions of my name going down in the community, temples, and, being put back on the plane to India stormed my mind. At the Immigration hearing to deport me I had visions of the shopowner in Spadina coming and telling the judge how I had shopped for women’s stockings, on the sixth day of July, 1998, at about 3.40 pm…’Yes. This man is of criminal intent,’ I visualized the judge saying, ‘put him on the next plane to Guduvancheri…’ And as the plane landed at London Heathrow en route to Guduvancheri I saw all those men with boxes of smarties laughing, ‘So you wanted to buy lingerie, eh ? Here take these Smarties…’ they were saying.

I made a quick retreat from the mall. I had to save my reputation, my name, my everything. The only way I could do so would be if I could have a samosa, from Golden Grocers, the cleanest Indian store in town. So, I drove to Golden Grocers, and, entered the store. I saw the samosas and made a bee-line for them. As I did so, a bottle containing something wrapped in colours of the tricolour caught my eye. I went closer to the bottle, and, saw that they were Aam Pappads (dried mango strips sugared into small strips) candy. Little chunks of Aam Pappad wrapped in tricolour paper. I remembered soon after our marriage my wife telling me that her family retainer, the venerable Gaya Prasad Dubey would make Aam Pappad, and, how as a ten year old she absolutely adored them. I forgot the samosas, here was what would make the wife happy. I paid a dollar, picked up half a dozen candy, and, drove home ignoring the traffic, red lights, right of way and all that nonsense intended to stop a man in love. Imagine Romeo stopping to give way to a Capulet on his way to the balcony scene with Juliet, just because the said Capulet had right of way…naw ! the he-men don’t work that way.

 

‘Sweetie,’ I said, as I entered the home, ‘see what I have got you…a Valentine’s Day gift…’ She came down slowly, and, as I held out the candy, saying, ‘Aam Pappad…’ the wife’s expression changed. ‘My God, I haven’t had Aam Pappad for years…Where did you get it ? How lovely the Aam Pappad looks wrapped in the tricolour wrapper…’ The wife of thirty three years, popped an Aam Pappad candy, put her hand around my growing waist, ruffled the fast receding hairline, looked at me in the eye like the earlier mentioned Jane looking at Tarzan on the occasion of his having coaxed away the ugly looking orang-utan and said, ‘…Aam Pappad is exactly what I want for Valentine’s Day…’

 

From that day onwards I have never been scared of men coming off the London Heathrow flight with boxes of Smarties…

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Of Bharat and Ol' Blightey

I knew it was too good to last.  Two weeks in India and no cold and stomach upset despite all the running around in the smog filled air and eating at different eateries with varying levels of hygiene ... too good to be true.

The itch in the throat and burning sensation in the nose started a few minutes after I had checked in for the flight to London, at Mumbai's Chatrapati Shivaji airport.  The body had held out this long as I had fun, now it had to give in. Gosh, I should have asked my doctor cousin for a prescription and got some antibiotics before I left home.  Now, there wasn't even a chemist shop at the airport.  The next nine hours were going to be disastrous as I winged towards Ol' Blightey.  For about four hours after I got on board I sat Buddha-like in meditation observing the lumps that were forming in my throat and the irritations in my nasal passage.  As Goenkaji would have said, 'How often do you get to observe pain and discomfort ?' After four hours it was too much...Sorry, Goenkaji..

I buzzed for the cabin attendant and asked for medication.  The purser was a bit taken aback and wondering whether he had a medical emergency on hand, and, whether the flight would have to land somewhere in Asia Minor to offload an ill passenger.  However, I said a Tylenol or Crocin should work...he look relieved and got out a form which absolved the airline of all responsibility in dispensing that medication to me.  Once my signature was verified, I was given two of the precious tablets which I downed with a glass of water.  In about an hour the world started looking better...Anicca, illusion, Goenkaji would have reminded...sorry, Goenkaji I see your point, but, the flesh is weak.  In any case didn't the Buddha say in his first discourse that one should avoid torturing one's self and follow the Middle Path...well, the paracetamol was my Middle Path.  By the time I landed at Terminal 5, for the first time in my life, I was quite chirpy.  However, realizing the Anicca...passing nature of paracetamol...I fortified myself with some stronger medication which my (Indian) cab driver took me to on the way home...needless to add the pharmacist, the only one to be open at 7.30pm, on a Sunday night, was also Indian.  He seemed to have seen his share of customers with my complaint (may be the cab driver was referring folks to him as they came off the plane, like bus drivers take their buses to McDonalds in the US).  He filled a quick prescription and I was homebound.

I had made up my mind to spend the next twenty four-forty eight-seventy two hours; however long it took, resting, steam inhaling and watching the trains go past from the window in my daughter's bedroom...and yesterday the stomach gave in...this, I had planned for, and a took a quick dose of Number 8 homeopathic medicine given by my niece, a holistic healer, in prep for such situations.  A few more doses of the homeopathic medicine worked and by evening I was ready to head out to watch the New Year festivities.

As I was dressing up for the New Year action, my wife asked me the question she asks me every time I plan a trip to India. 'Why do you insist on going there when you always come back with a cold and/or a tummy upset ?'  How do I tell her that that's the stuff a love affair is made of.  There is no reason, nor linear programming model that explains it...it is just desire that wells up within you and you act from that push of irrational desire because you are in love.  To add to her irritation I hum a line from an old Mukesh song...
yeh mera deewanapan hai...this is my brand of madness.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AppcdtqKuxE

The wife shrugs her shoulder in desperation and walks away to get ready for the trip we have planned to see the New Year fireworks off the Waterloo bridge.

What I do realize that the body cannot move from a relatively sterile environment like North America and not be affected by the different levels of hygiene, particularly when the exposure takes place in such a short time frame. It needs to acclimatise itself. I remember a friend of mine going to India to study Sanskrit, and, landing up in the monsoons to do a three month course.  Needless to add most of the three months were spent in nursing colds and stomach upsets.

Took a scenic bus ride last night that took us through Oxford Street, Regent Street and all the commercial areas done up with lights...a bus ride that my mother would take me on, more than fifty years ago...with mum, the ride would end with a trip to Hamleys or Selfridges where I could buy a toy of up to ten shillings (translates to what, 25 quid of today?) as my Christmas present.

Getting off at Waterloo tube station we took one look at the crowd and realised that it was not the place for two soon to be senior citizens to be around.  While excellently policed and crowd controlled, there were too many folks with open bottles of alcohol for our comfort, should something go wrong.  We decided to beat a hasty retreat, got into an empty tube and reached home in time to watch the New Year breaking on TV...a much more comfortable of wishing in the New Year.

The New Year started off with an early morning brunch at a dear friend's place.  We have known these friends from the days we were in University in India, caught up recently on FB, and, found out that we are both transiting London at the same time on our way back from our holidays.  I notice that the holiday season is a time when a lot of Indian office goers in North America and Europe can take an extended stretch of two to three weeks that is required to visit India, attend concerts and catch up with children settled in different parts of the globe.

Stepping out at 8am on New Year's Day was I surprised that the only shop open was a Convenience Store run by an Indian ?   No, of course not ... he did not perhaps close down last year

And to complete the reverse colonisation of Ol' Blightey I was thrilled to see that not only is tandoori chicken the national food, but, that the London Underground carries advertisements for shaadi.com.

History seems to have come full circle...

Jai Bharat, Jai Ol'Blightey