Sahilosophy: 2007

“Long live Indian Army”, exclaimed my army friend, gulping down a big sip of the Old Monk Rum (Buddha Baba as we call it) he’d brought from the CSD (Army Canteen). And then, with all his charm, he smiled at me and said, “Bhai, Indian Army to khadi hi Rum par hai (Indian Army is functional only because of Rum).” And then we celebrated the gala way, with Rum, and raisins. This was a routine bash where we shared endless bouts of sticks, talked about girls and other stuff like advertising and army.

Coming back home with my girl, the svelte Hero Honda Passion, I thought to myself, if the army can boast of Rum, then we, the advertising professionals, can boast of something we can even write home about. And there’s no mega or monsoon dhamaka prizes for guessing. The verdict straight away goes to Maggi (Applause please).

So what does Maggi have to keep us occupied at any hour of the day? The masala, as my friends smirk, yell and rejoice. Bollywood maybe the sole proprietor of ‘masala’, but still, it can’t beat this masala. Its smell plays an important role of a villain (Saara shehar mujhe Maggi ke naam se jaanta hai), enticing us enough to give up our Atkin’s diet and succumb to its rich taste.

Once, my good ‘old’ friend, Vaish, ordered Top Ramen. I asked him why taking in the frustration? He said something very satisfying, just like the taste of Maggi, that if he didn’t eat something else, then he might get bored of Maggi one day. See, Maggi can induce profoundness in your soul.

Well, Maggi can be very addictive. I remember when I got a chance to work on its punch line, I used to gobble up at least 4 or five of them because I needed something to be inspired. No wonder I came up with a sorry line – Andheri Raat Mein, Maggi Tere Haath Mein.

Yesterday, when a ‘been-there-done-that’ friend was telling me about his experience in Himalayas where he paraglided after smoking ‘Manala’, I thought to myself, even we get kicks after having Maggi, and the outcome is what people flip through in the morning while further dirtying the Commode.

So when my army friend was telling me how hard it is to survive in the extreme climate, and there’s only Rum as the medium to survive, it didn’t come as a fabrication. But what he told me next did prick my imagination, that they are not fighting with the neighbors all the time at Nathula-pass, they sing and share gigs over big mugs of Rum with them sometimes.

All along, I was thinking of Indian Advertising as a whole. How important Maggi is for our survival. It is one thing that brings the Creative, Servicing and Studio together. So here’s something that ensures human bond. Here’s something that ties the agency together. Here’s something…umm, forget it.

All this while, I forgot to tell you how Maggi came into existence. Towards the end of the 19th Century, Europe had its industrial revolution and women started working outside the home. With this arose the need for meals that were easy to prepare, but were just as nourishing and delicious. A brilliant businessman with milling experience, Julius Michael Johannes Maggi (say it aloud 5 times) worked on this need and invented the ‘little MAGGI cube’, also known as the MAGGI stock or bouillon cube. Basically, I wanted to tell the readers that Google is the best thing to happen to mankind, and more so to the advertising industry.

If love can make me a poet, then Maggi can make me a writer. And here’s the testimony to the fact, which you are reading, actually wasting your time, go have Maggi instead. My personal advice – just add minutely chopped green chilies and butter to your Maggi, and you will shoot the sales of Maggi in your own small way. Or better still, go to Qutub Institutional Area, and have it at the dhabba next to IIFT.

P.S. - Is there any Maggi Fan Club on orkut?

No one knows what lies ahead, and because curiosity is greater than fear, and truth is stranger than fiction, we all are searching, like our predecessors. Actually trying hard to face the future. Just like buying an umbrella on the onset of black clouds hovering upon the mauve sky like the ghosts of the 18th century.

18th century. What a period in the history of mankind. It was then when inventions were greased to the hilt. When unsure presumptions and sure assumptions were realized onto beautiful, surprising discoveries. The world was coming to a state where everything was named. And if already named, then converted into the local language. And synonyms hence were scurrying into infinity. Recreational activities were being enjoyed with the equals of sexual explorations. What lies ahead was fast being answered.

This story is about a person who welcomed every change with endless bouts of confidence. Who cannot be defeated with pessimism. He, who tries and swims, reaches the shore. And the one who gives up has to give up on life. Life isn’t so awarding. Life isn’t a bed of roses with a spectrum of hues. It’s about making it the way you want it to. So was the life of Kalingini, a journey from being Kalingini to being named Maya.

Kalingini was a whippersnapper. She wasn’t a bright and bubbly kid, but had always a look that said, I’m special. Her emerald eyes, that special tinge of green, had something to be explored. The eyes that seemed to hide as many secrets as they revealed. Everyone was enamored of her astute, defiant eyes. Even the beams of the heartless sun couldn’t match up to the destructive vibes of her eyes. Where her eyes bedazzled, they even baffled. Because eyes of that special hue of green weren’t a normal sight. They were accused to be of a royal background. She ought to be a descendent of some Persian or Turkish queen, retorted everyone of the Sindh province. And her dimple only added to their adamant remarks.

Kalingini wasn’t from an untouchable stratum. But still she was devoid of any contact with other kids. That was because of her eyes. Those cat-like eyes were fabled to be magical. The word magical would be an understatement for the highly orthodox Indians of that era. So the synonym ‘super natural’ was imposed on her eyes. No wonder when she grew up, she wasn’t even greeted with delight. She was a girl who was mysterious enough to play her mojo, or that’s what people believed.

Her miserable parents were quite tensed about the fact. Her father, who worked as a lumberjack, was always amused on hearing that she’s a magic woman; she is from a royal background etc. But what broke his heart was that there was no family who thought otherwise. She had turned 13, carrying on her round shoulders the tag of ‘unmarried’. Girls by then bore kids, or were enjoying the nitty-gritties of a family life.

In her 14th spring, there were turns of events. There came a proposal from a faraway land, the land of forts and deserts and dunes and oasis, camels and concubines and bright clothes, gold and diamonds and emeralds and sapphires. The land that was dipped in history, the land that was surreal under the starry nights. The land that many vowed by, the land many were amused by, fascinated by. Surely, the proposal was more than a kill.

The groom’s family was a modest family, simple and down-to-earth. Kalingini couldn’t have asked for more. And the best part came just a fortnight before the marriage. It was agreed that the dowry would be minimal, as the groom’s family was pretty well off. All they wanted was that Kalingini carry what she wanted, her ornaments and clothes, and that’s it. ‘Marriages are made in heaven’. Surely it was an ethereal marriage, at least for Kalingini’s family.

The full moon after Deepawali was chosen the auspicious day by the groom’s family priest. 35 out of 36 gurn (traits) matched according to their Janampatri (kundli), another high! Celebrations were started in full swing, and every night at either place was a gala party. At groom’s there wasn’t much than social gatherings, and at bride’s it was more of custom and rituals. Traditional dance and songs that have been doing the rounds for several decades were again invited to Kalingini’s family. Aged women came up with a song for every possible moment. When a girl bathes, to when she’s smeared turmeric, sandalwood and then washed away with rose water and saffron milk. When she’s applied Henna on her hands to when she’s given new attire, to when she wears new attire. And then there are songs that start from when groom rides the horse to when his brother dances in the baraat. N number of songs they had, these women.

The marriage ceremony was pretty simple, and wasn’t too lavish as it could have been, considering that the groom, Pushkin, was a royal worker. He worked at the Durbar (court) of His Majesty. Another feather in his cap.

Marriage ceremonies those days didn’t last till the wee hours of morning. Everything was scrapped before midnight. Then the groom and bride would be mocked at by the women, and locked in a room where a bed full of roses and other feel-good stuff invited them, making the ambience very amiable. A clean sheet of white enwrapped the wooden bed, as a custom so as to check the virginity of the bride the next morning. This was the first time that this couple was with each other, alone. This was the first time they would see each other, face to face. Though they tried to glance at each other while during the ceremony, but all they could see was a figure drenched in clothes and other stuff. Now was the time.

The women outside sang songs assuming the groom must have lifted her pallu (veil) by now, and drank water so to energize themselves to sing aloud when they hear the wail of the bride as she’s deflowered. But inside the room was a different story altogether. Though the groom did lift her pallu, see her face, touch her earlobes and caress her, but nothing happened further according to the customary songs. As she looked at him, she was awed. Her face was blushed with happiness. He was indeed handsome, 18 years of age, and a royal Durbaan (courtier). His regal status was accentuated with the white Turban he wore. She certainly was enamored, but threw her glance to the earth as he stared back.

While he tilted her chin with his tender finger to have a close look, she started breathing heavily. The track of respiratory tract was now shifted from her nose to her mouth. She knew what was coming. Her mother had apprised her of the suhaag raat (first night) the very day she ovulated, four years back. Still in her teens, yet she was mature enough to handle this, was what her married friends told her some days back. She was nervous, yet excited. A sinful dark world that has been much talked about was finally about to be unraveled. No more fiddling around with herself!

But her desires had to wait. He sat beside her, and slowly while caressing her earlobes, started kissing it. She was plunged into a state of ecstasy that cannot be defined in words, seen, but felt, perhaps heartfelt. Her facial expressions were oblivious of what she had in mind, to not show how you feel right away, but wait for the right moment. A trick her mother taught to induce men, for eternity. So as she gave up on that trick, he hushed in her ear, “I think we should spend the rest of the night at the palace.” She smirked and retorted, “Why, isn’t this place less than a palace?” He had a plain look on his face when he said, “No, it’s better out there. It’s grand. Let’s make our first night truly memorable. I’ll take you to a section of the palace that’s reserved for special guests.” Though it seemed uncanny, yet she agreed to his proposal.

A camel was waiting for them on the backside of the house. While she was lifted by him, she felt his fingers supporting her, rather melting her. She was now longing for him, yet couldn’t do anything, had to wait till they reached the palace. He then sat behind her, and they started for the Royal Fort. The camel was walking slowly, giving jerks now and then. And those jerks made her heave with anticipation. She was enjoying him on her back, stroking his chest on her back every now and then. She was feeling him. She was dreaming him. She was enjoying him. And then her desires burst into million splashes and she had an orgasm! To call it an orgasm would be an understatement. It was a victory of thoughts over physicality. It was a celebration of voyeuristic pleasures. It was a testimony to the fact that sensory experience can be greater than carnal pleasure.

As the flickering light borne out of mashaals (torch) hovered haywire from the grand fort that rose to kiss the azure sky, it made a surrealistic sight. The camel reached the massive façade and after stooping from it, they started walking on a different lane, with Kalingini’s anklet chiming a soothing music and her embroidered ghagara (skirt) murmuring on the floor, as if humming to the tune. This marble-paved avenue was met at both sides with an exquisite garden populated by bougainvillea vines, bordered by small rivulets flaunting lotuses and lilacs spattered all around. The heavenly smell wafting to her nostrils nearly fainted her with ecstasy. The torches at every 5th metre brought warmth on this breezy cold night. She held Pushkin’s hand but he held it back with a chameleonic mood. She looked at him with a puzzled expression, but there wasn’t even a twitch on his face.

Soon they reached a big hall that looked romantically beautiful. Small diyas lighted the striking interiors that were full of choicest artifacts. There lay a bed in peace, full of flowers, waiting to be ruptured. The elegantly printed blue silk curtains, hovering violently, gave a quick glance of the city beneath their feet. The artistically done earthen pots were the best she’d seen. A wheel cart hung on the wall brought a regal touch to the rustic setting. The rosemary smell of itr (perfume) impregnated the air with mysticism. It must be the abode of angels, she gasped.

And then the King, His Majesty, appeared. Chewing a betel leaf, he smiled at Kalingini, and hugged Pushkin in a very friendly way, patting his back. They held back, looked at each other, and again hugged with a broad smile on their face. His Majesty then served him and himself a glass of liqueur. They cheered each other and gulped it down in one go, and took a big, noisy sigh. Then Pushkin looked at Kalingini and said to His Majesty, “Huzoor, abhi nathini nahi utri iski, isleye aapke paas le aaya seedhe (His Majesty, she’s still a virgin, reason why I brought her to you).”

Sahilosophy

Monday, April 30, 2007

Food for thought: Maggi

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Maya, The Poem

Maya, The Story