Archives for category: India

JUDGING THE BOOK BY ITS COVER

July 2, 2015 //
0

Lifting Of The Fig Leaf

Haresh Shah

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Zahir takes me by the hand.

‘Let me introduce you to some of the people here.’ I am one of the hundred some invited guests at Zahir and Bernadette Kazmi’s annual pre-Ramadan shenanigan at their spacious home in Chicago suburb of Oakbrook. Outside it’s raining cats and dogs and yet it has not deterred any of their friends and the families from showing up in droves. Only damper it has put on the event is that all of his beautiful oriental rugs are covered with large bed sheets and installed outside the house is a tent sized awning, shrouding the open sky.

The first person he introduces me is a tall and lanky Pakistani friend, whose name I promptly forget as soon as it is said.

‘Haresh used to be an editor at Playboy.’ Zahir can’t help but throw in. I think he gets a kick out of watching the reaction on the people’s faces. If not exactly ignoring, I try to slough it off with a hollow laugh.

‘But that was long time ago. And don’t forget I also worked for Time and Life and a whole bunch of other magazines in Prague!’

‘Yes, but you were with Playboy for the longest time!’

True.

‘Playboy?’ The tall and lanky man rolls his eyes with a knowing smile. ‘It must have been fun working for them?’

‘Yeah, it was wonderful!’ I concur.

‘Are you still with them?’

‘No, I left them some time ago and now I am retired!’

‘How can you ever leave Playboy?’

‘Just the way you do any other job!’

‘If I ever worked for them, I would never leave.’ He is alluding to the fun part of what he imagines I did. Like, young, beautiful and naked women prancing around.

‘But I did!’ My answer has him jerk his head and render him speechless.

The next person Zahir introduces me is a distinguish looking black gentleman – Joe. His reaction to my association with Playboy is muted but not without wonderment.

Towards the end of the evening when I am contemplating calling it a day, I sit down next to Joe at the table placed by the end of the awning – a stray raindrop thumping on us. ‘Thought I rest my butt and talk to you for a while before taking off.’ Sitting on the other side of him is his wife, Yvonne.’

Joe looks about my age, perhaps a couple of years younger. He too has similar back problems. Like two old geezers, we compare notes and get our mutual health problems out of the way.

‘So what was it like working for Playboy?’

‘No different than any other job. I loved it.’

‘How do  you feel about the contents of the magazine?’

‘You mean the nudes?’

‘Yeah!’

‘Well, to start with, I have also worked for Time, Life and Sports Illustrated and Fortune, as well have done a bunch of women’s titles and have been editor-in-chief of Serial, a show business magazine in Prague. In my opinion, Playboy is one of the best magazines there is in the world!’

I notice a bit of apprehension cross his face as he asks:

‘What makes it one of the best?’

‘The sheer excellence of its editorial content, and the professionalism and the care with which the magazine is put together.’

‘What about the nudes?’

‘If  you are judging it for the nudes, have  you ever given a thought to the fact that of an average 200 page issue, the nudes occupy only 36 some pages?’

‘How can it be?’ I imagine him thinking, because all he remembers are the nudes. Joe seems intrigued. So I continue.

‘What do you think rest of the pages are filled with?’ I give him a pointed look. And then answer it myself.

‘For the rest of the pages, Playboy competes for the same writers and the contributors as does The New Yorker.’

‘But isn’t New Yorker a serious literary magazine?’

‘Yes it is. And so is Playboy.’ As I say that, I am thinking of what Hefner (Hugh M.) once said to a bevy of Playmates during one of their reunions at his Los Angeles mansion: if not for you, I would be a literary magazine! ‘As a matter of fact, both of them are excellent general interest magazines.’ I add.

‘You mean also likes of Harpers and Atlantic?’

‘Precisely! Albeit more lifestyle and sexually oriented. And geared mainly towards men.’

‘Are you Muslim?’ asks Joe out of the clear blue sky. Stands to reason, because the majority of guests are.

‘No!’

‘Than what are you? A Hindu?’

‘Yes!’

‘I am surprised because I have never met a Hindu so nice.’ And then he goes on to tell me how his experience with Hindus has been not so positive. Strange, because that is certainly not so. We have our quirks, but by and large the Indians, Hindus or Muslims have a very good reputation in the USA. I tell him about Maria – the 93 year old Polish lady who I often run into on Division Street, up the street from St. Mary’s medical building, always raving about her Indian doctor, who she tells me treats her free of charge and how nice he has always been. And how majority of Indian doctors in the country are well regarded and respected.

‘I guess I am prejudiced because of my own experience of them. I will pay more attention the next time’

He also has some misconceptions about the animosity between Hindus and Muslims – the petty wars between them he has watched on TV or has read about. He is surprised at me saying that in spite of bit of fireworks and the sectarian violence, a few border disputes, Hindus and Muslims in India live in harmony. That I for one, grew up right next to the pre-dominantly Muslim neighborhood of Bhindi Bazar in Mumbai. That Zahir, a Muslim and I are as good  friends as anyone else baffles him.

He is astonished when I tell him that after Indonesia, India has the second largest Muslim population in the world. As of 2014 census, to Indonesia’s 209 million, India has 176 million Muslims to Pakistan’s 167 million. That the Bollywood is dominated mainly by Muslims and majority of our idols like Shahrukh Khan are Muslims, and are most beloved on the sub-continent. That even though up until very recently Hindu Marriage Act prohibited Hindus from polygamy, India’s Muslims were allowed to have up to four wives, justified under the fundamental right for those who practice Islam. I totally forget to mention that during the short history of independence, of the total of thirteen, India had four Muslim presidents.

By now I have managed to totally confuse poor Joe. And I tell him how proud I was of the country of my birth when CNN sponsored debate between India and Pakistan that took place in Mumbai early in the 2000s, moderated by their star anchor Wolf Blitzer, that three of the five panelists on the Indian team were Muslims.

‘This is all new to me. Let me find my daughters, I want them to hear this. They are somewhere around her.’ With what I am saying, I am shattering Joe’s deeply rooted convictions.

And Joe disappears in the crowd. I strike up a conversation with his wife Yvonne, up until then the onlooker. I find out that they have been married for like 45 years, still happily together – albeit with the usual ups and downs of any coupledom.

Soon Joe reappears with his two stunningly beautiful gems of daughters. Appropriately named Amber and Crystal. Earlier I had noticed Amber around the buffet table. A beautifully sculpted angular face and shining cinnamon color skin, her dark hair pulled up, tall, she could have passed as an artist’s muse. I presumed her to be the older of the two. But the younger looking Crystal at 42 looks like she is in her early thirties. She is darker – the color and the texture of dark chocolate and has the shoulder length billowing hair framing her round face.

‘I want you girls to listen to this gentleman. He used to work for Playboy!’

‘Playboy?’ Exclaims Amber. She twists her nose in a disdainful gesture.

‘You obviously have never read the magazine?’ I ask pointedly.

‘What is there to read?’

I give them the same spiel as how only 36 some pages of the magazine are the nudes.’ And I tell her about the in-depth articles, fiction and the interviews. I mention Gabriel García Márquez, which draws a blank.

Pages: 1 2

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Categories Friendship, Hindus, India, Memoire, Muslims, Nudity, Playboy

THE STRANDED BRIDE

March 27, 2014 //
1

Lost In The Labyrinth

Haresh Shah

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I am at Rome’s Fiumicino International Airport, temporarily delayed because of the cancellation of Alitalia to Frankfurt, which is where I was to connect with Lufthansa’s overnight Frankfurt-Johannesburg flight. They have re-routed me on British Airways to London and then connecting there to onward journey to South Africa. Suddenly I have a couple of hours to kill. I avail myself of the first class lounge, leave my belongings there and venture outside to check out the renovated expanse of the airport. As I am walking down the glass walled passage bridging two wings of the terminal, I hear a timid female voice trailing me.

‘Uncle, uncle. Please! Please!’

I turn around and see that striding behind me hurriedly is a skinny young Indian woman – sort of pretty and petite, probably weighing no more than 90 pounds (41 kg.). In her early twenties, she is dressed in the traditional sari. She is almost limping, trying to keep balance between what seems like a heavy carry on bag on one shoulder and her purse dangling down from the other. Both of them are precariously close to slipping off her shoulders and thump on the ground. She is wearing a pair of red chappals – the light weight Indian sandals. I notice the orange-red outlining the bottom of her feet and intricate mehandi motif applied to the top of them. Her hands too are mehandi covered on both sides. Climbing up her hands almost up to her elbow are clanging multi-colored glass bangles intermingled with thin gold bracelets. Her forehead is daubed with overlapping multiple vermilion tikas, to which a few grains of rice still adhere.

I stop and respond ‘Yes?’

‘Help me uncle, please!’ she looks scared and disoriented, giving me a confused look. Sensing the question what? on my face, she somehow manages to put down her carry on and fishes out of her purse a crumpled little booklet of the old fashioned hand written on flimsy sheets of the paper flight ticket and hands it to me.

‘See, please see!!’ It becomes apparent to me that she doesn’t speak much of English, so I switch to Hindi. She seems to understand it a bit better, but not quite. From her darker skin and the features, I place her somewhere in the country in Maharashtra, outside of Mumbai. She is from Pune. I switch to my limited fluency of Marathi to which she responds with a sigh of relief. I glean from her itinerary that she boarded the Air India flight from Bombay bound for Rome, and from here she is to continue on to Montreal. I look at the departure time on the ticket and realize that her scheduled flight has long left. I quickly glance at the flipping departure board, it’s already close to five in the afternoon and there are no more north America bound flights scheduled that day. Actually, there aren’t many flights scheduled to go anywhere for a while. Other than a lone passenger walking past here and there, it’s just the two of us standing in the middle of the wide passage.

‘You know that your flight has already left?’

‘Has it? No, it can’t be.’ And then I see the expressions on her face change from disbelief to dismay to I don’t know what to do helplessness.

‘Uncle, uncle, please help me.’ She urges. Her face contorted on the verge of breaking down in a cry. She obviously has no clue as how to negotiate her situation and/or what to do next.

‘It’s alright. Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.’ I try to comfort her. I still don’t know what though! But as we stand there for a couple of undecided and uncomfortable minutes, the whole scenario unfolds in the front of my eyes.

She is newly married. Probably plucked hastily from a bevy of eligible suitable young candidates by a newly graduated and a year or so in his well paying job as an engineer in one of the western countries. The usual routine would be: a brilliant young man graduates from prestigious school in India, enrolls and is admitted for the post-graduate studies abroad, most probably in America. Alternately in England, Germany or Canada. Earns his Master’s degree, probably with honors and is offered a job. It takes him a year or two to feel settled, acquire his Green Card or an equivalent thereof from the respective country, and has saved up enough money to take a month long trip back home in quest of finding a mate. His family has lined up several prospective brides from other compatible families for him to see and to consider.

I imagine him making rounds of their homes in company of a close friend and couple of his own family members. I imagine one of them being the home of the young woman, standing in front of me, whose name I know from her ticket is Kajal. Sitting in her parent’s living room is the man she may or may not marry, depending on how they like each other, and if from a conservative family, whether or not their astrological charts concur.

Even though it’s a hundred degrees outside, he is dressed up in his suit and a tie. His brother and his friend accompanying him not so. Only slight comfort from the heat comes from the ceiling fan whirring up above. They are surrounded by the male members of the girl’s family, involved in animated chit-chat about the way of living between the east and the west. The young man, let’s call him Manoj, is, if not exactly nervous, is a bit fidgety. After all, this is one of the most important moments of his life that would define the rest of it.

Waiting in the inner room and in the kitchen are the females of her family. Kajal is dolled up in her best sari and the glittery jewelry like a Bollywood starlet. When an appropriate amount of time has passed, as if on a stage managed prompt, she walks slowly towards the living room with other women following. Her hands slightly shake as she tries to balance a snack tray with cups of tea already poured in, and little dishes and bowls filled with Monaco crackers, Glucose biscuits, home made chivda and sev, penda and other sweetmeats bought from the best Punjabi halwai.

Anxious, her heart is filled with the fear of unknown and yet she feels incredibly excited as she walks across the hall and places the tray on a low table next to the man who could become her husband. Her head is partially covered by the end of her sari. Her eyes are lowered. She raises them as discreetly as she could to get a closer look at the young man she has already seen photos of and glanced at from the slight opening of the door from the inner room. He is allowed to be a bit more obvious in raising his eyes and taking her face in and whatever else he is able to discern of the rest of her torso covered by her sari.

Whatever the outcome, this has got to be one of the most thrilling moments of their lives. They may choose to meet once again and sit face-to-face in a café for small talk, mostly accompanied by a friend or two, who may discreetly excuse themselves for a short while, giving the two some private moments.

Let’s suppose that everything goes well and both families pop a rock of sugar in their mouths to celebrate forging of this new lifelong union. Now there are only a couple of weeks left for Manoj to hurry through the rest. First of all, to get married. As importantly, to apply for the papers for now his wife to come and join him in Canada. Both of the families switch to the whirlwind gears. The wedding is arranged, hundreds of friends and relatives have blessed the couple. The days filled with lots of laughters and happiness. And then they see him off Mumbai’s Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport. His face smeared with vermilion, flower garlands hanging around his neck and a coconut in his hands, which he must discard before landing at his destination. Go back to his job and wait for the immigration formalities to clear and wait for his bride to join him.

‘Come with me and let’s see what we can do.’ I say and pick up her shoulder bag and return to the lounge with Kajal in tow. The receptionist is hesitant to allow her in but seeing that I am Lufthansa’s gold status Senator, she reluctantly allows me to bring her in as my guest. Settling her on a couch and getting her some chips, nuts and Coke, I let her tell her story.

I have guessed it right. She is indeed a newly married bride on her way to join her husband in Montreal where he works for a large multinational corporation as one of its engineers. She has landed in Rome several hours earlier and has managed to get lost in that vast labyrinth of an international airport. It is because of her limited knowledge of English and sheer timidity – afraid to ask anybody and confused about the time difference and finding herself in an environment totally alien to her, she is totally disoriented. Scared, she looks helpless like a wounded bird fallen to the ground, its wings fluttering, but disabled, not able to rise even an inch off from where it has fallen. Soon as she sees me walk past, a face familiar to her and someone recognizably from her country, does she dare open her mouth. In the meanwhile, not realizing how much time has elapsed and that the plane that would take her to her husband has already left without her.

When I explain all this to the receptionist, she softens and even tries to see if there is any way she could help her get on her way.

‘I’m afraid nothing today. The best option for her is to spend overnight in Rome and catch the same Air Canada flight tomorrow afternoon.’ Easier said then done. Whereas she has failed to even make it on her own from one gate to another within the confines of an airport, how would this woman ever manage to go outside, find a hotel, stay there by herself and come back tomorrow? To further complicate the matter, even if it were manageable with some help, that’s not an option for her. She has no Italian visa to even venture out of the airport.

It takes me back to that chilly late August early morning when I was on my way to London to begin my studies, when the Swiss immigration officer yanks me off the train in Basel. Basel is uniquely complicated tri-border town where Switzerland, France and Germany meet. I have arrived on a German train that slides along the German platform. I will connect to London train from the platform that is in France. To get there, I must walk through the Swiss platform, for which I do not have a visa. But that’s yet another story. Only the receptionist notices my momentarily frozen face.

Her gaze pointed at me, she continues: ‘I don’t know if they would let her stay here overnight. They probably shut down the airport after the arrival and the departure of the last flights.’ I tell Kajal all of that. She is beside herself and understandably so, because where is she going to go? In the meanwhile the time is ticking and soon I should be walking to the gate to make my flight to London.

‘Don’t leave me here by myself uncle. Please, please.’ Her pleas are heart breaking and as torn as I am I really don’t know what else to do.

‘I doubt it, but perhaps someone from Air India or Air Canada is still around the terminal. After all, she is their passenger!’ I hear receptionist say. When she notices the hopelessness on my face, she taps on her computer. ‘You still have thirty five minutes.’

So I take Kajal practically by the hand. ‘Let’s go see if we can find someone.’ The banks of the service counters that are within the international departure areas are all absolutely empty and deserted. No one in sight. Won’t hurt to try the other wing. So I walk with her through the passage where she had first stopped me. We cross the passage, and I notice a lone young man, curly black hair, chiseled dark face. An Indian!! He is going some place, his gait is harried and swift.

‘Excuse me!’ I scream. I have managed to stop him in his tracks. He turns around to look at us. His breast tag identifies him as an Air India personnel. He rushes towards us.

‘Here you’re. Kajal Kamat. We’ve been looking for you for hours now!’ I don’t even wonder how he recognizes her right away. Who else could she be? When he looks at me, I give him a quick rundown on how she happened to be with me.

‘They waited for her and even delayed the flight for about fifteen minutes calling her several times on the PA system.’ But then he realizes that she couldn’t have understood a word of it. As lost and distracted as she is; she couldn’t have recognized even the sound of her own name. Seeing that I am looking at my watch; ‘You go ahead sir. We don’t want you to miss your flight as well. Thanks for helping her. I’ll take her from here.’ Before darting out, I put my hands over Kajal’s shoulders and wish her luck. She doesn’t say thank you, instead she brings her palms together and bows her head.

‘Bless me please, uncle.’

© Haresh Shah

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, April 4, 2014

QUICK CASH

During my hiatus in Santa Barbara, I meet up with Playboy Germany’s first editor-in-chief Raimund Le Viseur in Los Angeles. He is there following the promotional trail of then the First Lady, Betty Ford and wants to get together one evening. He is accompanied by the photographers from the news agencies Sygma and UPI. We together go out looking for the Stars.

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Categories Culture, India, Love Story, Marriage, Memoire, Travel, Women

MY FATHER’S SECRET STASH

October 17, 2013 //
1

Haresh Shah

Uncovering An Intimate Inheritance

secretstash2

I am in Bombay about a year after my Dad passed. Other than waiting for close friends and the family living within an hour or two’s distance, within the Indian tradition, the deceased is immediately cremated by the family members. So it wasn’t expected nor was it possible for me to be there for the cremation. There are some rituals that are performed within the first thirteen days of a person’s death, something akin to the wake, followed by a family feast to celebrate the person’s life. But the true tribute to honor my father’s memory was going to be Saptah. Saptah literally means a week, but it’s always understood as a weeklong reading of Shri Bhagwat by a scholar who most of the time is also an animated performer and the interpreter of the stories contained therein – the book by which the followers of Vaishnava faith are guided.

The reading happens all day long with appropriate breaks amidst a revolving crowd of attendees in an open house format. My brother Suresh and his wife Aruna are hosting the event and have set up a beautiful mandap in their backyard. It’s one of the most attended Saptahs, also because Shastriji, is not only a serious scholar and the interpreter of the holy book, but also because his crystal clear booming voice  makes all those stories come alive in your imagination. He is a very close family friend and for him our Saptah is more than the ones he is hired to do. My father had always been one of this biggest fans and sponsors.

For our family, this is also a week long bonding, eating together, arguing and just be merry together, preceded and followed by big fanfares. It begins with our large family and friends taking the family Bhagwat from my parent’s house to Suresh’s. Something most every Vaishnava family  would have passed down from generation to generation. For the day-to-day reading, there are modern volumes designed and produced in the fashion of a large encyclopedia, but the original version would be a stack of loose leaves in a horizontal landscape format – either in limited edition version or even handwritten in beautiful cursives. These volumes are normally wrapped in red silk and hold a special spot within the home. And they are brought out only for special occasions. So iconic and revered are they that you just don’t throw them in a bag or a suitcase to usher them from one place to another.

My family happens to have two such volumes of Shri Bhagwat, which are being reverentially carried atop the alternating heads of two of the women walking in a procession. The entire family is out on the street, dressed in their wedding best. Men in crisp white Kurtas or in their stylist western threads, women all dolled-up in their best silk saris, looking like wide eyed Kathakali dancers, studded from the head to toe in their precious jewelry. We are dancing to the tunes of the latest Bollywood hits being tooted by a group of old fashioned uniformed band leading us. Laughing and screaming, back slapping, the onlookers cheering us, we take an hour or more to  cover the short distance of four to five blocks between the two houses.

In the backdrop of the Saptah and during my weeklong stay at home, one afternoon my three brothers ambush me and hurriedly shove me into my parent’s bedroom suite and lock the door behind us. They sit me down on the bed and the two younger brothers, Dinesh and Rajesh climb up the chairs and lift the heavy trunk off the top of the cupboard and gently slide it out. They delicately cradle the bottom of the heavy trunk, and lower it with a deft motion and gently place it on to the bed.

‘Baa wants us brothers to go through what’s in here and divvy up the contents among the four of us brothers. Since you were coming home, we thought we would wait to go through the stuff when all four of us are together.’  Suresh tells me.

So we open the trunk. It contains all sorts of men’s things, such as several bottles of expensive men’s colognes, some of which I had brought for him over the years. I smirk when I see his white billfold made of parachute material, from which I remember filching a few rupees now and then. My bothers wonder why I have that cat that swallowed the canary look on  my face. Nothing! I say and they let it slide. Then there are old fountain pens, one of them I distinctly remember – the gold capped Schaffer. My father was what they called a shokhin manas –  he liked good things of life. He had a large collection of wrist watches, one of them I had always wanted to have. The one with the large blue dial that contained slots not only for the days and the dates but also the one that showed the cycle of the moon, of course housed inside a pure gold case. Suresh has his eyes on that one too. Younger brothers want a couple of not so exclusive Playboy watches. And then there is a set of gold studs including a pair of  cufflinks. enamel inlaid with beautiful modernistic burgundy, white and black pattern.  An Elgin USA fob watch, also in pure gold casing and attached to a long gold chain, dangling from which is a charm – a gold coin dated 1917, bearing the engraved face of the king George V – and another watch, a Longines, also in the gold case with matching gold watch band. The old man really loved his gold.

Just before my youngest brother Rajesh died a couple of years ago, I was joking with him that they had to be naïve to let me make it out like a bandit.

‘We just let you have those things, because we knew you would appreciate them the most. So you got away with bit of gold!’ And then he gave me his characteristic baby brother smile.  Because I got the two gold watches as well as the set of buttons and cufflinks. And he was right, not only do I cherish those things but I actually wear them. And I can’t even begin to imagine what would it have been like me having dressed up in my tuxedo and not have had those priceless studs?

But that’s not why they have ambushed me and locked us up behind the closed door. Suresh pulls out a pile of envelopes from the bottom of the trunk and hands them to me.

‘Put this away in your suitcase and lock it up. Take it to America with you. Because if Baa ever sees it, or one of the sisters gets a whiff of it, all hell will break lose.’

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘See for yourself.’

They are long legal sized mesh lined manila envelopes, carefully cut down at one end to the size of the content inside. I pull out what feels like a bunch of photographs.  I quickly flip through some of them. My brothers’ eyes focused on me. While Suresh maintains his solemn demeanor, Dinesh and Rajesh are sheepishly smirking at me with that knowing but astonished look written all over their faces, ‘do you believe it?’

I am not exactly surprised. A bit amazed maybe. So Dad had a good collection of these pornographic images, line drawings of Indian royalties involved in every possible Kama Sutra positions and a whole bunch of French postcards – containing the nudes of wholesome beauties. Rest contained the explicit images of felatio and cunnilingus done by and to each other by men and women – some in threesome and also featuring multiple partners. There are women making love to women and some being pursued by their furry friends even. And there are several envelopes titled BELLE ARTE PLASTIC – Made in Germany, 3D images of the naked women, complete with the red and green 3D cardboard framed viewing glasses.

‘Put them away right now in your suitcase and lock it up before anyone barges in.’

So I do. Stash them away inside the inner pockets of my suitcase. And then I forget all about them until I get home to Chicago a few weeks later and am unpacking my stuff.  Might as well, because had I remembered them, I don’t know how comfortable I would have felt going through the customs in Chicago in the knowledge of their existence. I could just imagine the headline: Playboy executive detained by Chicago’s O’Hare customs for attempting to import hard core pornography!!

At some point I did go through them. The collection also contained original negatives and  glass plates and also a small wallet sized leather bound photo album with rounded slit corners, inserted in which were a similar collection of photographs.  Majority of those were stuck to each other and were not salvageable. The prints of the line drawings on thinner paper were all curled up and some had turned sepia with age. The French postcards, as it turns out were actually made in Germany. They were printed on better quality paper and were in better shape.

All of the envelopes came from the same law firm, so the printed return address on them indicated. The space for recipient was blank, which meant they were hand delivered, but a couple of them had post marks, indicating they were mailed from Bombay 1 to Bombay 2, addressed in care of the trustees of Bada Mandir (Big Vaishnava Temple) in whose compound we lived. This also may mean that they were originally meant for one of the priests  of the temple, of whom my father was a staunch devotee and either they were given to him for the safeguard, or they together and others who hung out together were partners in the crime. They were mailed in the year 1951.

In retrospect, when I think back, it should have been apparent to me that as religious as my dad was, in things socio-sexual, he was fairly liberal. Perhaps because the Indian classics are full of explicit descriptions of sex and the female anatomy. And the fact that the carvings on some of the Indian temples would put any pornographers to shame, also indicates the liberal attitude of the ancient Indian culture. This of course would have perfectly fit his belief system. Or in other words, good old dad was a cool cat!

I remembered what he wrote to me in response to my attempt at justifying my working for Playboy: So what’s the big deal? Haven’t  you  ever read Rasa Manjari?  It also reminded me of some plain-covered Hindi pornographic books I had found under the mattress on his side of the bed and once also a copy of Nar Nari, the sex magazine of the days. And I remember clearly what my grandpa, my father’s father had blurted out with big explosion of exclamation when he saw for the first time my parents’ custom made elaborate bedroom  furniture –  containing of a sofa set, a three way folding mirror and the larger than king size bed, all beautifully hand crafted with the motif  of louts petals. Looking at the bed, he growled to nobody in particular, what are they going to do there? Dance?

And to think that my mother didn’t know about those publications and the photos hidden away in the trunk? Aren’t we being a bit naïve, brothers? Certainly she wouldn’t have cherished my sisters and my brother’s wives seeing them. My mother was a clever woman, and must have imagined how my brothers would react to them and would want to protect her from the filth.

For even though, theirs was a conventionally arranged marriage, my father had to be the most romantic man of his days. I can totally imagine it having caused a minor scandal when instead of calling my mother by her given name, Prabha, he renamed her and started calling her Kanan, after Kanan Devi, the sultry Bengali actress and the singer. He must have admired and adored her enormously to name his own wife after her, and this in the days when actresses were looked down at and were seen as being only slightly above prostitutes. These were also the days when Indian spouses didn’t even address each other by names, but mere, hey, are you listening? please and such.

I could just imagine people whispering and rolling their eyes behind my parents’ backs. Especially the women,  going: just imagine, he calls his wife after that slut Kanan in front of everybody. Baap re Baap. Doesn’t he have any shame? But he must have been strong of character and defiant to the boot, because we had never heard him calling my mother anything other than Kanan. I only had a slight notion of what she looked like. For the first time I just pulled up her photos and the bio off the IMDB. and I must confess, Kanan Devi was the beauty to be reckoned with. Big black kohl framed eyes, a sultry sensuous face and the long shiny dark tresses. Good taste Dad! And fortunately for my father, so was my Mom.

© Haresh Shah 2013

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

SISTER SITE

http://www.downdivision.com

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Next Friday, October 26, 2013

PERFECTLY UNBOUND

Does anyone remember why the Playmates are called centerfolds? When Playboy  was saddle-stitched and not perfect bound as it is today?

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Categories Family Stories, India

THE BEST MAN AND THE BRIDE

August 15, 2013 //
1

Haresh Shah

Just One Last Time

brideescape3

I don’t remember anything at all of the wedding ceremony of Tina Chan – one of our freelance contributors at Playboy’s Chinese language edition in Hong Kong.  Or even if I or anyone else sitting at the table was invited to attuned. Whether it was a church wedding or a traditional Chinese affair. What I do remember is; about a dozen of us editors and executives are seated at the table of the noisy and crowded banquet hall of the Hotel Royal Garden in the heart of Kowloon, waiting for the bride and the groom and the wedding party to arrive for the celebrations to begin. When they make their grand entrance, Christina is dressed in the western bridal dress with the veil lifted and the train trailing. She is not particularly what I would call  pretty, but in her bridal finery, she looks as stunning, radiant and beautiful as a bride should. The happy smile on her face communicates the bliss she must feel. Her husband too is dressed as would a western groom – in a tuxedo, ruffled shirt with starched collar, shiny shoes and the bow tie.  The just married couple and the wedding party enter the hall with a roar of applause and the cheers from the family and friends, following which they together go from table to table, their faces bursting with smiles and laughters, welcoming each and every guest and then finally sitting down at the bridal table for the banquet to commence.

Like any other formal Chinese banquet, this night’s banquet too contains a traditional twelve course meal.  A glass top lazy Susan is placed atop each of the tables and the food is served in large platters or turins. I obviously don’t remember all that was served, but most likely there was Shark Fin soup, various sea food dishes, which may have included abalone and shrimps, pork, beef and chicken and some unrecognizable gooey and slimy dishes whose origins I am afraid to ask. The white slippery lumps of meat that I pick up from one of the platters could be anything. I think of the skinned snakes dangling down in Taiwan’s snake alley, freshly slit lengthwise from the head to its tiny tail, the hot blood dripping over a dozen or so little cups the size of the shot glasses waiting to catch the spewing blood and several young men eagerly picking them up and chugging up while the blood is still fresh and hot, for it’s believed that the fresh snake blood makes you more virile.

Without giving it much of a thought, I follow their gestures and try my best to negotiate the shiny lacquered chopsticks without dropping or dripping the morsels I have managed to trap in their jaws, and lower them gently inside the little bowl placed in front of each one of us, before swiftly shoving the food inside my mouth. Just the way they do it. Some of what I eat is delicious, some I am not sure about and some undetermined. I wish all through the meal for some fried rice with which to mix some of what I am eating. But traditionally, rice is always served at the end of the meal just like in the North and the West India. So I try to wash it all down with San Miguel  beer. The lazy Susan keeps turning, the food keeps coming in. It takes about two hours before rice appears, thus signaling the end of the courses.

Traditionally, there are no drinks served with a Chinese meal, but soon as the meal has ended, the bride and the groom get up from their tables and begin their rounds to greet each group, a bottle of Hennessey XO in hands, toasting each one of the guests. From table to table, and at times from person to person, they toast and must drink bottoms up. I am absolutely amazed at how much the newly weds must drink over the course of the night. And they still float and maneuver the narrow aisles between the tables with that permanent smiles pasted over their faces, listening and telling jokes. Not only do the bride and the groom, but also the bridesmaids and the groomsmen and the close family, swirl around the hall,  back slap and talk loud and then down yet another shot of Hennessey.

As they begin to fold up the tables and just when I think the evening has come to an end, the  mahjong tables replace the dining tables and as if the cacophony of the people screaming and shouting and backslapping weren’t loud enough, the sliding back and forth of and bashing against each other of the mahjong tiles is deafening. But the mood is jovial and the downing of Hennessey continues. Now the bride and the groom have split up and are tending different tables, sort of like the division of labor. How can  you even begin to stand straight after those many shots of cognac?  But they do, and do it in style.

While the groom is busy at one end of the hall, on the other end the bride is surrounded by some of the groomsmen and other young male friends. I notice that there is a lot of giggling and horseplay going on between the bride and the men surrounding her, mainly the men teasing and roughhousing the bride while even attempting at some blatant groping – pinching of her ass, rough flash-quick squeezing of her breasts through the bridal gown. The advances the bride constantly tries to fend off in good humor. I see one of them lift her long wedding dress, another grope her above the waist. Just fun and games.

Along with everyone else, I too am feeling bit of a buzz, but perhaps a little less, because as much as I like cognac, I have my limit and also because my favorite is Remy Martin VSOP. Its smoother and lighter on the palate as compared to stronger and darker Hennessey XO. Beyond two or three shots, I stick to my beer and linger. Since I don’t play mahjong, I walk around with the beer glass in my hands, amazed at the whole scene, I just plain watch. The bride is still prodded and groped and manhandled. But she seems into it, fending for herself, but not really. Laughing and screaming  things in Chinese, which of course, I don’t understand.

Reminds me of what I had witnessed during the Holi festival years earlier in Bombay. There lived a Marwari family of five farther down the alley from our house, in a two room apartment. An older couple, their daughter and the son Gopal and his wife Radhika, to whom he was recently married. None of us had really seen Radhika face-to-face, except when the fabric of her carefully pulled down sari would inadvertently slip and we would catch a glimpse of her young face. She couldn’t be more than eighteen. Not a beauty, but ugly she wasn’t either. And for my thirteen or fourteen year old, she was an older woman with rounded limbs, and therefore quite desirable. Its Holi, India’s spring festival and everyone is out there with their syringe guns filled with colored water and hanging around their necks, the slings looking like pouches filled with dried and powdered color pigments – rung, with which to splash and smear whoever crossed your path.

I am approaching the Marwari family’s house and am about to pull the plunger of my syringe when I see Radhika, coming out of the house screaming, running and giggling, trying to defend herself from an attack from a young man, Gopal’s country cousin Manoj. He throws a splash of rang on her, she throws some back, but now he has caught her and holding her close against her faux protests while he brings fistful of rung and is struggling to put it inside her blouse. The end of the sari covering her face is askew, her palav is disheveled  revealing her naked midriff and her choli pulled up, wet and clinging, exposing the contours of her small breasts. They are rough housing, her trying to keep his hand away from her chest, his hand getting precariously closer and then his fingers pulling the fabric of her choli from the neck   and his hand shoving a fistful of green powder inside. Fighting hard and giggling hilariously like a little girl,  pulling herself back, she breaks loose. But Manoj puts his hand inside his sling and this time comes out with a fistful of purple dye. He has gotten hold of her again, Gopal watching intently and laughing, cheering her on, don’t let him, Radhika, push him back. But her little fists pounding on the cousin’s chest don’t do much. He has her pinned to him from her waist and is now lifting her sari and in one swift motion, he has reached between her legs and is rubbing the powder between her thighs. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill  you, she threatens and giggles and then either succeeds to push him away or he just lets go of her. They are both smeared and drenched all over looking like walking, talking and fitted tie-dyed outfits. Gopal is hilarious and so is Manoj, while Radhika though still giggling, busies herself straightening her choli and the sari, giving Gopal a twisted, but loving look and screams at Manoj: just you wait!!! Leaving my teenage body aroused and flustered.

I leave the banquet hall and wander over to the men’s room. What I find there is a big commotion. The groom is lying flat on the floor, totally passed out while a couple of his groomsmen fuss over him and conclude that he needed to lie there for a while.

I don’t personally know the groom, except for having said a quick hello while wishing them well in the reception line. I inquire to see if he is okay. I don’t know the groomsmen either, but they know who I am.

‘He always gets this way after he has had a bit to drink. He will bounce back and up soon enough. No worries!’

So I do my thing and come out. I say my goodbyes to my publisher and a couple of editors, who all are banging at the mahjong tiles.  As I stumble over to the elevator bank, I notice the best man and the bride getting on the elevator headed up – more like as if he were the groom, with his arms around her waist, their sides glued together. The elevator door slides close and they are gone. I watch the floor lights of the ascending elevator and notice it stop on an executive floor up above. Probably the bridal suite.

© Haresh Shah 2013

Illustration: Celia Rose Marks

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Next Friday, August 23, 2013

DESIGNING IN HIS DREAMS

Over the period of time, I have worked with some of the most talented art directors in the world. Some of them super well known fine artists in their countries, some just plain awesome in the way they interpreted and gave a graphic identity to their editions. With very few exceptions, the art directors are also quite colorful characters, a bit crazy, if you may and bon vivant in the true sense of the expression. Among them, Germany’s wunderkind,  Rainer Wörtmann.

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Categories Hong Kong, India, Relationships