Deadly weather - 70s' style

This past weekend has reminded me very much of April days in England during my childhood. Back then, pre climate change, April could be relied upon for showers, just as March was the month for winds and November - the month of Remembrance - was always fittingly sombre and grey and freezing cold. These days, the months are less well defined, but here in Bangalore for the past three days, it's been like an old English April, albeit a little warmer.

I've been at home with the children all weekend and every time we set off to do something, the weather played spoilsport. Normally, if it's bright, we'd go swimming. But it's been too cold to do that and the ground has been too wet for them to play on really. We set out to walk to our local shop on Saturday (or "lacaal shaaap", as it's stored in my phone) but we'd not got very far before the spitting turned into fine rain, the fine rain into drizzle and the drizzle into heavy, persistent rain. And so we turned back and spent the rest of the afternoon alternately watching videos on YouTube and me reading stories to Niharika and Mark. I think we're now up to 356 readings of the Gingerbread Man, and 148 of Chicken Licken - or is it 149? I forget.

But by the end of the day I had that same cooped up feeling that I used to get as a child: that stuffy, need-for-fresh-air, stale feeling; and I'm sure Mark and Niharika felt the same even though, between story readings and YouTube, they tried to shake it off by knocking seven bells out of each other.

"Lovely weather" I called across to a neighbour on an opposite balcony yesterday, as I indicated to the rain pouring down for the umpteenth time. "Yes, it's great, isn't it?" he replied. That's the thing you see, my attempts at sarcasm when it comes to the weather, never ever work in India. What I regard as a dull day, is seen by others as a great day. For me, nothing beats a blue sky in the morning and the sun beaming all day long. I had plenty of dull, grey, rainy days in England; too many in fact. And actually, I decided to move to India after I'd flown from a brilliantly bright Hyderabad into what turned out to be the dullest, most dreary, sunless British December (2002) since records began. "Deadly weather" work colleagues would say in India, referring to what they regarded as a perfect cool, cloudy, temperate day. Deadly? Dreadful more like.

And maybe it was because I was reminded of my childhood in the 1970s that I bought some Old Spice deodorant in the supermarket yesterday. What is now regarded as naff in Britain is still completely acceptable in India and so it still is possible to go to most shops that stock toiletries and find Brut and Denim and Old Spice lining the shelves. Old Spice for me reminds me of my father, Hannibal Lecter who, poor soul used to be given gifts of Old Spice talc and the odd shaving stick by his children every year. There would be three occasions for those gifts: his birthday in April, Father's Day in July and of course Christmas. All of which probably meant that he'd just about got rid of the April/July stocks by December when BANG! Three more products from the Old Spice range.

And so today, after my seventies'-throwback weekend, I smell like my dad. All I need to complete that seventies feel is a little bit of Hotel California from the Eagles, but where on earth in Bangalore am I going to get that?

The image appeared as an advert in Punch magazine in 1957.

A time for Remembrance

Today is Remembrance Sunday in the UK. When I was living there it was one of the few days I went to church, and probably - if I'm honest - the only day that I went there willingly. For me, it was not so much about religion, but everything to do with the WW1 and WW2 veterans who, at some point in the service, would march up to the altar and hand over their Royal British Legion standards to the verger, their medals clinking on their chests. As a cub scout and later a scout, I too took part in the rituals on Remembrance Sunday. I was the 24th Chelmsford Scout Group standard bearer on more than one occasion and later, after the church service had finished, we'd stand, heads bowed, in front of the war memorial on what would invariably be a freezing cold Sunday.

I write two blogs on India but I also have eight blogs and three websites on military matters including two remembrance blogs which are updated daily; each day remembering one soldier from the First World War, and one from World War Two, who lost their lives on that day.

India-aaagh and India - travels in my nightie are my light-hearted, irreverent, exasperated and cynical takes on life in India, but on some days it is time to be serious and Remembrance Sunday (which is always the nearest Sunday to Armistice Day, the 11th November), is one of those days.

India lost huge numbers of men during WW1 and whilst I think it's a pity that there is no Remembrance in India of India's war dead - at least as far as I'm aware - I can understand that commemorating countrymen who fell in the service of their British masters, oppressors or what you will, may not strike the right chord these days. Nevertheless though, whatever the cause and whoever the masters, a life is a life and Indian soldiers paid a heavy price during WW1.

My first focus for Remembrance is always my grandfather's brother, John Frederick Nixon, Jack to his friends, who was killed in action on the 3rd October 1918. You can read about Jack here.

Rinjang Sangma gave up his life the previous year: on the 12th December 1917. The son of Jogan Marak of Talapani, Garo Hills in Assam he served with the 69th Garo Labour Company in the Indian Labour Corps. He is buried in La Chapelette British & Indian Cemetery, Peronne, France (see photo). He is also commemorated on the war memorial at Tura in what is now Meghalaya . My wife, also a Sangma, has family in Tura, although Rinjang Sangma is not directly related to her as far as we know.

On the 11th November I'll post regarding a Bangalore soldier who served during WW1 but for now, let us remember Jack Nixon, Rinjang Sangma and all those allied soldiers who lost their lives fighting for a cause they believed to be right.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.

Addendum - 9th November

India does celebrate what we in Britain call Remembrance Day or Remembrance Sunday. Here, as I discovered this morning, it is called World War Martyr's Day and there was a ceremony yesterday at St Mark's Cathedral in Bangalore and possibly elsewhere.

www.rent-a-baby.in

Here's a shocking story from India's most dreadful daily (Times of India) plus, I wouldn't be surprised, every other newspaper in the city. A mother goes to work in the morning and leaves her baby with the maid. Returning home early one evening she finds the maid with her feet up, watching TV, and no baby to be seen. It transpires that the maid has her own little racket going whereby she rents out the baby to beggars for 100 rupees a day and the beggars then cart the drugged child around their pitches at various traffic light junctions.

Then again, is this such a shocking story? We all know, don't we, that the vast majority of the babies we see being held by traffic light beggars are not the beggars' own children, but merely rented props to elicit a little more sympathy and - more to the point - rupees? We do know that don't we? So the babies have to be supplied by somebody and it therefore shouldn't come as too great a surprise that a baby from perhaps a more affluent home has been press-ganged into begging duties by an opportunistic servant. Mind you, is a well-fed and clean middle class baby actually going to benefit the beggar more than say a malnourished and grubby one? If you had ten rupees and you had to give it to one beggar with a healthy looking baby or one with a distressed one, which one would you choose?

You can almost hear the conversation between the maid and the beggar:

Maid: Pssst. Wanna rent a baby?
Beggar: How much?
Maid: 500 rupees a day. Luvvley baby, feel the quality (pinching it).
Beggar: 500 rupees for that. You're having a laugh.
Maid: 400 then.
Beggar: I can't be doing with it. Look at it. It's had a bath, it's plump. That thing's going to be more of a liability. Got any weak and feeble kids?
Maid: 300.
Beggar: Look, I'm telling you, a healthy baby is no good to me. Can you find me one with a cough, or a runny nose?
Maid: 200 and you're getting a bargain.
Beggar: 100 and I'm doing you a favour.
Maid: Done. Make sure you bring it back by six.

For me though, the incredible part of the story was the part where the mother said, words to the effect, "well, I wondered why he/she seemed a bit listless in the evening." A bit listless! You'd be a bit listless if you'd been drugged up to the eyeballs all day. And if the truth be known, I should think it was probably a bit dusty too.

Runny-nosed baby from UCDavis (and an apartment near YOU!)

You want ooman?

That at least, was what my rickshaw driver asked me late last night after a good evening out with friends. "You want ooman?" No, I did not want ooman, not unless she was holding an extra large doner kebab in one hand and a bag of chips in the other.

"No thanks very much" I said, "I'm married. Three children."

Why do I do that? Why do I get my wife and kids involved? Subconsciously I suppose, I mention Shilpi because it lets the driver know that my refusal is not because I'm gay. Mentioning the children lets him know that not only am I as straight as a die, I am also a responsible father who wouldn't dream of getting involved with some grubby prostitute (unless she was packing an extra large doner and chips).

The driver careered us round a corner, sploshed through a pothole and then fleetingly converted his auto into a light aircraft without wings as he hurtled over a speed-breaker.

"You have car? You want driver? Me, bahoot good driver."

Well, he might have been a good driver, but if he was, he wasn't displaying any evidence of that last night. I think that during our short journey, he probably broke every road traffic regulation there is and very nearly hooked us up as stowaways on the back of a lorry. It was my first time with this particular driver but I know his face well as he's one of the gaggle of drivers who's always outside my local. Normally he asks me if I want to drive his rickshaw home for 250 rupees. Again, yes I'd love to, but not when I'm completely pissed thanks. The reason I leave my car at home in the first place is because I don't want to drive when I've had a skinful. And if I'm not going to drive my Scorpio when I've been drinking, I'm hardly going to get behind the tiller of a rickshaw. I've seen wrecked autos and believe me, they crumple as easily as a packet of crisps.

It's been a long while since an auto driver has offered to find me a ooman, years in fact. My polite refusal would then usually be followed up with an offer to sell me some grass instead. Again, no thanks. My driver last night didn't offer me drugs, but I'm sure he could have got me some had I asked. Actually, thinking about it, he could probably have found me a doner kebab as well; a proper doner kebab made by an expat Turk and filled with all those salad items which are there simply so that you can pick them all out and chuck them on the pavement outside. Yes, an extra large doner with chili sauce would have gone down very well. Next time, I'll ask him.

Fathers, parties and felt-tip pens

I'm coming to the conclusion that fathers should be used sparingly when it comes to bringing up their children. My own Hannibal Lecter excepted, all they do is bring chaos into the ordered world created by their wives. Take yesterday afternoon as an example.

We had invites to two parties yesterday. One of Niharika's friends was six years old and our old neighbour's little boy was three. I popped out at lunchtime and bought presents for the two boys - a really noisy and irritating battery-operated gun for the three year old, and a baseball bat and balls for the six year old. While I was in the toy shop I bought a bottle of bubbles each for Niharika and Mark.

On the way home from work I stopped to buy chocolates. The three year old has an older sister and so I bought a box of chocolates for her and also chocolates for twin girls who also live in our old locality. Apart from the madwoman behind us who would occasionally rant and rave all night at her husband, we've always been lucky with our neighbours, and the twins and their parents would often pop round with sweets or biscuits; involving us in whatever festival they happened to be celebrating at the time. While I was at it, I bought cake for us and then headed home.

Niharika and Mark greeted me at the door, both dressed up and looking smart for their parties. They looked great: Niharika in a Barbie t-shirt and skirt, Mark in shorts and short-sleeved shirt. They were clean too, almost sparkling in fact; as if Shilpi had emptied a bottle of shampoo over each of them and then scrubbed them with scouring pads for half an hour.

So what does the father do? He gives them their little bottles of bubbles of course. Mark's bottle lasted probably about five minutes before he spilled it on the floor and then, not satisfied with that, snatched Niharika's and spilled hers too. Sixty rupees, two red and tearful faces and a floor covered in slippery bubble mixture. The remedy? Cake of course.

Ten minutes later, two children covered in cake crumbs and a floor covered in slippery bubble-crumb mixture. Some fathers should be used sparingly.

We had a great time at the party. Our old neighbours are engaging and hospitable and the food arrives in a never ending succession of tasty dishes. "I take food with me to the office" said our host. "I'm not surprised" I replied. "If I lived with your wife and mother, I'd take food to the office as well." They're great cooks, but more than that, they always make you feel welcome. We didn't stay late because we had to come home and sort out the baby and Niharika. We had second helpings, thanked our hosts and left with return gifts for the children.

Ever since Niharika has been old enough to go to parties she's been receiving felt-tip pens as return gifts. I don't think it's so much a case of the gifts being inexpensive (which nevertheless has to be a consideration when you're putting together return gifts for so many children) but rather a case of fathers being left to choose the presents. Other suitable father-sourced gifts for children might include boxes of matches, cigarette lighters, scissors, knives, shoe polish, a sewing kit, dog biscuits, HIT cockroach spray... you get the picture. And every time she comes home with felt-tip pens, it's her clothes and her face and her hands which get decorated, and on occasions the walls and floors as well.

And sometimes, when the father has his back turned and is on his lap-top instead of watching what the munchkins are up to, her brother joins in as well.




I tell you, fathers and children just don't mix.

If you're a zombie, eat me.

It's no use, I deserve to be eaten. I've tried to think of other suitable punishments but really, there are none. Being eaten by a zombie - slowly, painfully and messily - is the only fitting retribution for the crime I have committed. But first, let me explain.

I was a little disturbed to receive an e-mail from my mother (in England) in which she said she was dreading Halloween because of the yobs who, under the guise of trick-or-treat, come round knocking on doors and more or less demand money with menaces. Now we have the Americans to thank for that little tradition; a custom which just wasn't part of the Halloween agenda when I was growing up in England. In fact, had it not been for the fact that 31st October is my brother's birthday, Halloween would have been just like any other day for us. And so I replied to my mother saying that such anti-social behaviour is unheard of in India, at the same time reminding myself I would do well to focus on some of the good things in this country instead of being a moaney old git.

I was out with friends on Halloween and I was telling another expat pal about mum's e-mail and how Trick or Treat - or what it's become - was one American tradition we Brits could well live without.

Last night, the day after Halloween, we were all at home when there was a knock on the door and lo and behold, trick or treaters dressed up in costumes. I don't recall all of the costumes but there was certainly a Captain Jack Sparrow, and a Superman. Superman (who was actually a one year old girl) was being held by her mother (dressed as a witch) and there were two other mothers as well. We know them all. Captain Jack is one of Niharika's classmates at school and we know the others to say hello to.

And so I found chocolate for the children and was just saying goodbye to them all when the witch caught me completely off guard and asked if Niharika would like to join them all. And without even thinking twice, without recalling the e-mail from my mother or the conversation with my friend, and somehow completely skipping over my whole distaste for the whole trick or treat tradition, I agreed to Niharika joining them, found her strap-on fairy wings (which no home should be without) and sent her off with the entourage.

And so that's why I deserve to be eaten by a zombie and to walk this earth for all eternity as one of the living dead.

Dr Jekyll's Auntie

Has anybody else been watching Jekyll on the BBC Entertainment channel? Every Thursday for the past five weeks I've spent the same fifty minutes glued to the box. James Nesbitt (above) is Dr Jackman, a modern day Jekyll and Hyde, whilst Gina Bellman (left reflection in the blade) is the perplexed but feisty Mrs Jackman.

Growing up in England, my brother and sister and I soon realised that when it came to TV, any programme prefaced by the announcement that it contained "strong language" or "scenes of nudity" was sure as hell going to be worth watching. We were generally right, too. And so it is today. The difference now is that any decent programme on the BBC Entertainment channel now carries a warning. Not just the same warning, mind you, but specific warnings; almost as if a self-appointed guardian at the BBC has sat down with the DVD remote in one hand and a long check-list in the other, waiting for something offensive to happen. So last night's episode of Jekyll was heralded by the announcement that "This programme contains violence, swearing and sexual content. Parental guidance is advised."

And you see, that too is a departure from the old days. Back when we were growing up, the BBC didn't deem it necessary to add that passive "parental guidance is advised" sentence. Whoever was in control then, wisely thought that as long as you gave people an indication of what was about to be broadcast into their living rooms, that was good enough; you could leave the rest up to them.

I suppose it's an example of British nannyism that the BBC now feels it necessary to state that parental guidance is advised and to couch the language in such a way that it distances itself from that advice. "Parental guidance is advised". What a pathetic, weak statement. It's a bit like the ingredient listing on food packets: "contains monosodium glutimate". Everybody knows its there but nobody pays a blind bit of notice. And yet the BBC obviously feels the need to issue some kind of warning just in case Mr and Mrs Dullard take them to court because their five year old has suddenly started shouting out "FUCK!" and punching his sister.

I think Jekyll has the most warnings: sex, violence and swearing, although I can't say that I noticed any sex or swearing last night. Mind you, I was so engrossed that you could have ridden a quad bike through the living room and I wouldn't have blinked.

But you know, in the interests of fairness, perhaps the BBC should go one step further and ensure that all of its programmes carry some guidance. So for "Strictly Come Dancing" you'd have the warning that the programme contains images of "Z-list celebrities making complete tossers of themselves" whilst the Graham Norton show would warn you that it contained "an irritating Irish twat". And why stop there? Why not also put parental guidance notices up on the CBeebies channel? The Teletubbies would warn parents that the programme "contains strong gibberish and mindless jumping up and down" and The Tweenies warning would state that "The Tweenies, like the Teletubbies do not actually exist. They are simply adults dressed in funny costumes". Oh, and "Parental guidance is advised" of course.

It's so much simpler in India: dreadful programmes that nobody in their right mind would want to watch, hence no need for warnings of any kind.