Lead Kindly Guide

               My sixteenth birthday. I stood before the Taj Mahal with my mama-mami, under a wintry full moon. The nasal tone and terrible angrezee of the local guide who had probably inherited his English-language ishkool-teacher’s ethnic accent eclipsed all visuals. The rates for ‘English-guides’ was higher (four decades ago, unofficially) than for the Hindi ones. My memory might have been limited to how the British “ishtole our Indian jewel-ishtones like ameralds, diaaminds, rubiezh, vaghera’’ but… when he realized he wouldn’t be paid less for speaking in the Hindi he was more comfortable with, he gave us a superior commentary.

               Mumbai, at the start of this century: our Marathi-speaking guide seemed to know the answer to every question we asked. Savarkar lived in that building, this market was named after Kirtikar, the bust at the crossroad was poet Gadkari’s, this road was named after NM Gokhale and that after NM Joshi, and why.  Then he took us up to the terrace of a building, promising to show us something wonderful. We had a 360 degree view of Maximum City. “How little I know of the city of my birth,” I said. Our guide pointed towards the snaking traffic below and led our eyes along an arterial road to what he proudly declared was ‘sampoorna, Ward H’. This made sense when we discovered that he had a regular job in the Municipality and guiding was his side-business.

               Warsaw, Poland. Our guide was a cousin’s husband who, as we drove past some clickable landmarks, told us the names of the branches of the bank he worked for. Let me hastily add, guiding wasn’t his side-business, he was doing us a favour.

               Poland again, down the salt-mines in Crackow. Couldn’t make out the guide’s gender by attire, demeanour or voice. Guessed it was feminine. Clipped sentences, staccato lecture, crew cut, military bearing. We daren’t breathe lest the moisture from our breaths dissolve the sodium-chloride walls. Or earn her displeasure. Maybe Eastern Europe rose from World War ruins thanks to matrons like these. Duty was duty. No moment wasted, no small talk. Questions were entertained,  time-permitting, if relevant. Each fact delivered precisely. No smiles, no gestures. At the end of the trip, tips permitted.

               In Dubai, our host worked for a ‘facilities’ company. He requested his housekeeping supervisor to show us around a gigantic and famous mosque. We came away knowing how much shampoo, water and man-hours were required to clean the huge carpet and glittering chandelier. How many bulbs went phut per week. How, after every Friday’s namaaz, the carpet moved a couple of inches because of the hundreds of knees and heads moving in unidirectional solidarity and had to be dusted and adjusted by a professional tugging team at the end of the day.

               Across the oceans, in the land of dreams and dollars, relatives and classmates showed us tall buildings, large staircases, wide roads, enormous parking-lots and shopping-malls. Over pancakes and roasts, our NRI host-guides moaned to us Indians from India about cravings for dried bombil/baangdey, coloured glass-bangles, roasted groundnuts and Old Monk. All available, but tasted different in the air-conditioned indoors and the crisp dry outdoor-barbeques of America. (One needs stuffy one-window kitchens with LPG fuel and the salty sultriness of the west coast for that taste.) Stars and Stripes fluttered outside every house. Proclaiming loyalty? I asked. Was it compulsory? “Not at all,” was the hurried reply. Too hurried, I thought. Was it a social expectation? If someone didn’t flutter a flag would there be unspoken neighbourly dissent?  In the land of the free, I hesitated to delve. American history, barely out of living memory, was presented with a sense of wonder. Our guides bubbled nostalgically over India’s millennia-old heritage: ‘India is so varied, fabulous, talented…’ followed by ‘… dirty, backward, corrupt’. (May things be a-changing now. Amen.)

               Recently, Turkish guides, graduates of a three-year University course in tourism, informed us about Turkish history, economics, religion, cuisine, architecture and why their spouses had divorced them. Ever curious/sympathetic about family matters, our Indian bunch dug leftover liras from our wallets to cheer him/her up.        

               At the Tower of London the guides were retired soldiers, making themselves and Britain targets of their jokes. “What,” I asked one, recognizing a gallantry award pinned to his chest, “Did you get this medal for?” With nil expression and unwavering tone he replied, “For eating salad at dinner, five weeks in a row.” Unforgettable.

Humour matters as much as facts and figures.

              

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

                             

A Mauling and a Mangal Yatra.

          Read about the young man who was killed by a tiger in his (the animal’s, not the boy’s) cage? The incident was filmed by someone and aired over television all day and night on Tuesday.

“Ghastly.” For once, Sri Husband and I both agreed on something. Such pleasures (sorry to use this word, though unrelated, in connection with such a horrific incident) are short-lived.

          “The government is responsible for this accident,” I said.

          Sri Husband asked, “How and why?”

          Sometimes I have to explain things to him slowly and clearly: “Because there was nothing to prevent the young man from getting into the cage. He climbed the barricade and fell down.”

          Animated response: “Barricade? There was a cage, a double barrier, the guard had warned him, warning boards and placards are everywhere, and everyone knows that tigers aren’t pussy-cats.”

          Me: “Obviously that wasn’t enough. A young Indian of productive age lost his life.”

          “What do you think the government could have done better?”

          “They could have walls around these animals with proper ceilings so no one can climb or tumble inside.”

          Sri Husband: “These animals are in a certain environment, forest-like. City-people should see them in their natural surroundings. At least as natural as possible. That’s the whole purpose of having a zoo, no? How will people look at the animals through walls? ”

          I tackled that one easily: “The walls could have windows for people to look inside. I once read about someone who pretended to feed a deer and put a rubber-band around its tongue. The deer died. The cause of death was discovered after the autopsy. That’s why we should have walls. To protect both animals and humans.”

          He gave me the exasperated look he gives the television anchors when they ask bereaved parents ‘what/how do you feel?’. I didn’t know what I’d said wrong. I waited for a second, then asked, “You always take the government’s side. Why?”

          “You can’t blame the government for everything. I just feel citizens should be more responsible, more disciplined.

Me: “For example?”

He: “No connection to the zoo episode, but… spitting on the road is an example.”

          Me: “The government should arrest/fine every person that spits.”

          “Which means it’ll have to employ several lakh staff to follow around habitual and occasional spitters. Great idea.” I ignored the touch of sarcasm. Also wondered where he got the word ‘spitters’ from. Never heard of it, but I know what/who he meant. This is one word the Oxford/Chambers dictionaries should include. Pukka Hindustani. Apt.

          I said: “Of course great idea. So many more jobs will get created. What’s the problem?”

          “Impractical, no?”

          “No.” I could see the streets filled with challan-distributors, fining spitters and pee-ers. Government coffers would swell. There would be activity and vibrancy all around. And in zoos they could have people to penalize those who tease the inmates or want to enter tigers’ cages.

          I said, never giving up a chance to have my voice heard, “There’s a lot the government can do in other ways: ensure that every child passes from class to class, school to college and promote people automatically. This nonsense about exams and performance is a western concept imported by desh ke drohi.”

          “What does that have to do with zoos?” Sri Husband doesn’t give up either.

“Just saying,” I withdrew.

Customary silence over, the conversation went off-track.

Sri Husband: “I read that the government’s going to have skill-banks. Who knows, we might even have changes in attitude.”

“Like?”

“Neatness outside the home, standing in queues, punctuality, honesty, living honourably, wanting to do what is right and legal rather than finding loopholes to circumvent regulations… and not jumping over wire fences that lead to disasters… what say?”

Abba. Lecture-baazi. He was in of those moods, feeling good about things.

“As things are, things remain,” I thought in silent disagreement.

          He changed the topic quickly.

He’s good at reading my mind.

          “This Mars Orbiter Mission is brilliant,” he said, showing a spark of enthusiasm. “ISRO’s put India in the world-class league.”

“Mission Mangalyaan, the world’s cheapest Mars mission?”

Sri Husband nodded appreciatively, not believing I’d actually heard about it.

I wondered: “Now what will happen to horoscopes? People with saade saati and mangal? Will this complicate our traditions? What if someone read the zoo-victim’s horoscope? Would it show time and cause of death?”

Sri Husband: “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. What do you believe?”

“In common-sense,” he retorted.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in