I’ve been told that every book needs to have an arc. A beginning, a middle and an end. What’s the storyline for Yoda’s tale? Where is the book headed to? Does the book have a point? Why have I chosen to write in short chapters? Do the chapters have any link with each other?
Like Seinfeld, this is a story about nothing. There is no point. There is no arc. It’s written in short chapters, because our life with Yoda is all about fabulous vignettes. Things happen. Thoughts occur. We respond. Sometimes we remember. The rest of the time, we eat, sleep, and try to find the most creative ways to fill our waking hours.
Perhaps the only writing skill I have from my days spent in advertising is short paragraphs and 30 second commercials. When you write for short attention spans, and every consumer seems to have ADD, you’ve got to hit it and get it. Thank God I left the profession before the days of TIVO.
I think that this book will create a whole new genre. Toilet reading. One chapter at a time. No need to remember what you read yesterday, no plot lines or character to carry forward. Nothing to tax the intellect, or aggravate the constitution. Pablum on paper. A sort of Ur-Metamucil, if you will. I had always hoped to make a contribution, but had no idea that this is how it would happen.
Where is this story headed? Tomorrow, that’s where. Every day brings new opportunities for another Yoda story. Someone says something. A headline grabs our attention. Memory is jogged. And we both go Aha. Another chapter.
I think Yoda suspects that something is going on. He has taken to giving me more than my share of affectionate licks. Not too many, no need to get me blasé. Just enough to whet the appetite, and have me asking for more. What a tease. Mina gets a little snippy, and loudly mutters ‘ Just because he’s writing a book about you…’. We are a very competitive family.
My father was a great believer in ‘writing one page a day’. For me, not him. I was tyrannized into writing every single day, till I escaped to boarding school at the age of ten. I began writing this book four weeks after he died last year, so maybe this is the Karmic link. One day, I’ll pay someone a lot of money to figure this out, but not now. First, I have to sell this book.
This book has already given me a major frisson. Every ever so polite rejection letter I have got so far – all of them modeled on the George Costanza ‘ Its not you, its me’ line – address me as Dear Author. I’ve been called many things in my life, but not that.
I’m told that publishers love books that have sequels. The gift that keeps on giving, like Yoda. Fear not, I cant promise 7 books, but there’s more to the Yoda story than this one.
Yoda is now over 14 years old and all the books say that he has more good years left in him. As parents, we pray that we will not outlive our children. As parents of Yoda, we know that we will outlive him, one day. There are no happy endings with pets, but there is a great life to be lived.
Every day at about four in the morning, Yoda wakes up from his place at our feet and makes his way to our pillows. He sticks his furry face next to Mina’s and his rear end near mine. His breath is hot and heavy, there are times when Mina has thought it was me.
A few hours later, when I wake up, he gives me the ole beady eyed look and writ large on his face is the thought ‘Youvegottabekidding’. He’s got it right, he always does. Why wake up when you can be asleep? Not exactly the attitude of the motivated super achiever. But Yoda knows that he can look in the mirror and say ‘ Every day, in every way, I’m getting better and better’, and guess what, he’s right.
And so, Toujours gai my friend, Toujours gai. There’s many a dance left in us, and many a romp through life to be had. And we will sing the song that says it all – Zippadee Yodaa, Zippadee Yay……my oh my what a wonderful day.
The End
Apr 07, 2009 | | Book
Every year at the ASEAN meeting , the Mandarins from each country are supposed to put on a little show. Everyone looks to the US to lead the way. Madeleine Albright sang ‘ Don’t cry for me Aseanies’ . I believe it sounded like she was saying wienies, but no one took offense. Condi did her high minded bit on the piano. And the team from India led by Chidambaram sang a version of a Hindi-pop song. The refrain went ‘ Made in Indiya, Made in Indiya’.
But not everything is. We were coming down in the elevator in Bombay, and observing the usual etiquette. No eye contact. Intent contemplation of the flashing lights as the floors went by. On the 9th floor, a tall bearded gent got in. Truth be told, he was a little scruffy looking. I was tempted to refer to him, sotto voce of course as a ‘poor man’s Castro’. Mercifully, I did not.
He kept looking at Yoda , and he was not sending any love. ‘ What breed is he?’. ‘ Shih Tzu’. ‘ I knew he must be a foreign breed’. ‘ He’s from China. A cousin of the Lhasa Apso who is from Tibet’. And then he launched into his tirade.‘ We have no Indian dogs. All dogs in India are imported. The only truly Indian dogs are the pariah dogs on the streets’. By this time, we were at the Lobby level, and he gave us a fierce glare, and stomped off.
Could this be true? We ran through the names of breeds we had seen in India – Dachshund, Dalmatian, Golden retriever, Collie, Alsatian, Pug, Bulldog, Rottweiler, Labrador….and not a native Indian breed in sight.
How could this be? If a dog was part of the Mahabharata, then how come there was no truly Indian dog? Mina who knows everything( and goes by the initials IHE for In House Expert) produced this factoid. The dingo was native to India, but the entire breed migrated to Australia either during the great Continental drift, or on fishing boats from South East Asia. They were the original settlers, long before the Aborigines, or convicts. India should lay claim to some part of Australia on this basis. This is how the great colonial empires were built, weren’t they?
We have the peacock, we have the water buffalo, we have the Bengal tiger, we have the elephant, we have birds, bees and beasts coming out of our wazoo. But, no dog. Well, there is one breed called the Rampur Hound, but according to the internet ‘ they have fallen into oblivion’. Yesterday’s news. If no one knows you, you don’t exist.
Dogs are perfect for word association tests. Britain, Bulldog. German, Shepherd. French, Poodle. Even Karl Rove could not have done better. Swiss, St Barnard. Japanese, Akita. Dalmatian, Fire Truck. Dachshund, Sabrett’s. American. Paris Hilton. Mexican, Chihuahua. Dogs sum up the national identity and ethos in a very neat shorthand. I challenge you to find another species of animal, bird or fish that can do this trick. Dogs rule, I told you.
Its obvious that India needs a national dog. So what if it is not native to our land? We are the experts at finding something we like, and making it our own. Plagiarism has never bothered us. Sorry Kaavya.
We turned Hollywood into Bollywood. Pharma majors, begat the Indian generics. I just read about the latest fashion statement in Madras – the celphone sari. A smart little pouch, hanging off the waist, perfectly placed so it will always be aligned, no matter how you wear the saree. So what if ringtones emanate from our midriffs? So what if our women get a buzz when the phone is on vibrate mode? Could Karl Lagerfeld have done better?
I propose that we adopt the Shih Tzu as our national dog. Sure, China might get pissed off. But they still have the Pekinese, so they’ll be fine. And remember, they took over Buddha and parts of our north east borders. I guess we are quits.
Why a Shih Tzu? If the heart were to rule the choice, there would be no debate. But the mind must also be appeased with reasons. So, here are three.
We need a pooch who is exclusive. It would not do to pick a garden variety dog.
We need a pooch who is pretty . We gave the world Aishwarya Rai and the Taj Mahal. We need to maintain the tradition. We need a pooch who is small. Apartments in the new India are becoming tinier by the day.
I rest my case. The only piece of the puzzle left is – what will Yoda make of all this? Will he agree to being poochum inter pares?
I think that like all Global Indians, he will have only one question. What are the royalties?
Apr 07, 2009 | | Book
Monoo was one of my college buddies, and his mother ran a combo literary-commie salon in Bombay in the late 60s. She was a famous writer, more famous for controversy than her actual writing, and a very loving mother and welcoming hostess. There was always an extra bowl of spaghetti and bright red tomato sauce at her dining table, and conversations filled with ‘deep thoughts’ in her living room.
One day, the commies turned on me. ‘ You’re a young chap. Who are the better communists - the CPI or the CPI(M)?’ The Party was going through one of its regular alphabet soup splinters, and I was asked to pronounce judgment. I had neither the intellect, nor the gumption to take sides. What if I offended one of them, and was shot down like Trotsky? I ducked and weaved… ‘ It all depends on how you define communism, doesn’t it?’ ‘Good point’ and the conversation moved on.
Most lefties I know have a very black and white view of life, and a very grey demeanor. Not grey as in this year’s black, but grey as in sackcloth and ashes, grey as in a winter’s evening in Cleveland. My brother Sridhar is the only one I know with a rollicking sense of humor, and a joie de vivre I have ceased to expect from ideologues of any ilk.
He christened Leia our Dalmatian the Running Dog of Imperialism. Since Leia could work up a good pace when we took her for runs at the race course, this was quite appropriate. When we got Yoda, Sridhar came over, gave him a loving, careful examination and then pronounced that he was the Lap Dog of Capitalism.
I am sure that Marxism has many other labels for canines. Pomeranians are the chattering vassals of the bourgeoise, Rottweilers the attack dogs of reactionary forces, Alsatians the tools of the State’s oppression, Huskies the Beasts of Burden laboring under the Iron Hand, Pie Dogs the Lumpen Proletariat, and dog shows of course are the vulgar indifference of a decaying society to the class struggles raging outside.
Dogs have made it into our language, but at the lower end of the totem pole. I’ve been working like a dog. He was shot like a dog. They’re all dirty dogs. She was treated like a dog. Oscar Wilde was hounded to his grave. Dog days of Summer. Even a dog deserves a better death. His bark is worse than his bite. Bitch. Our prose has been quite dog-a-phobic.
The quality we attribute most to a dog is loyalty, and faithfulness. His Master’s Voice is the ultimate expression of this conceit. The devoted dog, ear cocked, awaiting his lordship’s pleasure.
When Ayesha was young we read a story to her about Australia. In the outback when it got cold, they used to cuddle up to their dogs for warmth. The colder the night, the more dogs were pressed into service. When the temperature really dropped, they were called three dog nights.
Yes indeed, dogs are meant to serve us. It really comes home to you when you see dog walkers in Manhattan. It’s always almost a young man, with rippling muscles, tight black T shirt, very club worthy jeans and shoes, being led by at least a dozen dogs. The dogs are carefree, no thought of being of service, no thought of devotion or loyalty. They are obsessed with only thing – The Spot. Once they find it, the entire pack has to wait. And each member of the gang has to find its own Spot. No sloppy seconds for them.
The walker usually finds his own rhythm, balancing brood in one hand, cellphone in the other, and a whole bunch of plastic sandwich bags clipped to his waist. The pooper scooper laws must be obeyed. He reaches down with the agility of a gymnast, and does the pickup and toss in one graceful movement. Its all very well choreographed.
Jobs done, they all wend their way back home. The pooches are happy. They have been walked. The walker is happy. At ten bucks a canine, he’s earned more than the minimum wage- tax free, and can now go off to meet his drama coach.
Marx would have approved. Every dog must have his day.
Mar 28, 2009 | | Book
Do I listen to loud music all day? Do I work in a noisy environment? Do I go clubbing a lot? I had gone for an ear exam , and the doctor put me through a battery of questions about my ‘sound habits’.
Like all my other doctors, he looked kindly at me and said ‘ For your age…..you’re fine’. As ringing an endorsement as I am likely to get from anyone, for anything these days. He did tell me to steer clear of speakers at rock concerts, and avoid spending time on factory shop floors.
Am I a hipster? Do I go clubbing all night, messenger bag around my neck, and I Pod ganglia snaking out of my ears? Nah. Do I wear hardhats to work and whistle at blondes who walk past? Nah, but it’s an idea worth pursuing. My decibel footprint is modest. Cool jazz is not going to fry my eardrums, and the loudest noise I usually hear is ‘ You’ve got mail’. Not much danger of self inflicted damage to my hearing.
Noise is a whole other deal for Yoda. The Indian monsoons are a terrible time, with the thunderstorms keeping him awake all night. Weather is an act of God, and there is nothing we can do about it.
But Divali is entirely an act of man. We celebrate the festival of lights, with lots of noise. For about a week, the entire country explodes with the sound of firecrackers. The more noise you make, the more you celebrate the triumph of good over evil. The subtext is that the more noise you make, the more money you’ve made.
Makes you long for a good old recession. Nothing like a falling Sensex to give everyone a dose of humility. I am sure this has been researched – as the Dow goes down, ‘please’ and thank yous’ go up.
We have tried different strategies. Swaddling him up in his baby blanket, creating a burrow space, crawling under the bed – they all provide about five minutes’ relief. For a while we all sat in the bedroom and watched DVDs at full volume. But CSI and Law and Order just don’t have enough bang.
The Internet brought us a mini-manual. Probably written by the folks who wrote the protocols for water boarding at Abu Ghraib. Since dogs are afraid of noise, it would be wise to stage ‘noise performances’ to terrorize the dog, followed by praise and some treats. Condition them out of their fear. Start with hand claps, and evolve all the way to gun shots. Yes, gun shots. I kid you not. As a concession to the dog’s tender nerves, it is suggested that the shells be fired into something soft like an old pillow. The punch line is that only adults experienced in firearms should be involved. Dick Cheney need not apply. If he can shoot a Republican donor in the face, he will have no hesitation in shooting your dog in the head.
Thank God for Bark magazine. It won my heart the first time I saw its tag line ‘ Dog is my Co- Pilot’. We saw an ad for an Anxiety Wrap created by a woman for her own pets. It’s like a very tight fitting T shirt with Velcro straps and plastic hooks. Works like a dream.
These wraps are good for a thunderstorm that will pass in an hour or two. But, Diwali is a full 7 day assault on your eardrums. No way he can wear the wrap for all 7 days. So, we fled to our beach house, to get away from it all. But noise making has made its way even to the villages of India. The economists in Delhi would be proud to see trickle down at work..
When the going gets tough, the tough get going. When fight is not an option, flight is good.
This year we plan to celebrate Diwali in Italy. Any excuse.
Mar 28, 2009 | | Book
