Straaaight hogi!

Manjunatha and Ramesha are sitting by the side of the road waiting for the bus. The road forks into two in front and on all sides the ragi fields sway ripe in the bright afternoon. There are no other people to be seen anywhere and the peace of rural Karnataka is thick around them. They are sitting silent as if inside them they have nothing left to say. Manjunatha is slowly chewing on a blade of grass.

The fast moving dot on the road grows bigger and materializes into a car that brakes screeching to a halt. 

The dust raised by the car settles slowly and silently over them. A young man with dark glasses swiftly steps out and walks closer trying to save his polished shoes from the dust.

'Bangalore ka rasta kaun sa hai?', he asks pointing towards the two roads ahead.

'Is this the way to Bangalore?', he asks in English pointing to the left turn when Manjunatha and Ramesha stare blankly at him.

'Bangalore?', he says again pointing to the road that goes straight.

Manjunatha and Ramesha cannot see where he is looking behind his dark glasses. He seems to be addressing a spot exactly halfway between them.

'Onde straight! Straaaight hogi!', says Manjunatha and within seconds, screeching, the car accelerates and speeds away, leaving more dust in its wake.

'You have traveled all over India and speak good Hindi don't you?', asks Ramesha, 'Why did you not reply to him?'.
 
Manjunatha smiles slowly and says nothing.

'Why didn't you ask him to take us to Bangalore? Our bus won't be here for another half an hour.'
 
Manjunatha continues to smile and says nothing.

'And why did you tell him to go straight? That way is at least 20 kilometers longer and very crowded near the city.'

'Did you see how fast he came and went even when he didn't know the way?', asks Manjunatha as he goes back to chewing his blade of grass. They wait silently for their slow bus. 

Two gentlemen

The elegant looking gentleman with the white skin and the dark suit collided messily with the elegant looking gentleman with the dark skin and the white dhoti-kurta as they tried to reach the middle of the Shatabdi train compartment. They picked up the random pieces of luggage off the floor.
 

'Sorry', said the white skin in the English accent that he reserved for the natives.
 

'Soary', said the dark skin in his Malayali-English accent that he preferred over his educated Indian-English accent.

They smiled at each other in a cultured gentlemanly way and found their seats. They smiled again when they discovered that they were sitting in seats directly facing each other across the center of the compartment. The train began to move and in the settling down and the looking out of the big windows at the station passing by, they forgot about each other and were soon lost in their own thoughts.
 

The white-skin's thoughts went something like this:
'One more victory for western civilization. The standing ovation after my speech felt good. I don't know how much longer it will take these darkies to work with real technology. Maybe its the hot climate that makes them lazy! But these darkies...'
 

He looked up at the dhoti-kurta-turban clad Indian opposite and noted the chandan teeka on his forehead.
 

The dark-skin's thoughts went something like this:
'One more victory for eastern civilization. Cutting the ribbon with all the TV cameras around felt good. Some of the kids who sang had real talent. It is good that there are some like me to uphold our parampara. Otherwise every body on this train will be dressed like this white man...'
 

He looked up at the suited-booted figure opposite and noted the uncomfortable looking necktie.
 

'Barbarian', thought the white engineering professor, 'with his face-paint and his strange headdress'. And he smiled at the idea.
 

'Uncivilized, uncultured vulture', thought the dark classical musician, 'with his black pieces of flapping cloth'. And he smiled at the idea.
 

Catching each other smiling the two gentlemen smiled another warm, open, friendly smile at each other.

Knnar

Baasses Telgram said:

CRUPTION IN KNNUR STOP WELL DIGGNG MONY HADPOED BY PLTICIANS STOP INVESTGT IMMDTLY STOP DONT STOP STOP

So, today I fly first time to South India, to Knnur in Krela for a spacial sttory about cruption. Oh, saary I have naat intraduced! Hallo! Mysalf Stwinder Singh. I am rporter for Chndigad Times. Krela is gaads own country and I look faarwad to trip. I will meet a rporter from the Knnur Times there. His name has many vowles and many 'ZH' in it and I am crrusponding with him as KP. The real name is vary diffcult to prnounce. 

KP meets me and takes me to Knnur town. He is vary thin with beard, jeans, khadi kurta, jhola and in Pnjaab the pliice woudd prbably arrest him as soon as they see him. Aalso his inglish is vary funny. This is sampel.

KP: Gud mourning Singhji.
Mysalf: Good maarning KPji.

KP: I hope you haad a playcent flite.

Mysalf: Yasji. Thank youji.

KP: Lettus go to the municippalitty oafice aant get some nollage about your khase.

Do you know how the val-digging scam wrks? In Narth India this is wat happns. The gorment has mney far dvelepment and the local pltician says there is no watr and gives prposal far making val. He takes 5 lakhs far this praaject and spands it aan shmmi kbabs and tnduri chicken. After some years pltician says the val watr has msquitos and is kasing mlaria and takes anothr 5 lakhs from gorment to fill up val. He again spands the mney on shmmi kbabs and tnduri chicken. When the gorment  comes for inspaction and meyyurment the pltician tells great story about watr and mlaria but there is nothing to see except size of plticians tummy full af shmmi kbabs and tnduri chicken.

In Krela the val is called a Knnar. And the place is Knnur. And I am getting Knnfused.

Mysalf: KPji what is there to see in the Knnur?

KP: It is a hill station in Karnadaga. You kaan go there by bus. But I thote you waanded to see ole the kinnars in Kannur. Why are you waanding to go to Coonoor?

Mysalf: KPji let us find out how mny new vals you have OK? My had is chakring!

There are only five new vals in Knnur and KP and mysalf visit aal. The vals have the mixture of plastic packets and watr but aal five are there.

I phone up baass!

Mysalf: Baass! Itthe Knnur ich tho sab theek hega. No cruption!

Baass: Oi Stwinder thu kitthe hai?

Mysalf: Baass Knnur in Krela.

Baass: Oi Stwinder thu paagal tho nahi ho gaya? I sad KANPUR in Uttr Prdesh not KANNUR in Krela. Get back immdiately.

It was januvin spalling mstake by telgram pippal. KP draps me to airport and I catch flight to Knpur. Saary for bad joke but I had pleyyarable time with KP in Krela and you know- Aal is wells that ands wells! 

(L to R: Stwinder, Knnar, KP. Captured by Dinkar)

(Note: If you are a Punjabi or a Malayali who didn't like the tone, please read the apology at the end of 'Taaph', a Bengali-English story on this site)

Happy family

My name is Aishwarya and I am 12 years old. If you want to be my friend call me Ash. I have a new photo on facebook because yesterday I went with my mother to Habib's Super Specialty Hair Clinic on MG road and got the extra vital straight hair look. It cost 1000 rupees. My mother spent 2500 rupees for the exclusive glowing face treatment. It took 1 hour more than mine but I didn't get bored. I had my new iPad with me and Habib's has free WiFi. 

My father is the head chef at the ITC Windsor Sheraton Hyatt Manor which is the best five star hotel in Bangalore. We get to eat a lot of super goodies. All free! We also go to other five star hotels. My father calls this market research and because this is part of his office work his hotel pays for this. My favorite food is any type of pizza with lots of extra cheese and I also love five star hotel pastries that are dripping with oodles of chocolate.

My mother cannot even finish one medium pizza on her own and is always on a diet. Since the special power yoga trainer started coming to our house last month both my mother and father have lost 10 kgs. My father is now only 110 and my mother is 80. Whenever my father gets time he also trains at the special 20 Lakhs gym that he installed in one of our bedrooms. Both my mother and father had gone to Singapore to do market research before buying all our exclusive gym equipment.

We have three Internet-ready Sony LCD TV's in our house. (It cost us 35000 rupees each) One in my bedroom, one in my parents bedroom and one in the drawing room for guests. Our maid servant Meera has my old TV in the dining hall so she can relax before she goes to sleep. All of us can see our favorite programs without fighting. By the time my father comes home, my mother has finished her serials and he sits on their bed watching late night movies as she goes off to sleep.

Every year we go for a 2 week holiday to a different country and every Sunday we sit in our Ford Endeavor or our 25 Lakh Skoda Superb and go to a mall and spend at least 5000 rupees. Of course we carry our iPads and iPods so we don't get bored in the traffic jam. We are a small happy family. Don't you wish you were me?

(Pencil sketch by Dinkar. Drawn over and colored on the computer by Aditi and Srikant)

Return gift

Ambujakshi from Lepashki was furious! Her hen-pecked husband Satyanarayana who, in his mind called her 'Amby' because of her bulky ambassador-car-like shape, took one look at her and decided to go on a two week business tour of north India. Far away, he thought, so far away that not a single cell phone signal could find him. He had almost escaped out of the front door when he was captured by an 'Emandi!'.
 

'Aiyyo, Tottally gone!', he thought as he turned to face the tsunami. It took one and a half hours, with many interruptions of 'Are you stupid or what', before he finally understood the full story.

Ambujakshi from Lepakshi had been gifted a pink polka-dotted saari in one of the numerous family functions that she frequented. She disliked it so much that at the very next opportunity she gifted it away to her obnoxious distant cousin, Kanakaratnam from Machilipatnam. Useless saari for useless cousin, thought Amby, as she gave it away with a crocodile smile. 

The reason for the earthquake in Satya's life now was that after four years, the very same pink polka-dotted saari had been gifted back to Amby by Sheshanagavalli from Banganappalli. And, said Amby (pay careful attention now because this is the epicenter of the earthquake), Kanakaratnam from Machilipatnam did not even know Sheshanagavalli from Banganappalli. It was clear to Amby that the saari, gifted and regifted, had traveled across Andhra Pradesh from one useless unwanted relative or guest to another till at the very bottom of the chain of uselessness it had come right back to her.

'So, what do you have to say about that?', asked Amby dangerously.

Satyanarayana considered the question in silence. He was certain that no matter what he said he was a goner. Saying nothing was also not an option! He was searching for the least damaging thing to say when his cell phone rang loudly breaking the uneasy silence. It was Airtel! Probably going to sing its stupid signature song to him. 'Airtel', he thought, 'you have saved my life today. I promise to listen quietly to all your crank calls from now on.'

'Hello', said Satyanarayana to the Airtel song, 'What? My god! Are you serious? Ok, when do I have to come? Immediately?'

'Business emergency in North India', said Satyanarayana to Ambujakshi, 'Let us talk when I get back.'

Satyanarayana escaped and returned home only after he heard that the pink polka-dotted saari had been 'return gifted' once again.

(Illustrated by Dinkar)

Taaph!

My name is Bibhutibhooshan Tripureshshar Bishaash. My daaknaam is easiyaar to remembaar and you can also call me Poltu Bishaash. My Marwaadi phrend in Kolkaata say that jaast because my name is bishaash, I don't hab to beliebe everybaady. I am alhways getting in traable like that.
 

I hab jaast shifted to Dilli phrom Kolkaata. Kolkaata is hvery nice plaice. Dilli is taaph! I hab joined phor my maastar digree in Dilli univaarsity. In the phew days hiyaar I hab many times phelt that I should raan ahway to Kolkaata.

Jaast yesterday this nice gaarl in class borrow a buuk phrom me and hwen I aks for it back, she say she nevaar borrow it. Ebhen nice gaarls in Dilli are taaph!

The day bephore thaat, I halp a blind man cross road and he is really pickpocket and he takes ahway my hwallet with 150 rupees and my licence. Ebhen blind men in Dilli are taaph!

The day bephore thaat, I am hwalking on phootpaath hwith many trees hwen a maankey jump down phrom tree, show me teeth and grab my jhaalmuri packet and raan ahway! Ebhen maankeys in Dilli are taaph!

Today I am sitting in DTC baas going to college. There is a maashimaa sitting next to me. I am jaast going to aks but she aks faarst. She is also phrom kolkaata and has bin in Dilli phor twenty phive iyaars. I rich college and see my mobile phone ees missing. Looks like the maashimaa in the baas saw chance and took it. Ebhen Bengaali maashimaas in Dilli are taaph!

Baaba re baaba! I cannot riks hiyaar anymore! I don't hwaant maastar digree phrom Dilli. Ebhen selling jhaalmuri in Kolkaata is bettaar!

Dilli is taaph!

(Note for the hassled Bengali reader: My parents are from Kerala, I grew up speaking Hindi in Dilli, studied and worked 14 years in Bengal and am married to an Andhraite from Dilli. I think that a full 50% of my mixed-up personality is Bengali. This story is not trying to make fun of you. It is making fun of me. However, you are hassled, so I apologize and ask you to make a resolution here and now- close the browser window and never come back to this address again)

(Dinkar's pencil sketch drawn over and colored on the computer by Aditi) 

Paapri-chaat

Growing up in Delhi we counted the paapri-chaat-waalah at the UPSC bus stop, along with the Qutub Minar and the Red fort, as a main tourist attraction of the city. We knew that he came in the morning to his small but extremely popular chaat stall in his own car. This was a time when only the very rich had cars and we did not need any other evidence to prove to us his wealth and fame. This is the story of how we once fooled the paapri-chaat-waalah into giving us free paapri-chaats.
 

We were going back home from school, Arun Nair and Ranjan and I when Ranjan suddenly said, 'Lets have some paapri-chaat. My treat!' Oh yes! Didn't everyone in the world want to eat this paapri-chaat. This is what Arun Nair and I saw as we waited expectantly:

Ranjan (in the middle of the pushing and shoving crowd): 'Bhaiyya! Mere teen plate nahin mile abhi tak!'
Fat paapri-chaat-waalah sahukaar: 'Paise?'
Ranjan: 'Arre, abhi tho diya aapko. Wo dekhiye woh waalah pachaas rupaiye ka note.'

The chaat-waalah looked at the note that Ranjan was pointing to and obviously could not tell the difference between it and the hundreds of other notes in his overflowing money box. Although he was suspicious, we got our three plates of chaat AND we got change back with which we bought even more chaat. Legitimately this time!

 

(Warning: The hero of the story was an expert at this kind of adventure. Try this only under adult supervision and at your own risk! We do not take responsibility for angry paapri-chaat-waalah's running after you with their fat paunches and their sharp or blunt instruments!)

Thaali!

It was the final year of college and we were staying back on campus through our winter holidays. The hostel mess was closed and we needed to take our daily nourishment from the three or four cheap eateries in and around campus. This is the story about the Thaali that we used to eat at least once a day at this restaurant called 'Nairs'.  Why this Mallu Nair had transplanted himself and his family from Kerala and settled down in a small town in Bengal, was a mystery that we never tried to solve. We were busy figuring out how to get the most out of the Nair's Thaali.

Let me introduce you to the villain of this story. This is a friend called Narayanan Krishnamurthy who, as was the custom of those days, had become 'Nari' to all his friends and fans. He was good at studies and every type of sport, captained the basketball team, played the guitar and was probably (although the rest of us didn't like to think about that) the heartthrob of the girl's hostel. However, in the eyes of Nair, Nari was the villain who was driving him out of business.
 

Nari was a six-footer with an appetite that we thought was Nair's worst nightmare. In a roti eating competition, Nari had once legendarily eaten 28 chappattis with lots of sabzi and had come for his tea and snacks two hours later. The boy who came second had used his considerable will power to eat 27 chappattis with plain water before giving up. He was not seen in the mess for many days and came down with a raging fever that lasted a whole week.
 

So we would walk into Nair's under the owner's angry gaze, sit at the farthest table and order Thaalis. Nair would be watching us with sick horror as Nari demolished more and more rice and sabzi (even in those days Nari intuitively knew that sabzi was more important than rice). Nari tried to be gentle by calling different waiters and by trying to do it when Nair's back was turned to us. But Nair knew every grain of rice, every bit of sabzi and every drop of watery sambaar that went into Nari's bottomless stomach.

 

We were there for the month long holidays and when our college reopened, Nair took the Thaali off his menu. We heard later that he closed shop and left in a hurry. All our friends think Nari was to blame!

(Illustrated by Dinkar)

Two drunks

It was late at night in the small town. The weak yellow streetlights cast eerie shadows and two drunks were staggering and swaying down the deserted street.

'I could have killed him with one blow. Pata nahin apne aap ko kya samajhta hai! He doesn't know that I am a black belt in boxshing.' Ghanne the older of the two was telling his much younger companion Manne.

'You are very brave Ghanne-bhai. I was scared when the big mucchhad came to beat us up. After you told them that we wont leave till we had four more glasshes.

'Ha! I am not scared of anybody! Or anything! Did I tell you about the time I scared away two ghoshts?'

With some difficulty Manne shook his spinning head and Ghanne continued.

'This was many yearsh ago. I was coming back alone from the shop and jusht about here where we are now I saw two ghoshts.'

Ghanne paused the story and stood swaying looking around.

'Haan, it was just here on a full moon night like thish that I saw them. They were black from head to toe with red eyesh and hornsh on their headsh. I shouted GHOSTHS I WILL KILL YOU, and they lifted their lungis and ran away.'

Ghanne and Manne stood laughing in the middle of the road. They laughed even louder when they noticed that Ghanne's shouting had frightened some stray dogs and they were running away.

'Jusht like the ghoshts!' said Manne and both of them almost fell down swaying and laughing.

Their laughter stopped suddenly as if cut by a knife when they saw the two ghosts crossing the road in front of them. As they passed under the streetlight Ghanne and Manne could almost see the red glowing eyes. The ghosts did not look at the drunks and vanished down a side street.

Ghanne and Manne stood trembling violently. 

'Jai Hanuman gyaan gun shaagar....' Ghanne started the Hanuman chalisa in a broken voice and both of them clearly saw Hanuman with a lit beedi crossing the street behind the ghosts.

The ramleela actors going home cured our drunks for life. They drank only water and always shuddered while passing the street where they saw the ghosts. 

(Illustrated by Dinkar)

The Trip to Delhi

Once a family went on a trip to Delhi.


Here they are getting into the car. They hurried to the airport and got on to their plane. This is the plane.



The plane is taking off.

In Delhi they saw many beautiful monuments and buildings.


They saw the Humayun’s Tomb, one of the World Heritage sites,


India Gate,


the Qutab Minar,


and the Lotus Temple.

They met all the people they knew in Delhi and enjoyed themselves a lot. After a few days they went home by a night train.


The only thing they were disappointed about was that they did not have time to go to Agra and see the Taj Mahal.

(Story: Aditi, Art: Dinkar
Old drawings made by Dinkar were collected and joined together by Aditi to create this picture story)

The Cook's Story

Long ago in a small town there lived an old Brahmin who was a famous cook. He was famous in many nearby villages and towns and was busy the whole year round. People who ate at the festivals or functions where he cooked talked about things that they had eaten. They discussed how evenly the vegetables were cut in the aviyal; They talked about how round the pappadams were; They said how the tastes in all that he cooked somehow worked together to give pleasure. They praised everything he cooked but everybody agreed that his saambaar was incomparable and without a doubt the best in the world. They talked about how it was just the right colour, just the right smell, just the right sourness, just the right mix of spices and also how it was somehow more than all this put together. How it had a strange wonderful taste that no other saambaar they had ever tasted had.


In fact because of his famous saambaar the cook was known to everybody as saambaaranna. There was always a line of people outside his house who wanted him to cook saambaar at their functions. At these places such was his reputation that women and men dressed in their finery would crowd around to watch him cook.

He enjoyed all this attention and tried to make his job appear to be more like a magic show than just cooking food. He had his secret recipes and would take ingredients from various pots and jars and also from secret packets that he carried tied around his waist. Over the years he had become very good at the way he performed this show. He talked all the time with the watching people and told them some things and hid some other things till people thought he was a superstar. When people asked about his magic recipes he only smiled and said ‘My lips are sealed’.

One day in a big marriage ceremony he was taking his ritual bath in the pond before starting to cook when a small boy noticed something unusual. Being a rather clever boy he put two and two together and arrived at the correct answer. He ran to his relatives and shouted,

‘Come quickly everybody, I have discovered saambaaranna’s secret recipe.’

When a number of people gathered he hurried down to the pond with them. Saambaaranna was still in the water enjoying his bath but on the steps of pond where his clothes and secret packets were kept were two cats. They were eating the powder fallen out of a torn packet.

The people understood! The special taste in their saambaar over the years in their vegetarian functions came from dried fish powder!

Saambaaranna noticed the angry people coming towards him and didn’t wait to collect his things but swam to the other end of the pond and ran away to another country where nobody knew about him and his secret saambaar recipe.

(Illustrated by my 9 year old son Srikant)

The Laughing Onion

(This was published as a picture book by Eklavya and is available here. The story has been beautifully illustrated by Anita Varma. The text of the story is given below)

When the children were in bed and Naana switched off the lights, the small boy said, ‘I will tell you a story today.’

The girl sat up and said, ‘No Naana he doesn’t know how to tell a story. I am six years old and cannot tell any new stories and he is only two and a half years old. How can he tell a story? He will only mix up some stories you told us and make a khichdi out of it. You tell a monkey story instead.’

In the semi-darkness Naana looked at the girl’s earnest face and at the small boy lying with his right foot on top of his left knee like a serious grown up with a large head, and he smiled and said, ‘Anybody can tell a story. And you know, all stories are made up like a khichdi. My stories are also like that, but I know a lot of stories and read a lot, so I have more things to put in my khichdi. That’s all. You tell your story, baby.’

‘OK’, started the small boy, ‘Long long ago, in a forest there was a deer. Thhhen that deer was eaten by an onion.’

Naana put his finger to his lips to silence the girl when he saw her beginning to say something. He turned to the small boy and said, ‘Baby, don’t you mean that the deer ate the onion.’

The small boy started again, ‘Long long ago, in a forest there was a deer. Thhhen the onion ate the deer.’

The girl said, ‘Naana, he says onion for something else but I can’t remember what.’

‘The onion we eat at home?’ asked Naana.

The small boy said, ‘No no, the onion in the forest that looks like a dog. And does Huh Huh Huh.’

‘Oh! A laughing hyena!’ laughed Naana and the girl.

‘Yees!’ said the small boy relieved and continued:

‘long long ago, in a forest there was a deer. Thhhen that deer was eaten by a hyena which did Huh Huh Huh.

Thhhen the monkey sat on the tree. One grain of chana fell down. Thhen the monkey became angry and threw all the chana away.

Thhen there was a bird on a tree. And the tree fell down.

Thhen the lion became angry.’

‘Then what happened?’ asked Naana and the girl, when the small boy didn’t say anything for some time.

‘Thhen the lion became VERY angry and ATE the tiger.’

‘What happened next?’ asked Naana.

‘Thhen” said the small boy, ‘the story to Kanchi and us home.’

Naana clapped and said, ‘What a great story! That was a wonderful story you told. Maybe we should take turns telling stories and you know…’

…They are still talking but the voices are getting fainter and fuzzier with sleep. So, let’s leave them there. The story tellers and the listeners. The weavers of invisible spider-web nets and the stars of the night they have caught for company on their long lonely journeys.

Goodnight!