Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts

11.5.14

Sunday ka Funda



The last thing one would think about in a men's innerwear ad is a mother. The Amul Macho series has had some 'macho' moments, but it is pretty much oddball. In the latest one, burglars enter a house and are in the process of robbing it clean when the owner lands up in the room. He looks pretty much unlikely to take on the main big-built thief.

The 'hero' picks up the phone. Thief says, "Don't call the police or I'll shoot you."

"I am not calling the cops, I am calling your mother!"

"Why?" asks the thief, panic on his face.

"How do you address your mother?" the owner persists.

"Maaa," says the thief, pleading, almost like a child again.

"I must tell her about the big-big things you are taking away."

"Keep away the big things..." he tells his boys. And then to the hero, "Please don't tell Ma."

Much as I dislike stereotypes, the nurturing by the mother begins even before birth. Marketing gurus might sell products using this as a hook, but should we deny it because of that? The tagline "Bade Araam se" is indeed apt. That the guy wearing such inners can handle a tough situation. The entry of his wife at the end, holding him with approval, could be seen as a helpless bystander, but she is not in the frame earlier so I won't nitpick.

However, it is the thief who really makes this ad work because of the unseen mother. His fear of her also conveys a deep respect for the values she instilled in him, and that he is not adhering to.

I know it might seem that one is pushing it to justify a Mother's Day tribute, but the fact is that each time the ad appears on TV I wait for the word Ma.

On a side note, I do admit that I'd have committed fewer mistakes in my life had somebody called up my mother. I won't say no mistakes because, as another ad says, "Kuchch daag achche hain!" Some stains are good.

But mothers aren't detergents. They are water.

© Farzana Versey

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Also: Forrest Mum and Miracles" and Mamta (when age catches up)


4.8.13

Sunday ka Funda

These days, everybody seems to be friends with everybody else. And they all find how alike they are even as they merely click on 'likes'.



The friends I have shared the best moments, and understanding, with are very different from me. There could be shared values, even preferences for food, films, books, music, art. What is different, then? It is the way we look at these. It is the ability to complete each other's sentences not because of agreement, but the warmth of serendipity.

Years ago, I had written a few words here and I shall repeat some..

A friend who comes and goes is as much a stranger...a friend who takes another for granted is behaving in a strange fashion...a friend who has to keep several considerations in mind to keep up the friendship is a stranger...a friend who you are close to physically but cannot share things with is a stranger...a friend who inhabits your mind but not your heart is a stranger...a friend you feel for but can do nothing about is a stranger...

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Sometimes we don't realise what nostalgia means to others, especially when nostalgia is all they have. I continue to question expat experts, but today I will share this little film. I won't call it a commercial, for it is the story that matters. Also, I am sure there are many reading this who think of their mother as their best friend. I do.

Call me soppy, but I had to blink away the tears. Maybe, it happens when you chop okra...



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Image: Rediff, courtesy a link sent by a rather unfriendly friend!

13.5.12

Sunday ka Funda

I did not learn to cook from her. I did not learn to embroider like her. I did not learn how to keep things in place like her.

She would pack my school tiffin every day with as much care as a gift. She embroidered my ordinary bags and even sandals to make them look different. And, she kept things in place. She still knows where I will find what I have lost. I lose a lot. Have lost quite a bit.

And, yes, there are quite a few errors I make. Quite a few years we were in another city, sitting in the lawn of the hotel, and bumped into one of my old acquaintances. We asked him to join us. He was already with a glass of wine. I ordered a Pina Colada much to her displeasure and within minutes I was blabbering, giving away too much. Without saying a word, she gestured that I pass the drink to her, and she gulped it down. For someone who did not drink, she remained sober!

As I’ve said often, music binds us. Our voices are different, but when we sing together they coalesce in the air. The song I will post today is not an uplifting one. There is a special reason for it. Whenever she sang it, and she had learned it all from Radio Ceylon, as a child I would start crying. Nanima would reprimand her, “Kyon rulaa diya isko (why did you reduce her to tears)?” It is a song where the woman is asking god, “Kya mil gaya Bhagwan mere dil ko dukha ke, armaanon ki nagri mein meri aag laga ke (What did you get by hurting me and turning my land of dreams to ashes)?”

Things are different. Now, when I sing such songs, there are tears in her eyes, especially that couplet from one of my favourite ghazals: "Ghamoun ne baant diya hai yoon aapas mein, ke jaise main koi loota hua khazana tha (Sorrows have distributed me amongst themselves as though I were a booty they had snatched)"

Songs of pathos always convey more than just that. It isn’t about sadness. It is about understanding that there is more than sadness…it is the music of the soul when it has a lump in its throat.



Film: Anmol Ghadi
Singer: Noorjehan
Music: Naushad

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And to show another aspect, here is an old post: Conversations with my mother