Acquired tastes

Why would 25 rupee National news magazines come with a free glossy pullout splashed with brands peddling million dollar watches, race cars, clothes, perfumes and expensive wines? Is it to appeal to the secret voyeur within us? Or to remind us how depraved and poor we all are? Or to tell us that if we can’t afford caviar and champagne, our lives are not worth living? Why do I still buy those twenty five Rupee magazine and glance through the glossy pullout quickly before I go on to read the grim and gory stories of the badlands of Chattisgarh, or the shenanigans of politicians?

I remember the times that I first went to work as a Bank Officer as a callow, impressionable 22 year old youth. In the Karyavattom Campus where I was studying then, my jhola toting, bidi puffing, Kurta clad friends were convinced that I had made it to the big times. Getting a decent job before I have officially not yet completed my post graduate course was a master stroke and all that remained to be bagged was a buxom, sexy wife, they said.

It is going to be a quarter century since I started my working life. And I am humbled that I have nothing much to show for it. As a village boy, I aspired to a certain refinement. Polish the rough edges, look good, carry oneself well, speak with great clarity, erudition and sophistication, live the good life, read interesting books and listen to great music. I made several unfruitful attempts to break free from middle class smugness and rise above hoi polloi.

One of the earliest attempts was a hand at Golf- that great game where big guys in tees and sports shoes chase tiny white balls. Once, about 18 years back, I went for Golf lessons to a mini Golf course in Gurgaon with an instructor who entertained visions of making men out of country bumpkins. One of my friends ( I seem to have many friends from that anarchic Demi-republic of Bihar!!) had his mouth full of Paan and in the midst of frenetic instructions, rather nonchalantly let loose a long stream of chewed red cud and liquid to the pristine, trimmed grass. As the rest of the group stood horrified, we decided Golf is not for us. Much later in life, a senior member of the uniformed services who was kindly predisposed to me offered me a chance at a Golf Club membership and a good quality Golf set at a special price. He really believed that I belong right up there; and also that I would grab the deal and go on to rub shoulders with the big boys at the pretentious game. I turned down the offer without a thought.

The other long drawn attempt was at enjoying fine liquor. I can lay claim to have downed some exquisite liquor, but without really being able distinguish between a single malt and other down market stuff like Diplomat- or a good vintage red and a $10 for three bottles of cheap Chilean wine. When I read men of taste write eloquently on the smoky, peaty aftertaste of the golden whisky and the wines that have the flavor of blueberries with a fruity tinge, I can’t for the life of me figure it out: nor can I figure out how these worthies acquired such complex tastes.

One major disappointment was the inability to appreciate classical Western Music. I have always preened at having a fine ear for music: or so my friends said. But my music shares its origins with the Vietnam War, flower children and Folk rock. I would get these calls at midnight “Could you check out this Barclay James Harvest number from the album "Gone to Earth"? An endorsement from me meant something to my musically inclined friends- Even today my good friends are not from the Babudom; but from a forgotten time when we lived and breathed music. But Classical Western always stumped me. Not that I am completely impervious to the charms of the music from heavens, where men in black suits and bow ties and women wearing pearl necklaces sit in many rows and play to the hushed silence of appreciative music lovers. Pachelbel’s Canon, Bach’s Air on a G string can still send me into paroxysms of joy. But my untutored ears never achieved the refinement to distinguish between the best and the rest- or to compare the relative merits of different renditions.

Not for me the glitzy charm of malls chock a block with clothing stores, watch and perfume stores. Not for me exquisite liquor coming in fancy casks or vintage wines that cost a bomb. Not for me the Adagios, contraltos and Tchaikovsky. Not for me the correct deportment; or the right accent. I come from the back of beyond and that’s where I am gonna go…. eventually.