Social etiquette precludes discussion on certain topics, and high on my list of thought provoking subjects that are seldom discussed is methods of cleaning up after, well, doing potty.
Indians, and I suppose, citizens of other so called less developed countries grow up using water for the clean-up after the big job. The delivery mechanisms vary, from the old fashioned and common “mug, hand and soap” approach, to the more recent hand held jet (my personal favourite) and the nozzle at the back of the seat that shoots a well directed spray into the cleaning area.
The hand held shower wins my vote as it achieves the twin objectives of using water to do the job, and does away with any need to touch the object of the cleaning exercise. Brief aside: the hand held shower evokes memories of a true life incident. One of the families in the Chennai apartment block where we lived a few years ago, referred to the device as “ass washer”. The lady of the house assumed that was the official term for the device. When they were shifting as tenants from one apartment in the building to another, the lady innocently asked the prospective landlord, a typical conservative Tamil Brahmin gentleman in his seventies, if the bathrooms in the house were fitted with ass-washers! I heard this anecdote from the lady’s husband, and would have loved to be there to see how the conversation proceeded after that.
One of the key adjustments for an Indian moving overseas is adaptation to alien cleaning techniques, i.e use of tissue instead of water. For some of us, this is unimaginable and something we can never quite reconcile to. [“Is it possible to have a bath with only a towel and no water? Then how can you possibly do this?!]. The use of water remains the preferred approach among the adult inhabitants of my home, although the toilet roll remains an available option for visitors who prefer “dry cleaning” and kids who are more culturally flexible.
There is nothing more fake than a five star hotel in India with only toilet rolls and no mug in the toilet. It beats me as to how the management of a hotel can be so staggeringly insensitive to local custom. They run the risk of fine crockery kept in the hotel room being employed for unintended purposes.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Joy of Sport
As one advances in years and indulgence in physical activity becomes increasingly rare, it is refreshing to be reminded of the joy of playing sports. One does not have to be accomplished at any form of sport to feel this way. In my formative years, more talented playmates outshone me in cricket, with the result that I gravitated towards football (aka soccer). There I found some sort of niche for myself as a dependable defender. Never good enough to get into any serious level such as the school/college team, I was still regarded with some of sort of respect among casual footballers, and could make it to the “class team” quite easily.
Over the years, football became my sport of choice, and I always looked forward to a game, for the satisfaction of a thundering kick well directed, the opposition pass intercepted, and the joy of nifty passes to my own teammates. During the college days, the evening game after a dreary run of classes became the highlight of my day. Many years later in Mumbai, as corporate life and family encroached on sporting pursuits, the Sunday morning game with other thirty plus inmates of the Cuffe Parade building became the highlight of my week.
Badminton has been another deeply satisfying sport, though I have played this infrequently and much less than football. My earliest memories of playing this sport go back to Hyderabad. I must have been around ten and my brother Murali a teenager. My father bought us 2 “Silver” rackets from a sports shop in Secunderabad, at something like forty rupees a piece, which seemed a big investment at the time. We strung a rope across two makeshift poles in the compound of my grandparents’ house, and played.
Many years later, while living in Chennai, badminton re-entered my life. The apartment complex where we lived had two indoor courts, and a doubles game in the evening after work became part of the daily routine. The games were keenly contested, and always satisfying. There is no better feeling than having one’s racket flukishly come in the way of an opponent’s powerfully hit smash and watch the shuttle drop innocently on the other side of the court.
Table tennis was another game I grew up with, although it was several years before I got to play on a real table. My first memories of the game are of playing it on the dining table of our apartment in Calcutta, with a row of paperbacks stood on their sides serving as our net. Murali used to beat me easily and I still remember the strange mix of joy and coming of age emotion I felt the first time I beat him, as a young teenager. We had a pair of red dimpled rackets, which were really more like plywood boards with thin rubber sheets pasted on. I had mine for several years, and used it to good effect in school to win some games against more fancied players. They attributed my victory to my “Fatta” racket, which they claimed negated all spin, and should be disallowed.
Unfortunately, sporting activity recedes in importance with the years. It is only now, with two little boys, one of whom is obsessed with it, that it is seeing a bit of a resurgence in my life. I had forgotten how good it feels, and look forward to the day the boys are a little older and we have an even contest.
Over the years, football became my sport of choice, and I always looked forward to a game, for the satisfaction of a thundering kick well directed, the opposition pass intercepted, and the joy of nifty passes to my own teammates. During the college days, the evening game after a dreary run of classes became the highlight of my day. Many years later in Mumbai, as corporate life and family encroached on sporting pursuits, the Sunday morning game with other thirty plus inmates of the Cuffe Parade building became the highlight of my week.
Badminton has been another deeply satisfying sport, though I have played this infrequently and much less than football. My earliest memories of playing this sport go back to Hyderabad. I must have been around ten and my brother Murali a teenager. My father bought us 2 “Silver” rackets from a sports shop in Secunderabad, at something like forty rupees a piece, which seemed a big investment at the time. We strung a rope across two makeshift poles in the compound of my grandparents’ house, and played.
Many years later, while living in Chennai, badminton re-entered my life. The apartment complex where we lived had two indoor courts, and a doubles game in the evening after work became part of the daily routine. The games were keenly contested, and always satisfying. There is no better feeling than having one’s racket flukishly come in the way of an opponent’s powerfully hit smash and watch the shuttle drop innocently on the other side of the court.
Table tennis was another game I grew up with, although it was several years before I got to play on a real table. My first memories of the game are of playing it on the dining table of our apartment in Calcutta, with a row of paperbacks stood on their sides serving as our net. Murali used to beat me easily and I still remember the strange mix of joy and coming of age emotion I felt the first time I beat him, as a young teenager. We had a pair of red dimpled rackets, which were really more like plywood boards with thin rubber sheets pasted on. I had mine for several years, and used it to good effect in school to win some games against more fancied players. They attributed my victory to my “Fatta” racket, which they claimed negated all spin, and should be disallowed.
Unfortunately, sporting activity recedes in importance with the years. It is only now, with two little boys, one of whom is obsessed with it, that it is seeing a bit of a resurgence in my life. I had forgotten how good it feels, and look forward to the day the boys are a little older and we have an even contest.
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