We are the world

Time of India

10 hours ago

Bachi Karkaria's Erratica and its cheeky sign-off character, Alec Smart, have had a growing league of followers since 1994 when the column began in the Metropolis on Saturday. It now appears on the Edit Page of the Times of India, every Thursday. It takes a sly dig at whatever has inflated political/celebrity egos, and got public knickers in a twist that week. It makes you chuckle, think and marvel at the elasticity of the English language. It is a shooting-from-the-lip advice column to the lovelorn and otherwise torn, telling them to stop cribbing and start living -- all in her her branded pithy, witty style. LESS ... MORE
And like that only everywhere
If you want to feel homesick, don't travel. Means, I'm not saying, 'Why you want to travel? Simply stay home, no.' Opposite I'm saying: 'Go, go, travel, travel.' Kyon ki, everywhere we are meeting Indians. Making us think, 'Arrey, I'm in India only. Plus, enjoying Western-bestern things too.' It has been like that only for me this past fortnight.
Last Saturday, I felt particularly at home. Intrigued, I'd gone to see Marriage Material at the Lyric theatre in Hammersmith. It was based on award-winning Brit journo Sathnam Sanghera's book and centred on the Bains family's Wolverhampton corner shop. The Iqbal Khan/Gurpreet Kaur Bhatti adaptation itself sounded shop-worn. My bad, coz I couldn't keep up with the impenetrable Wolverhampton accent? Nope. My v. Brit companion assured me that not many in the local-desi audience could have understood all of it either.
Ah, the audience. It certainly wasn't the garden party-throwing, yacht-owning, millions-owing, Mallya-fide malai-layer of uppity desis. This one was like a raucous Patiala-Patel gathering. The Mums still spoke with Indian accents and dressed in tacky Colaba/Janpath. The younger lot dressed and spoke London. That accent is certainly not English as she is spoke (affected) in India's hangover Delhi clubs; in Calcutta, which has its own Oxbridge-Bong'; and by a certain gentleman whom it fits to a T. Saturday's middle-class Mummy-Papa may have also felt more comfy in no-frills Lyric than in intimidating West End icons. No Royal Box here. So non-stratospheric ticket prices. But then no air-conditioning – on a heatwave weekend.
Mercifully there were no cell-phone detonations during the play. Nor even the crackle of crisps. But gent in next seat and poly sweaTee kept up a steady rustle, delving noisily into his backpack, looking for some lost treasure of Tutankhana. His Mrs occasionally dug in too, crackling away in counterpoint.
During intermission the hall filled with boisterous Inglish-vinglish exchanges – and aromas. Is that a lamb samosa I see before me? Out damned greasy spot. I'm not wanting to eat you only. Too hot, no?
***
Alec Smart said: 'Sahib Trump and 'Bibi', but Iran's no Ghulam.'
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