Now that Wife has written about Weight Watchers, it wouldn’t be inappropriate to put down a few thoughts on the subject.

At home, weight is a weighty matter. We have a fair amount of diet related books that leave little shelf space for my literary tastes; the weighing machine is probably the most used – and cursed – device in the house; a number of weight-reduction schemes have been launched over the years (with limited success, as the shrinking waistlines of Wife’s jeans suggest).

So when a few weeks back Wife mentioned that she was registering at the Weight Watchers website, I groaned. “Not another scheme! And what’s this, you have to pay them for watching your weight?!”

She wasn’t asking me, and she registered anyway. Then began endless hours of meticulously recording how many “Points” (a registered trademark, apparently) she had consumed each day. The scheme, I learned, relies on quantifying the amount of food a person consumes and it tries to establish control over intake through a “points allowance” policy. Each day one is allowed 18 Points. The website offers a comprehensive service that maps foodstuffs to Points; even items like Idly and Masala Dosa have been covered.

An innovative idea for business, I thought. All they had to do was set up a website that offered users an interface to enter their daily intake and, on the click of a button, generate a chart showing total consumption over a certain period. The climbing consumption curve would serve as a watchdog: women would cut down their intake, reduce weight, and gladly offer a testimonial on how useful a service it was.

But Weight Watchers was more pervasive than I had assumed. Last week, at the food section of the local super market, I spotted small and neatly packaged boxes bearing the Weight Watchers trademark, and each item had a number highlighted in a corner: its value in Points. What next, I wondered? I imagined stickers on tomatoes bearing their Points value; ads like: “Buy 50 Points and take 5 free!”; an additional column in menus displaying Points for each dish… the possibilities were endless. Forget the Dollar – this was currency that would rule the world. Or at least half of it.

“Can you deduct Points as well?” I asked Wife. “By going to the gym, for example?”

“Yes,” she replied, “different activities have different Point values. A 4 km walk means something like 2 points less.”

I spotted an opportunity here. “And how many Points can you deduct for… well… you know what?”

“What?” She asked, absent-mindedly.

“You know…that.”

She shot me a strict glance. “No Points.” she replied.

“But you didn’t even check!” I protested.

“It isn’t listed.” There was a finality in her tone; the topic was closed.

These days Wife’s phone conversations – with her Mother and my Sister – are dominated by Points: how much was consumed, how much is left, what a pity Chocolate and Cheese are so Pointsy while Bread and Banana aren’t. A good amount of competition – healthy, fortunately – has sprung between Wife and Sister: the success of one (in reducing Points consumption) inspires the other to scale new heights.

Points, of course, are only a means to an end: less weight. And weight tracking is no less frequent in the daily routine. Wife and Sister constantly update each other on the latest figure revealed by the (mostly-untruthful) weighing machine. So on a recent weekend visit when Sister heard Wife’s voice from another room exclaim in an elated tone that “it has touched 55”, she was struck with disbelief.

“How did you manage to lose so much weight so soon?! Tell me – what did you do?!!”

“Weight?” Wife replied. “That wasn’t my weight. It was today’s Euro to Rupee conversion rate.”

Last evening: Drive to Heidelberg -> Park in P9 -> Stop at Potter Books for a couple of minutes, and buy E.B.White Writings from The New Yorker -> Meet G & D opposite Pizza Hut -> Pick up movie tickets and dine [ Garlic bread and “Garden Lovers” pizza ] -> Walk into Gloria [a cinema hall so small that if not for the heads in front you may consider it your own private movie room with a plasma screen] -> Ads begin [ a couple are campaign ads – aimed at upcoming elections – that draw raucous laughter from the crowd while we sit in silence ] -> Immediately after an Ice Cream ad a lady enters the hall with a basket, announcing ice candies for sale; crowd laughs at the timing; she sells a few candies and leaves with a loud “Viel Vergnuegen”, to which the hall responds with a “Danke!” -> Movie begins:

-> Brilliant film, abstract, gloomy and funny [ guy sitting next to me laughs throughout like a hyena with a sore throat ]; seems like Bill Murray is continuing from where he left us at the end of Lost In Translation -> Later, we walk down Haupstrasse -> Pick up ice cream along the way -> Perfect Summer Evening: the street is full of people young and old, walking energetically or chatting away in outdoor cafes; painters are busy sketching portraits of people who sit patiently waiting to see their images rendered on paper; a police car slowly rolls by, adding a feeling of security (which I’ve never found lacking in this country) -> We say Goodbye to G & D and drive back home, discussing aspects of the movie -> At home, I read the movie’s review that appeared in The New Yorker a couple of weeks ago [ David Denby is not impressed: “But it’s an art object without the energy or courage to be a work of art” ; that, I think, reflects a maturity and experience of movie-watching I do not currently possess, so I’ll stick to my interpretation].

We are at the Asian store, my wife and I, scanning the stack of DVDs for an interesting title. After a while I ask the owner if he has any new Hindi movies. He bends down and flicks out a DVD from under his counter: Mangal Pandey.

I hesitate. Ever since Inkspill declared, in no uncertain terms, that anyone who watches and likes Mangal Pandey is banned from visiting her blog, this scene has been haunting me. But I’m prepared.

“No, that must be a pirated version. I do not want it.” I tell the owner confidently.

“No sir, this is very different from the last movie you took. Here the camera is located at the centre of the theatre, so it won’t seem to you that you’re watching the movie from an angle.”

The last movie he’s referring to was Sarkar. Apart from being recorded by someone sitting at the corner of the theatre – which had the strange effect of the movie titles appearing in italics – it seemed as though the cameraman had set out to outdo Ram Gopal Verma in coming up with the most innovative of camera angles. The one before that – Bunty aur Bubli – was no better: the poor guy had gotten so carried away during the Kajrare-Kajrare number that he’d zoomed in on Aishwarya’s neckline, and we got to see little other than her busts heaving – with the camera moving – rhythmically to the beats.

“This time we’ll wait for the original.” I reply.

“But that will take a few months! The print is good, I guarantee. You need not pay if you don’t like the print.”

This is proving more difficult than I expected. I have to think of other reasons now.

“Actually, Inkyji has banned us from watching the movie.”

“Why?”

“Because … because the movie forces you to rise and leave.”

“Just because one person says something, you believe it? And who is this Inkyji?”

“Er… a friend. Yes. And she’s quite an expert on movies.”

“Really? Her expert advice is surely affecting our business – where does she live? In Sandhausen? Or Walldorf?”

“No, no.” I laugh. “She lives in Blogistan … Hindustan. Yes, she is quite influential. All the Desi Pundits refer to her reviews regularly. These days even directors come for her blessings before the release of their movie – they know that if her review is bad, the movie will flop.”

He shakes his head. “We have bought fourteen copies of Mangal Pandey, and no one wants to see it. Everyone is influenced by one person’s ideas – no individuality these days. But we have to adjust to these trends – can you give me the website where these reviews are available? Next time, we’ll look at the review and then decide how many copies to order.”

I spell out the address carefully – inkspillz.blogspot.com – while ignoring my wife’s impatient nudges that suggest we ought to be leaving.

“You can buy many copies of Iqbal.” I tell him, pushing away my wife’s hands that continue to nudge me. “Inkyji has some favourable comments on the movie and …”

Wife is now shaking me…”Wake up – it’s late! How much longer do you want to sleep?!”

I sit up on my bed and stare wide-eyed at the wall in front.

“It may be Sunday,” she continues, “but you need to clean up in the morning half so that we can sit comfortably in the afternoon and watch the movie.”

I turn towards the bedside table to look at the time. Next to the clock, half obscured by advertisements of the weekend newspaper, I spot the glossy label on the DVD: Mangal Pandey.

“Summer days like these have a certain quality of timelessness, isn’t it?”

I was sitting on the ground, legs stretched out, looking at small planes waiting for their turn to fly and entertain the large crowd that had gathered. The setting sun cast a golden hue on the hillside houses in the distance. Long shadows spread themselves on the grass, with clear outlines of people standing nearby. A warm breeze was blowing, and above us a plane did a somersault, turned over, and began to fly upside down.

R plucked a blade of grass and looked at me. “Very True” he said, with a grin.

We were in the fields on the edge of Walldorf, surrounded by people gathered this Sunday to watch amateur pilots from nearby towns display their flying skills. A while ago we had returned after a fifteen-minute flight on a Cessna. It was a small four-seater aircraft, one where you placed a foot on the wing to step on board. We flew over Heidelberg, over the castle and the Altstadt and the Neckar running next to it, all these elements appearing like tiny, precise models of their real counterparts.

Presently a family was about to board another plane. They stood by the wing and posed for a photograph, before stepping in. Behind us a merry-go-round turned slowly. Long queues had formed at food stalls along the edge of the field. People sat eating on the tables nearby, and a few clapped occasionally at the announcement of another pilot about to take-off or land.

The shadows grew longer each minute, ticking away the afternoon. Soon it was time to leave.

* * *

Albums: FlugTag 2005 & Aerial Acrobatics

On Sunday we drove to Frankfurt to meet a relative – my father-in-law’s cousin, to be precise. He lives in Singapore with his wife and four children, and owns an investment-banking firm. This was the first occasion I spent a while talking with him – the last time we met was at my wedding, and you know how much the bride and groom get to talk to guests during their wedding. No, you wouldn’t really know that – you aren’t married yet. Anyone on the radar?

So we landed up at this hotel in Frankfurt on Sunday evening, and soon after we drove to a nearby Tandoori restaurant. Taj Mahal, said the board outside, in glittering silver. We seated ourselves at a corner table, and a pleasant-looking waiter came up and greeted us. Drinks were ordered first – me Ginger Ale; my wife Mango juice; her uncle Scotch – and we then asked for some starters. While he was taking our order, another waiter came up and started talking to this guy in Punjabi, telling him how to take the order. Among other things, he told this chap not to feel shy about asking the guests if he didn’t understand something, and to note down the number listed adjacent to the dish we ordered. Yeh yahaan naya hai, he explained to us, and gave some more gyan before leaving the naya waiter, and us, in peace. This on-the-job training was the first I’d come across in all these years, and funny thing was that the new guy seemed more composed and gracious than his mentor.

The conversation was relaxed and slow-paced, which suited me very well. I asked him a question I always ask people in that line: how are currency values regulated? How does the Pound go up one day, and the Dollar the next? He replied – in a general and slightly vague manner – that it had to do with the flow of goods, with how much each currency could buy. We then drifted to other matters, and as always, my question remained unanswered. Perhaps you have an idea?! (I’m pulling your leg, of course).

At one point during the conversation, he spoke of people taking a year off and doing something divorced from their usual line of work. The Swiss, he said, do that every seven to eight years – they quit what they are doing and take up something else for an year. One could take up political science – it would broaden one’s horizons. Or literature (my eyes lit up at this point!). Or simply travel somewhere.

The rest of the evening my thoughts kept drifting back to this theme. It would be really nice to take an year off. I would probably study literature, or history. And backpack along the Mediterranean coast, following Paul Theroux’s route in The Pillars of Hercules.

Castles in the air, of course. Next year – when my wife will be occupied with her full-time MBA – would be perfect for such a break. But that is out of question – finance has suddenly become a major topic for discussion and planning. Further, I’m mid-way through a career transition right now, and a break at this time would be most inappropriate. (As I write this, I wonder if there wouldn’t always be some “practical reason” that keeps me from taking this step…)

A different topic. You say you like my new style – hmmm, that’s interesting. I’ll keep that in mind. And about your comment regarding your pet name, I first read it as “My pet’s name at home is..” !! But that is a nice coincidence, yes. And it makes me wonder what your real name is. Don’t tell me.

Let me offer you a snapshot:

I am at my sister’s place (We drove 150 kms to Saarbruecken this evening, listening to assorted Hindi songs as the sun dipped into a partly cloudy horizon). Wife is watching TV: a German channel is showing a dubbed version of In the mood for Love. I refused to watch it in this form; I’ll wait for the DVD to arrive, to experience it again in Mandarin with English sub-titles. I’ve downloaded iTunes, and I’m listening to Vivaldi, switching intermittently to the movie’s haunting music. Hardu – that’s what we call my sister – is packing for her India trip, which begins tomorrow (lucky her).

Nothing unusual there, but I didn’t promise anything, did I? And yet, you persist…

… now before I continue telling you more about My Name is Red and the Istanbul it illustrates, let me tell you about the three sisters who run the Turkish supermarket in town. I was there shopping last Saturday. The eldest of the three was at the cash counter, dispensing change to an elderly man speaking in a tongue I did not understand. As I turned over a few tomatoes to choose from, I heard her call out to her sister.

“Halide!”

The youngest one peered out from behind a stack of crates. As always, I was startled at the resemblance among the sisters. If you were shown their pictures, you would assume they were of the same woman in different phases of adulthood. But I’ve seen them together, so you will have to believe what I say.

The only men you’ll find there are customers; the sisters seem to run the place all by themselves, and it makes you wonder if their husbands are at home, cooking supper and putting the children to bed. But the truth is stranger: many men have tried to engage them in matrimony, and failed.

Why is that? you ask. But my wife, who has just completed her movie, is calling out for me, so you – and I, and this story – will have to wait for another day.

Had been to the barber today. The good old chef was
in a talkative mood. “Would you like an Indian summer cut this time?” he asked.
“Quite a few Indians are asking for it this summer.” When I declined, he came out with his usual question: “It’s been approximately six weeks since you were here last, isn’t it?”

There was a new girl working there, and he was up to his
usual antics, flattering her with compliments (“How clean the floor looks
now!”) and getting her to blush. It is a recurring pattern. When a girl is new he is at his flirtatious best and gets quite a warm response, but six weeks later I see the same girl ignoring him altogether. It doesn’t seem to discourage him, though. Today he sprayed some water on the plump Turkish lady, who calmly wiped her hand with a towel and
continued talking.

The place was full of old ladies, as usual. I’ve gotten used to them now, but in the beginning I was amazed at the pains these octogenarians went through to decorate the few dozen strands of hair that remained. I tried imagining my eighty-year-old grandma sitting there, with curlers sticking out of her head. Almost made me choke. (Later, I was reminded of Baby Kocchamma whom Rahel found “living her life in reverse”).

* * *

Watched “Seven years in Tibet” in the afternoon. The rugged Tibetan landscape takes your breath away. An encounter between East and West, such as one shown in the movie
(where Brad Pitt’s pride brushes against Buddhist humility and compassion), always has the potential of interesting outcomes. Although at a point one feels that Brad Pitt will be the one who would take home a part of the East with him, it turns out that the Dalai Lama has a lot to learn about the West too, from Brad Pitt. The parts depicting Tibet’s troubled relationship with China, and the eventual Chinese occupation leave you disturbed and feeling sorry for this peace-loving nation. In one scene the Dalai Lama, watching scenes of a revolution being projected on a screen, asks Brad Pitt: “Will people watch Tibet too on the screen someday, and wonder what happened to it?”