5 Aug 2013

Fear and Loathing. And Hindi People.

The Mothership, hardcore Mallu that she is, has a tendency to assume the worst about North Indians- or as we call them in private, 'Hindi people'. Her definition of 'Hindi people' is a wide, sweeping, arc that covers just about every inch of the country north of Bangalore. Naturally, she wasn't thrilled when I moved to Bombay last year. Till recently though, I was under the impression that I had finally converted the Mothership, that I could take comfort in knowing that I'd transformed one bigoted soul forever.  

Not having spent much time in the North myself, I was thrilled when I got the opportunity to spend a few days in Delhi last month to promote my novelTo nobody's surprise, those 'few days' in the capital have somehow stretched into a couple of weeks now, partly because I was down with some stomach trouble, and mostly because it meant I 'd have that much longer before getting back to the daily grind. The Mothership- bless her- fired off two warning texts to my phone before finally calling.

"Tharun," she says, "what do they want?"
"Who, Ma?" I ask, because it's 7 in the morning and I've just returned to the friend's home I'm crashing at from a party with seven hungover strangers.
"The Hindi People," she says, "what will it take to get you out of there?"
"What?" I try to clear my head, "Mom, I just got held up with book stuff here. I'll head back soon."
"Son," she whispers, "I don't know who they are or what they want, but you tell them your Ma's got skills, you hear? You tell them if they don't let you go, your Mommy will look for them, that I will find them, and I will kill them. You hear?"

I consider letting my Mother think I've been kidnapped by Hindi People for just a little longer; it'd be easier than telling her I've been putting off getting back to real life because breakups are hard and I'm in possession of half a brick of primo hashish that needs smoking before I can board a flight without fear of getting an anal probe.
    
"Ma," I say, "I'm not being kept here against my will. My stomach's all screwed. I think I've got Delhi Belly."
"That's good," she says, "speak only in code. "Delhi Belly"! Ha, I bet they're going crazy trying to figure that out!"
"No Ma, 'Delhi Belly' is a real thing," I say, "It's a stomach infection you get from drinking Delhi water or something."
"Good. Now keep using code, but what can you tell me about your location? I'm sure they blindfolded you, but did you happen to hear a train or a plane in the background?"
"The entire city is connected by train, Ma," I say, "and besides, I've not been kidnapped! I can't believe you've never heard of Delhi Belly. Google it. Aamir Khan even made a movie about it. You know it must be contemporary and traumatic and capable of reducing housewives across India to tears if Aamir Khan makes a movie about it."

The Mothership falls silent. Aamir Khan is one of the few Bollywood actors to hold his own in our household, partly because he made a couple of decent movies ten years ago and mainly because, as my mother put it, "I think his people have suffered enough, don't you?" She knows I wouldn't use the Khan's name in vain.

"So you're actually staying longer in Delhi off your own free will?" she asks.
"Bye, Ma," I say, "I love you."

Now as any man will tell you, you can't really look people in the eye after they've just heard you tell your mother you love her. So I put down the phone, make a face, and plant my gaze on a speck on the wall that's a good foot above the tallest person in the little group assembled around me. Though we've boarded up the windows, we can hear the day breaking outside, an angry milkman here, a furious automobile honk there. We haven't slept a wink all night but we've been in Delhi long enough to know we can't afford to waste daylight.

"Right, people," I say, "you know the drill. We're all hungry and this is part of the cultural experience, so no whining. And pick up anything you see that can be concealed in your clothes and can be used as a weapon."

There is a collective nod, and no audible Oedipus jokes. Deciding it's still early, I collect just the assault rifles from the corner and pass them around.

"Ok on the count of three," I say, "ladies, grab your pepper spray and tasers, and other assorted anti-rape devices. Guys, you've got your guns; lock and load. Let's go get some breakfast."

Icy Highs's Music Recco: Bhaag Bhaag DK Bose, Delhi Belly (2011)


11 comments:

Sarge said...

ICY!
Good writing! Keep us posted on that new book.

I am over at www.onedrunkenoldsergeant.blogspot.com


Ron

Katy Anders said...

I'm glad you'rte not really being held against your will, but I might need to borrow your mom to get me out of some bad situations...

icyHighs said...

Sarge, good to see you again. Book's doing well, thank you. Will pop round to yours in a bit.

icyHighs said...

Careful what you wish for, Katy. :)

Rose said...

Ha, ha, ha! Superb write, I have to meet your Mom, :) Good luck with the book:)

goatman said...

Those guys rock out!! Love their spirit, and they help the economy with purchases of new equipment.

I haven't had hash since hash had me!

icyHighs said...

Thanks Rose, she's quite the charmer when she wants to be.

Goatman, I see what you did there buddy. :)

unikorna said...

You have a lot of humor :)...Your mom sounds amazing :)...I must say I love your people...they fascinate me, your culture, your traditions are amazing.

Optimistic Existentialist said...

Man you have some amazing writing ability...wow.

icyHighs said...

hey unikorna, thank you. and yes, there's nobody quite like mom! :)

icyHighs said...

thanks optimistic existentialist, that's very kind. :)