Chitto's musings

Musings-World of Babas

2011-11-17T18:43:00.000-08:00

Sri Sathya Sai Baba left for his heavenly abode a few months back leaving behind a vast fortune and equally vast chaos. Some astrologers (jyotishis) and some Tantriks also call themselves Baba. Likewise, Baba Ramdev was in news recently taking up government against corruption and his attempted antics on Ramlila ground, though his main forte is Yoga.

This ‘Baba’ is an interesting word. The moment ‘Baba’ is attached to one’s name, one’s stature increases. Try removing ‘Baba’ from Ramdev or for that matter from Sathya Sai and see the result. Both remain common entity.

Interestingly, the word ‘Baba’ has different meaning in different languages or more than one meaning in the same language in different contexts. Let us take Hindi first. Here ‘Baba’ is used for one devoted to God, like sadhu baba or Sathya Sai Baba etc. ‘Baba’ is also used for one who has renounced the world or worldly pleasures.

In Gujarati, ‘Baba’ means a small boy. Whatever a boy’s name be if you don’t know it, you can safely call him ‘Baba’. In fact, yours truly too was called ‘Baba’ till he was married. In Urdu, ‘Baba’ is related to Tantriks & Fakirs and the like. Baba Farid and Jumman Baba Tantrik are good examples. In the case of Bengali, ‘Baba’ means father.

Interestingly and uniquely, all these different meanings of ‘Baba’ justify in the case of Baba Ramdev. He is a Yoga guru, wears saffron, gives spiritual discourses and has massive following. But the most pronounced meaning in his case is ‘Baba’, a small boy. A child is mostly stubborn. When a boy (Baba) wants something, he wants something, period. He doesn’t want to understand that thing’s utility, affordability, availability etc. We, on our part, try to explain all these to the child and also offer alternative things. When nothing works we spank him and that always works, well mostly.

Same is the case of Baba Ramdev. Except for his “abolition of corruption”, rest of his demands are not feasible. For example, Ramdev wants nothing short of death sentence for the corrupt or total abolition of high denomination currency notes. In a country where a killer of several lives don’t get death sentence and even if he gets, is not hanged for years, how can a mere corrupt ( small crime relatively) be hanged. Our administration went out of its way to reason with him, cajole him but to no avail. The last resort is spanking and that will definitely work. I personally guarantee.

Jagjit Singh-Winner all the way

2011-11-02T20:09:00.000-07:00

True to his name Jagjit (winner of the world), Jagjit Singh captured the world by his inimitable voice. When he entered into Ghazal Gayaki (singing), Ghazal was a serious business and that too for a limited few. Jagjit Singh entered and shook this world upside down.

Jagjit singh is one of my two top favorite Ghazal singers, the other being Ghulam Ali. No doubt, there are other capable and worthy singers and I like them too but these two are my favorites. Jagjit had that deep, gloomy voice that instantly stirred your soul whereas Ghulam Ali is a master of variations few others can claim.

Personally I was not into Gazals when young. I didn’t know and didn’t like anything beyond film songs. During sixties and early seventies my favorite composers were Madan Mohan and O.P. Nayyar who along with lyricists like Raja Mehdi Ali Khan and others created magic, at least for me. Come late seventies and the first Ghazal of Jagjit I heard was “baat nikalegi to fir door talak jayegi” and there was turmoil inside me. I heard this number again and again and instantly was into Ghazals. Then came his “pyar jo tumne kiya mujse to kya paogi”, “tumko dekha to ye khayal aaya”, “ye daulat bhi lelo ye shohrat bhi lelo,” just to name a few. He captured the Ghazal world like a storm.

I distinctly remember when “ye daulat bhi lelo” came, I was posted in the North and enjoying the life there. This number instantly transported me back to my childhood in Calcutta. True to the emotions in the song, I remembered my childhood days in Bhowanipore where water logging was frequent and we did make paper boats and let them loose in water. Indeed broken toys were our wealth to be guarded with care. Along with depth and gloom there was something in his voice that moved me and I longed to visit Calcutta and particularly Bhowanipore where I was born and brought up and to meet those childhood friends with whom I played and quarreled. I did just that at the first available opportunity. I saw my old school, my old house (now occupied by others), the streets and by lanes where I played, with new eyesight. Alas almost all friends were scattered.

Jagjit Singh not only sung, he sculptured, crafted the songs during those sixties and seventies. Within a very short span I was deep into Ghazals and forgot all about film songs. That was Jagjit Singh for you.

There are, as I mentioned earlier, other great singers. But you can find similar voices or near identical voices of these singers. I doubt if we can find one anywhere near Jagjit’s for quite a time.

Jagjit Singh was the one and only one.

Musings-Advantage Bachelor

2011-10-20T00:24:00.001-07:00

Ratan Tata, in his life so far, fell in love four times and in serious love at that, and came close to marriage. “I came seriously close to getting married and I guess I backed off in fear” is what he said on CNN Talk Asia Program. If Mr. Tata had married the first lucky woman he fell in love with, would he have fallen in love with the second woman, and the third and the fourth? It is a mystery even Tata himself cannot solve. But he is a sensible, smart and lucky person. It is not for nothing that he is Ratan Tata. Even in the heavenly bliss of love, he looked around carefully, observed us ordinary mortals having tough time in our married lives, didn’t like what he saw and decided (wisely) not to take the plunge. Most of us wish we had that sense and will power. But we are not Ratan Tata.

In contrast, take the case of Bagun Sambrai, a tribal politician who has over a dozen wives. Sambrai says Lord Krishna is his inspiration and intends to carry on his good work, brave man that, Sambrai. May he succeed in his divine mission and rot in hell.

Then there is Mangani Lal Mondal, an MP of JD (U) who declared in court that he does not remember how many wives he has. Mondal appears to be one confused person, suffers from loss of memory or perhaps he is sly. But to me, it seems he wants to forget the miseries of having so many wives.

Bagun Sambrai may boast of being a follower of Lord Krishna and Mondal may apparently want to forget the number his wives, but I am sure both of them and others like them, must be envious of Mr. Tata and wish they had that wisdom. Instead of taking inspiration from Lord Krishna, they wish they had that foresight of Mr. Tata. Though married only once, I for one wish I had that wisdom.

Cricket-From Dad to Dadu

2011-06-30T19:57:00.000-07:00

Just when we thought that Sourav Ganguly, the Dada (elder brother) of Calcutta had transited to Dadu (grand father), he was absorbed by Pune warriors to play in IPL matches.

Shah Rukh Khan’s slogan with Sourav “korbo. Lodbo, jitbo” (will work, fight & win), didn’t cut ice in the previous IPLs and Sourav was dropped like a sack of bricks from Kolkata Knight Riders. One would have thought that he would take a wise decision and retire with grace. But even after a clear “not wanted” signal from every team, he had aspirations to play and even publicly expressed his desire.

Seeing his desire to remain in the game, SRK and others offered him a job of an instructor or adviser of a team, that is, transferring from ‘Dada’ to ‘Dadu’. Wisely or unwisely, Dada refused and thought it better to while away his time. After all he had done that in the past and had reentered the game with thumping success.

But that time age was in his favor, now even though he is not old, we think he is well past his prime and should accept whatever work involving cricket, be that of a coach, commentator or anything that comes his way. Some people think that it is the player’s own choice if he wants to come back. Ganguly is no ordinary player but look at the last few years’ facts. He has not been successful in any of the IPLs. On the contrary, he was a disaster. Kolkata Knight Riders under him performed poorly and could not even make it to the semi finals. This constant failure shows that his powers are on the wane, law of diminishing returns. Look at his contemporaries like Srinath and Kumble who felt that their playing days were over and gracefully accepted the inevitable.

Still, here is hoping that Dada does well in this IPL for Pune warriors, if given a chance, of course.

Good bye, Uncle Pai

2011-03-25T22:32:00.000-07:00

Lights of our elder generation are fading. Panndit Bhimsen Joshi, the doyen of classical music, departed a few days back and now it is Anant Pai a.k.a. Uncle Pai, the creator of Amar Chitra Katha and Tinkle, two of his most popular magazines for children. The story has it that decades back, Pai witnessed an incident wherein a youngster was asked the name of Ram’s mother, which he could not answer. Pai was immensely pained at this ignorance or disinterest of that generation’s youngsters towards our epics and scriptures and decided to do something about it. The result is Amar Chitra Katha, aptly named.

Pai, during his research, realized that history, in the manner which it was taught, had become a dry subject. Children being children did not understand the importance of history compared to other subjects like science and maths. Pai used simple language and beautiful illustrations to attract children towards history and historical stories. He succeeded and how? The rest, as they say, is history.

I remember old days when my own son was a teenager. I had arranged Amar Chitra Katha to be delivered at our place with our daily news paper. My son had early morning school and when A.C.K. was due he would remind me that it was A.C.K. day and go to school. Such was his expectancy that the moment he returned from school, he would throw his bag and rush for the book. He would lovingly gape at the title page and attractive picture on it for a long time. He would delay opening and reading the inside pages as long as he could so that the thrill of the new book lasts longer. Expectancy and satisfaction were written large in his young face and were worth seeing. He would ask me to get every ten issues hard bind and over the years had quite an impressive collection. He continued with A.C.K. even when he was in college. Alas, the cartoon containing this collection with other books was lost in transit while shifting from one city to another. He is thirty five but even today he regrets the loss, more so now.

Thoughts-Changed times

2011-01-12T19:46:00.001-08:00

In today’s world of ‘might is right’, I am reminded of an incident about sixty years back. Aslam Khan was a well to do trader who used to supply some raw material to Lala Kirodimal’s factory. Kirodimal, a god fearing man, fondly called Lalaji by one and all, was a real wealthy man. Though Aslam regularly supplied material to Lalaji’s factory, they both were not in personal touch as all Lalaji’s business and other interests were being looked after by his trusted munim (manager), as was the practice prevalent in Marwaris those days. In fact, munimji knew much more about business dealings than Lalaji himself. Every body dealt with munimji and Lalaji rarely came into the picture.

So, Lalaji was surprised one day, when he received telephone call from Aslam Khan at his residence. Aslam introduced himself and said: “Lalaji, there is a small request.”

Lalaji: “Yes, of course, what can I do for you Aslambhai?”

Aslam ventured: “Lalaji, I have supplied material to your factory worth about Rs. six lakhs (more than a crore in today’s terms). The payment is not yet due. It will be after a month. But there is an emergency. If you can accommodate this payment now, I will be obliged. I also offer you what ever discount you suggest for this pre-payment.”

Lalaji: “Yes, I know all about your supplies. Well, no problem, I will ask munimji to send you your cheque right now. But Aslambhai, your voice sounds troubled. If this emergency is not too personal, can I do anything else for you?”

Aslam was surprised that Lalaji even knew that a supplier named Aslam even existed. But Lalaji’s mild yet grave and controlled tone gave some confidence to him. He knew Lalaji to be a man of principles. Never once, in his years of dealings with Lalaji, his payment was delayed. On due date, whether he went at nine in the morning, or seven in the evening, he never had to wait for his cheque. It was always ready. So he opened up.

Aslam: “Lalaji, my own supplier, who imports this material, has come from Delhi without any intimation. My payment to him is also not due. But while here, he saw some property and decided to invest. All of a sudden he came to my office and asked for eleven lakhs within a day. This amount is not big for him but he doesn’t understand my limitations. Of course, I can refuse payment as it is not due, but I don’t want to. For one, he is very reliable and another, he has never bothered me in the past for payments. Now, yours is the biggest bill of six lakhs. Now that you have given me solace, I will contact two three small dealers and hopefully I will be able to pay eight-nine lakhs, if not eleven. If you had not accommodated me, I would not have ventured to contact others. So Lalaji, I am really grateful and once again request you to deduct discount ten percent or even more for the pre-payment.”

Lalaji: “Aslambhai, I understand. You don’t have to call others. Send somebody your trusted, to my residence for eleven lakhs you require. Since you want to accommodate your supplier, better make a job of it. As far as your offer of discount is concerned, please remember that I am not making payment of your bill. It is still pending and you collect your cheque on due date. So there is no question of discount for pre-payment.”

Aslaqm: “Thank you for your trust, Lalaji. But don’t make the payment of my bill. Adjust it against your loan. The balance five lakhs, I will arrange as soon as possible. And I will personally come to your residence to sign whatever papers you want me to sign.”

Lalaji: “You are welcome. But there are no papers to be signed. This is not an official deal and it is on trust. And yes, you collect your cheque on due date otherwise I will have to explain several people in accounts department in my office as to why we are stopping your payment. Aslambhai, we both are seths (owners) of our businesses in our own right. Why should juniors know about dealing between two seths? Let our fists remain closed.Let it be business as usual.”

Aslam: “Lalaji I don’t know what to say? I never expected you to know that I exist. How can I ever repay?”

Lalaji: “Yes you can. I have heard that a very tasty Rabadi (Indian sweet) is available near your office. When I have an occasion to pass your office, I will drop in. You can get me that Rabadi to eat and we are quits.”

NOTE: This incident occurred almost a decade prior to my father narrated it to me almost fifty years back. My father was close to both Aslam and Lalaji as he was an insurance agent to both of them. Such was the generosity in those days.

Thoughts-Common complaint

2010-12-01T18:45:00.001-08:00

As mentioned in the previous page, when the auto hit me in a narrow, crowded lane, I was going to buy a toy for my six years old grandson. Because of this accident we had to return home without the purchase. My one thought was to bring the child to the safety of our home, which I did with the help of a stranger. I was still bleeding when suddenly I looked at my grandson. Disappointment was written large on his face. I tried to comfort him and divert his mind: “See, how Dadaji is bleeding.” The child: “Yes, but I, didn’t get my gun.” I felt a pang of hurt. Here I was, gravely injured and all the child could think of was his gun. But I also knew how disappointed he was as I had promised him his gun the previous night. He was looking forward to it. Better sense prevailed and tried to give him solace that I would immediately call his dad and ask him to buy one on his way home from office in the evening. The child had to be satisfied with that.

Thereafter I was busy going to the doctor’s, getting the wound stitched, buying medicines and all. After every thing was over and it was time to relax, I noticed that my wife was a little aloof. It came down to me that though she did everything for me that was to be done in such circumstances, like fetching ice, bandages, calling help from neighbors, offer to accompany me to the doctor, there was a little bit of coldness in all. I kept quite about it and behaved as if I had not noticed anything amiss.

In the evening she could not contain herself: “You know, I was to go to the market today to shop for Diwali.” So that was the reason. I told her: “Go tomorrow.” My wife: “Tomorrow is Thursday and the market remains closed.” Me: “This is Diwali time, may be they will remain open.” Wife: “That is all guess work. I so wanted to shop today and I had told you yesterday itself about it.”

Did I detect disappointment with that complaint? Probably, yes. That set me thinking. If a grandmother was disappointed at not being able to shop, naturally a six year old had every right to openly show his feelings which he did in all innocence. With that I remembered a couple of similar incidents of my own childhood and how I felt cheated and disappointed when promised things were delayed. That moment I felt one with the child and understood his sorrow. Now it was my turn to do something to bring him some cheer. I felt so much for him that I set the ball rolling to fetch him a gun right then and there, as if I was removing my own disappointment.

Musings-God disposes

2010-11-27T03:30:00.000-08:00

It is said that, ‘man proposes, God disposes.’ At least in my case it is true. Strange as it may sound, but whenever I have decided to start something or do something on a particular day, God has rejected my decision, without exception.

Just the other day, I had promised my grandson to take him to the market to buy him a toy gun the next morning. The child was so looking forward to it. Half way through the market an auto hit me from the back and I was badly injured, so no market, no gun. More than myself, I was sorry for the kid. I wish the Almighty had warned me in some manner that He did not wish me to go. I could have easily sent some body else for the gun.

Looking back, on all earlier occasions, I have marked that whenever I do something randomly, that is without earlier planning, I have succeeded. But whenever I have planned something in advance or go about a thing methodically, God has disposed my plans invariably.

My wardrobe was in a mess. Last year on Christmas day, the 25th Dec., I decided that I would have my wardrobe spick and span by 31st. I decided to empty the wardrobe first thing in the morning. God had other plans. On the D day, I had a guest from Calcutta who stayed with me for four days. It took me three more months and many conscious decisions to clear the wardrobe.

On another occasion, I had been putting off my morning walks for quite some time. Once I decided to start the routine from Monday and made all preparations like cleaning my walking shoes, taking out my track suit etc. on Sunday evening itself. I got up early on Monday morning, got ready and walked out of the flat feeling tall. Sure enough, I sprayed my ankle while getting out of the lift. Again when the ankle was healed and it was time to start the walk, there was an unseasonal rain early in the morning.

I had intended to read ‘Nostradamus’ for almost a year but couldn’t get around to it. One day, determined, I went and bought the book with all intentions to read the book immediately or as soon as possible. But it was not to be. For one reason or the other, I could not start it for a couple of months. Finally, when the time came, I could not find the book. Later, my wife told me that one relative had borrowed the book and that she forgot to tell me. I am yet to receive the book, a year hence.

There are innumerable examples and incidents of how I have never been able to work in a planned manner though I am very methodical and organized by nature. So now I have decided to plan everything in an unplanned manner, so that God does not dispose off my plans. So far I have not succeeded. But there is always tomorrow, isn’t it?

Experiences-Heart felt

2010-11-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

I have been hearing about Mumbai citizens’ apathy towards ordinary people lying injured on the road or victims of other unfortunate circumstances. But I had quite an opposite experience just day before yesterday. I must confess I had a learning experience of the true spirit of ordinary people on the road.

The day before yesterday, on the eve of Dhanteras, I was walking through a narrow bazaar street frequented by ordinary middle class people, with my grandson to buy him a toy gun. The Diwali festival rush was there and the traffic was moving at a snail’s pace. Suddenly an auto hit me from behind with quite a force in a bid to move forward and overtake other vehicles. I fell forward face down, resulting in a deep cut below my right eye which was bleeding profusely. Fortunately, and I thank Almighty for that, my grandson escaped unscathed. Though shaken, I had not left the six year child’s hand even for a second.

Within seconds almost fifty-sixty people surrounded me, most of them ladies. The street was so narrow, hardly two autos could move in opposite directions, leaving no space for pedestrians. The traffic came to a standstill because of this accident. A few ladies tried to help me up from the ground, but could not find enough space for movements. Out of nowhere, a rough, tuff looking man approached me and helped me stand up, roughly shoving other people around me. While steadying me on my feet, still holding me, the gentleman whispered in my ears not to leave the child’s hand even for a second under any circumstances and that I should hold my strength till he brought his bike parked a little distance away. There was chaos all around. One lady fetched a plastic stool from somewhere, made me sit on it and put my child on my lap. Another lady arranged some ice and put it on my injured cheek. One elderly gentleman offered his mobile for me to call anywhere or alternatively take me to a doctor and not to worry about money if I was not carrying enough. Yet another young girl, all of twenty probably, traveling in an auto offered to drop us to my place wherever it be as it was difficult to find conveyance in that market.

The gentleman who had helped me on my feet appeared with his bike, all the while shouting at people to clear the road. Four more persons started to monitor the traffic and cleared enough space for the bike to travel without trouble. The gentleman on the bike made me and my child comfortable on the vehicle and took us to our home. Not only that, he came up to my place, removed the ice, made temporary padding on the wound and bandaged it. Then what he said made immense sense: “Uncle, I just wanted to see the child safe home. I have my doctor. If you want I can take you to him. But I have a feeling every body is comfortable with their family doctor. So if you have one, I can take you to him.”

Fortunately, my doctor resides in the same complex where I live. Satisfied, the gentleman begged to leave, refusing our hospitality, except a glass of water, as he was getting late for his job. At the lift I asked for his name. “Feroze Khan”: he said. I thanked him profusely.

Now, I am a Gujarati Hindu. He must have noticed images of Ganesha and Krishna on our walls. The lady who provided me with ice was Maharashtrian, the man who offered his mobile and money appeared to be a UPite, The girl who offered to drop me home may be, was Christain, I don’t know. Feroze Khan, a Muslim. And yet, we were all one in that moment of crisis. Nobody cared who I was, a human being, that’s all. Who says Mumbaites don’t care? They do. Ask me.

Musings-Guest in peace

2010-11-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

Human mind is complicated and wonderfully complicated at that. We have one regular member among regular members in our regular society sittings for elders in the evenings. About a dozen of us get together daily in evenings for a couple of hours. Topics range from newly weds, to soon to retire, from new born, to soon to depart from this unworthy planet (fani duniya). The gentleman in question, Manubhai, quite elderly, is a nice man but has one trait. He has problem with everything, right from flow of water supply (we have 24 hours supply), watchmen, maintenance, liftmen, neighbors, car parking, you name it. Manubhai is fairly well to do, to put it mildly and his sons and daughters-in-law have varied interests in varied fields. This Manubhai has one relative in Chennai by name of Shantibhai who regularly comes to Mumbai and stays with Manubhai every time. Now, Shantibhai from Chennai has other relatives in Mumbai including his own brother, but, may be for convenience like proximity to airport or whatever reasons, Shantibhai stays with our friend every time he is in Mumbai.

Whenever this relative, Shantibhai is in Mumbai, our Manubhai seems genuinely happy and treats him well. The guest too appears to be a good person of quite adjustable nature, lavish in spending and a good sport. But as soon as the guest leaves for Chennai, our Manubhai’s grievances start: “Aare…, he comes four five times in a year… we are a joint family…. Our flat is small…. I fail to understand why he doesn’t go to other relatives…. He has many…. Even his own brother is there…. It is so inconvenient…” and it goes on. A couple of months later, he would be booming and smiling from ear to ear, reason? “Shantibhai is coming…aare that Chennaiwale.” He would be happy.

This time Manubhai had a long face, reason? Shantibhai was coming to Mumbai and this time it was a stay of a week instead of his usual two days. Shantibhai was to get himself treated in some south Mumbai hospital for some bone deformity. X-rays, test reports and treatment would take at least a week. Manubhai, being his usual self: “Why can’t he stay in Kalbadevi where he has close relatives… from this far in suburb to Mumbai and daily updown… if something goes wrong, we will have to run…. as it is, we will have to visit him in hospital for courtesy if he stays with us….people don’t understand…. This is Mumbai….local travel is so inconvenient…” and so on.

For once, we also thought Manubhai was right this time. A day prior to Shantibhai’s arrival, Manubhai received a call from Kalbadevi, that Shantibhai would stay in Mumbai because of Kalbadevi’s proximity to the hospital he was to visit.

Shantibhai came and went. He kept in touch with Manubhai. When somebody asked Manubhai about his well being, Manubhai had this to say: “For years he has been staying with us every time he comes to Mumbai… this time he opted for Kalbadevi just because of its nearness to the hospital…. What about us….what will the relatives think…. What about our feelings…. The least I expected was a visit from him….but he came and went….whom to trust….”

What can you do about such Manubhais? As I said human mind is a wonderfully complicated thing.

Experiences-Door delivery

2010-11-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

Among many woes of life, one is such that almost everyone must have experienced it to some extent in their lives and that is, carrying someone else’s parcel to be delivered to somebody else in some other city. There is nothing more weird then that. “Oh, you are going to Bombay? How lucky? Actually, last time when Monu came, he forgot his vest here. Please take it with you and give it to him. We looked after him so well when he was here that he was all praise for us and now if we don’t return his vest, how does it look, no? Moreover, such things can’t be requested to anyone except near ones like you.” Little realizing the fact, that the time and cost of delivering that vest could set one three times the cost of the blasted thing. But as they say, such is life.

We in our family travel regularly, some member or the other of the family is always on the go. We too have our woes of carrying others’ parcels and so, as a matter of principle, we sternly refuse such requests citing one reason or the other. Some understand and some don’t. There are a rare few who won’t take no for an answer. I have one bitter, almost tragic experience of carrying a parcel of one such person.

One of my close friend’s son was to be operated upon in Bangalore. The hospital was in the outskirt of the main city. The operation was serious and so the friend requested me to accompany him so that one can of us can be with the patient and the other can run around for errands like reports, x-rays, medicines etc. moreover there was a question of moral support. With pre and post operation care, the stay in Bangalore was to be more then twenty days and so it was decided that the two of us would go. One of my friends, Dilip, came to know about this and came to my place with a medium sized thick envelop: “These are legal documents, very important. I cannot emphasize their importance. Please deliver them to Kirit in Bangalore, address and phone numbers are written on the cover. So you should have no problem.”

Me: “See, I am going there to look after a patient. As it is, I am going to stay a few miles out of the city and in a guest house. I will be in the hospital through out the day. I will not have time to visit your Mr. Kirit.”

Dilip: “Aare yaar, you will be there for three weeks. There is no hurry. But the papers are important, so I can’t send them through courier. I trust you. These are to be given to Kirit only. You can go late in the evening, there is no problem.”

Me: “But I have a problem. I don’t know Kirit and I won’t have the time. So sorry, I can’t take it.”

Dilip: “Ok. Ok. Don’t worry. I will call Dilip and ask him to collect this envelop from you.”

Me: “I will be in the hospital or on errands. They don’t allow anybody without proper pass.”

Dilip: “Kirit does not need a pass to go anywhere, not in Bangalore. That is the least of your worries. He can go where he likes. He will find you. Don’t worry. You only call him and tell him where you are. He will manage the rest.”

Me: “I can tell you where I will be right now. I will be in guest named so and so.”

Dilip: “Brother, the least you can do is to call him there, fix a time so that he can come and collect these papers from you, the rest I will explain when I call him from here.”

Dilip went on and on. He would not take my no for an answer. We were wasting time and the envelope was not that big or inconvenient, so I took it.

Over to Bangalore: I reached Bangalore and after preliminaries in the hospital, I returned to the guest house and called Kirit, introduced myself. Kirit didn’t recognize me. Dilip had not called him.

Me: “Anyway, I have this envelop. He was to call you.”

Kirit: “When can you come?”

Me: “I can’t. You have to come and collect it. I am in so and so guest house.”

Kirit: “But that is out of Bangalore. I am a busy man. Why don’t you come on Sunday?”

Me: “I can’t. Dilip knew where I was to stay. He was supposed to call you and ask you to collect it.”

Kirit: “Ok. ok. Give me your number. I will call you in a day or so.”

Kirit did not call. After a week I called him.

Kirit: “Oh yes, I was busy. I will come tomorrow.”

Me: “I am free only between two and five in the afternoon.”

Kirit: “Fine, I will be there at three tomorrow.”

I waited for him until six instead of five, he didn’t come. I was so angry that I decided to take the envelope back to Bombay and not to call him again. But after two weeks I thought it would be wise to get rid of the envelope and be done with it. As it was, two of my friend’s relatives had come from a near by town to share responsibilities on week end so I was relatively free to go to the city and explore a bit.

So I called Kirit. He cut the line and switched off. I tried twice more. No response. I let it go. After half an hour he called. There was shouting and chaos on the line. He said: “I am in a movie house. You called right in the middle of it.”

I got so frustrated and angry that I rudely disconnected the line without speaking and decided that even if he comes I won’t deliver the offensive envelope. He didn’t come. One day prior to my departure he called in the evening. Look at his audacity. He suggested that the route to the railway station passed through the street where his office was located. I didn’t let him speak further and said a firm no. He noted my train number, seat number, departure time and promised that he would meet me on the platform. He never came.

And now the high point in the drama. Once in Bombay, I called Dilip and asked him to come and take back his envelope. At least he came. When I explained, He said: “What yaar, he is like that only, I had told you. You were there for twenty five days and couldn’t do me a small favor?”

NOTE: The hospital is NIMHANS and it is situated on the outskirts of Bangalore, a few
miles away.

Humor thoughts-Middle Class woes

2010-11-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

I have been hearing about middle class woes from quite an early age of my life which itself was and has remained middle class. That both rich and poor are better off, that the middle class is sandwiched between the rich and poor, that the middle class has to keep a facade etc. etc. But nothing prepared me for the stark and naked reality behind these statements as a recent incident, which also reminded me of an incident, quite funny in its mirth, if you know what I mean, more then forty years back.

Almost half a century ago, one of my friends, who worked in a bank, went to see a movie with his wife on a calm, serene Saturday. My friend was determined to please his wife on that day, had planned to take her to dinner after the movie. The rates of a movie ticket, as far as I remember, were twelve annas ordinary, one Rupee and four annas for balcony, then one Rupee twelve annas and two Rupees four annas for dress circle. All classes were full that day, except dress circle. The couple stood there undecided when the wife noticed her maid servant dressed in her week end best with flowers in her hair and husband in her tow, beaming with pleasure, without any care in the world, saw only dress circle was available, bought tickets without any hesitation and went inside. My friend and his wife went home, dejected.

Much water has flown under the bridge since then. This is 2010. Now to the present incident, recently we were sitting in our society compound one evening as usual, solving many a political, social and economical problems as is our wont, when one of our regulars asked if anyone could recommend a maid, rather recommend his family to a maid if truth be told, on temporary basis for fifteen-twenty days and that he was prepared to pay more then the prevailing rates. Now the topic of discussion turned to servants and maids when somebody asked what happened to his regular maid. The maid in question had left for her native place the previous evening because her father-in-law was ill. The maid’s husband, who works as a sweeper in the municipality, had received a message on his mobile that his father was serious. The man took leave from his office and went home. The maid said that within fifteen minutes, (mark the time frame) they, the husband and wife decided that the husband would take a flight the same night and the wife would follow the next evening in train after notifying the households she worked in and after collecting some money.

Here is the irony: I own a flat worth fifty lakhs. I intend to go to Calcutta for some work next month. After fifteen days of deliberations I am still not sure if I can afford a flight.

Stories-Greed

2010-11-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

The moral stories which we have all read in our childhood still stand in good stead in these modern times. Times change, appearances change, technologies change, styles change, but human nature is the same, as it was hundreds of years back. We have all read those “Once upon a time” stories, but one of my friends took effective advantage of the same a year back. Here is how it went, but first, a gist of the original story that goes thus:

Once upon a time there was this king named Raja Jaisinh. He was a just king and people were happy in his kingdom. Jaisinh had a worthy and clever minister named Buddhisagar. True to his name, Buddhisagar was wise and intelligent and the king largely depended on him for administration as well as welfare of his subject. Once, a farmer came to the king with a complaint against a local sharaf (one who deals in money lending). The farmer had deposited five hundred Gold Mohurs (coins) for safe keep, with this sharaf’s father who was very honest and went on a pilgrimage. Upon his return, the farmer found that the senior sharaf had died meanwhile and his son had taken over the senior’s business. Now the young sharaf denied his father having taken any Gold Mohurs from the farmer and asked if he (the farmer) had any receipt. The farmer didn’t have any because he depended on the senior’s honesty and rightly so. The king listened to the farmer patiently and instantly knew that the farmer was speaking the truth. But as there was no proof, it was difficult to accuse the young sharaf. The king called Buddhisagar and instructed him to do the needful. Buddhisagar listened to the farmer intently, asked a few questions, understood the situation and asked him to come back after a week. Then, he ordered his guptachars (detectives) to find out all about the young sharaf and his deceased father in two days. The guptachars reported that the senior sharaf was really an honest man, not a taint throughout his life, and people largely depended on his words while dealing with him. But not so the young sharaf, he had cheated at least two more persons who had not taken anything in writing from the deceased. Equipped with this information, Buddhisagar prepared a plan and called the complainant and explained what was to be done.

Next morning, Buddhisagar disguised as a rich trader, went to the place of the young sharaf and asked to see the senior sharaf, his father. The young man told him about his father’s death a few months back and asked for the purpose of his visit. The rich trader told the young sharaf that he was from a nearby town dealing in wholesale spices, that he wanted to go to another kingdom to explore further business opportunities, that he had heard a lot about the senior sharaf’s honesty and wanted to deposit ten thousand Mohurs for safe keep. The young man told him that this was the same office now taken over by him and the business was run on his late father’s principles and ideals, and the trader could very well deposit his sum there.

Just then the farmer entered the office and the young sharaf, knowing the farmer would demand his five hundred gold Mohurs and fearing he would loose ten thousand Mohurs, instantly said: “Welcome, welcome, here is your bag of five hundred Mohurs you left with my father. I found the entry my father left.” So saying he returned the bag of five hundred Mohurs to the farmer. Buddhisagar appeared satisfied and told the young trader that he would be back with Mohurs when he starts his journey in two days and went away. The farmer got his hard earned money and justice was done.

Now to the modern event, one of my friends, Rasik by name, remembered having read this story when one of his friends, an ordinary middle class man working in a private office narrated his tale of woe to Rasik. Sridhar and Jogi were two brothers. Sridhar, the elder one was an honest businessman. He often borrowed money from his friends on interest for his business, was fair in his dealings and was reputed to be an honest man. When he required money, friends readily obliged without hesitation. Jogi, the younger one, helped his elder brother in his business. Jogi didn’t have that brain and acumen of his elder brother, just followed sridhar’s advice and was being well looked after. Sridhar suffered heart attack right in his office one day and died before any help could arrive. Out of the blue, Jogi was now the owner of the entire business. Now earlier, Sridhar had taken a loan of Rs. one lakh from Rasik’s friend who was also Sridhar’s friend and had often dealt with Sridhar satisfactorily. He went to Jogi and reminded him (Jogi) about the amount he had given to Sridhar. Jogi, knowing well that there was nothing in writing, avoided the issue saying he would see if there was anything mentioned in his brother’s books as he himself was not aware of any such dealing. After a few visits Rasik’s friend realized that the amount was lost and with it, his meager savings of life. Having listened to him, Rasik remembered the “Once upon a time” story and decided to give it a try. Rasik explained his friend what to do and the D day was fixed after two days.

On the fixed day Rasik went to Jogi’s place. After offering proper condolences he said: “I could not come earlier because I was out of town. You probably know, I had borrowed ten lakh Rupees from Sridhar a few months back. I have regularly paid my interest and there is still a few months time for repayment. Now that Sridhar is no more, I want to return the amount so that my conscience is clear.”

Just then, Rasik’s friend who was waiting outside for his signal, entered. Jogi, now scared, immediately blurted: “Bhaisaab, come. I just found my brother’s little note. I don’t have that much amount with me right now. But, here, I will draw you a self, bearer cheque. You get it cashed first thing tomorrow.”

After a while Rasik told Jogi: “By the way, Jogi, as the amount was big, I had given a simple hand note to Sridhar for ten lakhs. Try and find it. As it is, this is sudden, so it will take me four-five days to arrange money.” Seeing Jogi hesitate, Rasik continued: “Look here Jogi, never mind if you don’t find it. When I pay, just give me a chit saying you have received money, we are quits and our account is clear.” Jogi visibly relaxed.

There was ample time for Rasik’s friend to encash his cheque the next day which he did. Every thing was back to normal for Rasik’s friend who wowed never to lend money ever again. Even today, human nature is the same, the greed is same as it was ages back.

Stories-The wealthy jeweler

2010-11-07T23:42:00.000-08:00

Soni is elder brother of my friend. He owns a jewelery shop. Mostly Soni lends money on interest against gold and gold ornaments. Himself a wealthy man, Soni is very popular among his borrowers and customers as being a very fair and honest person. His rates of interest are low compared to other dealers and lends almost seventy per cent money against gold value unlike others who lend fifty per cent. He is lenient in his dealings to the extent that occasionally, if a borrower is unable to pay full interest, but has arranged the amount borrowed from Soni, he returns his gold charging minimum token interest. More over, all his dealings are on paper, black and white.

Soni is also reputed as being an expert in gold, its purity and its value. His profit lies in customers who do not return to claim their gold in stipulated time, customers such as share market players, race goers etc. Soni usually waits for double the stipulated time and then disposes off the gold making fair profit. Though some people tried, no body has ever been able to fool him in his twenty years in shop, that is, until year before last.

One day, as Soni was closing his shop, a well to do man, obviously in trouble, walked in. Soni, against his better judgment and principle of not making any deal from half an hour before the closing time, listened to the gentleman’s tale of woe and looked at the necklace in a pink napkin placed before him. Instantly he knew its value to be around two lakhs. The customer wanted Rs. one lakh seventy five thousand against it. Soni apologized saying he could lend one lakh forty thousand maximum. Disappointed, the man returned the necklace in pink napkin in his pocket and started to move towards exit door, hesitated, returned and pleaded if Soni could extend the amount to one lakh fifty thousand. Feeling pity for the man was obviously in trouble, Soni agreed. By this time Soni’s two employees were half way through closing the shop as they were already late and the main lights were dimmed. The man took out the napkin containing the necklace and gave it to Soni opened the napkin, saw the necklace, put it in safe, prepared a receipt for the necklace putting its weight (he had weighed it earlier) and value at around two lakhs, borrowed amount, and lending period ninety days, his minimum. That meant that if the borrower did not claim his article in ninety days, Soni was free to dispose it off in the market and recover his money. He gave one lakh fifty thousand to the customer who was in no hurry to leave the shop, visibly relieved, thanked Soni profusely and promised to return the borrowed money in ten days and claim his article.

Next morning, Soni took out the necklace from the pink napkin to be sealed in the big cloth envelop with borrower’s name printed on it, as was his practice. The moment he took out the necklace, he knew he had been tricked. This necklace was simply gold plated, not worth even ten thousand, leave alone two lakhs. This was not the one he had been shown when that customer came in the previous day. That meant two identical necklaces were put in two identical napkins. Dim lights and his hurry to close shop had him fooled. He cursed himself. His shock was not so much for the loss of money. His ego, his expertise, his confidence were hurt. For the first time in twenty years, he was defeated. He could withstand the monetary loss, but not this defeat. However, being a wise man, he kept quite about it, although he confided in his younger brother who is my friend. After a few days, he accepted the loss and went about his business sure he had last seen the borrower.

After more then two months he took out the fake necklace and put it on display. Almost nearing three months two women came to his shop, bought one expensive ring, paid for it and suddenly saw the necklace and liked the design. Soni told them it was just gilt and not gold. But the women seemed enchanted with its design. Here Soni made his second mistake. Against his normal rule of not selling any mortgaged item before ninety days, he sold the necklace after some haggling for seven thousand and thought: “good riddance.”

Two days prior to the deadline of ninety days, the original borrower walked in whistling, quite happy. He produced Soni’s receipt which mentioned gold weight of the necklace, its value and amount borrowed along with bundles of currency worth one lakh fifty thousand, enquired about the interest to be paid and demanded the necklace. Red faced, Soni knew he was tricked again. But this time he decided not to keep quite. He called police and his lawyer. Both the police and the lawyer knew Soni was right. Meanwhile, the customer made a move and filed a complaint against Soni. After a few days of many deliberations with police and advocates and advice from elderly, experienced well wishers, the matter was settled mutually outside court with Soni paying another one lakh fifty thousand to the gentleman.

Musings of a muse-Family doctor

2010-07-31T00:43:00.000-07:00

“What? You don’t have a family doctor?”
I was sitting in front of a young, renowned eye specialist with my wife who was to be operated for cataract, a simple and routine matter, so I thought. This was our third visit. The first visit resulted in the doctor declaring cataract and prescribing some drops to be put in eyes. The second visit was continuance of the first, with suggestion of additional drops with some tablets for a week. This was the third visit.
The doctor declared that my wife was now ready for the operation and set a Tuesday as the D day, five days hence the visit. He further ordered: “Meanwhile, get her blood pressure checked. Also sugar because she is diabetic and bring a certificate from your family doctor that she is fit to be operated.” To which I said that I didn’t have a family doctor.
Doctor: “What, you don’t have a family doctor?”
Me: “No”.
Doctor: “You mean you….don’t…. have…. a…. family….doctor…?”
Me: “No”.
Doctor: “You are serious?”
Me: “Yes.”
Doctor: “How is it possible?”
Silence…..
Doctor: “Tell me, how many members in your family?”
Me: “five.”
Doctor: “Yet you don’t have a family doctor?”
Me: “No.”
Doctor: “And of varying age?”
Me: “From five to sixty five.”
Doctor: “I can’t believe it, five members and no family doctor?”
Me: “No.”

The good doctor stopped writing and looked at me with piercing eyes. I suspected that he was looking at me properly for the first time since our three visits. Perhaps he was trying to make sure that I was from this planet and not some alien. He kept his penetrating look on me for a while, thought hard and said: “Such a big family with a small child and no family doctor, careless of you.” I kept silent.

Doctor: “Perhaps you are new in Mumbai, recently transferred?”

Me: “We are in Mumbai for more than fifteen years.”

The doctor now seemed exasperated. He stressed: “I don’t understand. Then what possibly could be the reason of not having a family doctor?”
Me: “We don’t fall ill, so we don’t need one.”
Doctor: “None of you?”
Me: “No.”
Doctor: “How is it possible, in this time and age?”
I had no reply so kept silent. The doctor took his decision: “I cannot undertake this operation.”
Me: “I can bring all test reports to you. Surely you can determine from those reports whether she is fit to be operated.”
Doctor: ‘I can but I won’t.”
Me: “Why?”
Doctor: “It is risky. I cannot take the risk. I have my reputation to think of. Even if her reports are normal, I don’t know her medical history. Only a family doctor can determine her present status. I am sorry.”

Back home, I narrated the story to a dentist doctor residing in our society. She telephoned an eye specialist known to her. My wife was operated within a week without fuss. A year has passed, there is no problem, her eyesight has improved tremendously and she keeps looking at things she shouldn’t, but that’s a different story.

I came to the conclusion that in this day and time, you cannot afford to remain fit and healthy. You simply cannot afford not to fall ill frequently in order to have a family doctor and you cannot afford not to have a family doctor.’
Irony of time, what else?

Musings-Practical father

2010-07-28T23:53:00.000-07:00

Circa 1963, place Calcutta, once my friend Ramesh’s father summoned me to his place. Our age was around eighteen then. Ramesh’s father, a no-nonsense man, came straight to the point. That Ramesh was disobedient, that he was refusing to get married, and that too to a girl of their (parent’s) choice, which was unthinkable at that time and since I was a good friend, I should drill some sense into him, and he dismissed me.

Ramesh, contrary to his community’s trend (I won’t name the community, lest they take offence), was a boy of literature and believed in some principles in life. He was a boy or should we call him a man, of poetry, which was almost a sin, in their practical, down to earth family. Now Ramesh (name is real), did not want to get married that soon and if at all, he wanted to marry a girl who was educated, like minded and interested in poetry and literature like Tagore, Amrita Pritam, etc. His father, on the other hand, wanted Ramesh to marry a fourth standard girl who was plump (and I am putting it mildly) whose father was offering twenty five lakh Rupees in dowry, besides normal other things, which was equivalent to more than a crore now. Ramesh, on his part, did not want to spoil the girl’s life, arguing that he would not be able to do justice to his marriage, and it was dishonesty and against his principles. To which his father argued that let Ramesh marry the girl, climb social and business ladder with the help of his super-rich father-in-law, without being dishonest to him and that was common in their cast. The girl would be happy to remain at home with a couple of kids. Once Ramesh was up high, field was open for him to fool around, which again was a norm of the rich. This was a practical advice of a father to his son. His father was to prove right. Two months after this confrontation, I received an invitation to Ramesh’s marriage to the same girl. I attended the marriage. Soon after, I got a job in marketing and after initial few months, was posted elsewhere. We drifted apart.

More then a decade later, I spotted Ramesh in Bombay near Metro cinema. We went to a bar to celebrate our chance meeting. Ramesh had changed completely. He was shining of that typical confidence of the community of the rich. He had two children with his wife, she was a good home maker and after initial wondering, was happy and content looking after their brats. Ramesh himself had nothing much to do about being their father except to bring occasional gifts for them. Where earlier they had a medium sized business, Ramesh had diversified in steel with the help of his father-in-law. His in-laws too were happy with his hard work and honesty in business. He was still based in Calcutta but had four branches in Madras, Poona, Bombay and Baroda. He visited any one branch every month and he had a regular girl at each. His father was happy, his wife was happy, his in-laws were happy and above all he was happy and prosperous. And no, he was not interested in Tagore and Amrita any more.

His father’s predictions and farsightedness proved right after all.

Musings-Irony of times

2010-07-21T04:58:00.000-07:00

Recently, one of my friends went to Kashi, Gaya etc. for some religious ceremony. Upon his return, when we asked about his journey, he seemed quite amused. He commented that the Pundits (Brahmins) performing ceremonies there have become modern and businesslike. He further explained that he had gone there to perform Barsi (ceremony performed after one year of death) of his father there.

When he and his wife reached the ghat (river bed where people take religious bath and perform pujas) next day morning, the Pandas (Pundits) gheraoed (surrounded) them, as is their wont. After some deliberations, they selected one and took him aside. My friend and his wife then explained to the Panda their requirement and reason of the ceremony to be performed and asked him for an estimate of the entire process including the materials that the Panda may require. To their utter surprise, the Panda responded by saying that it was a package deal, starting from five thousand Rupees to any amount, it could go to twenty, fifty or even a lakh of Rupees depending upon their shradha (faith).

My friend and his wife, not expecting such commercial attitude at such a religious place, were amused, to say the least. When they asked why the rates differed so much and how their father would benefit if they spend more, the Panda explained that for the basic package of five thousand, five Pandas would perform the ceremony, eleven Brahmins would be fed (Bramha bhojan), and the event would last for about one or one and a half hours. Still amused my friend asked about the package of twenty thousand, he was told that fifteen pundits would perform puja around the sacred fire, twenty five Brahmins would be fed, and the puja would last for about three hours. For fifty thousand, twenty five Pandas would perform for his father’s soul, fifty one Brahmins would get food, they would use pure ghee in the ceremony (does it mean that they would use contaminated ghee in lesser packages?), and it would be a six hour affair.

Last, but not the least, and most amusing, for a lakh of Rupees, fifty one Maha pandits would chant Mantras for the departed soul, one hundred and one poor Brahmins would be fed special food, several cows would also be served, only Chandan (Sandal) wood and pure ghee would be used in the sacred fire and the performance would last for nine hours. Not only that, to top in all he would get a big jar of purified Gangajal (Gangawater) to take back home.

What do you say? How do you find the schemes? Incidentally, my friend haggled for the package of twenty thousand, brought it down to eleven thousand and told the Panda to be done in an hour’s time. And so it was.

Musings of a muse-Little speak

2010-07-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I was a school boy, our after-school activities were either playing games at the nearby play ground or go to a friend’s place for indoor games or just gossip. Those were the days when T.V, computers etc. were not there. Even telephones were rare. One could easily go to a friend’s house uninvited and vice-versa. There was nothing to it.

One of my friends was Vinod. We frequently visited each other’s homes to pass time in the evening. It was said that Vinod’s father spoke very little. I thought it was o.k. Some people are like that. They seldom speak. Even my own father avoided unnecessary talks. But nothing had prepared me for my encounter with his father when I met him for the first time.

One day we went to his place to play. We had not expected his father to be home at that time of the early evening. But he was there alright. Upon seeing me Vinod’s father raised his eyebrows at Vinod: ‘Hun?’(who is he)
Vinod: ‘My friend.’
Father: ‘huun?’ (never seen him)
Vinod: ‘We are in the same class.’
Father: ‘huh huh.’( o.k.)
Vinod ventured: ‘His name is Chitto.’
Father with raised eyebrows: ‘Huuuun?’ (what kind of a name it is)
Vinod: ‘He is Kakababu’s son.’
Father: ‘Hun?’ (confused)
Vinod: ‘Bhowanipur wale.’
Father: ‘Ohuuuuuun.’ ( yes, yes.)
Vinod: ‘We are here to play carrom.’
Father: ‘hun hun.’ (go play)

Later, Vinod told me that his father knew my father. I asked: ‘How do you know?’
Vinod: ‘He grunted.’
Me: ‘He grunted at every thing you said.’
Vinod: ‘Yes, but there is a difference. I know.’
Me: ‘But how?’
Vinod: ‘We recognize from sound. Short, lengthy, up, down, nasal, sudden etc.

Another day in my presence, Vinod’s servant came and demanded some money from his father. Vinod’s father: ‘Huuuuuuuuuuuun?’ (longest ever hun). The servant fled.
It was amazing how Vinod’s entire family had adapted to his father’s long and short bursts that they knew exactly what he wanted to convey.

On yet another occasion, Vinod’s sister stormed in.
Sister: ‘Father, I want one hundred rupees.’
Father: ‘uuun?’ (why)
Sister: ‘I have to pay library fees.’
Father: ‘Huun?’ (meaning library fee was not that much)
Sister: ‘I also want to buy two books.’
Father: ‘Hoh’ (now I understand.)
Sister: ‘Shall I take it from your Drawer?’
Father: ‘Huum’. (yes)
Sister: ‘Father, no money here.’
Father: (drawing money from his pocket) ‘Here, take it.’
And that was the first time I heard his father’s speak something sensible after several visits.

For no reason I remembered Vinod’s father a few days back after nearly fifty years and for no reason at all I wondered how Vinod’s mother must have tackled on their wedding night.

NOTE: Interpretations in the brackets were explained to me by my friend each time.

Humor thoughts-Clout

2010-07-12T19:42:00.000-07:00

It is said that one thing leads to another. Previously, I narrated an incident of an educated and well-to-do lady in the mall. I happened to tell of this to one of my friends in our society, and he in turn, told me of an interesting incident he had witnessed a few years back.

My friend went to a posh store frequented by the rich and wealthy in Dadar. Malls and mobiles did not exist then. There was mild rush in the store. People then did not shop like the way they do today. They came with specific one or two things in mind, bought them and went away. There was no open and eye catching display like it is today.

There was a gentleman in the store asking to be shown expensive gift items. He was obviously rich as he had put on an expensive Safari suit (it was in fashion then), gold watch and a gold bracelet. He selected one item, approached the payment counter, made his payment and demanded that the article be gift wrapped. This store had no such facility. Gift packing in all stores was not in vogue then. The salesman and the cashier explained their inability to gift pack the article. The gentleman in Safari ordered the salesman to get the item gift packed elsewhere and he would pay for it. The salesman refused, commotion followed. The owner of the store came and offered refund of the item. The Safari gentleman would have none of it. He started to throw his weight around, dropping names of influential persons of that area including one very notorious local goon with political clout.

Customers meanwhile had different reactions. Some were amused, some were bored and some waited patiently for the thing to get over. One customer, quite funny looking with cream shirt, looked quite amused. He was smiling ear to ear. Suddenly, the cream shirt approached Safari and whispered something in Safari’s ears for a few seconds. Safari shot out of the door like a sputnik. Excitement over, normal activity started in the store. My friend, quite inquisitive by nature, asked the cream shirt what transpired between the two of them. This is what the cream shirt had to say: “I just bluffed him and said that you appear to be a respected person that is why I am telling you this. This store is actually owned by the very goon you mentioned just now. This owner is fake, only a front. A couple of the goon’s lackeys were here and they have gone to fetch the goon.”

The Safari gentleman fled without even bothering to collect the article he had paid for.

Thoughts-Paw in the bottle

2010-07-04T00:10:00.000-07:00

Day before yesterday, while on my early morning walk, I noticed a lady walking on side of the road talking on her mobile. With autos and taxis on strike that day, traffic on Link Road was thin but fast. The lady, talking business on her mobile, was walking a few meters ahead of me. Visibility was poor. The lady, while talking, tried to sidestep a pool of water on the road, when a motor bike stopped inches from her with ear-splitting screech to avoid hitting her. The biker cursed loudly and moved on. The lady escaped serious injuries if not death. The lady, aware of what had happened and her good fortune, was shaken to death. The biker’s skill saved her.

This generation is moving fast, real fast. They want to do everything at once. The boys want to study, work hard in office, swim, gym, club-all in a day. On top of this, mobiles and computers are always there. Resultant, no task is complete or satisfactory. As such, depression and dissatisfaction remain at the end of the day. I fail to understand how they manage to do forty eight hours work in one day. But they try and sometimes succeed. But the best way would be to split various activities on alternate days. This would give them enough time for each activity and with that satisfaction. But they are trapped.

This reminds me of a story I had read many years back of how native Africans trapped monkeys in jungles. The trick was entirely based on psychology of Monkey’s greed. The Africans used to tie a bottle with a very strong rope to a thick branch of a tree. Natives used to put some peanuts in that bottle. The opening on top the bottle would be big enough for monkey to put its paw inside the bottle, but small enough so that when monkey grabbed the peanuts and closed its paw it could not take out the closed paw. Monkey being monkey, would not leave peanuts to take out its straight paw and could not take out the paw with peanuts. The greed would not allow it to leave nuts and the rope would not allow it to carry the bottle with nuts. He was trapped by greed and caught. Natives knew this. Most of us are like that, trapped in desires.

Musings-Well to do lady

2010-07-02T08:07:00.000-07:00

Last week-end, I was in a reputed mall to buy a couple of things. Being week-end, the mall was full to capacity. There were at least ten payment counters and there was a long queue at each of them. People with baskets and carts loaded with goods were standing in the queues. There was one payment counter near the extreme wall where there was a notice saying “up to five items only.” There were hardly ten or twelve persons in the queue. I stood in the line and it moved swiftly. When I was third from the payment counter, there was a sudden commotion. The line stopped moving. There was an argument between, the counter girl and a young lady obviously from a well to do family.

The lady had six items in her basket and she wanted the girl to accept them saying one more item was not going to make any difference, that, after all, she was not asking anything for free, that she was standing in the queue for fifteen minutes and was not going to move from there. The girl, now intimidated, said that she could not accept more then five items, other customers would object and she would lose her job if the supervisor found out.

The lady retorted: “Don’t threaten me with your supervisor. Call him. I want him here. I am not moving.”

The supervisor came and politely pointed to the board. The lady: “Don’t show me that silly board. I am educated enough and from a well to do family (It was obvious). I am not going to stand in another queue. As it is you have wasted enough of my time. Get these items billed wherever you want to, I will make the payment. But I am not moving from here till then. Call your manager.”

This went on. The poor counter girl was scared and looked at us pleadingly. I moved further and told the lady: “Madam, we can easily solve your problem and save your time. (Never mind about our time). Simply take out one item and get the remaining five billed. You won’t have to stand in another queue.”

The lady’s face went blank for a friction and then brightened. She smiled, took out one shampoo and got the remaining items billed, made the payment. But here too she wanted to have the last word and groused: “See, this gentleman here solved the problem in a jiffy. This suggestion should have come from you.”

Humor thoughts-What's Lalit's Rashi?

2010-06-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

A few years back, when formation of IPL was announced, nothing much was known about Lalit Modi, except that he was the sire of the Modi Empire. Nothing was known about his past escapades on Indian and foreign soils. First he entered Jaipur cricket, then BCCI and then he was Commissioner of the IPL. He came up very fast. During the formation of IPL, his photos started coming in papers occasionally. Now of course, he is here, there and everywhere.

Once, during those early IPL days, we were sitting in our society’s compound as retired people do, when we came across this photograph of Lalit Modi in an evening Hindi newspaper. One of our society members, Mr. Agrawal commented: “How can an institution like our cricket board with intelligent stalwarts like Sharad Pawar trust a man (Lalit) like this? He is so cunning.”

Another member: “How can you say that?”

Agrawal: “He has fox’s eyes and face. He is capable of betraying his own father, let alone board members and friends. He is capable of going to any extent if it serves his purpose.”

Me: “How do you know that? You don’t know him.”

Agrawal: “He is like me. He has my traits. I know the likes of him when I see one. I am sure that his mind works like me.”

Now, it was rumored that Agrawal was once very rich. Because of one woman half his age, he tried to betray and throw his sons out of business that they were running together. The sons threw him out instead and Agrawal was left with very little of what he originally owned.

So I asked him: “Then how it is that Lalit Modi jets around the world, has a hi-flying lifestyle and you are sitting with us idling around, while both of you have the same traits?”

Agrawal paused, thought for a while and said: “I am sure we are the same. It must be his Rashi. My Rashi didn’t favour me. His did. My Rashi is Libra. What’s Lalit’s Rashi?”

Humor thoughts-The witty doctor

2010-06-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

My wife has a strange habit. When our maid comes for cleaning utensils and sweeping floors, my wife puts everything on our dining table and sofas. She puts dining chairs on dining table and center table, news paper stand etc. on sofas. Small flower pots go on widow sill. She insists that nothing should remain on floor so that the maid can sweep the floor clean properly. Same is the case of our bedrooms. Small carpets, stools etc. are kept on beds. The maid comes in the morning and there is a whirlwind for the next one and a half hours. We are a family of five and as such we have plenty of things apart from furniture, from a bicycle for my grandson to steps to dust our walls and ceilings. Every thing is removed from its place and placed on top of something or the other to facilitate our maid. And then, when the maid leaves, things would come down one by one, as and when required and by evening our house is in order once again. Sundays and holidays are particularly chaotic because all the members are present in the house. There is shouting all around to get out of the maid’s way. We have got used to it.

Once, the husband of my wife’s sister who is a Doctor by profession, came from Kolkata for a few days on visit. On the following Sunday morning, there was usual chaos. My son felt a little embarrassed. But we observed that the Doctor was taking things coolly and dodging the maid and my wife expertly. My son asked him “Mesho, does Mashi do these things at your place too? That is, lift everything and put them on something or the other?”

The doctor, quite witty, replied ‘Are bolo na. Eta to kichui na. Tomar Mashi parle amaake o tule kothao rekhe debe.” ( Don’t ask. Your aunty would lift me also and put me somewhere if she could.)

My son was happy. He found sadistic pleasure in knowing that there were others sharing our fate.

Experiences-My terrorist act

2010-06-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

Prior to Operation Blue Star, when terrorism was in full swing in Punjab, I was once arrested by a constable during random checking near Amritsar for possessing weapon, a big knife. The offending knife in question was a paper cutter with broad steel blade and wooden handle resembling Nepali Kukri, useless for anything other then cutting papers. No amount of explanation that I was dealing in gift items and had a catalogue detailing the article impressed the constable who took me to the police station.

It was only after three hours that a senior Babu came that I was able to explain my tale of woo, when he ordered my release but only after penalizing me for my “improper and suspicious behavior and causing commotion”, advising me not to return to the town for three months. Three months? I never went back.

Musings-Pronunciation blues

2010-06-10T04:44:00.000-07:00

In continuation of the previous article, once I was on an official visit to Calcutta. My Punjabi friend Darshan Singh accompanied me. On reaching Calcutta, I introduced Darshan Singh to one of my Bengali friend Bapi and requested Bapi to show him around as I was busy with my official work. Bapi, my childhood friend readily agreed and did the needful. Both Bapi and Darshan Singh got along very well and almost formed a mutual admiration society. Bapi fulfilled every wish of Darshan Singh and took him to all places worth seeing . Darshan, on his part, being a large hearted Punjabi, matched Bapi’s rupee for a rupee in expenses and was not a burden on Bapi. So all went well for the two of them, that is, until the last day when Darshan left for Delhi.

Darshan Singh and I were to return to Delhi together, but I had not finished my work. So Darshan decided to return alone. On the D day, Bapi and I went to see him off at the Howrah station in Bapi’s car. We found Darshan’s seat, put his luggage and were standing and talking on the platform when another of our mutual friends (Bapi’s and mine), Vivek spotted us. After preliminaries like ‘hi’, ‘hello’, Bapi introduced Vivek to Darshan:

“Darshan, meet my friend Bhibhek and Bhibhek, this is my friend Darshan from Delhi.”

Darshan, not knowing Bhibhek was for Vivek, and thinking that this was some Gujariti name he had not come across, said in all innocence:

Oh yes, Bhibhek, nice meeting you Bhibhek.”

While returning to the city in his car, Bapi could not contain himself: ‘shaaaala, tomar bondhu. Eto shob korlam or jonne. Betaaa, jete jete bans diye galo.’
(this your friend, I did so much for him and he made a fool of me while returning).

There was no use explaining Bapi of Darshan’s innocence. Later, back in Delhi, Darshan asked me: ‘strange name this, Bhibhek, what does it mean’?

You tell me.

Humor thoughts-Bengali pronunciation

2010-06-08T04:43:00.000-07:00

Bengalis- Don’t get offended by this article, for, I am a half Bengali myself.

Bengalis, as a rule rather then exception, have a tendency of converting alphabet ‘A’ into ‘0’ and ‘V’ into ‘BHI’ while speaking a word, among other peculiarities. But for the time being, let us talk about these two. I can sight innumerable examples of this trait in Bengalis, but, for the time being, two will suffice.

Once, our family went to Ahmedabad to visit my elder brother’s family. We reached Bombay by train and from there to Ahmedabad by car. The two families were having good time and gossip after elaborate lunch when my brother asked my wife by which train we reached Bombay.

‘Frontier Mail’: replied my wife, pronouncing ‘Fro’ more broadly then Bengalis usually do. My brother didn’t catch. So he asked again ‘which’?

Again my wife replied: ‘Frontier Mail’, putting even more stress on ‘Fro’, sounding like FRAU.

The reply went above my brother’s head. But, his sixth sense probably told him not to venture the question for the third time. Usually my brother understands and speaks Bengali very well, but this Indianised or rather Bengalinised ‘Frontier’ was beyond him. Or he had bear one too many before lunch to grasp this stylish vocabulary. Anyway, he looked at me helplessly.

‘Frontier Mail’: I said as it should be told. ‘Oh’: He said. Ever a gentleman, my brother tried to contain his mirth and succeeded. Others could not.

My wife is Bengali and we are married for a little over forty years. It is said that after prolonged togetherness some of your spouse’s habits rub on you. I have not picked up this trait from her in all these years-YET. I thank God for small mercies.

As for ‘BHI’, another article.

Thoughts-My grandson, Neel

2010-03-13T09:26:00.000-08:00

The other day, my grandson, Neel, all of five, asked me: “Dadaji, when I become Papa (read: by the time), you will have died, no?”

I was astounded, to say the least, not because of what the question implied, but the ease, the simplicity and innocence with which it was asked.

It so happened that the little one was on spree of mischiefs. So I scolded him. As is his wont, he was back to his antics in no time. Both his mother and grandmother were at the end of their wits. I gave him a higher doze. I warned him that if he continues with his mischiefs, I will send him to a boarding school where he will have to stay without his parents and grandparents, and that too with discipline. After a little cross examination, he was convinced that the threat, probably, was real. That did the trick.

He took out his blocks, started building something in a corner of the room and was quite for sometime. Relieved, I was back to my newspaper. But, the child’s mind was working. He was probably worried about the future, that his off springs will have to go through what he was going through. Hence the question- to make sure, I won’t be around to harass his children.

I assured him that I will not be there anymore when he becomes Papa. It would be exaggeration if I say he was relieved, but he was satisfied, went back to his blocks and left me in peace with my newspaper and with my bewilderment.

Only and only a child can ask such questions with innocence and without any awkwardness. Soon, as he grows, we will loose this charm. I was thankful to the God Almighty, that in this day and time of street smart children, my grandson was still a child, by age and in mind. At the same time, there was grief at the back of mind that he will grow up soon and we will lose this fun.

Mahatma Gandhi's books eaten by termites

2010-03-11T09:17:00.000-08:00

Indo-Asian News Service reports that termites are feasting on Mahatma Gandhi’s books. Some one hundred books and several photographs have been destroyed due to negligence or lack of care in Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad. Damp godown, lack of air and sunshine caused termites to destroy these books. The report further says that the books and photographs, which were beyond repair were taken out and set on fire.

This news set me thinking. The entire nation is on fire what with price rise, inflation, lack of political will to tackle Pakistan infused terrorism, land grabbing by China etc. are causing irreparable damage to our country and our people.

We have our own bugs and termites in the form of politicians and ministers, like Mr. Koda, just to name one. I have often read in books and also come across foreigners referring our nation as Gandhi’s India. While we are worried about Gandhiji’s books and making a big issue of it, these political termites are feasting ( if I may use the word ) on Gandhiji’s soul and destroying our nation’s very fabric by their greed and corrupt deeds. We have bugs like Shibus, Kodas, Mayawatis.

At least, in Sabarmati Ashram, the authorities put these bugs and termites to fire and tried to restrict the damage. We, the people of India, re-elect these termites back to power to let them feast on our nation and destroy it.

Musings-New Year resolutions

2010-02-16T06:14:00.000-08:00

New Year resolutions are made to be broken. Ever since I remember- ever since I was old enough to understand and make resolutions, I have made them and broken them faithfully every year, year after year.
Earlier on, when I was a school student, come November and I would stop studying and make resolution that I would let November and December pass and would start afresh from 1st January and study hard. Come 1st Jan., I would put alarm for early morning with pomp and show. I would rise too. After reading a couple of pages, I would think that well begun is half done. Two pages were good enough to begin with, for the first day. The beginning was made. I would gradually increase study time. Come Sunday, and it was time to rest and make merry. On Monday, it was back to square one, that is, late rising and by the end of the week, all resolutions gone.
Another year, in college, I decided that, if I could not maintain my study time table, I would resolutely look after my health and physic from 1st Jan. So, to make sure, I enrolled my name at Bijuda’s gym, by the second week of December itself. Bijuda asked me to come from the next day and bring my supporters. I explained to him that this was my New Year resolution and I would start from 1st Jan. Bijuda laughed. But I did start on that New Year auspicious day and continued for almost three weeks. Then came time for college trip for four days and that was that.
When I was about twenty seven, one fine morning I decided, my alcohol consumption was more than it was good for me. I would stop that habit from 1st Jan. That last week of Dec. was a grand party in honor of the coming New Year with new resolution. New Year came and with New Year came three of my school friends. We met almost after ten years.
Celebrate we must. God knows when we would meet again. So, we celebrated.
It is the same for the past fifty five years. So this year, I have made a resolution to make resolutions sincerely, like previous years, and break them on 1st Jan. I am sure this year I will succeed.

Thoughts-Things of the past

2009-12-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

Recently, I read about old useful things like Rotary telephone, alarm clock (winding type), manual typewriters etc. which are almost extinct now, but were once very popular and in daily use. When we see one of them today, it does give us nostalgic feeling.

One such thing I remember is radiogram. Though not as popular as things mentioned above, I distinctly remember having a fixation on it. Earlier, there were only electric radios and hand winding gramophones. H.M.V. records were available in 78 rpms only, which were played on these gramophones. Then one day, probably in early sixties, I saw a radiogram at a relative’s place for the first time. A radio was fixed in a wooden cabinet on one side and a Gerrard record changer on the other side which could accommodate seven records at a time and played them automatically. On the lower part of the cabinet, one could store several records. The beauty of the cabinet with its compact design, highly glossy polish along with stylish ivory colored changer impressed me. I was instantly in love with it.

That time I was too young and knew we could not afford it, but, I had a single minded fixation on it and it was on top priority on my ‘want’ list as soon as I grew up and made enough money to buy one along with other things I wanted.

I did grow up and I did earn enough to afford it. But alas, by that time things had changed. Radiogram was replaced by small compact record players, in fact, two-in-ones, a small radio and a player of German or Japanese make. Radiograms were almost reduced to showcases adorning your room and easy to carry two-in-ones were in style. Then came three-in-ones, a radio, a player and a Grunding tape recorder in a brief case size container. So now these were the in thing and I wanted to possess one. I did eventually. But in my mind I was really sorry to watch radiograms vanish so soon, particularly, before I could enjoy one of my own. I still remember the royal beauty of those cabinets and changers. They had a charm of their own.

But like in life, things change and with that this also changed. I still feel that ache whenever I remember the past.

Experieces-Train travel

2009-12-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

During my growing years, I was to travel from Calcutta to Bombay with my elder brother. There was some occasion in our extended family which we were to attend. At the last moment, my brother could not travel due to circumstances beyond control. We were thinking of canceling the trip, when my father decided to send me alone representing our family. I had never traveled alone earlier and was immediately scared. As it is I was not comfortable of the crowd and chaos at Howrah station whenever I visited it. So I told my mother that I didn’t want to go. When my father came to know about my reluctance, he told me that travel I will have to. There was nothing to be scared of. That my brother would see me to my seat at Howrah and my brother-in-law (my sister was in Bombay) would receive me at the V. T. station. So there would be no problem and I had nothing to be scared of and that I had to start traveling alone sometime.
I, or nobody else in the family for that matter, had the courage to talk back to my father. His word was law. I felt utterly depressed at the prospect of the coming travel.
On the D day, my father gave me two hundred Rupees (a very princely some at that time) in various denominations and instructed me to keep them in different pockets. As he was a man of strict discipline, he told me to keep note of every paise I spent. That he would check my expenditure on my return and I was to return the balance to him. My mother gave me some money from her own, without my father’s knowledge. I was a bit elated.
My brother came to see me off at the station, found my seat for me and gave me a few instructions like not to get down at every station. If at all, I should get down at a big station like Nagpur to stretch my legs and to board back quickly. He also requested a nice looking elderly couple, traveling opposite my seat to keep an eye on me. While getting off, my brother gave me a few Rupees to spend as I like. This was much more then I had expected. The cloud of doom started to lift and I was happy, almost.
During the travel, the elderly couple shared their food with me and offered me coffee every now and then. As far as I remember, I didn’t have to spend much, if anything, during the journey. My brother- in-law was there at the V. T. station to receive me. From there on it was a smooth ride. My-brother-in-law did not allow me to spend anything during my ten days stay in Bombay. While traveling back to Calcutta, I was a little less scared and in high spirits. On reaching Calcutta, I had more money then I could imagine even after returning the balance to my father. On the evening of my return, I went to my father with a piece of paper containing my expenses which were hardly Rupees forty or so, along with the balance to be returned.
To my utter surprise and disbelief, my father told me to keep the balance and didn’t even bother to check my expenditure.
Bingo…… I was a rich boy. I thought the balance would last me forever. But of course it didn’t. But while it lasted ….Oh God…. I had a real blast.
On another plus side, all my scares to travel alone vanished. On the contrary, I started looking forward to another venture alone, of course, with its fringe benefits.

Thoughts-Born free

2009-09-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

By the time I was growing from a boy to a man, I was known as devil around our house hold. Later still, I was labeled dare devil among friends and relatives, during my high school and college days. But it was not always so. When I was small, I had no courage. I was scared of every thing. I used to tag around my mother. In my early school days, my school mates bullied me. In the play ground where we usually played after school in the evening, other boys harassed me and often threw me out when they did not want me to play. I tolerated every thing silently. Ashamed, I never talked about this in my house fearing rebuke from my brother, who was really brave.
One incident changed me completely. Once I was beatenn by three boys in the park. I was playing in the play ground known as Northern Park with a few Gujarati (Guju) boys. A group of Bengali boys came there and wanted us to vacate the corner pitch where we were playing and ordered us to move elsewhere. All were regulars there from near by houses and everyone knew everyone else. An argument followed and one of the boys said something nasty. Though scared, I protested and asked the boy to mind his language. Three boys set me up. There was no question of fighting back. I didn’t have that courage and they knew it. I was beaten badly. My friends just watched from a safe distance.
When my brother came home, he saw my swollen and bruised face. When he asked what happened, I started crying and told him about the incident in the park and about the other small incidents in school. All my pent up frustration came out and I was sobbing wildly. I expected him to teach a lesson to those boys, as some times he had done in the past. Instead, he let me cry and after a while told me to come to his room.
When I went to his room, he closed the door. Suddenly, he came near me and boxed me hard in the stomach. As I began to double up, he hit me on my mouth with his elbow. In a second, I was lying on the floor, stunned and humiliated. He asked me to get up and offered his hand. As I got up, he shouldered me hard sending me reeling against the wall. I was in pain all over. I had never taken such beating.
When I was a bit normal, he asked me in his usual mild tone: ‘Tell me, which beating hurt you more. Those three boys’ or mine? Which of the two was more severe and hard to take?’ I told him that though I was beaten by those boys, I had never taken anything like what he gave me.
He became a loving brother again and started to talk in his soothing manner. I still remember his words: ‘Look here, when I beat you, you are at a disadvantage. I am your elder brother, so you can’t hit me back. Out there in the park, you had no such scruples.

You were free to hit back. When a sudden fight erupts, specially among children, the blows you get are haphazard and can’t hurt you much. You took my beating. It won’t hurt you more then this. If you fight back and even if you give them your one against their three, in future they will remember that you fight back. It is all in mind, not in the body. Remember that. So next time it happens, just fight back. Then I will take care of those boys.’
I was excited and breathing hard. I was already thinking that if this was all it hurts, I could fight back. My brother understood and told me not to go about finding those boys and to pick up a fight. Only if it happened again, I was to remember his beating and to fight back. But I could not hold myself back. It was a kind of a freedom. As soon as he was out of sight, I ran back to the park. One of those three boys was sitting alone on a bench. Before he could move, I was on him. I beat him black and blue. He didn’t fight back, not because he couldn’t but he was taken by surprise as he never expected this from me. I gave him all I had and he just took my beating. I felt elated. More then anything, I felt free.
There after, I used to pick fights in school and playgrounds and sometimes I too got beaten, but I was not scared anymore of anyone and there was a feeling of freedom.
Complaints regarding my fights kept pouring in to my father and he used to punish me. I didn’t mind because i was FREE.

Musings-Harsha Bhogle's clone

2009-09-21T22:13:00.000-07:00

A few days back, I was out to buy some milk in the morning on Link Road. It was still a little dark as it was early morning yet. There was a tea vendor on one side corner of the four road crossing. Two persons were standing on one side of the tea stall. One gentleman was leafing through a newspaper. His companion was enjoying his early morning tea. Of the two, it was the man leafing through the newspaper that caught my attention. He appeared to be a familiar figure, but I could not recognize him. On the other side of the stall were some young boys and girls, just out from their night duty in call centers, having their first tea of the day. This, of course, was a familiar sight every morning.

The boys and girls were looking and pointing towards the man with newspaper. They were whispering among themselves something about that man. I was on the opposite side of the street and from his diagonal side posture I too thought that the man was familiar. It was apparent from his uneasiness and awkward behavior, that he was aware of the attention he was drawing. Still, I could not place him. He must have faced similar situations in the past. Presently, he could not contain himself any longer for suddenly he turned his face towards the youngsters’ group and told them: “Arey… mi te nai re baba, kashala time khoti kartos….” ( I am not that man, why are you wasting your time…).

I saw his full face now and instantly recognized him- Harsha Bhogle- the famous cricket commentator. Same face, same height, same specs, same broad forehead, same profile….ditto Harsha. No wonder, the young group was exited. Hello, but what was Harsha Bhogle doing here?

Common sense, of course, told me that that it cannot be Harsha. The night bag on his shoulder along with his companion’s told me that both were also call center employees, like those youngsters. That explained their presence there so early in the morning. But, the similarity with Harsha Bhogle was so striking that, but for his outburst to the young group, anybody would have taken him for Harsha, as that group and I did. The similarity was so striking. Nature, it seems, sometimes plays funny tricks to fool us.

“Harsha, be aware, your clone is here in Mumbai itself somewhere.”

In lighter vain, if ever the need arises, Harsha can be at two places at the same time. A unique feat indeed.

Humor thoughts-Disastrous romance

2009-09-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

The year was 1960 in Calcutta. We had just shifted residence from our modest Hazra road flat to a relatively posh three bedroom apartment in Camac street. I was sixteen years old then. There was one South Indian family, Nathans , from Madras, in our adjacent building. My sister-in-law (bhabhi), though Gujarati, could fluently speak their language as she was born and brought up in Madras. Nathans had two daughters, Devi and Vatsala. They came to know about us, particularly my sister-in-law through common servants, and one day Vatsala, the younger one, came to our place to get acquainted with my sister-in-law. They started chatting in that bullet fast language, which none of us could understand and soon became close friends, though there was a gap of ten years in their age.

Vatsala was a plump, bubbly girl, quite attractive, of my age, tall, almost my height. She soon became favourite of our entire household. Even my father, who was normally a serious person and spoke little, chatted with her. She had that vibrancy. My sister-in-law and Vatsala started sending special dishes to each other, once or twice a week. Because of her, the two families mingled occasionally, but Vatsala was a daily visitor to our house, sometimes more then once. I was on hi-hello terms with her. Eventually, my sister-in-law became so fond of her that she started efforts to bring us closer. I played the mouthorgan reasonably well and at times she asked me to play a particular song of her liking. On one pretext or the other, like studies, cinema or music, my sister-in-law saw to it that we chatted more and more, and that I began to like her. Though at that time, I liked another girl in my class, I got attracted to Vatsala, may be because of our proximity and of course, efforts of my sister-in-law. Moreover, I didn’t have courage to speak to that girl in my class anyway, and never knew how she felt for me, not even now.

After a year or so, one day, my sister-in-law told me that she will speak to my brother and father about Vatsala and me when the time was right and that caste and other things will be no bar. It seemed possible because everybody in my family liked her, knew about us and silently approved. Or so I thought. I was on cloud nine, happy and content. And then the disaster struck.

Vatsala was very fond of cooking and invariably brought us South Indian dishes which we all relished. Encouraged, she once prepared Gulab Jamuns (Indian sweet), and came to our place with a bowl full. The sight of the round sweets, piping hot, beet- root red, the size of small oranges was tempting, to say the least. She declared that she had brought Gulab Jamuns for every one, but she had prepared them specially for me. Every one cheered. I felt ten feet tall. She came to me first and ordered me to open my mouth. I obeyed and she put one sweet in my mouth. What happened next was a nightmare. The next instant, the sweet came out with my spittle and a little puke all over her hand, and I started retching.

It so happened that Vatsala had cooked these sweets in coconut oil and the one thing I can’t stand is the smell of coconut oil, let alone eat something cooked in it. Every body in my house knew it but nobody had any occasion or reason to tell her about it. The deed was done. I rushed to the washroom, cleaned and brushed my mouth and teeth. I came out embarrassed and weakly apologized to her. She accepted the apology gracefully. Meanwhile, she had cleaned her hands and everyone else in the family ate those sweets and appreciated them. Even my elder sister, who was (and is) considered a wizard in cookery, liked them. But the magic of the moment was gone. Both of us felt embarrassed and after awhile she left.

Vatsala continued with her daily visits to our house but now she tried to come when I was not there. And even if I was, we were back to square one, to our earlier cordial terms.. The romance and thrill were over.

I thought: “Will I have to eat food cooked in the blasted coconut oil? And God forbid, will she wear coconut oil in her hair and come near me? Not done, most certainly not.”

She must have thought: “Doesn’t like coconut oil? God’s own oil? What kind of a creature is he? No way, I can spend my days with him.”

I don’t blame her. The romance was over even before it started properly. More then me, my sister-in-law was shattered. I was back to dreaming about that girl in my class.

Thoughts-My Life

2009-09-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

Life has strange ways of coming back to you. I am sixty five now, retired for the past several years. I have plenty of time in my hands to do - or not to do – anything I feel like. My son, my daughter- in – law and my wife look after me very well. They give me plenty of space. I am suffering from severe arthritis for the past few years and my movements are restricted to our building’s compound. This luxury of time and the leisure has given me time to look back, introspect and think about my life of sixty five years.

It is funny, but incidents which felt like sad or awkward then, seem amusing or trivial now. Some prestige issues then now seem most unimportant and I feel like laughing at my foolishness at that time. Looking back, life has been good and bad, fun and gloom, happy and sad, high and low, humorous and serious, with good relationships and bad relationships, urgent and relaxed, at times long and at times short, all rolled into one. There are many incidents in which, I feel, I would not have reacted now like I did then. But, looking back, on the whole, life has been great, in spite of its very many limitations and setbacks.

I often remember these incidents – right from my childhood – but not exactly in the sequence they occurred. Sometimes, when on a holiday or a rainy Sunday, I talk about these incidents and happenings with my family, my son suggests : “You have had quite a colourful life, why don’t you write? “

I had never thought of writing. I have quite a few hobbies though – reading, listening to music (light classical and Ghazals), occasional drinking, to name a few. I am fond of collecting miniature liquor and wine bottles. It’s a different matter that I have not been able to collect many. I am also good at, I believe, keeping a group of friends amused by my talks. But writing? Never thought about it. On the other hand, Why not?

I am going to share a few funny and a few not so funny incidents, not in the sequence they occurred, but in the order I remember them. Let’s try.

Musings-Operation smoke

2009-09-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

As far back as I can remember, I was addicted to having betel leaves laced with tobacco from a very early age. When I got married, my wife was aware of my habit. She did not like it, but never let me know of her dislike. She had probably decided to make me stop having betel leaves (pan), once we got married. Not aware of her plans, I happily plunged into the marital bliss. After a couple of months of our marriage, she started hinting me to try cigarettes. She never mentioned anything about my not having betel leaves. Those were the happy times when people were not yet conscious of “Tobacco-smoking is injurious to health.” as they are today.
Being a Bengali, my wife, born in the era of legendary actors like Uttam Kumar & Co., who would ligh up fags at the drop of a hat, considered it hip. Youngsters were taken to smoking in a big way. In her own circle, her brother and her friends’ husbands all smoked. Nobody consumed betel leaves. My wife also liked me to have a fag or two. She probably thought, once I was on to fags, I would automatically stop taking betel leaves, or at least, it would be easier to make me stop taking them. Not that I was averse to smoking. Occasionally, say two three times a year, when I had occasion to meet an old school friend and if he offered a stick, I would happily indulge. But my true love remained betel leaves, then and now.
So, she seriously set about the task of first make me smoke and then make me stop taking betel leaves. She insisted that smoking was manly. All of a sudden I was offered cigarettes by her brother and other relatives whenever we met. My wife cannot say I did not try. I was sporting enough to accept the offered fags. I reciprocated by offering them betel leaves. After a while I was caught on to both the things. Not only that, her brother and some other people who were trying to change my habit, caught on to betel leaves. Their spouses started to blame my wife.
Now worried, she set about the task of making me stop smoking. Luck was on her side. Suddenly, it was “smoking is injurious to health” era and the new awareness was all over the place..She said I must stop smoking. I did.
I happily continued with my good old betel leaves. “MISSION SMOKE” failed, miserably.

Healthy bribe

2009-05-28T01:32:00.000-07:00

From my early childhood I was very fond of reading books. I had studied in Gujarati medium up to class eight and then in English medium. So naturally, I was fond of Gujarati books from early on. I was a member of the school library and I used to read short stories, novels and later progressed to Gujarati translations of Jules Vern’s ‘The Messenger’ and such other books. My entire family was fond of reading as such, but my elder brother in particular, was an avid reader- even now he is. He too was a member of an English library and was heavy into Erle Stanley Gardner and Agatha Christie. He was always after me to read one of the English books, but I didn’t show any interest. He insisted that he was not against my reading Gujarati books but if I started reading English books, a whole new world will open for me, but to no avail.

When all his attempts to convince me failed, he tried another trick. He offered that if I finish one Perry Mason book, he would give me one big Cadbury chocolate. I was very fond of Cadbury. We were a middle class family and Cadbury was almost a luxury. I was tempted. I started reading one Perry Mason book but could not go beyond three- four pages. After a while he asked me if I had read the book. I told him I could not make head or tail of the book. He was visibly disappointed. I felt guilty.

Next, after a day or so, He added a ‘Barna’ table tennis bat on top of Cadbury If I finish one book. Now this matter was suddenly serious. Cadbury was one thing and a ‘Barna’ was something else again. I was a good and keen table tennis player and had made my name in the school for my game. ‘Barna’ was the best available bat at that time and was every good player’s dream. But I also knew that my brother could not afford it. He had stretched himself too far. Hence I must make another serious and sincere attempt for his sake.

I started again with new determination. I took it slowly, reading a paragraph twice when I could not follow the gist. I closed the book often when my attention wavered, only to start again after sometime. Slowly I began to grasp the story. Even though I did not understand meanings of many words and legal terms (they were too many to refer dictionary), I began to understand the theme and story in general. When I was a little more then a half way through, I was hooked. I just could not put the book down. I finished the book and asked my brother for another. He did not have to bribe me any more. I told him I would settle for Cadbury. But my brother kept his word and in due time got me a ‘Barna’ bat.

Ever since, I am hooked to books. Of course, as time passed tastes changed. In my twenties, I was heavily into James Hadley Chase. Later still, I was into P. G. Woodhouse, Ken Follet, Sheldon to Wilbur Smith to Ludlum and others. Now at sixty five, I am a voracious reader, and reading a variety of subjects, thanks to my brother.

The smoking adventure

2009-05-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

It was in late fifties, I was probably twelve or thirteen years old when I had my first tryst with cigarette. One boy in our class used to smoke occasionally and brag about it. So one day we four friends decided to try it out. It boomeranged miserably. We went to a cigarette shop and our expert friend, Nalin, was entrusted with the task of procuring cigarettes for all of us. We found a partly concealed corner and started our great experiment with the fag as it was fashionably called at that time. As luck would have it, one of my father’s close friends was passing by and saw us doing what we were doing. Unfortunately, we didn’t see him. Uncle wasted no time and went straight to my house and informed my father of what we were doing and where we were. Uncle knew the parents of other boys too because we all lived in the same locality. But he preferred to go to my house only, God bless him for that.

My father was a man of virtues. He never thought of alcohol, smoke, betel and such like. What is more, he never knew what betel or betel nut tasted like. He was a simple, straightforward and a very short- tempered man, but highly respected. We were all very scared of him.

So uncle told my father to catch us red handed. But my father told him to wait for my return and meanwhile share a cup of tea with him. When I returned, my father confronted me with uncle’s accusations. It was so sudden and I was so scared that I didn’t have time to think. Because of all the stories I had heard since childhood of his strictness and punishments mated to my elder brothers when at fault, that I thought he would throw me out of the house. Without thinking I denied the charges and said I was not there at all. My father told my uncle that if I say I was not there then I was not there and that uncle must have mistaken some other boy for me. However, he profusely thanked uncle for his concern. A little shaken, uncle went away. I heaved a sigh of relief.

The moment uncle was out of sight and earshot, hard came a slap on my face. Father was livid with rage: “ The moment you opened your mouth I knew you were lying. I protected you simply because however close a friend he (uncle) be, he is an outsider and I did not want to disgrace you in front of him. You have damaged years of our friendship. This slap is not because you smoked but because you lied. If I had called your lie then, you would not have ever been able to meet uncle’s eyes.”

Then came a gem of a line which neither I, nor anyone else in the family expected from my father: “Look here, I can understand and even appreciate your need to experiment at this age. But when faced, have courage to speak the truth. I don’t expect you to come and tell me of your own that you smoke, but when asked I certainly expect you to admit and face consequences. Whatever you do, do it without being scared of outsiders.”

Even at that immature age, I was impressed. As I grew, I began to understand and appreciate that one line: “ I can understand and appreciate your need to experiment
at this age.” Every time I remember that line, I wonder at the thought and understanding behind it. That one line has taught me how I should treat my own children.

However, a few days after this incident my elder brother informed me that father had doubled my monthly allowance for me to go for a good brand if I wanted to smoke. That was my father. I must have smoked hardly four-five times after that. I tried to continue, but couldn’t. Not because I had become virtuous all of a sudden. But for the fact that all adventure had gone out of it.

The Vanishing act

2009-05-24T03:27:00.001-07:00

It was early sixties in Calcutta. I was probably thirteen or fourteen years old then. My elder brother owned one Italian Lambretta scooter. He had taught me to drive the vehicle. Occasionally when he had time, he allowed me to drive and himself occupied the pillion seat. My father didn’t know this and we were scared that he would find out. So my brother had warned me not to touch the vehicle when he was not around. But sometimes, when he was in office, I used to take out the scooter and give rides to some of my friends. I was on cloud nine on such trips. It was adventure.

On one such occasion I took out the scooter and went to my close friend Mahendra’s house. Mahendra was paper thin and light weight then. We used to tease him about that in school that his wife will have to carry him around. So we started from Bhowanipore to Lansdowne road to Rashbihari towards Gariahat. When we approached Gariahat crossing, we wanted to cross the tramline and go straight across the road. There was traffic and noise and we were moving fast as we wanted to beat the policeman controlling the traffic. At the same time I was talking to Mahendra and driving. I didn’t notice a small pebble stone lying on the tram track. When we were crossing tramline in speed, front wheel of the scooter passed without trouble. But the rear wheel came upon the pebble stone and because of the speed and momentum the rear wheel jumped at least four – five inches above the track and came down heavily. Fortunately, I could control the vehicle and speed across.

Meanwhile, I noticed some people gaping and some shouting from three – four sides. I didn’t realize that they were shouting at me. When I crossed the road I asked Mahendra if he was all right. There was no reply. I cut the speed and looked back. No Mahendra there.

Actually when we were speeding and crossing the track, Mahendra was leaning a bit and talking something in my ear. He was not holding on to anything. Both his hands were on his knees. When the rear wheel jumped, Mahendra’s bum jumped higher and before his bum could settle on the seat, the scooter sped from underneath. Instead of the seat, his bum settled heavily on the road. Because of traffic noise, I didn’t realize this. Actually people were shouting at me to stop. When I realized this, I parked the scooter and went back to fetch him. Mahendra was in pain but was cursing and laughing at the same time along with a few who had seen this freak accident from close.

I don’t know where Mahendra is now but hope he is telling this story to his grandchildren same as me. And of course, I hope he has gained enough weight to keep his bum firmly in place and more so, because his wife doesn’t have to carry him around.

Cigarette packets

2009-04-06T00:01:00.000-07:00

When I was a small boy, I got one empty cigarette packet from somewhere. While playing with it, I made a small article with that packet. In no time it became my hobby to try & make different shapes and articles from cigarette packets. The problem was to procure empty packets. No body smoked in our family. My father was very strict about that. None of our relatives or family friends smoked from whom I could get the packets. It was frustrating.

We were staying on the ground floor of our building. One Gandhi family was residing on the first floor. Our family was not on talking terms with the members of Gandhi family, except Gandhi uncle himself. The entrance and passage for both ground and first floor was common. That created problems between the two families. There were frequent arguments and frictions. But Gandhi uncle was a nice man. He visited our house at least once in a week. He usually occupied our swing and discussed economics, politics, share market etc. with my father over a shared cup of tea or coffee, which his family members did not like. This lead to frequent arguments in their family, but Gandhi uncle continued his visits to my father, sometimes fleetingly.

Now Gandhi uncle was a chain smoker. He used to smoke three packets a day. But my elder brother warned me not to bother Gandhi uncle as it would lead to further arguments in their family.

In our drawing room, we had four windows facing the street outside. One day I found one empty cigarette packet lying on the drawing room floor below the fourth window. It so happened that Gandhi uncle somehow came to know about my problem and silently found a solution. The sight of the first three windows was accessible from the first floor. The fourth window was diagonal. One could not observe the happenings of the fourth window from the first floor.

While going to office, Gandhi uncle used to empty his cigarettes in an old packet and used to throw in the fresh one from the fourth window. He used to repeat the performance while returning from office in the evening. Nobody said anything about it to anyone but everybody knew who was helping me. This continued for quite a few months till I grew out of that hobby and lost interest in it.

My father and Gandhi uncle are no more. I am myself sixty four now. But I will never forget his kindness even at the risk of displeasing his own family. I wonder if anyone will be so simple and thoughtful today. These small gestures make life worth living. AMEN.

Musings-Aggarwal's woes

2009-04-02T04:42:00.000-07:00

Ours is a residential society of five wings consisting about a hundred flats. Most of the occupants are Gujaratis and Marwaris followed by a few Punjabis, Bengalis and South Indians. Among these, one Marwari family- Aggarwals-was staying in their ownership flat. Now they have left. When we shifted to this flat about five years back, I came to know most of the occupants in our wing within a week, amongst them Aggarwals. Soon I noticed that people were avoiding Mr. Aggarwal. As far as possible, every one politely excused himself when Aggarwal talked to them. A few elderly persons used to sit in the society compound in the evening but as soon as Aggarawl approached, they slowly dispersed.

In time I too got acquainted with him. Aggarwal was a rough talking person, almost to the extent of being rude. He had small, round cunning eyes, but also there was some kind of sadness in his eyes which few could detect. He was generally angry and displeased with every one and everything –watchman was not doing his job properly, milkman was mixing water in the milk, liftman was not holding door open for him, secretary was not listening to his complaints etc. etc.

When he started getting acquainted with me, I instantly realized that he was measuring me up, if I was a good listener. Though I did not like his abusive manner, there was something in his attitude which suggested that he had seen the worst side of life and was badly wounded, at least socially. So I listened. Slowly it came out that his children ( two sons and two daughters ) had thrown him out of his own house and business. That he had built the business and this house, that his sons were not trustworthy, so much so that they had managed to make his own married daughters to go against him. When he asked his sons to get out of his house and business, they went to court. They proved in the court it was a very small business and a single story house when they joined business, that they worked hard to make the business flourish and they had also helped in building two more stories to the then existing one storey. His daughters also gave evidence against him. The court verdict was that either Aggarwal compensate his children against business and house and takeover both or take compensation from children against the same and get out. Aggarwal got out after taking compensation from his sons. I don’t know if his sons were guilty or not but I felt sorry for the old man, until one evening when I entered our compound, I saw Aggarwal sitting on a bench. He started talking to me. I had some pastries for my grandson for which he was waiting. I wanted to go home immediately but Aggarwal was talking non-stop I could not be rude enough to intercept his talk and say I wanted to go. Just then, I saw my son hurriedly going out, almost on double. Still I called him And requested: “Please do me a favour. Go up and give this packet to your son and then go wherever you are going.”

Though in a hurry, my son took the packet and vanished.

Aggarwal was mighty displeased with me. He told me sternly that the boy was my son and bound to obey me. I should have just ordered him to hold everything and do my bidding first. He said people like me were spoiling their children and this generation. No amount of explaining that I knew my son would do my bidding, whether I ask politely or rudely, then why should I be unnecessarily rude to him, cut any ice with him.

Now I knew why he was out of his house and his business.

Real Culprit-The Strip tease mms episode

2009-03-03T05:59:00.000-08:00

Mid-Day and other newspapers published the news and photo clips of “Noida sex clips” story. Reportedly, the girl did striptease for the benefit of her boyfriend. The boy later circulated the clip to his friends. The point is : though her photograph was pixilated, some people who are close to the girl and know the concerned prestigious institute must have recognized the girl. It is a possibility these people may tell their friends and relatives who the girl is. The poor creature, it appears, has taken entire brunt of this heinous episode whereas the boy has got away with little mention.

I am not against the girl’s pixilated photo appearing in newspapers but, with that, the media should have gone all out after the boy who is the main culprit. His name and a big photograph should have appeared in all news papers along with caption:

“BEWARE OF DOGS & THIS MAN”

The concerned boy should be taught a lesson that what happens within the four walls among two persons should remain that way, within four walls.

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2009-03-01T03:43:00.000-08:00

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Good cops do exist

2009-01-16T22:43:00.000-08:00

On an average, Mumbai Police is known for its non-cooperative attitude and demanding bribe (chai-pani) for anything and everything it does. But post 26/11, it is hailed for its bravery and exceptionally good attitude during the crisis. I too have a pleasant memory of Mumbai police (then Bombay) from way back in late sixties on two different occasions.

In the first incident – I was working in Calcutta and had come to Bombay for few days for some sales conference. Once I was asked by my office to meet our Madras distributor at Santa Cruz airport. He was coming from Madras and was to take another flight in an hour’s time to another destination. Being new in Bombay, I was instructed that the taxi fare from our office to the airport would be about Rs.17, give or take a rupee or two, depending upon the traffic on the way. When we reached the airport, the meter showed Rs.55. when I argued, the cab driver told me that the meter was in front of me and for me to see it carefully. Other cab driver also gathered around and insisted that I should make the payment. They knew from my language that I was not a local. Time was running but I could not afford to pay the sum from my own pocket. A rupee was a RUPEE then. My office would not allow me more than 17 or 20 rupees.

Seeing the chaos, a passing inspector on his motorcycle stopped and asked roughly; “Kaay Zala?” (What happened?) All taxi drivers started talking at a time. He shouted them to shut up, got down from his bike and turned to me; “Tumi Bola.” (You speak). He listened patiently while I explained my predicament and my reason of coming to the airport, as well as my willingness to pay the proper fare.

Realizing that I was new to Bombay, he became instantly polite and told me to go ahead and meet the aircraft, finish my work and come back. That he was on duty at airport and will make the taxi wait and on my return will sort out the issue or we all go to the police station. I went inside the airport, had my discussion with our distributor and returned in half an hour. True to his word, the inspector was there with another policeman waiting for me. He told me politely that there were two things we can do. First go to police station, or, if I agree, we ride back to my office and he will accompany me and see what the fare comes. I agreed instantly. But the driver started grudging and showed his willingness to accept what I give, even forgo that. Other drivers had vanished. The inspector would have none of it. He downed the flag of meter and rode with us all the way to my office. The fair was 18 rupees. The inspector slapped the driver hard on his face, told me to give him Rs.35 and suspended his license for a month.
What really surprised me was – He went to the extent and apologized for driver’s behavior.

On another occasion, a year later, I was at V.T. station with heavy suitcase for a taxi to go to Kalbadevi, a short distance. No taxi would come. I was trying for 10-12 minutes and getting desperate. I could not walk the distance with a heavy bag. Out of blue, a constable appeared from nowhere. He asked me where I wanted to go. He whistled a taxi, asked the driver to take me to Kalbadevi with stern warning to behave, took down his number and told me to report if there was any problem.

Musings-In long and short

2009-01-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

It was a sheer co-incidence. On the last day of my short visit to Ahmedabad, I came to know by chance, that Bharat, my early childhood friend, was residing in Ahmedabad. I got his telephone number three hours before I was to depart for Mumbai. We had not met for more than 50 years. Bharat was my neighbour in Calcutta. He left Calcutta when we were 11 or 12 years old. Since then we had not heard about each other. We are of the same age, give or take three-four months. Both of us are 64 now.

So I called him and told him who I was. In an instant he recognized me. He was very excited and happy to hear from me. After preliminaries of – come to my place at this instant – and knowing I was leaving for Mumbai immediately, he started asking short questions about me. In half a minute he was satisfied that he knew all he wanted to know about me and started talking about himself, that when he left Calcutta at the age of twelve, he didn’t know that his father was in a trouble in business. They tried to settle somewhere in Gujarat. His father lost money there too, that betrayed by partners and relatives, they were hand to mouth for a few years. Somehow, he completed hi matriculation, in the meantime his father expired. Then he came to Ahmedabad, got a job there, progressed and once again settled in life, that he got married, had two children, both educated, married, and both in the U.S., that his wife expired in 1997 and now he was staying alone. At that point I tried to offer my condolences at the news of his wife, but he brushed me off: “No no. Its ok. It was a long time back and I am fine now.” In less than five minutes he gave me his life story of 52 years.
Then we started talking about our childhood days. How after school we went home, threw our aluminum school bags, had a glass of milk and ran back to school to play in school compound. How we played badminton, cricket etc. how older students harassed us. That once older group did not allow us to play cricket with them and how we formed our own club then & there and named it Friend’s club. How once one tough boy hit him and how I had beaten that boy for hitting him. We went on talking for more than twenty minutes about those 10-12 childhood years. After a while he became sentimental and reminded me of an incident where I had saved him from certain punishment from our teacher on that occasion. I felt a little embarrassed and said: “Ow leave it, forget it Bharat. It was a long… long time back, In fact, Ages back.”
He exclaimed! “Ages? I feel it happened yesterday only.”

Bad joke

2009-01-04T22:50:00.000-08:00

On Mr. Thackeray’s comments on empty threats to Pakistan, I remember an old joke I heard in Delhi years back. It fits India and Pakistan.

Santa Singh and Banta Singh were friends. Once for some reason Santa Singh hit Banta Singh.
Banta Singh; “Were you serious?”
Santa Singh; “No. No. I was just fooling around. Just joking.”
Banta Singh; “Then its ok. Had you been serious, I would have retaliated violently. Be careful next time.”

After a few days Santa Singh again hit him.
Banta Singh; “Were you serious?”
Santa Singh; (This time aggressive); “Yes I was. What about it?”
Banta Singh; “Nothing. I don’t like people fooling around me.”

What now?

2008-12-08T23:40:00.001-08:00

The war with terrorists is over. One captured alive and nine dead, or so they say.
Now what? Now nothing!

The sentiment of our politicians is clear from the utterances of our beloved leader R.R. Patil to the effect that such small incidents happen in big cities. How cool. Somebody should explain to Mr.Patil in the language he understands that it was an invasion, not just an incident. Hundreds of people don’t lose their lives in incidents. But it was an incident to our politicians – it didn’t happen in their front or back yards. They are surrounded by security at our expense. Even after paying heavy taxes, you don’t buy your security. You buy theirs. The only response from our Government is to warn terrorists and our enemy countries that they should not try our patience. Warning? They laugh at us, make mockery of our warnings and prepare for the next attack.

It is not patience-It is cowardice, it is lack of political will, it is politics of vote, it is a shame on the nation.

What now? Now nothing!

Your comments……….

Terrorist Episode

2008-12-08T23:27:00.000-08:00

Even nature is gloomy for the past few days after the terrorist attack episode in Mumbai, India. Yes, episode. I say episode because I feel terrorist attacks are like our Television serials. Longest running serial for that matter. In TV, serials like Saas-bahu last for four to five years, some last a little more. Whereas our terrorist serial is running for the last 15 years or so, and is likely to still continue. When one attack episode is over, you become cautious. You anticipate more. You wait, nothing happens. And you wait…nothing, and you wait some more. Still nothing. You relax. You feel that this serial has now been taken off air. And when you least expect it, comes the next attack episode, more powerful, more damaging.

The only difference in TV serials and Terrorism serial is that in TV serials, we know when the next episode is going to be telecast, but in the terrorism serial, the next episode is a surprise package. It can happen in a day, in a week, in a month , or in a year – but happen it will. You can’t wish it off air.
You comments………

Musings-Simple Kapoor

2008-11-23T20:58:00.000-08:00

When I read about the great Indian singer, Mahendra Kapoor’s death, I felt a jolt. It was as if I had lost a part of my existence. I had grown up listening to Mahendra Kapoor’s songs and I was his big fan.

Though I don’t know much about his background, I was very much impressed by his simplicity. A few years back, I chanced upon as interview he was giving on a TV channel. He was simply attired and his answers were humble. When asked about his initial struggle in the film industry, he very simply said he didn’t have to struggle. That, when young, he once participated in a singing competition, was noticed, and that was that. No ego, no ornamental words. He didn’t have to look back. His type of songs came to him only and he was satisfied. Simple and humble words.

Though he was a great singer, he never attempted to come in the limelight. While talents of other great singers like Rafi and Kishore Kumar cannot be denied, I believe, Mahendra Kapoor, Manna Dey and Talat Mehmood were a class apart with their distinct voices. Only these singers could have done justice to the songs that have sung. Who can forget Kapoor’s “Chalo ek baar phir se”, Manna’s “Laga chunri mein daag” and Talat’s “Phir vahi shaam, vahi gham, vahi tanhai hai”. Even after decades, these songs are liked by all and sundry.

While Talat and Kapoor are no more with us, may God rest their souls in peace. Manna Dey is still with us. Thank God for that. May he live forever-he is the last of the Greats.

Musings of a muse-The gang

2008-10-12T20:43:00.000-07:00

In the late sixties I worked in a private firm in Dharamtella area of Calcutta (Now Kolkata). It was a small office having a staff of little over twenty- all male- of various ages from middle twenties to fifties. The members of the staff were on cordial terms with each other. But we were a group of four, two Bengalis Dipak & Roni, one Muslim Shahed and myself, a Gujarati, all bachelors, ages twenty three, four, who were really close to each other. We were always found together after office hours – be it in a restaurant or in Cinema or elsewhere. In fact we were known as a gang.

Saturday was half day and on all Saturdays, after office hours, all four of us religiously went to a bar behind Metro Cinema. Saturdays were looked forward to and it was a ritual none of us wanted to miss. Our talks ranged from office to boss to sports to a little politics to Cinema to girls studying in Loretto School opposite our office. We had a great evening in the bar and expenses were shared four ways. Entire office was aware of this and some even wanted entry into the gang but found no way, some we avoided and some could not afford as they were married or had other responsibilities.

One day a Bengali lad of around 19 joined our office. He was a short fellow, having 5.2” with jerky actions. He was from some little town near Chinsurah in West Bengal and made daily up and down journeys to office. His name was Sarkar, I forgot his first name and it appeared that he was conscious of his short height and to make up for that he wanted to learn everything fast, from office work to City ways. He was put under one Mr. Saha – a simple man in his early fifties. Mr. Saha started to teach him simple work but he wanted to learn everything at a time. As he was a little fellow, everybody treated him as such which he didn’t like.

Soon, as was inevitable, he came to know about our gang and desperately wanted an in, which we would not allow. But he was desperate. Even a few in our office staff advised him to leave us alone.
On this particular Saturday we went to our regular bar as usual and had just settled when Sarkar entered. He must have followed us and waited outside for a while. When his eyes adjusted to dim lights, he noticed us and came straight to our table. He asked if he could sit with us. We were reluctant but Shahed felt sorry for the little fellow and relented. So Sarkar joined us, knowing nothing about drinks, not showing his ignorance in his desperation to join our gang.

The waiter came. He knew us as regulars. Roni & Dipak asked for large pegs of Aristocrat. Shahed went for small xxx rum. I ordered a large peg of old Monk. Now the waiter turned to Sarkar. Not to be outdone and not knowing a whisky from a rum, blurted; “One large peg of beer”.

He never made entry in our gang.

Reminiscence: Down the memory lane

2008-10-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

Way back in late fifties, I had one Marwari friend in Calcutta (now Kolkata). Let us call him Govind for the sake of identity. His father was a simple, generous man, totally uneducated. Though uneducated, if you asked him the amount of interest on a loan of Rupees 45000/- at 3.5 percent for nine months, he would come up with the answer in less than five minutes. He did not need any paper-pencils or calculator for that.

He was always eager to help children who wanted to study but could not afford it but never boasted about it. He helped people silently. He did not donate to schools or other educational or charitable institutions as such. But individually he would seek out boys & girls of servants and dhobis etc. and helped them financially with studies. So much so that he would go out of his way to persuade the parents of such poor people to send them to school and offer help. And it was said that if some poor child approached him with his problem, he was never known to have left without all help.

Govind’s father often told us how he started for Calcutta from Rajasthan in 1905 with practically no money on him. When he reached Calcutta, he had spent what little money he had. He was absolutely broke. He started his carrier as a peon in the office of another Marwari Seth who allowed him to sleep in the office at night against sweeping and dusting the office. He worked there for a few years learning the tricks of trade and eventually started on his own with the help and guidance of employer.

He progressed rapidly and for all the lack of education, made enough money to have his own bungalow in a reasonably good locality of the city in the span of 35 to 40 years. He had two cars in his compound – one Fiat and one Hindustan - in times when even having a two-wheeler like Bullet was considered luxury.

Once I went to his office to meet Govind. He had gone out for a few minutes so his father asked me to wait. He was talking to his office sweeper, almost imploring him to send his little boy to school. The sweeper did not seem interested arguing that even if his boy studied for a few years it won’t do him any good. Govind’s father told him that he will bear all the expenses of the boy’s studies and assured him that if the boy studies up to 10th, he would be given a job in that very office.

When the sweeper left, Govind’s father saw me keenly observing the goings on. He said, “See, I am not educated so there is a limit to my progress. I can never be a Tata or a Birla.” Then he threw me a gem: “Son, It is only after I made money without education that I really realized the importance of education.”

How true!

What's in a Name? Plenty...

2008-10-08T00:02:00.000-07:00

As a young boy I used to go to a Gujarati school along with a few neighboring boys. During recess and after school hours in the evening we used to play different games in our school compound. We had a big boned boy in our class who was at least six inches taller than the rest of us. He was quite a bully. He wanted to have his way in every game we played and behaved like half-mad. His name was Harshad and behind his back we used to call him Harshad-Gando (Mad Harshad ).

When we were in class seventh or eighth, he suddenly left city with his family. In a couple of months, we all forgot about him. The year was perhaps 1959 or 1960.

A couple of years back, in 2006, I was sitting in a beer bar with four friends – two amongst them Gujaraties. We had a couple of rounds of beer and were about to call it a day when tall shadow fell on our table. A tall man of sixty plus – about my age- was looking keenly at me. He asked me “You are Chitto no?” I was puzzled. He said; “Don’t you recognize me? I am Harshad.” Still I couldn’t place him. He slapped me on my back and said :”Arre yaar, hoon Harshad Gando.” (I am Mad Harshad). Instantly I recognized him.

He sat down with us and himself sportingly explained the title of Harshad Gando to my friends. He was Gando no more. He had retired as deputy manager after serving a reputed firm for a little more than thirty years.

Needless to say – we all had another round of beer with that.

The Good and the Evil

2008-10-05T22:05:00.001-07:00

I once went to a colleague’s sister’s marriage in Delhi. This was about thirty years back. The ceremony and reception etc. went well. The guests were from some small town near Ambala in Haryana. They were very proud and happy for the respect and attention they received from the girl’s side. When all major events were over, they demanded hard drinks for Baraties, which was promptly provided by girl’s brother. Having drunk and danced to their heart’s content, most of them were drunk, which is common in that part.

Suddenly, one of the guests from the boy’s side had a bright idea and demanded to see the items (dowry) they had asked for the groom and wanted to compare these items with their list. It was near midnight. The girl’s brother happily obliged and took a few of them to a room where the items were kept. One elderly person, happily drunk, was checking the items against the list. From what I heard, quite a few things were there – from needle to sewing machine, fridge, music system, suit lengths, pants, shirts and even vest and briefs. Suddenly the elderly person shouted; “Juraban Kithe Hun?” (Where are the socks?). There was commotion. Apparently, they had demanded three pairs of socks for the groom, which were not there. All hell broke loose. No amount of cajoling, reasoning or promise to provide them the next day worked. Drunk they were as they insisted on having the socks then and there.

My colleague was in panic and literally trembling. His pleadings with folded hands did not work. He requested a couple of his friends to make a show of going to get the socks. The guests were told that two persons were going for the socks on their bikes. By that time I was bored and joined one of them on bike. We were in Shahadra and we crossed the river to reach the main city. It was after 1 A.M. Since we were in city, we decided to try. We found a few hosiery shops but naturally they were all closed. Near one such closed shop, we found a panwala having his last bidi of the night. We enquired with him and found that the owner of the hosiery shop was residing just two buildings away. We were in luck. We went there and knocked the door and kept knocking. After a while the door was opened by the owner himself. He was very angry and refused to listen to our tale of woo. We kept talking and requesting, offering double and triple price for the socks. Now he was awake and sharply scrutinizing us. All of a sudden, he turned, went inside the house and closed the door.

Disappointed, we just stood there – all hope gone. Just then, he came out with a long face, distinctly showing his displeasure. He rudely asked us to follow him to his shop insisting time and again that we had spoiled his night. He unlocked the locks and asked us to lift the shutter, all the time insisting us to hurry. We went inside and to be on a safe side, bought a dozen pairs of socks. We thanked him, and wanted to know how much should we pay him.

Still unhappy, still rude, still with a long face, he replied; “Aree jaldi karo, jaldi karo. Jo story apne sunai hai unke baad kya main paise loon? Apne to meri raat bigad di. Ab jao aur muje sone do.” (Hurry up, after listening to your story, how can I accept money? You people spoiled my night. Now please go and let me go back to bed.) Not accepting money, he ushered us out.

Next day we went to his shop with a big box of Mithais (sweets) from a reputed shop but he was not happy to see us and accepted the box, still with a long face.

Back in Mumbai, (then Bombay), I narrated the incident to my friends saying the shopkeeper could have shown a little more grace but the friends insisted that he had shown enough of grace by opening the shop at that ungodly hour and not accepting the money offered.

AMEN TO THAT.

Cease smoking

2008-09-26T05:04:00.000-07:00

To cease smoking is the easiest thing I ever did. I ought to know,

I have done it a thousand times.

- Mark Twain

Cricket antics

2008-09-25T00:53:00.001-07:00

As a student I went to a school, which had plenty of sports facilities and a big enough playground of its own. It was a co-ed school but in those days in early sixties, boys and girls did not talk to each other. Socially it was not accepted. Of course, there were a few bold ones who defied the rule but they too talked furtively making sure teachers were not around.

Every year, after final exams, a cricket match was held between students and teachers. This occasion was looked forward to as girls and lady teachers remained present to watch the big match. And this was one day when students could take little liberties like girls congratulating good performance of a batsman or a bowler. The ladies’ presence made certain that boys played with vigour and received their cheers.

The captain of teachers’ team was our principal, a gentleman of such immense proportions and weight that nobody had ever seen him walk fast, let alone run, and having little knowledge of the game. Captainship was given as a mark of respect. While fielding, he was given a post at the boundary line with a lackey (usually a student) to run and field for him. While batting, he opened the innings and was given an underarm slow ball from half-pitch, which he tried to hit. He usually lasted for one over or thereabouts before being bowled or caught out. (No LBWs for him & he didn’t take singles). After his royal departure, serious action would start.

The teachers’ team had one Parsi gentleman known as ‘Parsi Sir’ as he was the only Parsi person in the school who was really a good and keen cricketer. He invited his son Jal to play for teachers though Jal was not in our school. Usually students won but for this father-son duo and occasionally a stray teacher who stood between students’ victory. Both teams wore flannel cream-white pant-shirts as cricket gear.

This particular year, students’ team had some good players including ‘yours truly’. The captain of the students’ team was one Suresh, very funny and full of mischief known as Suresh-sursurio as he could smoothly sneak away from any difficult or unpleasant situations, but a good fast bowler. Students had won the toss, had batted first and had made a reasonably good score. Now teachers were batting and students were finding it difficult to uproot the Parsi father-son duo. Balance was tilting slowly on teachers’ side. Suresh-sursurio was bowling furiously and desperately.

It happened suddenly. The stitches of Suresh’s trousers tore on the backside as he bowled furiously. The more he bowled, more stitches came apart. Now his V-shape blue underwear was clearly visible. Still, he continued bowling and the crowd; girls in particular, cheered, booed and went wild. In his next over Suresh took his tucked-in shirt out of his pants, continued bowling with his shirt flying as he took his long run. Imagine the scene and you can guess the howling and chaos it caused. When his over was finished, we advised him to stop bowling and to let someone else bowl. But the bull that he was, his mind was only on winning the game.

In his next over he took off his pants all together and bowled only in his underwear with his shirt flying high as he took his long run. The crowd of more than 800 students went wild. The scene, screaming, hooting, whistling, distracted the Parsi duo’s concentration and both were out one after another in a span of three overs. Thereafter, students’ victory was easy. Suresh was the shining star that day – the ultimate hero.

I suppose in today’s scenario, Suresh could have easily given Gangulis & Sreesanths a run for their money.