The Mysterious Smile

Airports have a unique personality. Artificially warm voices, zombies as security personnel, rows of chairs receiving multiple bums within a matter of minutes, highly priced insipid food, and passengers lost in themselves.

My flight was getting delayed. I sat in the chair, looked around for friendly faces, tried to read a novel, stared at banners, played with the handle of my bag, and got bored.

I decided to have a glass of water. After a brief walk and a trip to the urinal, I found that a woman had occupied the chair next to the one on which I had been sitting. I felt a little awkward, but that was the only vacant chair available. I occupied the chair, careful not to cause a brush with the lady.

Settled finally, I looked around, avoiding the lady. My gaze stopped at a man who looked at me with a glint of mischief. His lips betrayed a smile. He nodded at me.

It was an embarrassing moment. Perhaps the lady next to me was a celebrity and I had violated her personal space by sitting so close to her. But if the lady was offended, she did not express so. Reassured, I leafed through the novel, stared at banners, played with the handle of my bag, and got bored again.

I looked around, and the gentleman again caught my eyes. He nodded, with a hint of a smile. I nodded back, trying to place him in my memory. I was sure that I had not met him earlier, but then I could be wrong as well.

At the announcement of a departure call, the gentleman got up, and stood in the queue. He was behind a large man.

Not talking to anyone, he was still nodding.

A Trip To Gokarna

We had a short trip to Gokarna last week. Travelling in the sleeper bus with all limbs intact was quite a challenge. We were told that it would be a Volvo air-conditioned bus, but it turned out to be a non-Volvo non-air-conditioned bus from Bangalore to Gokarna, an eleven hour journey. As the bus sped, blood rushed to the head. We tried sleeping in the opposite direction, and blood appeared to drain out. Funnily, it was a double bed kind of arrangement, and we had to sleep together. As the bus negotiated bends, we rolled towards either the window or the aisle. As the bus made an immediate correction, we rolled back.

We took an autorickshaw for Rs.100 for a six kilometre journey to the top of the Kudle beach. Steps were cut into the rock to reach the beach. We walked down. It was easy to find the hotel, Gokarna International Beach Resort. A glass of tea later, we walked up again and went to the Om beach. Rather than looking like an 'Om', the beach resembles the backside of a human being engaged in the act of defecation in the traditional Indian style. We walked on the almost barren beach, and then found our way to a shack for a bottle of beer and Israeli Salad. As we admired the thick black gecko lodged at top of the wooden ceiling; Joshua, his sister and mother strolled in. They were our immediate neighbours two years ago. We never exchanged pleasantries earlier, and we did not exchange pleasantries here as well.

We took an autorickshaw to go to Gokarna village, famous for its temples. Rani visited the temples. I strolled around. A South Indian meal later, we returned to the hotel through the auto-step route. It was 2 PM. We slept till 5.30 PM and then went out to the beach, but not before stumbling upon Joshua's mother. The dinner of soup (chicken momo soup for Rani, chicken noodle soup for me) and sizzler (chicken sizzler for Rani and prawn sizzler for me) was the best we have eaten so far. We decided to have our lunch at the same joint, Munchies, the next day.

The next morning we walked to the other end of Kudle beach, and then climbed up. We found our way to the top of the hill, and saw a temple a few kilometres away. The temple is in urgent need of repairs and is closed. Steps go down to a natural spring. The water here is supposed to have medicinal properties. We sprinkled some water on ourselves, and walked further to arrive at the Gokarna beach. We walked further to enter the town, and found ourselves at the same temple which Rani visited yesterday.

We walked back, reached the hotel, had shower, and were back at Munchies. Today it was chicken momo soup for both of us, with grilled chicken for Rani and grilled prawn for me.

We did not engage an auto on our return. We just climbed up the hill and came down towards the Gokarna beach side. The bus started from near the temple. We were close to my office at 6 in the morning. We walked three kilometers to reach home.

Anna Karenina

“Have you read Anna Karenina?”

“No”, came the reply in barely audible voice. The dusky beauty was too shy to look at me.

“Oh!” I did not know what to say next.

I was meeting her for the first time. My parents had met her once before.

Her parents were a little apologetic on the first meeting.

“Hamari ladki thodi kaali hai” (our daughter is a little dark), they are supposed to have said.

My parents, in response, assured that the colour of skin did not matter to them.

The final decision, however, lay in my hands.

So, this was a very important meeting. If I agreed, I would have to marry the girl and live with her forever. If I decided otherwise, I would have to forget her forever. This, of course, was assuming that she and her family would approve of me.

Mummy, Daddy, Didi and her two young children sat next to me. Her parents, two sisters and a brother were with her. Most of the time everybody sat in the room, looking at each other, trying to make small conversation. Stealing a glance at her was very difficult. I adopted the trick of talking to persons sitting diagonally across. This way I could enjoy a fleeting glance of her every time I shifted my attention from one person to the other. There were times I could see her looking at me. Whenever our eyes met, I could feel her talking to me in a silent language.

Finally, I was coaxed to talk to her. However, her plain “no” blocked chances of further conversation. Mummy, Didi and Daddy tried speaking to her, and she replied in mono-syllables. Whenever she spoke something, I became super attentive to catch her every word.

She had a good voice.

And she was beautiful.

We were invited for snacks. For a brief moment I managed to stand next to her. There was no clumsiness in the way she ate.

Back home, my parents asked my views about her. I was too shy to say anything for sometime, but later announced my decision.

She became my wife. That was twenty five years ago.

She has turned out to be a stronger person than I am. And a better person. More forgiving. More loving. More caring. Happier. Loving the good things in life.

I liked her twenty five years ago. I started loving her soon after. Today, I cannot think of life without her.

I love you, Rani!

The First Board

What is a board?

I expect you to be over nine years of age, and still wondering what a board could mean. Do I mean a piece of timber? Food or meals (room and board), perhaps? A vertical surface on which information can be displayed for public view? A table? An electric switchboard? A platform for playing certain kinds of games? After all, what could a board mean?

If you, in spite of all your wisdom, cannot decide what a board is, how can a nine year old child imagine its correct meaning.

I am talking about myself. We lived in Kolkata. I went to a government school. It was my fourth school. Arriving from Varanasi in September, I had joined Class Four almost at the end of the January – December session. The syllabus was quite different, but being a good student I was somehow managing.

One day, as the class was on, an important looking man came and announced something. I did not understand a word, but perhaps the other students did, and an “Aaaah” went up in the air.

I asked my friends what the Aah was all about. They explained that we would have our board from the next week or so.

Okay, so be it, I thought and went home. By the time I walked the one kilometre or so to home, I had forgotten all about it. It was only in the night at dinner that I remembered the important announcement.

“Mummy, we have the board from the next week”, I said, chewing between words.

Mummy reacted as if she had touched a live wire. “Board?” “Next week?” “Are you sure?”

I felt sorry about putting her to so much of discomfort. Without knowing what the word meant, just to comfort her, I said, “Don’t worry! Waisa board nahin hai.”

“What do you mean waisa board nahin hai? What kind of board is that? Today is Thursday night. You are saying next week. Oh my God!”

By now I was sure that Board was something very bad, and it would perhaps have been better had I not disclosed the news to her. However, there was little I could do now.

I looked at her, and slowly went to bed. Later in the night I heard voices. Daddy had returned from office and was having dinner. Mummy was telling him, “Agle haftey se Happu ka board ka exam hai. Usko kuchh bhi nahin pata. Date-sheet kya hai, admit card kahan hai, kuchh bhi nahin janta.”

Oh, so I was going to have my exams in another few days, I thought. The next day, from the classroom, I saw Mummy enter the school office. She waited for the school to be over and then we walked back together. She was carrying my admit card and the examination schedule. I looked at her from the corner of my eyes. She was not angry. She was not unhappy, either. Whatever the “Board” was, it was not due to any misdemeanour from my side, I decided. I grasped her hand lovingly, and started walking happily.

Childhood Musings

Anupam, Smriti, and I, all three of us were quite vociferous in our childhood. Some of us created songs, some wrote poetry, and some created dialogues even before entering the school.

Sample this:

Poetry

It is a long one, describing the saga of a king, his queen, pages, etc. The poem began thus:

Ek Tha Raja, Oh Oh Oh!
Ek Thee Rani, Oh Oh Oh!

The verse had a somewhat tragic end, which I recall as below:

Rani Mar Gayee,
Dasee Bhaag Gayee!

Dialogue

It was a result of imagination on how different members of the family would react to the same situation.

The situation was quite simple.

The main door is locked. It is night. There is no power. Knocks on the door are not resulting in desired response. The visitor has no option but to cry out for help.

Visitor One (heavy, authoritative voice): Darwaaaaza Kholo! Hum Paaapaaa Hain!

Visitor Two (sweet voice): Mami! O Mami! Darwaza Kholo! Hum Mummy Hain!

Visitor Three (a sing-song voice): Mamiiiiii! O-o-o Mamiiiiiii! Hum Kaise Aa Paate Hain! Dalwaaja Bun(d) Hai!

Song

This song was created impromptu after the genius observed a steam engine entering a railway station. The first line ended on a high note, the second one on a level note, the third one on a low note, and the fourth one rhymed with the sound of the steam engine. Usually the song was sung with a stick in the hand of the composer, who used to hit the nearest object to lay emphasis on the words in the last line.

Injun (Engine) Ke (Ki) Siti
Injun Ke Dainda (Danda, the bar affixed on the wheels)
Injun Ke Paiyya (Pahiya)
Tik! Tik! Tik!

Weird Thoughts

I am indisposed for the last three days. Hints of body ache, lack of stamina, and bouts of shiver once or twice a day sum up the symptoms.

Nothing serious.

Luckily the last two days were holidays. I took rest. Perhaps too much of it. It was difficult to sleep at night. I battled with weird thoughts, and finally succumbed to them. Suppose I die of this seemingly simple illness. I am sure, my wife will be able to manage. Rather than her being defeated by circumstances, I have seen her emerging victorious from most of them. My son is more matured than I am, and will be able to handle the situation tactfully. My daughter will be able to continue her education, thanks to some unselfish support from her brother.

So, I can die in peace.

I lived a very ordinary life. A selfish life. I do not think I did unqualified favours to anyone. No eye needs to be wet when I kick the bucket. And no good deeds need to be deferred in my memory.

Sometimes I feel that though I could not do wonders in the present life, I will try and help people as a ghost! A true defeatist.
Finally, sleep overcame thoughts. I got up the next day, alive.

Adventures of a Different Kind

Rani ensured that Smriti got settled at the hostel in Delhi, and took a flight back to Bangalore. After the flight, it was the bus. She was to reach till the drop point on the highway, after which I was supposed to pick her up and drive down to our home. It would have taken only about five minutes, so I took the car out at 0015, only to find that a tyre was punctured. I tried to park the car back, but it refused to climb the portico. I had already wasted about two minutes.

There was no further time to lose. I called up Rani and informed her that I was walking down to receive her. I soon realised that if I continued to walk, she would have to wait on the highway with a large suitcase in the dead of the night.

I ran about a quarter of a kilometre in my Bata chappals. Some dogs appreciated my athletic pursuit, some objected to it, and some decided in favour of a closer examination.

After receiving Rani, I played a symphony by dragging her suitcase over the pebbles, the potholes, the speed breakers, etc., throughout the half-a-kilometre walk. The suitcase did not like it and conveyed its displeasure by picking favourite spots on both sides of my ankles for repeated assaults. Not to be cowed down, I cursed the suitcase and its family tree every time my dignity was challenged.

Ever enthusiastic to make things better, I replaced the wheel with the stepney the next morning, only to find that it was in total sympathy with its just ousted sister. I wonder how the stepney became unusable in three years flat when I had got it inflated last.

Just after nine in the morning I was once again on the road holding a deflated wheel. Rani suggested that we should roll it on the road, but I did not succumb to the temptation. The shop was closed, and remained so for about an hour. We sat on the steps of another shop, then talked to the next door butcher, "Bhaiyya, yeh tayar walla kab ayega?", praised the professional approach of the Delhi tayar wallas, shared sweet memories of puncture repair in our yesteryears, drank three glasses of some excellent coffee, spoke to the tayar walla on his cell phone, and waited. Finally the tayar walla arrived, but he decided to attend to an auto walla first who wanted to buy a new tube. So we waited for our turn, and mission accomplished, walked back with the wheel under my arm.

By this time my arms, clothes, legs, etc, were full of the filth that a tyre loves to bite into. Rani decided to serve breakfast, spoonfeeding it, while I divided my time between hushing the dog away and tightening the bolts.

I took half day leave, and was back at the office in the afternoon.

My Child

I dropped Rani and Smriti, and returned. Just fifteen minutes ago the house resonated with activity. And now, it was barren. Fighting tears, I climbed upstairs to Smriti’s room. The blanket was carelessly tossed on one side. The linen was creased. And, the pillow still had a big dimple on it. I caressed the creases and the dimples, and broke into hysterical sobs. How different is Smriti from an ordinary child! She had to lose an academic year on shifting from Delhi to Bangalore, but did not complain. She did not complain when in spite of securing more than 92% marks in the Class XII exam, her name did not figure in the list of candidates shortlisted for medical education. How enthusiastic she was when she appeared in the Design Entrance examination of Symbiosis, and how gracefully she accepted the fact that in spite of being short listed, she did not make it to the final list. I often saw dreams in her eyes – dreams that twinkled like stars, and dreams that died like wrinkled flowers.

I do not know when I will see her next. But I know, things will not be the same any more. It happens with distance. She will be more formal henceforth. She never demanded anything that she felt I would not be able to provide. Now she will be all the more cautious.

Smriti, my child, I wish you the best! I am not a rich man. What I did not give you far outnumbers what I gave you. But, I gave you my love. I will continue giving it till I breathe my last.

A Hearty Meal

With my stock of dostis exhausted, I had a challenge staring at me yesterday night! I had to either cook rice, or make rotis myself, or buy rotis from a shop and eat.

Sleeping with a belly full of rice was not very appealing. Buying just two rotis appeared a little degrading. Moreover, the rotis around my place are mostly made of maida, and are touched by several hands before reaching the customer.

So, I settled for the second option, deciding to make rotis myself.

Though I am well familiar with the nooks and corners of our kitchen, it was difficult to find the tawa (skillet) and the belan (rolling pin). I spent some time looking for that elusive chakla (board), only to realise that we do not possess one! The work is done on the granite slab.

I took some atta and carefully poured some water over it. Then came the stage when it has to be kneaded. It went off well, though a lot of dough got stuck on my fingers, palm, slab, floor, handle of spoon, tap, etc. It required just a dash of water to become perfect. I added water, and to my horror, the thing turned into a solution. I added some more atta, then some more, and then some more. The dough clung to my hand and made it fit to be shot for a scary movie.

Finally, the dough assumed familiar consistency. I cut lois (small portions), and started using the belan. I am very happy to tell you that all rotis turned out to be circular or squarish, and there were absolutely no triangles or rectangles! Usually our rotis are about five inches in diameter. My rotis were varied. The largest turned out to be ten inches in diameter. They were five in all. Had I not added so much of atta, perhaps the dough would have sufficed for only two rotis.

I ate them with relish. They were a little elastic, but were fresh. I saved one for the dogs.

The performance may be repeated tonight!

India Comes Last!

It is said that one must think before one acts. If you are America, you can act first and think later. Or, you need not think at all. After all, you are the big brother! You can act and justify your action with afterthoughts, if you deem fit. In the name of establishing world order, you can topple democratically elected governments, indulge into espionage, and keep next door neighbours at loggerheads to maintain your supremacy.

If you are America, you have the right to preach that while Christians can follow varied political beliefs, Muslims all over the world toe a single political line, and therefore your President can deliver a speech to the ‘Muslim world’! Being the ‘Mr Know All’, you can supply loads and loads of deadly weapons and give billions of dollars of monetary help to Pakistan for fighting terrorism, ignoring the warning from your own sleuths that these are used by the Pakistani army against India and not against terrorists. You can do an encore of the mid sixties, when you supported Pakistan in a similar manner and supplied rotten food grain to India. You can even walk a step further, and suggest De-Militarised Zones on both sides of the Indo-Pak border, knowing fully well that it would increase infiltration of terrorists into India.

And while you take steps that spell doom for India’s security and prosperity, you need not worry about any retaliation from India (not that you ever cared about it!). With so many assembly elections lined up, the ruling UPA is in no mood to waste its time on such issues. The right leaning NDA is too busy in mudslinging over the loss of power that it had so cosily got accustomed to. And, the trigger happy left front, who is quick to call a bandh and damage public property at the drop of a hat, is busy trying to figure out how to contain Mamata Banerjee who threatens to upset its bastion in West Bengal.

Concerns for India come last.

Towards A Strong India

All sorts of reservation policies are tried in our nation. There is reservation for employment, reservation for admission to institutes of higher education, reservation for membership of a parliament seat, reservation for eligibility on accommodation in the train, etc., etc.

Scheduled castes, scheduled tribes, backward classes, women, residents of a particular state, poor, all are supposed to get the benefit of reservation. Discrimination based on gender, caste, economic status, domicile, religion, etc., is expected to vanish with adaptation of the reservation policy.

The fact is, in spite of living half a century with reservation, discrimination stares at us from all angles. It is exploited by different people for different selfish reasons. We still have untouchables who cannot draw water from a well. We have violence against Indians because they moved out of their state. We still have poor dying of hunger.

We are in this state because we are still not aware. We are still not educated. Specially the women, the architects of society. I wonder why India cannot have a much more liberal reservation policy for education? Why cannot we have hundred per cent reservation for education? Let every Indian, be she or he of any caste, religion, economic group, and state, have a seat reserved in a school, in a college, in an institute of higher learning. If we do not have enough resources to fund education for all, let us obtain it through a penalty on all bundhs and activities of damage to public property and peace.

Unless we take a revolutionary step in educating ourselves, we will not be able to build a strong India.

The Way the Cookie Crumbles!

General Elections 2009 are over! All predictions, once again, have proved to be incorrect. The Indian voter has exercised franchise in such a manner that both the winners and the losers stand surprised.

You can say, that's the way the cookie crumbles.

But, there is a method in the madness.

The voter has rewarded virtues such as honesty, competence, and modesty. Arrogance, even of proven performers, and shrill campaigns have found few takers. Those flashing the caste card have been denounced, those encouraging lawlessness have not been favoured.

The voter in India has matured, and has given a clear verdict in favour of stability and development.

Jai Ho!

Just a Small Payment

It started about three years ago!

I was in my office, engrossed in work. I do not have a particularly excellent eyesight. I can’t read well without specs. To top it, my eyesight is worse with specs! So, I tend to stoop at my desk, not allowing more than a ten inch separation between my aging eyes and whatever object I may be looking at. My style of observation has the added advantage of increased concentration. You may safely say that I don’t only look at the object, I even listen to it, though it may be only a piece of paper!

I was engrossed in looking at some paper, when someone knocked. I keep the door of my cabin open, and expect the visitors to just come up to my table, take a seat, and start the conversation from the word go. This saves time on pleasantries that are not meant but yet uttered. My colleagues are aware of my eccentricities and tolerate them.

I looked up. It was not a colleague. The visitor was a young man. A young man, who, perhaps, was short of cash. His necktie was dirty and beyond washing, his shirt collar was black with grime, his leather belt was cheap, and his trousers needed ironing.

Obviously, he was a salesman.

Courtesy demanded that I offer him a seat, and I did. The salesman, a young man of about twenty five, began in his typical salesman rhetoric. He demanded to know how many times I went out to a restaurant, how many times I travelled by air, etc., etc. He demanded information of very personal nature, and I was reluctant to share it with an outsider generations younger to me. But the young man was persistent, and I ended up supplying all the information to him.

The young man produced some papers, asking me details and scribbling. Finally, he thrust a bunch of forms under my nose. “Sign here”, he commanded. “But I don’t need a credit card”, I retorted.

“Sir, you are getting it freeeeee”, he smiled, as if he were informing that I had become the President of my country.

“Free or paid, I do not need another card”, I protested.

He looked at me with pity. “What is the harm if you have a card?”, he asked.

“Well, I already have some. And, while you claim that it is free, you will ask for money when it becomes due for renewal next year.”

“I will not ask for money, Sir”. The man was confident.

I thought it over. Yes, what would be the harm if I possess another card? If I accept the card, the poor fellow may get some much needed commission, I thought, and signed on the dotted lines.

The young man was correct. He never asked me for money. The card provider did. Every year, without fail. I kept on paying, before finally deciding to put a stop this year. I refused to accept the card. The company sent a letter informing that it had received the card back. And sent me another notice to pay. Followed by another notice. And another. And another.

Isn’t it a bit too familiar?