Bad Books; Unfortunate Students

Students from backward areas are often mocked upon for their inability to converse in proper English. I recently had an opportunity to meet such a student. Though only in class one, he loved his books and pointed out his favourite, Knowledge Update, for its “nice pictures and content”. Priced at Rs.130, the book is written by Ajay Shrivastava and is published by Spectrum Publications in New Delhi. As per the book:

1.      Long jump is a sports event in which a person has to run a little distance up to as far as possible.

2.      Its name is the significance of stupidity in generally.

3.      It can lives a very long time.

4.      There are millions type of animals lived in sea. 

5.      The Sydney Opera House is in the Australia. 

6.      The Mammoth was a enormous, hairy elephant like animal with large teeth and tusks.

7.      Many skin soaps are being made by neem leaves.

8.      The Big Ben is in the (a) Australia (b) Egypt (c) United Kingdom.

S    Students are also informed about ‘star persons of our country’, numbering eight. These are ‘Marry’ Com, Salman Khan, Aishwarya Rai, Amitabh Bachchan, MS Dhoni, Sachin Tendulkar, Anna Hazare and Narendra Modi.   

Are the students not being blamed unfairly?

 

Don’t Think Negatively!

I get flummoxed on hearing the advice, “Don’t think negatively!” Once as I was getting ready to catch a morning non-stop Delhi-Chicago flight, my spectacles broke in an irreparable manner. I was to be on my own in Chicago, where I would land in the dead of the night. As I was thinking about how would I manage the situation, pat came the advice, “Don’t think negatively!” I was surprised. What was negative in in considering broken spectacles as broken? The next nugget of wisdom fell, “Think positively. You may find a spectacle repair shop open even at this early hour on your way to the airport, get it mended, and even be able to catch your international flight.” I nodded politely. Thankfully, I had kept a spare set with me, which came handy.

A close relative, about eighty-five years in age, was battling with cancer. She exceeded the doctor’s estimate by surviving for more than six months, but then her condition started deteriorating fast. She became a skeleton wrapped in white skin. Her face and feet swelled. She became unable to digest even the simplest of home cooked food. She lay painfully awake in the nights. Doctors, being consulted every day, could not offer any miraculous cure for the deadly disease. She got wind of the situation; and asked for a puja to be performed for her departure. She was no longer ready to accept phone calls even from her children. This was a drastic change, as just fifteen days back when I had met her, she was eager to meet relatives and was inquisitive about their welfare. The writing on the wall was clear – the end was near, perhaps just a month away. Her son tending to her day and night felt the same way. The other son, a doctor, too felt the same way. As I was discussing her health, a positive thought was pushed forth, “Some people who gave up survived for more than two years, so the negative thought about her death should not be brought to mind.” Luckily her sons did not think so ‘positively’ and moved her to a hospital.

I am finding it difficult to think positively and assuming that she has gone to the hospital to teach cake baking skills to the chef!

I thought of asking:

1.      Why do we send our children to the school? So that they grow into adults who are able to live with their full potential realised. But why this negative feeling that they will not be able to do well if not educated?

2.      Why do we take insurance cover? To take care of the eventualities. But why think negative? After all how many eventualities happen around us?

3.      Why do we watch our weight, be careful about what we eat, and take inoculations? Will it not be better to be positive minded and hog whatever came our way?

Negativity is often confused with rational thinking. The examples given above are certainly not of negative thinking but of rational thinking. On the other hand, negative thinking could be your feeling angry, horrible, being less productive, finding solace in junk food and useless web-surfing all day just because someone misbehaved with you in the morning.

It is normal to be cautious against failures. The amygdala, the brain region that regulates emotion and motivation, uses about two-thirds of its neurons to detect bad news. Humans share ancestors with bats, begonias and bacteria that go back at least 3.5 billion years. It was a matter of life and death then to pay extra attention to dangers, react to them intensely, remember them well, and over time become even more sensitive to them.

Only pigeons are known to close eyes when they see a cat. We know what happens after that. It is better to keep the eyes open and fly away to safety, so what if that is considered as a reaction emerging out of negativity!

The Confidence Factors

I came to Bengaluru eleven years ago, for what it appeared at that time, a short stint. The decade-long stay has made me confident about certain aspects, such as these:

1.      Auto-rickshaw drivers earn the most handsome returns if they do not go anywhere.

2.      If you have given a left-turn indicator, the two-wheeler behind you will overtake you from the left and then turn to the right. Its driver may look at you with contempt and ask “Wa?” as you manage to avoid an accident. Ditto for the right turn.

3.      The traffic police on junctions will clear opposite sides together and watch as vehicles intending to take a turn will be forced to move in the wrong lane.

4.      If your colleagues know that you do not know Kannada, most deliberations in official meetings will be in that language only.

5.      Even though the travel will be for a few seconds, the fan in the elevator will be switched on regardless of the weather.

6.      People wishing to come out of the elevator can do so only after allowing the new entrant to block the entrance.

7.      The bus will never stop at the bus stop.

8.      The conductor will always be short of coins.   

9.      It is impolite to wish anyone other than your boss.

10. Helmets must be hung from the left elbow.

11. Punctuality is of no consequence.

12. You can hoot at the people if they obstruct your vehicle’s movement on the footpath.

13. While it can be freezing cold indoors, the sun outside will burn you within minutes.   

14. Even if you receive water supply from an overhead tank, you must throw away all stored water and refill all vessels every morning with ‘fresh’ water.

15. The queue at the Tenderchicken outlet should be orderly. No such compulsion exists for the airline security check queue.

An Offer For Food

It was perhaps a hotel room. A desk and a chair stood at a corner. A framed painting hung on the wall with a decorative light. The adjoining wall was largely made of glass – one could see trees and cars of various hues in the surrounding  colony. Strangely for a hotel room, a cane chair hung from the ceiling, allowing its occupant to swivel and enjoy a panoramic view.  

My friend’s wife sat in the chair.  

A bed lay next to the opposite wall, covered with a green sheet.  

My friend’s wife sometimes looked outside, sometimes towards the bed, with an amused expression. Her husband and I were lying on the bed. The husband towards the wall, I towards her. 

The husband and wife were very friendly. We discussed how to grow and maintain plants. They certainly had an expertise in the matter. I would have continued, but then I remembered that I had to go down and meet someone for a few minutes. 

When I came back, the husband had a plate of food in his hand. He must have ordered food from the room service, I thought.  

His wife, still amused, offered the food. I politely refused. Then it was the turn of the husband. By now an eerie feeling had crept over me. I ignored their request.  

“Take it,” both of them urged in unison. 

“No, the time has not yet come,” I firmly declined. They looked at me, amazed. 

The dream ended. I realised that my friend had died two months ago.  

I looked at the calendar. Amavasya (no moon night) had begun.

Old Age Excitement

“It is not working,” I murmured. 

Wait for some time, it will,” Rani murmured back. 

We had been in bed for some time. Perhaps for an hour, perhaps more.  

Our bed is about a foot away from a thin, ordinary glass pane. On the other side, about twenty feet apart, runs a road. A speed breaker adorns the road at a strategic angle from our flat. Vehicles apply brake when they are bang opposite our window, releasing a high decibel screech that hovers in the air for several seconds. Many vehicles, especially lorries carrying gas cylinders, fail to decelerate sufficiently, resulting in generation of a cacophony of sorts as they jump over the speed breaker. Exposed to the madness for four years, I can distinguish the type of each vehicle with a fine degree of accuracy from just the sound of its screech. 

The street noise is ever present in different avatars. As the traffic thins down at night, screeches transform into all pervading wails. Torturing of a silencer-less engine with high acceleration, siren of an ambulance, nocturnal roll-call of dogs, tick-tock of the wall clock, running of the condensing unit of the split air-conditioner in the hyper store below – even the start-stop cycle of the compressor of the refrigerator near the kitchen – my ears are attuned to appreciate all input and convert it into information useful for the brain but quite useless for me. 

Something was missing that night. The comforting sound of the refrigerator. I never knew that I had unknowingly analysed it so well. It started with a ‘tuck’, followed by the harmony produced when water enters a half-filled cistern, signing off with a small thud with a unique echo. 

I had not heard a single cistern filling sound that night, except for the occasion when I had actually used the loo.  

A bad omen. Had our refrigerator hit the bucket? 

When you are married to the same person continuously for as many years as I have been, you do not start your conversation from the beginning. You approach the topic at any point. It saves time and the effort invested in speaking. For example, there is no need to elaborate that while your newspaper has not been delivered, and while your neighbour blissfully sleeps, his newspaper rots in front of his door, throwing at you an excellent opportunity to indulge in undisclosed co-operation. I just tell Rani, “Uska Le Lo (Take his)”. She returns within two minutes beaming a smile, the newspaper in her hand. 

She must have been asleep, but perhaps her brain was also recording the absence of the refrigerator sound. She said, “It happens. Do not worry, it will start.” 

The disadvantage of studying engineering is that you know more about certain things. ‘Tuck’ must always be followed by the water-gushing-in-the-cistern sound. A solo tuck is worse that your friend not bringing his ravishing wife along when calling on you. 

I struggled to catch sleep. My ears struggled to catch the reassuring gurgle of the gas flow. Fifteen minutes passed. I got up. The stabiliser was on. I opened the refrigerator door. The inside lamp was on. I flicked the switch off and on, tugged at the wires, kicked the compressor. The appliance remained unresponsive like a government official. 

No point in waking up Rani, I thought, going back to the bed. Two minutes elapsed. Rani got up. I heard the sound of the switch being flicked, the refrigerator door being opened, Rani saying something to herself. 

“Inform the mechanic who repaired our water heater some months ago,” I said.  

Satisfied that the refrigerator had conked off, we soon fell asleep. 

“Should I call up the mechanic?” asked Rani.  

It was about seven in the morning. The mechanic looked young. Young people stay in bed longer. Considering the outside chance that the mechanic would have gotten up by now, he might be busy with his morning ablutions, I thought.  

Rani read my thoughts. “I will call him at 7:30,” she declared. 

Half an hour later, she announced, “He does not repair refrigerators.”  

Finally a mechanic was arranged. He declared that the refrigerator was dead, but could be brought back to life with a replacement of the compressor and filling of gas, the entire exercise costing five thousand bucks. The news was conveyed to me over phone. 

“Five thousand? Wouldn’t it be better to invest seven thousand more and buy a brand new fridge?” I recalled buying a double-door fridge at twelve thousand three years ago. 

We celebrated Christmas fridge hunting.  

The fridge section of Big Bazaar displayed various kinds of footwear. Rani started examining the displays in a manner that is so natural to a woman. She even started enquiring about a specific type of sandal I have been walking in for four years, and located a sufficiently ugly pair.  

“But haven’t we come to look for a fridge?” I protested.

“Fridge Kahan Hain?” she asked an employee. 

“We have only one fridge,” pat came the reply.  

I can appreciate statements such as “I have only one husband”, but a store keeping only one fridge was beyond my imagination. 

The good thing was, rather than spending the allocated forty-five minutes, we ticked off Big Bazaar in five minutes.  

The bad thing was, we reached E Zone a full fifteen minutes before its standard opening time.  

The pep talk at E Zone extended fifteen minutes beyond the opening time. Employees attending the pep talk glanced at us standing outside the half-down shutters, and continued their session, ending it with a chorus of “Come what may, day by day, I will get better and better”. 

We walked to the row of neatly arranged refrigerators, looking at the price tags. An employee who had just become better asked what it was that we were looking for. It was pretty sensible. In old days a refrigerator was advertised with a penguin. We were looking for the penguin, the better salesman might have suspected.  

We walked out – the price range was much above the twelve thousand mark. 

The third stop of the day was Girias. The shop had about fifty refrigerators lined up. We began the inspection of the price tags.  

“The prices are similar to those at E Zone,” I told Rani. 

The salesman interjected, “No, no, these prices are just indicative. Talk to the manager and bargain!” 

Bargaining price down from Rs.17,500 to Rs.12,000 is beyond our declared or hidden talents. We looked at each other, defeated but not destroyed and definitely determined to resume the hunt at a fourth place. 

The fourth place, Classic, and the fifth, Shree Electronics, proved it beyond doubt that no double door fridge can be purchased in India at a price below Rs.17,500.  

Giving up is for cowards. “Examine the seller to the sellers tomorrow,” I told Rani.  

Metro sells to sellers. I have seen Metro advertisements of 40% discount on refrigerators. Why twelve thousand, at such discount a fridge of Rs.17,500 can be had for Rs.10,500, I surmised. 

By the next afternoon we knew that there was no difference between the prices at Metro and elsewhere. 

“One last try. We will visit Sai Galaxy today, and if nothing materialises, we will get the refrigerator repaired,” we agreed. 

Forty-five minutes of bargaining at Sai Galaxy, and the price did not move even a bit below Rs.17,500. And then, a non-salesman type employee whispered something to the owner. 

“You can have a Videocon refrigerator at Rs.14,500. If you exchange your existing refrigerator, you will have to pay Rs.13,500,” said the owner, almost apologetically. 

“Videocon?!!” After the Sharps, Panasonics, Samsungs and LGs, Videocon appeared to be a very poor choice. 

“Show it,” we said reluctantly. 

The carton was opened. A shiny maroon refrigerator with floral pattern emerged. It was a double door, frost free refrigerator, no doubt. The price printed on the carton read Rs.15,999. The date of manufacture was November 2013.  

I looked at Rani. 

“We have to use it only for three years. Even though it is Videocon, it should not fail within three years,” Rani said. 

“It carries a 5-year warranty on compressor, and a one year warranty on the remaining items,” added the salesman. 

“Le Lete Hain (Let us buy it),” we said in unison.

An hour later, the fridge stood near the kitchen. The old fridge was gone, after providing us with old age excitement.

When It Rains, It Pours!

We had to drive to the airport. The sky looked overcast.

“Why not carry umbrellas, just to be on the safer side?” I asked. The suggestion appeared to be naive. Mere presence of clouds does not guarantee showers, as intelligence is not guaranteed on mere possession of the brain.

The car had a big boot. We placed the luggage, dumping two umbrellas alongside. The space still available was enough to accommodate two fat pigs, but we had none. We shut the boot close, and started.

The two most competent authorities on cinema in the family – Nitasha and Rani – started debating on whether a particular person in a TV commercial was Ranbir Kapoor. Rani was sure that it was him. Nitasha was equally sure that it was not Ranbir.

Halfway, Anupam blurted out, “It has started.”

But the debate had started much earlier! I was even enjoying it, silently regretting my inability to contribute towards it in a meaningful manner. My television-watching being restricted to orang-utan pranks and ‘Monkey Thieves’ kind of shows was putting me at a severe disadvantage.   

 Anupam pointed towards the windscreen. When I drive I make it a point to look at the windscreen, but somehow the droplets of water had escaped my attention. They were too small to be noticed by my eyes. I am normally busy at scheming about protecting the car from the onslaught of heavy vehicles and earth moving machinery. Those around me are busy scheming about protecting them from my car. So much of scheming leaves little scope for noticing tiny objects, even if they are right in front of my nose.

The pitter-patter soon transformed into heavy splats. The lone wiper tried valiantly to cope up, succeeding little. Vehicles started cutting across little lakes, splashing water with gusto. Had I not been in a hurry, I would have perhaps driven slowly, enjoying the scene. But we had a flight to catch. I continued driving at a steady 75 kmph.

The parking ticket vending machine had acquired a blackhead. It’s top had been covered with a black garbage disposal. Only, it was not for garbage disposal but to protect the machine from water. An attendant stood next to the machine, handing out tickets.

We parked. The rain reduced to a light drizzle. We walked towards the entrance under the umbrellas. A jhappi here and a jhappi there, and Anupam and Nitasha walked in. Rani and I remained glued to the glass wall of an unoccupied cabin, watching them till they could not be seen any more.

Sad, almost defeated, we walked towards the car. In a matter of half an hour the scene had changed. The rain had vanished, and so had the daylight.

I started driving. Within five minutes we were off the flyover, negotiating half constructed walls and pillars, water-filled ditches, steel girders, and multiple diversions due to the giant flyover underway.

The rains came again, and very forcefully. The wiper became ineffective even at the top speed. Opaque spots formed over the windscreen, making it impossible to see through them. Absence of streetlamps compounded the problem of poor visibility. Very often I had to drive in complete darkness, not sure whether the car was still over the road. Just another degree of turn to the steering wheel, and the car would have toppled after climbing on the divider, or dashed against a wall on the curb side. This continued for about half-an-hour.

Luckily, nothing untoward happened. We reached home safely. It was perhaps a new lease of life, but there was nothing to cheer about. The children had gone, the nest was empty!

We looked at each-other, and reached for the phone. We had to talk to the children!         

The Destitute

I keep Sundays reserved for outings. No, not those outings that one normally associates with the word. Every Sunday gives me an opportunity to visit the Reliance Green store to buy vegetables. Once through with the vegetables, Rani enters the fish store, while I climb down the stairs and kill time. Not only is the fish store too crowded, the stench is offensive, and the lone worker has no sense of urgency.

 

It was the same this Sunday. I walked down the stairs, which led to an about four feet wide pavement.

 

A brown and white dog was peacefully sleeping in a corner. I wonder why dogs come in such limited shades. They are white, black, or brown, or a combination of any of these colours. In other words, there cannot be more than seven ways in which your dog can appear – pure white, pure brown, pure black, white-brown, white-black, brown-black, or white-brown-black! It is good that dogs cannot see many colours, and therefore are not aware of this limitation.

 

The particular dog was rather thickset. By human standards, it was slightly older than I am. But it was very different from me - it appeared to have no worry in the world. I went close to the dog. Deep in sleep with eyes completely closed, it dropped its purplish tongue on the floor and licked it. The experience was evidently good. It licked again, and then again, without opening eyes or showing any other sign of being awake. It was the first time I had ever seen a dog performing this trick. And mind you, my childhood was spent with many dogs. True, one can learn everyday.

 

The odour of maida being deep fried diverted my attention. It emanated from a nearby shack selling cheap food. The owner sat on a counter, reading newspaper. Two employees doubled up as chef and maître d'hôtel, handling customers and cooking implements with the same callousness. At the exact moment they were busy deep frying puris.

 

A man, almost transfixed, stood in front of the shack. His clothes were dirty. The shirt, which might have been white once upon a time; was black and brown. The trousers were khaki. The hair was tousled up; the beard had not been attended for days. He was a picture of poverty.

 

The man moved his right hand into the shirt’s front pocket. I could see a glimpse of a ten rupee note. He pushed the note back, but did not move. The sight of puris getting puffed in hot oil was perhaps too tempting for him. He moved his right hand again, this time to his hip pocket. I am not sure whether he had a little fortune hidden there as well. Two minutes passed. The chef-cum-maître d'hôtel looked at him. The man once again thrust his hand in the front pocket, extracting the ten rupee note.

 

The money was faithfully deposited in the drawer of the counter. The owner did not move his eyes up from the newspaper. Some minutes passed. The man stood waiting, his eyes never leaving the kadai. More minutes passed. Finally, the chef-cum-maître d'hôtel packed two puris and some curry in a polythene bag.

 

If accepting the bag was a pain, transferring it into the other hand was an ordeal. The destitute had an empty polythene bag in his left hand, and for some reason did not want to dispense with it. He tried to slip the newly acquired bag inside this bag, but could not. His left hand, and for that matter, his left leg was paralysed. He tried again, failing yet again. He had to try for about five minutes before he could complete the task. Now came the turn of picking up his stick and another polythene bag from the pavement. It was obvious that he could not bend like an ordinary person. He punished himself for several minutes before succeeding in picking up the stick and getting ready to move.

 

During the entire effort he never looked anywhere except at the bags or at the stick. I thought of placing some money in his pocket. I looked back. Rani was coming down. I looked at the man. He had turned his back towards me, and had started walking. He stumbled, steadied himself, and resumed walking, very slowly.

 

Rani and I walked briskly towards the car, the parcel of fish secure in her hand.