Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

" Saab, Paytm kar ke WhatsApp kar dena," my car cleaner said about renumeration after cleaning my car. I smiled. In one sentence he had unknowingly narrated the history of modern branding. He neither expected me to use Paytm nor insisted that I send him a WhatsApp message. The money could go through PhonePe, Google Pay or BHIM. The message could be an SMS. It didn't matter. The brands had quietly swallowed the products. Growing up in Punjab, I suffered from the same confusion. I genuinely believed The Tribune was another word for an English newspaper. Likewise, every photocopy was a Xerox . Every digging machine was a JCB . Every instant noodle was Maggi . Every rugged four-wheel drive was a Jeep . Then came Close-Up. One of the cleverest advertising campaigns of my youth asked, "Kya aap Close-Up karte hain?" Notice the brilliance. The advertisement wasn't asking, "Do you use Close-Up?" It was trying to make Close-Up replace Colgate in everyday...

"What is your favourite old song?" someone asked me recently. It sounded like a simple question. But the more I thought about it, the more difficult it became. When I was young, English songs fascinated me. Not because I understood them—I hardly understood a word. Songs by Boney M, ABBA and the Bee Gees sounded wonderfully foreign, and perhaps I listened to them more out of a desire to sound angrez than out of musical appreciation. Lyrics escaped me completely. The only English song I confidently remembered was Tequila, largely because it contained only one word. Slowly, however, I discovered that music had a language of its own. I began noticing not the words, but the tiny sounds hidden between the words. Listen carefully to "Take the Heat Off Me." The rhythm itself begins telling a story long before the singer does. The infectious beats of "Rasputin," "Daddy Cool," "Ma Baker," "Stayin' Alive" or "Cheri C...

  "Maili chadar odh ke kaise... dwar tumhare aaun."     Every morning at exactly five, this bhajan floated across the Surangani Project Colony in the Chamba hills. The bhajan was followed by the ringing of bells. Down below, the Baira River rushed over the rocks. Together they created a melody that still echoes in my memory.      Surangani was not merely a colony. It was a family scattered over a mountain. From the guest house, at night the colony looked like a Christmas tree. During the day, it looked like a carefully built sand model clinging to the hillside. The road zigzagged through four hairpin bends. The uppermost hairpin bend doubled as the bus stand. Every morning the bus left for Pathankot. Every evening another bus came carrying passengers, newspapers, vegetables and supplies.     Down the first bend stood Sharma Ji's tiny tea shack. The aroma of freshly fried samosas, matthis and warm besan barfi was impossible to ignore. A cup o...

  “Woh jo saara paani absorb kar leta hai.” That was my three-year-old son’s answer when I asked him the meaning of Whisper . He had learnt the meaning of the word from a television advertisement for sanitary pads. A few days later, someone remarked, “Your son walks exactly like you.” Children copy whatever the parents do. Around that time, my neighbour, Mr Singh, had become the role model of every ambitious parent. His only son, Teetu, was born in the year an IIT topper had become a national celebrity. Mr Singh named his son after the topper, perhaps hoping that a little brilliance might arrive with the name. The entire household revolved around Teetu. In the weeks before his examinations, visitors were discouraged, the television remained switched off and all social engagements were cancelled. Nothing was allowed to interfere with his studies. One day, Mr Singh came to my office. “My parents are coming for my mother’s surgery,” he said. “Teetu’s half-yearly examinatio...

"Koi nahin... move on."    Those were my father's words when I looked at him in despair. I had just been admitted to Class VII. The problem was—I wasn't ready for it. A few weeks earlier, I had appeared for an admission test at a convent school.     "You know this?" the teacher asked.    "I no ," I replied confidently, shaking my head from side to side. I had no idea there existed a word called know  that sounded exactly like no .     Within minutes she announced her verdict.     "The boy can be admitted to Class III."      The problem was that I had already passed Class V from an Inglish-medium school in my village.      Fortunately, another school held an entrance examination a month later. My father arranged tuition, and I passed. But by then the only seat in Class VI had been filled by a transfer case. The school advised me to repeat Class V. Then destiny intervened.      One of my fa...

  “KFC and McDonald's are going to take over India. People will forget Indian food,” my NRI friend declared in 1996 with confidence. His prediction stayed with me. Over the next few years, I made it a point to try every new Western food outlet that opened. Out of curiosity, insecurity, and partly because of my complex which whispers, If it's Western, it must be better. The burgers, pizzas, fried chicken, salads, fries were good. Yet, after every meal, I felt something was missing. Nothing matched the comfort of simple Indian food. Give me a plate of Rajma Chawal —steaming rice, thick rajma cooked patiently for hours, and a spoonful of desi ghee slowly melting into it. It doesn't merely satisfy hunger; it somehow convinces you that life is under control. Or Kadhi Chawal . Soft pakoras floating in lightly sour kadhi. Every spoonful is gentle, almost as if your grandmother has quietly placed her hand on your head and said, “Have one more.” Then comes Chole Bhature ...