HUNG BY MY FAMILY TREE

 Authour : Ajit Saldanha

Publisher : Ind TeleSoft, Year 2003, Pages 646, with several illustrations

 

Review by Indra Mani Lal

Extracts :

( ) On a lighter note, my friend Sumit Ghosh, a Bengali married to a Goan (their kids are therefore Bongos) sent me this litmus test for Mangaloreans aka Mangies, the community to which I belong.

Your parents receive ;offers; from other Mangalorean parents of good girls (same sex marriages are still frowned upon) and the number of matrimonial offers received is generally considered a reliable index of how ‘sought after’ you and your family are in the community. Dotty D’sa the matchmaker extraordinaire would be saying, ‘My God, so many offers I received for that boy, baa.’

( ) You are a Goan when – No matter where you go in the world and you find another Goan named DaCosta, DeMello, D’Souza, D’Lims, Monteiro or Rodrtigues; you terrify strangers by loudly discovering how closely you are related to those whom you have just met. ‘Omigod, you’re Gemma Rodrigues from Bardez, no? Look at that, your mummy and my daddy were first cousins from my grandpa’s side and when Piedade got married, she …’

( ) On one occasion, after a gruesome update on the state of his colon by Rog, Aunt Selvi decided that things had gone too far. Rog having declared himself a card carrying, long-suffering, member of the ‘ulcerative-colitis’ brigade, cried off the biryani dished up by Aunty S. ‘Rubbish, of course you can eat biryani’. She pronounced in her customary brisk, no-nonsense manner. Rog virtuously announced ‘Biryani is poison for me. I can’t handle spicy food because of my … condition. I’ll just take some kanji with curds and maybe a couple of toast with guava jelly.’ This proved too much for Aunt Selvi, her medical knowledge being questioned, said ‘Give me a sample,’ she snarled. ‘I’ll take it down to the hospital lab and we will find out what your problem is.’ The next morning, Aunt S having breakfasted heartily, noticed a large tin of Bournvita nestling cheek by jowl with her favourite Nescafe. ‘What’s this ? Why this health drink instead of my caffeine boost ?’ and opened the tin. The raw anguished moan, followed by wail of misery and the sheer, unmitigated horror in her shriek when she discovered just how generous Rog had been when offering up a sample; was similar to the one in ‘Godfather’ when the character wakes up to find the severed head of his prize stallion on the pillow beside him.

( ) And so it was that a small group of us from Loyola Madras, found ourselves dumbing down at charades and pitting our debating skills against our fair skinned North Indian (Northie ?) brethren at the Miranda House Culfest in Delhi. There were other diversions such as climbing the greased pole or riding a donkey blindfolded. But these were merely starters; the main course was – the highlight of the fest – the beauty contest. Coming as we did from an all-male Jesuit bastion like Loyola, we were hot to trot. While the locals displayed a blasé, been- there-done-that attitude, we Madrasis sat there licensed to lech, drooling unashamedly at the feast of feminine charms on display. I made a remark in passing about one of the babes (as we used to refer in those politically incorrect days) and received a right bollocking from my Khalsa College friend.

( ) Many moons ago, I journeyed to sunny Italy in the company of a guy I’ll call Singh. We stayed in this charming little hotel near Pisa and took our meals in a magnificent oak-panelled dining room, arrayed with antique pewter tankards. Having belched sonorously after a large helping of Pasta Puttanesca, Singh announced his intention of retiring to his room and on the way out asked our landlady for a mug. “What ees these mogg?” she plaintively inquired, whereupon Singh resorted to sign language, indicating the numerous steins, goblets and tankards displayed. Apparently this didn’t work too well either, so striding up to the nearest display cabinet, he helped himself, whispered a cryptic, “It is for Indian style ablutions, madame,” and disappeared hurriedly up the stairs. Working out what ‘ablutions’ meant, she raced up the stairs like a cheetah, shrieking in hot pursuit for her cherished ‘mogg’.

( ) Much before Dolly the sheep was cloned, the décor of these down-market, ersatz, western replicas was blueprinted and brutally imposed on the franchisee. A décor, which is ‘fake, imitative, tacky and rootless,’ according to the writer Malvika Singh, and judging from my experience, I couldn’t agree with her more. In a misguided attempt to create an atmosphere of retro cool, TGI Friday’s has baseball bats, street signs and, you’ll love this, a carom board, suspended from the ceiling. I mean, what is that about? It’s almost as if their decorator dropped a serious amount of acid one night, broke into HatTrick Sports and after getting away with a baseball bat and a board game decided to make a public exhibition of his kleptomania.

( ) It all took place on a train journey on the Shatabdi Express where my fellow passenger was a prissy little nerd with a large suitcase which was modeled more on the lines of a steamer trunk, portmanteau-kind-of-thing that wealthy dowagers took on ocean voyages to Vilayat. ‘Shall we exchange the seat, saar’, he bawled, as the window seat was mine. ‘Not unless you have a window seat to exchange,’ I replied. Somewhat peeved he slunk over to another window to converse with the large retinue who were temporarily dumb by the double paned glass on the windows. I was impressed by the large number of friends and relatives displaying affection who had come to see him off. In retrospect they were taking no chances, that the old fart didn’t do anything silly like missing the train. He sat with the ‘suitcase’ between his knees and I had to squeeze to my seat by twisted acrobatic feats. The dude and suitcase were bonded like Samson & Delilah. Sometimes later the person directly in front of our baggage lover jiggled and fiddled with the knob controlling the inclination of his seat, also giving a sharp thump to the seat, which flew backwards onto our Samsone at roughly the speed of light. He was quaffing the Shatabdi doled out coffee at the time. Suffice to say it was not a pretty sight, but it did have the salutary effect of separating the lovers. Our man spent the rest of the journey with an ice pack, emitting piteous whimpers from time to time; the attendant wheeling the case away to the rear of the carriage.

( ) Most of the foreign exchange remittance to India is from mechanics, drivers and nurses from the Gulf. The NRI’s living in the US are too busy scrambling to achieve the American dream of owning the latest Lexus and living in an up market area. Anu Mol was working in Kuwait as a nurse, when her mother who was holidaying with her died. The coffin arrived at Changanacherry (Kerala), and when it was opened, they found a letter on top that read as follows :

My dear butheirs and zistairs,

I yam zending our motheir’s bowdee to you, sinz it was hair wish that she should be cremasted in the Parelpally zemestry. Sorree, I could not come along because nurses’salary is going to ingrease from next month so I doubt I will get it suppose I am note here. In coffin under Amma’s bowdee, are 12 (twell) cans of cheese (Kraft), 10 packets of choglate (Tobler) and 4 packets of badam. Please divide these among all of you. On the sides of her head there is a tin each of Nido and Tang (economy size). Do the same. On Amma’s feet you will find a new pair of Reebock size 10 shoe for biju. Also there are 2 pairs of shoes for Lijju’s and Ammooma’s sons. Hope size is correct. Amma is wearing 6 American T-shirts. The large size is for Biju and the others are for Tomy and Suresh. Also wearing 6 Wonder Bras and 12 Victoria’s secret panties. Just distribute them among yourselves ladies except Jijo who I gave last time. Anyway no chance for her as eggstra large is nod on sale. …..…. Jeans, Rado watches, necklace, earings, rings, white  cotton soaks, 12 envelopes to be posted, some drafts for Foreign Exchange ….….

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My take : A compilation of hilarious anecdotes, some of which first appeared in “Midday.”  His cast of aunts are as capaciously eccentric as Bertie Wooster’s. Derived from his life experiences, he transfers the joy and rich entertainment to his readers.

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Subject type : Reminiscences

Narrative Style : First hand narrative

Readability : Excellent

Reader’s Interest : Excellently maintained

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