(SEARO NEWS, 3 Sept. 1974)
It was evening time. The labour pain starts, and she tells her mother who, instead of running for help, rushes for a copy of the almanac to ascertain the planetary position. She feels happy that the stars are very auspicious for the next two days. I try to convince her that the arrival of the child cannot be hastened or delayed to suit her favourite star, but in vain.
We get into a taxi. As the driver is about to pull the choke to start, her mother ask him not to do so until she gives the green signal. Apparently, she tarries a little for a good omen. First a vegetable hawker comes; she is not happy; a milkman comes – not so good. The she sees a lazy cow meandering slowly and advancing towards the car, and she orders the driver to start immediately.
We reach the doctor’s private clinic and ask the cab man to wait. The doctor examines the patient and advises us to move her to the Nursing Home at once. We come out, find the cab man missing; we wait. He turns up after ten minutes – he had gone meanwhile to negotiate a long-term business arrangement with a man in that locality, regardless of the urgency of our need.
We arrive at the Nursing Home and, as advised by the doctor, suggest to the sister-in-charge to telephone the doctor for instructions. She does not relish the suggestion and replies that she knows her job well. We feel not too happy at this initial reception.
The time now is 8.30 pm. Sister ask me if the patient has had her dinner. “No,” I say. She is annoyed and murmurs something about how the Nursing Home could be expected to give thee patient food at this late hour. My wife interrupts her and assures her not to bother about food; she is more concerned with her pain. Suddenly sister changes her mind and arranges for some bread. We ask for a cot and a pillow for my wife’s mother which they are supposed to provide; sister retorts that this amenity exists only on paper; it is not provided.
Early next morning, I rush to the Nursing Home at the prospect of having become a father. Nothing doing that day,
On the third day, I take her mother back home for some rest. Later in the day, the patient has repeated pains and is taken to the labour room. I wait outside on the qui vive. Now and again I hear shrieks of a child. I beam with happiness thinking that my wife’s agony is over and that the child is born. No, it is the cry of a newborn child in the nursery next to the operation theatre. After an hour the midwife comes out and ask me if I have brought baby soap, oil, etc. I promptly give them to her and ask her if the baby is born, and whether it is a boy or a girl. The baby is indeed born, she says, but is not sure whether it is a boy or a girl. I take it that the baby is a girl and that the midwife doesn’t want to disclose it apprehending that, in the Indian tradition, I might have wanted our first-born to be a son. Then comes sister-in-charge. I ask her indirectly whether both the mother and the baby are okay, and she assures me that they are, and stops at that, saying that further news will be conveyed by the doctor herself. I become angry at heart and ask myself why the hell these hospital staff are not disclosing the sex of the child to the father who has every right to know. I decide to take up this indifferent attitude with the Medical Superintendent.
Meanwhile the doctor comes out, prescribes some medicines and asks me to buy them immediately. She explains that both mother and infant are well, that the delivery was successful, how the baby had been placed inside and what extra effort she had to take for safe delivery. When she finishes, I ask her, “Well, is it a boy or a girl?” “Oh, didn’t I tell you – well it is a boy”. (she could not know that all the time she was speaking, my attention was on the next room, into which I can see through the glass partition: the nurse was bathing the newborn, and I could see myself that it was a boy.)
I is now raining cats and dogs (after all, the monsoon is here), but at this happy hour, I don’t care the least and rush home to convey the news. From a distance I see her mother waiting expectantly in the balcony, with a team of six or seven ladies – neighbours, friends and maidservant, etc. Even before I park my two-wheeler, she calls down from the top floor asking for news, and I shout back she has been blessed with a grandson. She looks triumphantly at all the ladies and tells me a moment later that she had already foreseen it early in the morning and therefore had prepared the favourite pudding of the god she adores most and distributed it to all. Her joy was doubled when she learned that the star under which the baby was born was the same as that of her favourite god.
This joy all around bring about a sudden change in me. Why, after all, complain about the staff to the Medical Superintendent? On the contrary, I find myself vehemently defending them and being most grateful to everyone who had anything to do with this beautiful birth day!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Monday, August 6, 2007
Odds all the way
(SEARO NEWS, 31 March 1992)
For some it is touch and go, the sailing is smooth in anything they undertake. For me, however, it is battling odds all the time, including at the recent trip to Trichy for a publications display. Here is the account.
After half a dozen rehearsals, I completed the packing for the early next morning flight, and switched on the television for some well-earned relaxed moments. The newscaster dropped the bombshell that the pilots had threatened a lightning strike from that midnight. This was enough to put me on night duty, ascertaining from the airlines office if the strike was being averted. Equal to the occasion, they asked me to check every hour.
Unaccumstomed to taking risks, I reported at the airport early morning. Meanwhile, a settlement had been arrived at, at last, and the Madras flight was announced. We were about to report for 'security' check when the Calcutta-bound passengers sprung into action and waylaid us. They claimed that they had been waiting for over twelve hours and as senior stranded passengers, they should be seen off first. Some more delay.
"All is well that ends well", I heaved on board to my neighbour, a foreigner, more to start a conversation. "Oh, end?...Madras", he replied, mistaking my statement for ascertaining his destination. "India good country", he complimented. "Yours too", I repaid, though still unsure of his nationality. "Pleasure trip?" I quipped. "Business", he replied, rather emphatically. He might have meant "None of your business", but, given to taking the brighter side of life, I assumed that he was here to explore business prospects. I attempted further dialogue in gestures, but switched back to monosyllables when I felt I was being watched by rest of the passengers.
Veg. or non-veg?" asked the airhostess. He looked at me as though he would have me instead. With no vegetable or animal around, I felt unarmed to explain to him what these two terms meant. "I think I will serve him non-vegetarian', decided the airhostess, meanwhile, and moved on. After lunch, she served us saunf (aniseeds). He asked me what it was. As usual, my memory failed me for the correct word, and I replied him, tentatively, that it was a digestive. He tried it and transferred the trayful on to his hand, saying it was good. Further conversation was rendered impossible as thereafter he was busy commuting between the front and rear toilets, whichever was vacant. Moral: "In different doses, saunf can be a digestive, laxative or even a purgative", I concluded, at his expense.
Next morning I was at Madras airport on the dot for my connecting flight to Trichy. Once again there was a strike, this time only on selected routes. Since things must go wrong for me, Madras-Trichy was one. So, instead of a 45-minute travel, I headed for an eight-hour ordeal by bus. In the initial stages I was busy masterminding possession of the common arm-rest with my neighbour in the bus. But, sizing up his Stalin-like personality with bushy eyebrows, I befriended him, instead. He was a senior police officer on his way back from a High Court hearing for a murder case. He whispered in my ears that some 'heavyweights' were involved in this and, despite threats of dire consequences, he was hell-bent on bringing them to book. "You don't mean you apprehend danger even now?" I asked, more to gauge any imminent risk to myself. "You never know, somebody could be chasing me in this very bus itself, Mr Sundaram', he confided. My name was the last thing I wished him to make public at this juncture. I excused myself saying that I was too tired and needed some rest. And, not to offend him either, I requested him to wake me up at Trichy. He made a few abortive attempts in between to unburden his murder mystery on me, but I remained firm on not opening my eyes.
At Trichy I hurried for a waiting taxi and named the hotel. After going through several lanes and bye-lanes, the driver dropped me at the hotel. While taking out my wallet, I turned back and observed by chance that the bus stand wherefrom I alighted was just behind. "How come?", I asked. He confessed that he had not had a single passenger since morning, even to pay rental to the owner. "But you could have told me that before", I said sympathetically and settled the account for five rupees less.
For my return journey from Madras to Delhi, the airlines systematically kept us in suspended animation by announcing a delay of an hour, every hour. Thus instead of 6 pm I reached home in the early hours of next morning. "Still, better than last time when they chose to drop me 24 hours later'. I consoled myself.
For some it is touch and go, the sailing is smooth in anything they undertake. For me, however, it is battling odds all the time, including at the recent trip to Trichy for a publications display. Here is the account.
After half a dozen rehearsals, I completed the packing for the early next morning flight, and switched on the television for some well-earned relaxed moments. The newscaster dropped the bombshell that the pilots had threatened a lightning strike from that midnight. This was enough to put me on night duty, ascertaining from the airlines office if the strike was being averted. Equal to the occasion, they asked me to check every hour.
Unaccumstomed to taking risks, I reported at the airport early morning. Meanwhile, a settlement had been arrived at, at last, and the Madras flight was announced. We were about to report for 'security' check when the Calcutta-bound passengers sprung into action and waylaid us. They claimed that they had been waiting for over twelve hours and as senior stranded passengers, they should be seen off first. Some more delay.
"All is well that ends well", I heaved on board to my neighbour, a foreigner, more to start a conversation. "Oh, end?...Madras", he replied, mistaking my statement for ascertaining his destination. "India good country", he complimented. "Yours too", I repaid, though still unsure of his nationality. "Pleasure trip?" I quipped. "Business", he replied, rather emphatically. He might have meant "None of your business", but, given to taking the brighter side of life, I assumed that he was here to explore business prospects. I attempted further dialogue in gestures, but switched back to monosyllables when I felt I was being watched by rest of the passengers.
Veg. or non-veg?" asked the airhostess. He looked at me as though he would have me instead. With no vegetable or animal around, I felt unarmed to explain to him what these two terms meant. "I think I will serve him non-vegetarian', decided the airhostess, meanwhile, and moved on. After lunch, she served us saunf (aniseeds). He asked me what it was. As usual, my memory failed me for the correct word, and I replied him, tentatively, that it was a digestive. He tried it and transferred the trayful on to his hand, saying it was good. Further conversation was rendered impossible as thereafter he was busy commuting between the front and rear toilets, whichever was vacant. Moral: "In different doses, saunf can be a digestive, laxative or even a purgative", I concluded, at his expense.
Next morning I was at Madras airport on the dot for my connecting flight to Trichy. Once again there was a strike, this time only on selected routes. Since things must go wrong for me, Madras-Trichy was one. So, instead of a 45-minute travel, I headed for an eight-hour ordeal by bus. In the initial stages I was busy masterminding possession of the common arm-rest with my neighbour in the bus. But, sizing up his Stalin-like personality with bushy eyebrows, I befriended him, instead. He was a senior police officer on his way back from a High Court hearing for a murder case. He whispered in my ears that some 'heavyweights' were involved in this and, despite threats of dire consequences, he was hell-bent on bringing them to book. "You don't mean you apprehend danger even now?" I asked, more to gauge any imminent risk to myself. "You never know, somebody could be chasing me in this very bus itself, Mr Sundaram', he confided. My name was the last thing I wished him to make public at this juncture. I excused myself saying that I was too tired and needed some rest. And, not to offend him either, I requested him to wake me up at Trichy. He made a few abortive attempts in between to unburden his murder mystery on me, but I remained firm on not opening my eyes.
At Trichy I hurried for a waiting taxi and named the hotel. After going through several lanes and bye-lanes, the driver dropped me at the hotel. While taking out my wallet, I turned back and observed by chance that the bus stand wherefrom I alighted was just behind. "How come?", I asked. He confessed that he had not had a single passenger since morning, even to pay rental to the owner. "But you could have told me that before", I said sympathetically and settled the account for five rupees less.
For my return journey from Madras to Delhi, the airlines systematically kept us in suspended animation by announcing a delay of an hour, every hour. Thus instead of 6 pm I reached home in the early hours of next morning. "Still, better than last time when they chose to drop me 24 hours later'. I consoled myself.
Journalism in the year 2000
(Hindustan Times, 4 April, 1983)
The National Media Convention, held the other day, did not include an important item on the agenda. With the turn of the century round the corner, they should have discussed the shape journalism would take in the year 2000 AD. While many guesses can be made on this, here is one version.
A separate Ministry of Journalism has been established, headed by a Minister at the Cabinet rank. The Ministry is housed in a skyscraper, named, 'Paradise'. Independent departments function for writing, editing, printing, etc. but the flourishing ones are those of pseudo-journalism, yellow-journalism, plagiarism. A skeleton staff man sub sections on development journalism and 'success' stories.
After delivering the fatal blow in the 80s to the Press Bill, the Press has achieved yet another major breakthrough. This time, in the name of 'watch-dog of democracy', they got the Officials Secrets Act abolished. Now, not only are they allowed access to every document (Defence not excluded), it has also become mandatory that a copy of every 'Strictly Confidential' letter should be endorsed to the Press. The demand that the Pressmen should be above the law is awaiting judgment at the highest court of law. (However, in the event of a negative judgment, all 'attacks' have been mounted, ready for release at short notice).
Whenever a conference of importance is held the Pressmen, nay newspersons, will be allowed a free bar, with an inexhaustible supply of liquor. Adequate precautions have been taken to keep the security staff or the secretariat members away from even smelling range.
Some of the internal wrangles have also been sorted out through a memorandum of understanding. For instance, an arrangement has been made whereby whenever a reporter attends a function at which complimentaries are distributed, he will accept them only in pairs - one for himself and the other for the sub editor at the desk, teamed up with him. That sub editor, in turn, will cease to butcher the stories of the reporter and, instead, will pass them with minor OPD surgery.
Matrimonial columns are on the increase. Every newspaper claims that in every third house, the match-making has been done thanks to that particular newspaper. Several dailies have come up and the competition has become so tough that as incentive to retain readership, presents are delivered at regular intervals along with the newspapers. Magnifying glasses top this list, with the print-size having reached an all-time low point!
Responding leniently to the laments of readers that too much of in-house news is being passed off as news of public interest, the newspapers have agreed to publish their staff news - marriage, birth, retirement, death, etc. - on a separate page. Notwithstanding this, the various difficulties encountered by journalists, such as to get cinema-tickets on a holiday from a 'house-full' theatre, continue to be worthy of a box-item.
Journalism has become a much sought-after profession, relegating medical and engineering to the backward. Hence several institutions have sprung up all over the country. The one in Karnataka leads in capitation fee, here too. In tune with the Navy advertisement. 'Join the Navy and see the World', the new slogan on journalism is ' Join Journalism and Enjoy One-Upmanship of Life'.
Speaking for my estimable newspaper, Khuswant Singhji's words continue to be the last on Pakistan, Urdu and Wine. Women is no longer his forte. Rajinder Puri Sahib has earned a title, 'The Inimitable Jeeves', M/s Raj Chatterjee and P.L. Bhandari are busy accepting invitations from various institutions for guest lectures on how to write a Middle. Meanwhile a chap, bearing the initials of VVS, backed then possibly by an experience of two decades and his in his sixties, is still struggling to write a Middle worth the name.
The National Media Convention, held the other day, did not include an important item on the agenda. With the turn of the century round the corner, they should have discussed the shape journalism would take in the year 2000 AD. While many guesses can be made on this, here is one version.
A separate Ministry of Journalism has been established, headed by a Minister at the Cabinet rank. The Ministry is housed in a skyscraper, named, 'Paradise'. Independent departments function for writing, editing, printing, etc. but the flourishing ones are those of pseudo-journalism, yellow-journalism, plagiarism. A skeleton staff man sub sections on development journalism and 'success' stories.
After delivering the fatal blow in the 80s to the Press Bill, the Press has achieved yet another major breakthrough. This time, in the name of 'watch-dog of democracy', they got the Officials Secrets Act abolished. Now, not only are they allowed access to every document (Defence not excluded), it has also become mandatory that a copy of every 'Strictly Confidential' letter should be endorsed to the Press. The demand that the Pressmen should be above the law is awaiting judgment at the highest court of law. (However, in the event of a negative judgment, all 'attacks' have been mounted, ready for release at short notice).
Whenever a conference of importance is held the Pressmen, nay newspersons, will be allowed a free bar, with an inexhaustible supply of liquor. Adequate precautions have been taken to keep the security staff or the secretariat members away from even smelling range.
Some of the internal wrangles have also been sorted out through a memorandum of understanding. For instance, an arrangement has been made whereby whenever a reporter attends a function at which complimentaries are distributed, he will accept them only in pairs - one for himself and the other for the sub editor at the desk, teamed up with him. That sub editor, in turn, will cease to butcher the stories of the reporter and, instead, will pass them with minor OPD surgery.
Matrimonial columns are on the increase. Every newspaper claims that in every third house, the match-making has been done thanks to that particular newspaper. Several dailies have come up and the competition has become so tough that as incentive to retain readership, presents are delivered at regular intervals along with the newspapers. Magnifying glasses top this list, with the print-size having reached an all-time low point!
Responding leniently to the laments of readers that too much of in-house news is being passed off as news of public interest, the newspapers have agreed to publish their staff news - marriage, birth, retirement, death, etc. - on a separate page. Notwithstanding this, the various difficulties encountered by journalists, such as to get cinema-tickets on a holiday from a 'house-full' theatre, continue to be worthy of a box-item.
Journalism has become a much sought-after profession, relegating medical and engineering to the backward. Hence several institutions have sprung up all over the country. The one in Karnataka leads in capitation fee, here too. In tune with the Navy advertisement. 'Join the Navy and see the World', the new slogan on journalism is ' Join Journalism and Enjoy One-Upmanship of Life'.
Speaking for my estimable newspaper, Khuswant Singhji's words continue to be the last on Pakistan, Urdu and Wine. Women is no longer his forte. Rajinder Puri Sahib has earned a title, 'The Inimitable Jeeves', M/s Raj Chatterjee and P.L. Bhandari are busy accepting invitations from various institutions for guest lectures on how to write a Middle. Meanwhile a chap, bearing the initials of VVS, backed then possibly by an experience of two decades and his in his sixties, is still struggling to write a Middle worth the name.
Painting competition? No, thanks.
(Hindustan Times, 28 April 1983)
That is what I said to myself last year when I saw my son in tears, having failed to locate me for quite some time after the competition. So, when the announcement of the international painting competition was made recently, I kept it away from my son. But the news did not fail to hit the headlines of his school bulletin board, and he came home blushing with enthusiasm at the prospect of participation. I was not totally unprepared for such a contingency.
"I shall take you to the Gandhi picture, instead." I suggested to him. He refused flatly. "All right, I shall buy you ice-cream, your cough nothwithsanding. How do you like that" I asked him switching over to his favourite eatables. It did not sell either. "Well, I am prepared to revive the subscription to Champak, Tinkle, and other magazines' (I had stopped them pending his annual examination). But that too did not click. Finally, after making a few more offers, warranting greater financial outlay, I gave in - as usual.
Since my parental prestige would be at stake at such an abject surrender, I had stipulated two conditions and sought agreement of both of them (yes, the younger son had also got interested in it by then): that I won't buy them anything to eat whatsoever, on the way: and they would have to manage the show with their incomplete sets of colour boxes.
The arrangement at the competition was that the participating children were taken to an enclosure where parents had no access.
So, having let loose my sons into the areana, my next worry to locate them and keep a constant watch over them (so that I did not reeat last year's tearful performance). After fifteen minutes of frantic search, during which period all the hitherto reported kidnappings and other related incidents converged upon my mind, I spotted them. I said to myself that along with the On the Spot Painting Competition for the children, the organizers should have held a 'Spot Your Child' competition for the parents.
Soon the competition was in full swing. Secret messages in Hindi, Punjabi, Bengali, Tamil and even French were being passed on to children by parents from outside the fence. "Madhabi, draw the kite small the boy big, and not vice versa.', said one mother. 'Sonu, if you want you can draw a jhoola, a see-saw and other things in the park,' suggested a sophisticated lady seeing her son draw a lifeless park. "Paint the sky blue, Unni, not yellow" said another.
At the end of the function, I took safe custody of my children and headed towards home - my sons merrily licking ice-cream and I carrying their next-in-line eatables, in one hand and, in the other, the new colour boxes, card board that I had bought for them earlier outside the venue of the competition. As we walked, my elder elder son said, "Papa, thank you for all these and for promising to revive the subscription. As for the Gandhi film, please don't bother Papa, our school is arranging the show for all of us."
An old Malayalam saying came to my mind: "Eaittu edukkan pol, eraitta pettu" (the lady who went to terminate her pregnancy, returned with twins).
That is what I said to myself last year when I saw my son in tears, having failed to locate me for quite some time after the competition. So, when the announcement of the international painting competition was made recently, I kept it away from my son. But the news did not fail to hit the headlines of his school bulletin board, and he came home blushing with enthusiasm at the prospect of participation. I was not totally unprepared for such a contingency.
"I shall take you to the Gandhi picture, instead." I suggested to him. He refused flatly. "All right, I shall buy you ice-cream, your cough nothwithsanding. How do you like that" I asked him switching over to his favourite eatables. It did not sell either. "Well, I am prepared to revive the subscription to Champak, Tinkle, and other magazines' (I had stopped them pending his annual examination). But that too did not click. Finally, after making a few more offers, warranting greater financial outlay, I gave in - as usual.
Since my parental prestige would be at stake at such an abject surrender, I had stipulated two conditions and sought agreement of both of them (yes, the younger son had also got interested in it by then): that I won't buy them anything to eat whatsoever, on the way: and they would have to manage the show with their incomplete sets of colour boxes.
The arrangement at the competition was that the participating children were taken to an enclosure where parents had no access.
So, having let loose my sons into the areana, my next worry to locate them and keep a constant watch over them (so that I did not reeat last year's tearful performance). After fifteen minutes of frantic search, during which period all the hitherto reported kidnappings and other related incidents converged upon my mind, I spotted them. I said to myself that along with the On the Spot Painting Competition for the children, the organizers should have held a 'Spot Your Child' competition for the parents.
Soon the competition was in full swing. Secret messages in Hindi, Punjabi, Bengali, Tamil and even French were being passed on to children by parents from outside the fence. "Madhabi, draw the kite small the boy big, and not vice versa.', said one mother. 'Sonu, if you want you can draw a jhoola, a see-saw and other things in the park,' suggested a sophisticated lady seeing her son draw a lifeless park. "Paint the sky blue, Unni, not yellow" said another.
At the end of the function, I took safe custody of my children and headed towards home - my sons merrily licking ice-cream and I carrying their next-in-line eatables, in one hand and, in the other, the new colour boxes, card board that I had bought for them earlier outside the venue of the competition. As we walked, my elder elder son said, "Papa, thank you for all these and for promising to revive the subscription. As for the Gandhi film, please don't bother Papa, our school is arranging the show for all of us."
An old Malayalam saying came to my mind: "Eaittu edukkan pol, eraitta pettu" (the lady who went to terminate her pregnancy, returned with twins).
On 'speaking of...'
(Hindustan times 11Feb 1983)
This term, “Speaking of….” Provides an inexhaustible scope to any writer to hop from one topic to the other, it is so tactfully used that the reader does not feel the switchover at all. Here is an example of how you can keep on using this expression and make much ado about nothing.
Speaking of much ado about nothing, one is reminded of an incident in which a hotel owner, an ardent admirer of playwrights, named all the rooms after famous plays. A newly married couple checked in for the night. They wore shown one room, named “Taming of the Shrew”. They did not like it, and were taken to another, “Twelfth Night.” They rejected that too, and finally accepted the third room. The next morning, as they checked out, they observed that their room was named “Much Ado about Nothing” –a well-known play of Shakespeare.
Speaking of Shakespeare, there is a school of thought which believes that Shakespeare was an Indian. They say his name was Sheshappa Aiyar and that he migrating to UK as his literary talents did not receive recognition in India. He shot to prominence in England, and anglicized his name to Shakespeare as he observed that Englishmen had difficulty in pronouncing his ling name.
Speaking of long names, we are familiar with quite a few such names: Srinivasavaradadesikan, Meenakshisundaresan, Ananthapadmanabhan, etc. Such names mostly originate from South India, if you take statistics.
Speaking of statistics, one is reminded of the havoc that the statistical average can cause. Think of the man who, guided by the statistical data that the average depth of the river was only waist deep, ventured to wade through the river, and never got to the other side. This of course, is not to suggest that statistics is useless and that all statisticians should be turned out—no, not especially in these days when it is very difficult to get a job.
Speaking of jobs, one fellow applied for the job of a Security Officer in a company. In his application he wrote that his father had worked as Chief Security Officer in the Defence Ministry for 25 years and had displayed exemplary alertness in his job, etc. The boy was called for interview, and asked: “What is the age of your father?” “65, Sir”’ replied the candidate. “Sorry, we cannot offer him the job; he is too old,” said the interviewer. The boy replied, “But Sir, it is I who have applied for the job, and not my father.” “Yes, but you have given details of your father, and not about yourself”, replied the panel member, bringing to close the interview.
Speaking of interviews, we have heard many anecdotes about the interviews that have reportedly taken place in the selection for the Indian Civil Service. One candidate was asked> “How many senses does a man possess?” e gave the figure as five. “Don’t you think there is also a sixth sense, called commonsense?” queried one of the interviewers. “Yes gentleman”. The chap replied, “in that case there is a seventh sense also, called non-sense.
Speaking of non-sense, perhaps that is that exercise I am engaged in right now, and it is time I stopped making much ado about thing.
This term, “Speaking of….” Provides an inexhaustible scope to any writer to hop from one topic to the other, it is so tactfully used that the reader does not feel the switchover at all. Here is an example of how you can keep on using this expression and make much ado about nothing.
Speaking of much ado about nothing, one is reminded of an incident in which a hotel owner, an ardent admirer of playwrights, named all the rooms after famous plays. A newly married couple checked in for the night. They wore shown one room, named “Taming of the Shrew”. They did not like it, and were taken to another, “Twelfth Night.” They rejected that too, and finally accepted the third room. The next morning, as they checked out, they observed that their room was named “Much Ado about Nothing” –a well-known play of Shakespeare.
Speaking of Shakespeare, there is a school of thought which believes that Shakespeare was an Indian. They say his name was Sheshappa Aiyar and that he migrating to UK as his literary talents did not receive recognition in India. He shot to prominence in England, and anglicized his name to Shakespeare as he observed that Englishmen had difficulty in pronouncing his ling name.
Speaking of long names, we are familiar with quite a few such names: Srinivasavaradadesikan, Meenakshisundaresan, Ananthapadmanabhan, etc. Such names mostly originate from South India, if you take statistics.
Speaking of statistics, one is reminded of the havoc that the statistical average can cause. Think of the man who, guided by the statistical data that the average depth of the river was only waist deep, ventured to wade through the river, and never got to the other side. This of course, is not to suggest that statistics is useless and that all statisticians should be turned out—no, not especially in these days when it is very difficult to get a job.
Speaking of jobs, one fellow applied for the job of a Security Officer in a company. In his application he wrote that his father had worked as Chief Security Officer in the Defence Ministry for 25 years and had displayed exemplary alertness in his job, etc. The boy was called for interview, and asked: “What is the age of your father?” “65, Sir”’ replied the candidate. “Sorry, we cannot offer him the job; he is too old,” said the interviewer. The boy replied, “But Sir, it is I who have applied for the job, and not my father.” “Yes, but you have given details of your father, and not about yourself”, replied the panel member, bringing to close the interview.
Speaking of interviews, we have heard many anecdotes about the interviews that have reportedly taken place in the selection for the Indian Civil Service. One candidate was asked> “How many senses does a man possess?” e gave the figure as five. “Don’t you think there is also a sixth sense, called commonsense?” queried one of the interviewers. “Yes gentleman”. The chap replied, “in that case there is a seventh sense also, called non-sense.
Speaking of non-sense, perhaps that is that exercise I am engaged in right now, and it is time I stopped making much ado about thing.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Communication let loose
(Hindustan Times, 11 March 1983)
We spend a major part of our time in communication - talking, listening, reading, or writing. The communication technology has reached such an advanced stage that newspapers print the same paper simultaneously at their Paris and Hong Kong centers: or, one is able to watch in Delhi a direct telecast of the soccer match being played in Madrid. (Or, sitting in Delhi, we are able to talk to some far off, over the phone. But this is not always true, I confess).
The advancement, however, has not robbed communication of the lighter side. It continues to entertain us, as ever before, through a slight error here or a gap there. Let's have a look.
Mishearing, for example, is a common ailment. One hot afternoon a secretary was called in for dictation. The cool airconditioning in the office coupled with the heavy lunch that he had had that day, made him feel sleepy as he was taking dictation. However, he did manage to take notes, and the letters that he typed had sentences like this. "He announced a grant of Rs 10 000 with the powers wasted (vested) in him": "The expenses incurred on fried eggs (Friday) were met by the Organization": "We shall send you a keep (jeep) tonight": "On an average he deceived (received) Rs 5000 per month.
Printer's devil also plays a genial host to many a humorous situation. The other day it made the External Affairs Minister an Eternal Affairs Minister. The word 'immortal' became 'immoral' passing through several hands in the press. The considerate compositor conferred on the 'population' expert the status of a 'copulation' expert. We all know how the 'battle-scarred' General was reduced to a 'battle-scared' general and, on protest to the newspaper office, a correction was issued which made him a 'bottle-scarred' General. Most recently, a missing girl's father's request to the police 'to trace' his daughter got in as 'to trade' his daughter, and opened new vistas to the Police force.
Brevity is no doubt a quality in communication, but if it is overdone, it may have the reverse effect. A beginner in journalism sent a cable to his main office: "Can I send a piece on___?" The answer arrived promptly. "Send in 500 words." The reporter wrote back. "Can't be told in less than 1000 words." The Head Office cabled back: "Story of creation of world told in 500. Try it." He kept this 'dig' in mind, and next time he filed a death story thus: "Mr ____looked up the elevator shaft to see if the lift was on its way down. It was. Age 45."
Apart from being humorous, sometimes the gap in communication can also be disastrous. "Hang him not spare him" came a cable from the king, on the day of execution, accepting a clemency petition. The Jail Superintendent read it as "Hang him, not spare him." And promptly executed the convict. We have also heard stories in which the patients had swallowed the medicine the doctor had wanted them to apply externally. And nurses had injected drugs into the patients' veins when they were supposed to administer them orally. All because of a gap in communication.
These instances are okay for record. But last month, I became an affected party myself to one such communication-gap incident. We attended an 'express delivery' wedding arranged through one of those brokers whose writings on the wall decorate the capital. The boy, we were told, was one langda Lal Singh's son. As the bridegroom got down from the mare, he limped his way to the mandap. Seeing this, the girl's father got furious and stared at the broker who replied coolly: "Yes sir, I told you, the boy was langda, Lal Singh's son." To cut matters short, in the free-for-all scuffle that followed, we missed a delicious Punjabi dinner that we looked forward to.
We spend a major part of our time in communication - talking, listening, reading, or writing. The communication technology has reached such an advanced stage that newspapers print the same paper simultaneously at their Paris and Hong Kong centers: or, one is able to watch in Delhi a direct telecast of the soccer match being played in Madrid. (Or, sitting in Delhi, we are able to talk to some far off, over the phone. But this is not always true, I confess).
The advancement, however, has not robbed communication of the lighter side. It continues to entertain us, as ever before, through a slight error here or a gap there. Let's have a look.
Mishearing, for example, is a common ailment. One hot afternoon a secretary was called in for dictation. The cool airconditioning in the office coupled with the heavy lunch that he had had that day, made him feel sleepy as he was taking dictation. However, he did manage to take notes, and the letters that he typed had sentences like this. "He announced a grant of Rs 10 000 with the powers wasted (vested) in him": "The expenses incurred on fried eggs (Friday) were met by the Organization": "We shall send you a keep (jeep) tonight": "On an average he deceived (received) Rs 5000 per month.
Printer's devil also plays a genial host to many a humorous situation. The other day it made the External Affairs Minister an Eternal Affairs Minister. The word 'immortal' became 'immoral' passing through several hands in the press. The considerate compositor conferred on the 'population' expert the status of a 'copulation' expert. We all know how the 'battle-scarred' General was reduced to a 'battle-scared' general and, on protest to the newspaper office, a correction was issued which made him a 'bottle-scarred' General. Most recently, a missing girl's father's request to the police 'to trace' his daughter got in as 'to trade' his daughter, and opened new vistas to the Police force.
Brevity is no doubt a quality in communication, but if it is overdone, it may have the reverse effect. A beginner in journalism sent a cable to his main office: "Can I send a piece on___?" The answer arrived promptly. "Send in 500 words." The reporter wrote back. "Can't be told in less than 1000 words." The Head Office cabled back: "Story of creation of world told in 500. Try it." He kept this 'dig' in mind, and next time he filed a death story thus: "Mr ____looked up the elevator shaft to see if the lift was on its way down. It was. Age 45."
Apart from being humorous, sometimes the gap in communication can also be disastrous. "Hang him not spare him" came a cable from the king, on the day of execution, accepting a clemency petition. The Jail Superintendent read it as "Hang him, not spare him." And promptly executed the convict. We have also heard stories in which the patients had swallowed the medicine the doctor had wanted them to apply externally. And nurses had injected drugs into the patients' veins when they were supposed to administer them orally. All because of a gap in communication.
These instances are okay for record. But last month, I became an affected party myself to one such communication-gap incident. We attended an 'express delivery' wedding arranged through one of those brokers whose writings on the wall decorate the capital. The boy, we were told, was one langda Lal Singh's son. As the bridegroom got down from the mare, he limped his way to the mandap. Seeing this, the girl's father got furious and stared at the broker who replied coolly: "Yes sir, I told you, the boy was langda, Lal Singh's son." To cut matters short, in the free-for-all scuffle that followed, we missed a delicious Punjabi dinner that we looked forward to.
Care for a ride?
(Hindustan Times, 5 September, 1983)
I have always admired the trading community for their ingenuity. Several are the baits they offer to hook you and make you part with your money and yet leave you with a satisfied feeling. Their sales techniques, advertisement gimmicks and various schemes 'aimed at benefiting the common man' are matchless.
Almost daily we see an advertisement announcing a Grand Sale of...Mills sarees. The layout of the ad gives you the impression that it is organized by the mills themselves. Far from it. It is by a private party. And he does manage to attract a good crowd, as I saw the other day when I went there.
Another ad displays the comparative prices of various merchandise, and gives one star-attraction item in bold letters - say, a terrycot shirting at Rs 12 per metre. If you rush to the shop to buy this, you are told, even if you an early bird, that it has just been sold out. The salesman would then persuade you to have a look at other items. Ultimately you reach home with the most unexpected items, and spend the rest of the day justifying your buy to your better half.
Whatever be the reputation of a company, not all their products will be fast moving. But the company does not rest on its laurels with the popular items. On the other hand, it directs its efforts at the non-moving products. It offers one piece of the dead stock at 50 per cent price along with the fast selling item. Thus you find yourself buying with each detergent packet, one tube of the company's mouth-burning toothpaste. If you are a manufacturing-date watcher, you will find such items either too old, or the dates cleverly mutilated.
Often government exerts pressure on the manufacturers to reduce prices. Such requests are promptly responded to. Not by reducing the prices, but by agreeing to give something free with each packet. More often than not, these 'free' items are the ones that have been denied a berth on the shop shelf. This way the manufacturer abides by the government request and disposes of his dead stock, and the government feels happy at its success. As for the consumers, we are always happy at anything given free.
There are occasions when the seller confides in you the origin of 'seconds' to convince you that you are after all not buying any inferior stuff. "It is stamped 'seconds' deliberately", he assures, "to avoid excise duty and thus allow our products to reach the common man."
The publicity industry too has its own code of conduct. You get a personalized printed letter inviting you to subscribe to their magazine. After a few abortive attempts, they make a final offer of a special gift with subscription. The gift would depend, they say, on the manner you fill up the card. A friend of mine and I decided to go for this. We filled up our cards differently to receive separate gifts. Yes, the gifts did come - both of us got copies of the same book. From the yellow colour that the pages have acquired, we could guess that the publishers had a tough time selling copies.
While many are the occasions when I have been taken for a ride, one particular experience stands out. A classified ad from a Ludhiana firm offered the 'final' remedy for bed bugs. Although I enjoyed a peaceful co-existence with bed bugs, I decided to go for this product. It arrived promptly by VPP, for Rs 10. Inside the parcel was a match-box filled with a white powder and a tiny plastic two-in-one apparatus, one end a spoon and the other a hammer. The instructions slip suggested that each time I located a bed bug, I must put a spoonful of that power on it with the spoon end, and squash the bug to death with the other end.
I have always admired the trading community for their ingenuity. Several are the baits they offer to hook you and make you part with your money and yet leave you with a satisfied feeling. Their sales techniques, advertisement gimmicks and various schemes 'aimed at benefiting the common man' are matchless.
Almost daily we see an advertisement announcing a Grand Sale of...Mills sarees. The layout of the ad gives you the impression that it is organized by the mills themselves. Far from it. It is by a private party. And he does manage to attract a good crowd, as I saw the other day when I went there.
Another ad displays the comparative prices of various merchandise, and gives one star-attraction item in bold letters - say, a terrycot shirting at Rs 12 per metre. If you rush to the shop to buy this, you are told, even if you an early bird, that it has just been sold out. The salesman would then persuade you to have a look at other items. Ultimately you reach home with the most unexpected items, and spend the rest of the day justifying your buy to your better half.
Whatever be the reputation of a company, not all their products will be fast moving. But the company does not rest on its laurels with the popular items. On the other hand, it directs its efforts at the non-moving products. It offers one piece of the dead stock at 50 per cent price along with the fast selling item. Thus you find yourself buying with each detergent packet, one tube of the company's mouth-burning toothpaste. If you are a manufacturing-date watcher, you will find such items either too old, or the dates cleverly mutilated.
Often government exerts pressure on the manufacturers to reduce prices. Such requests are promptly responded to. Not by reducing the prices, but by agreeing to give something free with each packet. More often than not, these 'free' items are the ones that have been denied a berth on the shop shelf. This way the manufacturer abides by the government request and disposes of his dead stock, and the government feels happy at its success. As for the consumers, we are always happy at anything given free.
There are occasions when the seller confides in you the origin of 'seconds' to convince you that you are after all not buying any inferior stuff. "It is stamped 'seconds' deliberately", he assures, "to avoid excise duty and thus allow our products to reach the common man."
The publicity industry too has its own code of conduct. You get a personalized printed letter inviting you to subscribe to their magazine. After a few abortive attempts, they make a final offer of a special gift with subscription. The gift would depend, they say, on the manner you fill up the card. A friend of mine and I decided to go for this. We filled up our cards differently to receive separate gifts. Yes, the gifts did come - both of us got copies of the same book. From the yellow colour that the pages have acquired, we could guess that the publishers had a tough time selling copies.
While many are the occasions when I have been taken for a ride, one particular experience stands out. A classified ad from a Ludhiana firm offered the 'final' remedy for bed bugs. Although I enjoyed a peaceful co-existence with bed bugs, I decided to go for this product. It arrived promptly by VPP, for Rs 10. Inside the parcel was a match-box filled with a white powder and a tiny plastic two-in-one apparatus, one end a spoon and the other a hammer. The instructions slip suggested that each time I located a bed bug, I must put a spoonful of that power on it with the spoon end, and squash the bug to death with the other end.
Joining the Mainstream
India Currents
December 2008
To begin with, I threw to winds my customary dress code, and switched over to shorts. Back home any senior citizen in that attire would attract a second glance - less in admiration than in ridicule.
We knew we should say Hi when there was an eye contact with a passerby. We practise this, more so during our daily morning walk. One weekend our son decided to join us. When we greeted unfailingly all the six or seven morning walkers who passed by, he clarified to us that when he briefed us what he actually meant was that if there was an eye contact then we should greet, and not make it a point to establish eye contact with everyone that passed by. “You are too late,“ we corrected him. All of them were regular walkers and that we had already established rapport - not only with them but with their accompanying dogs as well.
Speaking of dogs, the other day during our walk, a lady stopped her car and asked us if we saw her Beagle which had been missing since early morning. We said we had not seen one, but promised to get back to her on spotting it, if she cared to give her mobile number. The very next day, we spotted a dog - or, the dog spotted us, to be precise - and it followed us through all the rounds, and up to our doorstep. We guessed this must be the dog, and rang her up. She rushed in, but said this was not Beagle. We felt sorry for her. The following weekend, during the course of our window-shopping in a Mall, we stumbled upon a shop that traded dogs, cats and other pet animals. We went in, and saw that one cage marked Beagle. ‘Here is the Beagle that the lady had lost’, we told our son victoriously. Guessing that I was all set to dial the lady’s number, he hastened to clarify: ‘Dad, Beagle is a breed and not the name of a dog.’ Saddened though, we consoled ourselves that we had at least the intention to be helpful – and well intended is half done.
Within the national community, we got opportunities by the dozen to interact, thanks to the host of ‘bring your parents also’ kind of invitations that my son and daughter-in-law received. On all such occasions my solitary aim was to look around for someone to make friends with; somebody in my age group – the senior citizen clan or thereabouts. So far the count has reached three. One is a scientist on oncology, with quite a few publications to his credit. If he wrote scientific books to enlighten his specific medical community, I marketed, until last year, those very kind of health-related publications (with no clues whatsoever on their contents), to the unsuspecting. Thus there was some common bond. The second is an industrial engineer by qualification and electronics engineer by profession – a replica of my second son’s bio data. An area of commonality, again. The third is an eighty-year old, and music brought me closer, with a slight difference – he was good at singing and I, at listening.
The neighbourhood. The take-off was a little slow but sure. Confined to home as we are for most part of the day, the interaction has been more with the homemakers than with their spouses. Beginning with a hi, how do you do guys, the weather is pretty hot isn’t it, the relationship has graduated to exchange of home-made eatables each one specialized in, followed by exchange of information. One of them has adopted two African-American children, and two Caucasian kids. Another has sponsored the education of two Nepalese children up to the college level. The senior is about to reach college level and she sought our views on getting him admission in a medical college in India.
With the date for our departure nearing, Cathy, Sandra, Julia, Eleana, and the other neighbours have all become so friendly with us that they, on their part, pine to visit India, and we, eager to welcome them. They no longer identify India with snake-charmers and elephants. As for my wife she has already mentally re-decorated our guest room for such a possible visit. It is a small world, isn’t it?
V.V. Sundaram
16 August 2006
What's in a name?
(Hindustan Times 20 May 1983)
Thus asked Shakespeare realizing little that there is Everything in a name. Years ago, for daring to spell the name of my Branch Manager as Mukherjee, I got a note: "I am not Mukherjee. I am only Mukerjee. (That he marked my name on the envelope as Shundaram, is a different story). In another instance, when I prounced the name of a person by his spelling, I almost lost a gift he had brought for me. He was one Mr. Cockburn (pronounced Coburn). Thereafter, I am very particular to distinguish Som Prakash from Som Parkash, Subramaniam from Subrahmanian, or Arora from Aurora.
Not only are the names very important: namedropping is equally so. A friend of mine was working as secretary to a politician. Whenever the politician had visitors, he would call his secretary and start dictating to him: "My dear Panditji", "My dear Morarjibhai", "My dear TTK". Soon a permament shamiana had to be erected in front of his house to seat the increasing number of visitors.
In Mahabharata, Yudhishthira announces "Ashwathama Hathah Kunjaraha" (Ashwathama has been killed, the elephant) and misled Drona, whose son's name was Ashwathama. Thus, names can also cause mix-up, intentionally or otherwise. Take for example, my own experience. The other day I received a telephone call from a lady: "Hello, Sundaram, I am Miss.. speaking. So, how is the booking now?" Having never had to go at any booking business, I asked her: "Excuse me Madam, I am a slow starter, but could you tell me what kind of booking you actually mean?" "Come on Sundaram, don't joke. I rang up to enquire the booking of Mr.. Is his route confirmed?" Only then did I realize that she had wanted to talk to Travel Sundaram, the new arrival. I explained the position accordingly. "Oh, I see, so you are the other Sundaram?" she asked. "Not exactly. I am Sundaram, and he is the other Sundaram." I clarified, unwilling to dethrone myself in favour of the new Sundaram. " Well, then can I say that he is Travel Sundaram and you are Stationary Sundaram?" she suggested, trying to be jovial. I wanted to give her a befitting reply, but my presence of mind failed.
Anyway, the result is that I am working underground to establish a Namesake Association on the lines of the Baldies Club, The primary objective would be that in any office if more than one person bearing the same name is employed, a namesake allowance will be paid, similar to the officiating allowance. Right now I am enlisting the co-operation of the Kapoors, Khannas and Bhatias in the North and the Ramans and Krishnans in the South. Desais and Patels will cover the West; and Chatterjees, Mukherjees and Banerjees will take care of the East. I pity my brethren from Bihar where the decision to take surnames out of circulation from the official records will render Mishras and Sinhas poorer than their counterparts elsewhere in the country once this allowance is effected. Of course, if Sardarji also claim that each of them is being called "Mr Singh" and not as Bhupinder, Jitender or Narender, then the implementation of the Namesake Allowance will suffer a set back; it will have to be put off until the next financial year to provide for a colossal financial outlay.
After achieving success at the national level, we will concentrate on the international community. We will solicit the cooperation of the Smiths and Joneses, and see to it that this allowance is extended to every Tom, Dick and Harry.
Thus asked Shakespeare realizing little that there is Everything in a name. Years ago, for daring to spell the name of my Branch Manager as Mukherjee, I got a note: "I am not Mukherjee. I am only Mukerjee. (That he marked my name on the envelope as Shundaram, is a different story). In another instance, when I prounced the name of a person by his spelling, I almost lost a gift he had brought for me. He was one Mr. Cockburn (pronounced Coburn). Thereafter, I am very particular to distinguish Som Prakash from Som Parkash, Subramaniam from Subrahmanian, or Arora from Aurora.
Not only are the names very important: namedropping is equally so. A friend of mine was working as secretary to a politician. Whenever the politician had visitors, he would call his secretary and start dictating to him: "My dear Panditji", "My dear Morarjibhai", "My dear TTK". Soon a permament shamiana had to be erected in front of his house to seat the increasing number of visitors.
In Mahabharata, Yudhishthira announces "Ashwathama Hathah Kunjaraha" (Ashwathama has been killed, the elephant) and misled Drona, whose son's name was Ashwathama. Thus, names can also cause mix-up, intentionally or otherwise. Take for example, my own experience. The other day I received a telephone call from a lady: "Hello, Sundaram, I am Miss.. speaking. So, how is the booking now?" Having never had to go at any booking business, I asked her: "Excuse me Madam, I am a slow starter, but could you tell me what kind of booking you actually mean?" "Come on Sundaram, don't joke. I rang up to enquire the booking of Mr.. Is his route confirmed?" Only then did I realize that she had wanted to talk to Travel Sundaram, the new arrival. I explained the position accordingly. "Oh, I see, so you are the other Sundaram?" she asked. "Not exactly. I am Sundaram, and he is the other Sundaram." I clarified, unwilling to dethrone myself in favour of the new Sundaram. " Well, then can I say that he is Travel Sundaram and you are Stationary Sundaram?" she suggested, trying to be jovial. I wanted to give her a befitting reply, but my presence of mind failed.
Anyway, the result is that I am working underground to establish a Namesake Association on the lines of the Baldies Club, The primary objective would be that in any office if more than one person bearing the same name is employed, a namesake allowance will be paid, similar to the officiating allowance. Right now I am enlisting the co-operation of the Kapoors, Khannas and Bhatias in the North and the Ramans and Krishnans in the South. Desais and Patels will cover the West; and Chatterjees, Mukherjees and Banerjees will take care of the East. I pity my brethren from Bihar where the decision to take surnames out of circulation from the official records will render Mishras and Sinhas poorer than their counterparts elsewhere in the country once this allowance is effected. Of course, if Sardarji also claim that each of them is being called "Mr Singh" and not as Bhupinder, Jitender or Narender, then the implementation of the Namesake Allowance will suffer a set back; it will have to be put off until the next financial year to provide for a colossal financial outlay.
After achieving success at the national level, we will concentrate on the international community. We will solicit the cooperation of the Smiths and Joneses, and see to it that this allowance is extended to every Tom, Dick and Harry.
Simple Words, please
(Hindustan Times, 18 October 1983)
Some people are fond of using long-winded words and sentences when simple, straightforward ones could do, and are available in plenty. A friend of mine was an addict to this. If we asked him for the time, he would reply: "85 minutes to 4.35", and get us to figure out the time as 3.20. No wonder, he was nicknamed 'roundabout' Laxman.
Take a few words from the field of medicine and see how long unpronounceable they are. Pneumonoultramicros - copiscillicovolcanoconiasis, dyrrolidinomethyltetracycle, methoxymethylenedioxyamphetamine and dicarbethoxydihydrocollidine. Honestly, when I finish prouncing or spelling them (which is quicker), I heave a sigh of relief as though I have made it to the open from a suffocating mine. I have often wondered why a small representative word cannot be used to convey these long words. 'Mono' (a fruit-tree spray), for example, is used to convey its full form monoethanolamine-dinitrocyclohexylphenolate.
Long words apart, there are instances when a simple word can replace a high-sound one. Why cannot the doctors call it 'head-ache' instead of referring it to as 'cephalgia'? Isn't 'heart attack' better understood than 'myocardial infraction'? 'Xerostomia' is confusing but not when you say 'dry mouth'. Why say 'pyrosis' and not 'heart burn'? (I am referring, by the way to the medical one. Not the one caused when thy neighbour gets a VCR or a car ahead of you, or when the promotion is bagged by somebody other than you). I think it is time these expressions are deymystified for they neither accelerate nor facilitate communication, but only create panic and anxiety.
Frankly, I have still not been able to come to terms with some of the stock-market definitions: bulls, bears, lambs, etc. Surely some direct expressions must be available to replace these metaphoric ones. I only know that the word 'liquid' is applied to 'investors'. That too I came to know by asking someone a foolish question: "What liquid have you in mind?"
Even in day to day communication, one is bombarded with complex words. They may not exactly be complex, but why use them where there is no dearth of simple, short words? Instead of saying 'contraindicated' why not say 'not advisable' or 'should not be given'? Why use 'causative factor' when 'cause' conveys the same meaning? Why 'administer' when 'give' can serve? In place of 'the fact that he had not succeeded', say simply 'his failure'. Why not replace the phrase 'in spite of the fact that' with one word 'though'? Of course, I am not on a puritan trip suggesting primary-school English, but certainly I am no advocate of high sounding words which keep the reader to remain on the alert and guessing.
Remember the story of the two who were stranded in two distant parts of a God-forsaken island? After a few days, when they were frantically looking round for some to pick them up, they spotted a helicopter. One wrote on a placard: "I am left behind here in a shipwreck: I have not had food for days: I shall be most grateful if you could kindly rescue me", and displayed it to attract the pilot's attention. The other wrote in big, bold letters just HELP. The pilot understood his message and rescued him promptly.
In sharp contrast to these circuitous expressions, certain abbreviations have begun to be used liberally these days. RIP, for Rest in Peace, KIM for Keep in Mind, WPB for Waste Paper Basket, RIF, for Reduction in Force, SWT, for Sheer Waste of Time, NVP for Not very Particular. Don't you feel they provide a refreshing change? Perhaps, in these days of fast life, we should plead for such simple and short versions in preference to circumlocution.
Some people are fond of using long-winded words and sentences when simple, straightforward ones could do, and are available in plenty. A friend of mine was an addict to this. If we asked him for the time, he would reply: "85 minutes to 4.35", and get us to figure out the time as 3.20. No wonder, he was nicknamed 'roundabout' Laxman.
Take a few words from the field of medicine and see how long unpronounceable they are. Pneumonoultramicros - copiscillicovolcanoconiasis, dyrrolidinomethyltetracycle, methoxymethylenedioxyamphetamine and dicarbethoxydihydrocollidine. Honestly, when I finish prouncing or spelling them (which is quicker), I heave a sigh of relief as though I have made it to the open from a suffocating mine. I have often wondered why a small representative word cannot be used to convey these long words. 'Mono' (a fruit-tree spray), for example, is used to convey its full form monoethanolamine-dinitrocyclohexylphenolate.
Long words apart, there are instances when a simple word can replace a high-sound one. Why cannot the doctors call it 'head-ache' instead of referring it to as 'cephalgia'? Isn't 'heart attack' better understood than 'myocardial infraction'? 'Xerostomia' is confusing but not when you say 'dry mouth'. Why say 'pyrosis' and not 'heart burn'? (I am referring, by the way to the medical one. Not the one caused when thy neighbour gets a VCR or a car ahead of you, or when the promotion is bagged by somebody other than you). I think it is time these expressions are deymystified for they neither accelerate nor facilitate communication, but only create panic and anxiety.
Frankly, I have still not been able to come to terms with some of the stock-market definitions: bulls, bears, lambs, etc. Surely some direct expressions must be available to replace these metaphoric ones. I only know that the word 'liquid' is applied to 'investors'. That too I came to know by asking someone a foolish question: "What liquid have you in mind?"
Even in day to day communication, one is bombarded with complex words. They may not exactly be complex, but why use them where there is no dearth of simple, short words? Instead of saying 'contraindicated' why not say 'not advisable' or 'should not be given'? Why use 'causative factor' when 'cause' conveys the same meaning? Why 'administer' when 'give' can serve? In place of 'the fact that he had not succeeded', say simply 'his failure'. Why not replace the phrase 'in spite of the fact that' with one word 'though'? Of course, I am not on a puritan trip suggesting primary-school English, but certainly I am no advocate of high sounding words which keep the reader to remain on the alert and guessing.
Remember the story of the two who were stranded in two distant parts of a God-forsaken island? After a few days, when they were frantically looking round for some to pick them up, they spotted a helicopter. One wrote on a placard: "I am left behind here in a shipwreck: I have not had food for days: I shall be most grateful if you could kindly rescue me", and displayed it to attract the pilot's attention. The other wrote in big, bold letters just HELP. The pilot understood his message and rescued him promptly.
In sharp contrast to these circuitous expressions, certain abbreviations have begun to be used liberally these days. RIP, for Rest in Peace, KIM for Keep in Mind, WPB for Waste Paper Basket, RIF, for Reduction in Force, SWT, for Sheer Waste of Time, NVP for Not very Particular. Don't you feel they provide a refreshing change? Perhaps, in these days of fast life, we should plead for such simple and short versions in preference to circumlocution.
Sardarji for company
(Hindustan Times, 26 September 1983)
I felt happy that my train journey this time would have a cinematic touch. Next to me, in Rajdhani chair car was a charming, sociable lady. She was traveling alone and going all the way - to Calcutta.
The train moved, I exchanged pleasantries and started a dialogue with her. A voice came from behind. "Excuse me, are you together, please?" It was a Sardarji with a lady next to him. Totally displeased at this uncalled for interruption, I replied: "Yes, we are seated next to each other and are traveling together." But in a battle of wits, he had the fact coughed out of me. He turned to his co-passenger and asked her: "Madam, would you like to have a lady companion?" Exasperated with Sardarji's overflowing figure she was only glad to respond in the affirmative. Sardarji then talked my neighbour and exchanged seat with her. Thus, among the three of them - to the total elimination of me - they made the new arrangement even before the train had crossed a kilometer or two. So became Sardarji my neighbour-in-law. To register my hostility, I took out the 400-odd page novel and made my intentions clear - that I would have nothing to do with him whatsoever throughout the journey.
A few minutes later, Sardarji greeted me, in an effort to establish rapport. I heard him, but I did not respond. He repeated: "Namaste Bhai Sahib". Unwilling though I was to be a 'bhai' to such an inhospitable person who took special pains to disturb what had come my way, I did not want this time to disrespect his age (should be 15 years senior). So I turned to him and said 'hello' only to return to my book. 'I am sorry I might have caused you some inconvenience. But you see, it does not look nice to drink sitting next to a lady and let her feel insecure. That is why I made this arrangement' Sardarji explained. "Between us, you see," he continued, 'we can have a few pegs and have an enjoyable journey'. I corrected him that I was a teetotaler. 'In that case", he insisted, 'you should eat some nick-nack items at least' and placed before me cashew nuts, peanuts, chips, mixture, etc. That made all the difference. I obliged him and reinforced myself each time he sipped his glass. I have always held that, like time, food is a great healer. We recognized thus each other's existence and established diplomatic relations.
An hour later, we were busy exchanging all information about ourselves. While my biography was drab and dry, I hung on his lips (whisky smell notwithstanding) was he narrated his account; especially his narrow escape from death during the India-Pakistan partition riot.
It was the first day of the riot. He was in a train going from Chakwal to Rawalpindi. On hearing that trouble was brewing, all passengers got down - but not Sardarji; he was bent on going to college. In the next station, the mob looked for the only Sardarji in the train, pulled him down and gave him left and right, and recommended that he should be put under the rails. A Maulvi quoted a verse from Quran that an unripe fruit should not be plucked. Sardarji was spared. The train moved; he bolted himself inside the toilet. When the train stopped at the next station, here also the mob looked for the Sardarji. One elderly gentleman in the train who knew the Sardarji's hideout suggested to him to escape through the other side. This he did only to find people chasing him minutes later. He ran for his life and landed in a prohibited military area. The choice was clear - blows from the mob or guns of the military fellows. Sardarji climbed a tree and clung to it for hours. When the mob dispersed, he quietly slipped. He was spotted by a group of local railway employees who were engaged in saving their non-Muslim brethren. They asked him if he knew any of his people in that locality so that they could arrange for his stay. He named one and was taken there; but the lady of the house refused to identify him, related to him though. Ultimately he was allowed to stay in, but she persisted him to go away as quickly as possible as she feared that his presence would endanger their lives as well. Next morning the local group gave Sardarji a porter's uniform and asked him to escape. He reached home to the inexplicable joy of his parents who had written him off.
"Anytime facts are more interesting than fiction", I said to myself as I slipped the novel back into my briefcase with the book mark still on page 1, and got ready to get down at Howrah Station.
I felt happy that my train journey this time would have a cinematic touch. Next to me, in Rajdhani chair car was a charming, sociable lady. She was traveling alone and going all the way - to Calcutta.
The train moved, I exchanged pleasantries and started a dialogue with her. A voice came from behind. "Excuse me, are you together, please?" It was a Sardarji with a lady next to him. Totally displeased at this uncalled for interruption, I replied: "Yes, we are seated next to each other and are traveling together." But in a battle of wits, he had the fact coughed out of me. He turned to his co-passenger and asked her: "Madam, would you like to have a lady companion?" Exasperated with Sardarji's overflowing figure she was only glad to respond in the affirmative. Sardarji then talked my neighbour and exchanged seat with her. Thus, among the three of them - to the total elimination of me - they made the new arrangement even before the train had crossed a kilometer or two. So became Sardarji my neighbour-in-law. To register my hostility, I took out the 400-odd page novel and made my intentions clear - that I would have nothing to do with him whatsoever throughout the journey.
A few minutes later, Sardarji greeted me, in an effort to establish rapport. I heard him, but I did not respond. He repeated: "Namaste Bhai Sahib". Unwilling though I was to be a 'bhai' to such an inhospitable person who took special pains to disturb what had come my way, I did not want this time to disrespect his age (should be 15 years senior). So I turned to him and said 'hello' only to return to my book. 'I am sorry I might have caused you some inconvenience. But you see, it does not look nice to drink sitting next to a lady and let her feel insecure. That is why I made this arrangement' Sardarji explained. "Between us, you see," he continued, 'we can have a few pegs and have an enjoyable journey'. I corrected him that I was a teetotaler. 'In that case", he insisted, 'you should eat some nick-nack items at least' and placed before me cashew nuts, peanuts, chips, mixture, etc. That made all the difference. I obliged him and reinforced myself each time he sipped his glass. I have always held that, like time, food is a great healer. We recognized thus each other's existence and established diplomatic relations.
An hour later, we were busy exchanging all information about ourselves. While my biography was drab and dry, I hung on his lips (whisky smell notwithstanding) was he narrated his account; especially his narrow escape from death during the India-Pakistan partition riot.
It was the first day of the riot. He was in a train going from Chakwal to Rawalpindi. On hearing that trouble was brewing, all passengers got down - but not Sardarji; he was bent on going to college. In the next station, the mob looked for the only Sardarji in the train, pulled him down and gave him left and right, and recommended that he should be put under the rails. A Maulvi quoted a verse from Quran that an unripe fruit should not be plucked. Sardarji was spared. The train moved; he bolted himself inside the toilet. When the train stopped at the next station, here also the mob looked for the Sardarji. One elderly gentleman in the train who knew the Sardarji's hideout suggested to him to escape through the other side. This he did only to find people chasing him minutes later. He ran for his life and landed in a prohibited military area. The choice was clear - blows from the mob or guns of the military fellows. Sardarji climbed a tree and clung to it for hours. When the mob dispersed, he quietly slipped. He was spotted by a group of local railway employees who were engaged in saving their non-Muslim brethren. They asked him if he knew any of his people in that locality so that they could arrange for his stay. He named one and was taken there; but the lady of the house refused to identify him, related to him though. Ultimately he was allowed to stay in, but she persisted him to go away as quickly as possible as she feared that his presence would endanger their lives as well. Next morning the local group gave Sardarji a porter's uniform and asked him to escape. He reached home to the inexplicable joy of his parents who had written him off.
"Anytime facts are more interesting than fiction", I said to myself as I slipped the novel back into my briefcase with the book mark still on page 1, and got ready to get down at Howrah Station.
Retirement Plan
A great saint of India, Kabir said thus: do today that which is due tomorrow; and at this moment that which you are supposed to do today...
Unwittingly though, I am given to procrastination, or ‘postpone the evil’. Thus, in the five years preceding my retirement, I shelved to my master Retirement Plan all projects that involved either physical or mental labour - or both. No wonder, on the day of my retirement the list ran to a staggering 48 items. To name a few: vigorous weight-reduction workouts; retrieve from the attic the dust-laden religious scriptures and mind-boggling, not-more-than-two-pages-a-day, philosophical books and demystify their contents; attempt to fine-tune my vocal chord (when no one is at home, that is) to render it a semblance of music when I sing; and, above all, take up what was closer to my heart two decades ago - write light-reading pieces which, in the absence of anything better that day, used to get published in the leading Indian leading newspapers.
Retirement has got past a little over a year ago, but those 48-odd items still await translation into reality. One of them is to read books. Of course I did read some books, but covered the first five to fifteen pages, before I hopped on to another, yet another, and doing justice to none. The solitary book that I read from page one to the end was: ‘100 ways to live 100’ but, here again, I confess, with a liberal skip of pages in between.
I got an opportunity to gauge my skills at singing recently when I joined a chorus to sing religious songs. The chap next to me however spared repeated side-glances at me as though wondering whether I should really care to render the support.
As for the regular workout, my wife and I attempt to take a walk in the mornings to the nearby lake. It has a large playground as well. On Mondays the walk is ruled out because a workforce of five drive their four-wheel lawn mowers at break-neck speed, providing the spectacle of a formula race. Consequently, apart from the noise pollution, there is an unlimited supply of grass all over the pathway.. I am allergic to grass, and I have my wife’s permission not to take risk. Walk on Tuesdays is risky because that is the day the sprinklers operate. Inanimate though, these sprinklers water both the grass and cemented areas without discrimination. Thus, unless one is determined to have a shower-cum-walk with chances of a Laurel-and-Hardy type fall, and resultant slip disc or hip injury, very few will venture. And either on Saturday or Sunday morning, we skip the walk because all of us together in the family watch a movie or two and go to bed late the previous night. On days that are still left, the weather takes charge - too hot, cloudy, drizzling, etc.
The writing front too would have met with the same fate but for the persistence and perseverance of my two sons – one in Phoenix and the other in San Jose. Given to sobriety (being the elder one), the Phoenix son’s customary question on return from Office has been: “So, Dad, were you able to attempt anything today?” instead of asking pointblank, ‘Did you write anything at all?” It is a different thing that very often I take our two-year old grandson for a walk to the park synchronizing with my son’s return from office - to avoid this direct question. The younger one in San Jose is made of a different mettle. He rings up unfailing twice a week. My evasive replies that I helped the elder one in gardening, shopping, repair work, etc. fall into his deaf ears. He is down to earth, and emphatically reminds me that no doubt physical activity is important, but mental activity is no less, more so if one wishes to keep off dementia, Alzheimer’s, etc.
So much for the sons. The modus operandi of the lady of the house, however, is different. She is a past master at persuasion. Three decades of life with me, and who can know more of me. That leaves my two daughters-in-law. They are nice. They joined our family less than five years ago. Still hibernating, you see.
.
To add insult to the injury, at my retirement farewell function I was referred to as untiring, diligent, methodical, etc. - expressions that had managed to evade my annual appraisal reports in the preceding 35 years. (What bothers me is why they reserve these expressions for the farewell function?) Anyway, I was taken in by these encomiums, and in that moment of weakness I listed in my thanksgiving speech things that I hoped to be busy with on retirement - with a time schedule, to cap it all. And with email coming handy, many of them still stay in touch, all eager to get the ‘progress report’, if any, that is.
So, driven to despair from all quarters, here I am hammering a piece to reflect the thought process of a retiree, for whom freedom and quietude still remain cherished ambitions.
V.V. Sundaram
16 August 2006
Unwittingly though, I am given to procrastination, or ‘postpone the evil’. Thus, in the five years preceding my retirement, I shelved to my master Retirement Plan all projects that involved either physical or mental labour - or both. No wonder, on the day of my retirement the list ran to a staggering 48 items. To name a few: vigorous weight-reduction workouts; retrieve from the attic the dust-laden religious scriptures and mind-boggling, not-more-than-two-pages-a-day, philosophical books and demystify their contents; attempt to fine-tune my vocal chord (when no one is at home, that is) to render it a semblance of music when I sing; and, above all, take up what was closer to my heart two decades ago - write light-reading pieces which, in the absence of anything better that day, used to get published in the leading Indian leading newspapers.
Retirement has got past a little over a year ago, but those 48-odd items still await translation into reality. One of them is to read books. Of course I did read some books, but covered the first five to fifteen pages, before I hopped on to another, yet another, and doing justice to none. The solitary book that I read from page one to the end was: ‘100 ways to live 100’ but, here again, I confess, with a liberal skip of pages in between.
I got an opportunity to gauge my skills at singing recently when I joined a chorus to sing religious songs. The chap next to me however spared repeated side-glances at me as though wondering whether I should really care to render the support.
As for the regular workout, my wife and I attempt to take a walk in the mornings to the nearby lake. It has a large playground as well. On Mondays the walk is ruled out because a workforce of five drive their four-wheel lawn mowers at break-neck speed, providing the spectacle of a formula race. Consequently, apart from the noise pollution, there is an unlimited supply of grass all over the pathway.. I am allergic to grass, and I have my wife’s permission not to take risk. Walk on Tuesdays is risky because that is the day the sprinklers operate. Inanimate though, these sprinklers water both the grass and cemented areas without discrimination. Thus, unless one is determined to have a shower-cum-walk with chances of a Laurel-and-Hardy type fall, and resultant slip disc or hip injury, very few will venture. And either on Saturday or Sunday morning, we skip the walk because all of us together in the family watch a movie or two and go to bed late the previous night. On days that are still left, the weather takes charge - too hot, cloudy, drizzling, etc.
The writing front too would have met with the same fate but for the persistence and perseverance of my two sons – one in Phoenix and the other in San Jose. Given to sobriety (being the elder one), the Phoenix son’s customary question on return from Office has been: “So, Dad, were you able to attempt anything today?” instead of asking pointblank, ‘Did you write anything at all?” It is a different thing that very often I take our two-year old grandson for a walk to the park synchronizing with my son’s return from office - to avoid this direct question. The younger one in San Jose is made of a different mettle. He rings up unfailing twice a week. My evasive replies that I helped the elder one in gardening, shopping, repair work, etc. fall into his deaf ears. He is down to earth, and emphatically reminds me that no doubt physical activity is important, but mental activity is no less, more so if one wishes to keep off dementia, Alzheimer’s, etc.
So much for the sons. The modus operandi of the lady of the house, however, is different. She is a past master at persuasion. Three decades of life with me, and who can know more of me. That leaves my two daughters-in-law. They are nice. They joined our family less than five years ago. Still hibernating, you see.
.
To add insult to the injury, at my retirement farewell function I was referred to as untiring, diligent, methodical, etc. - expressions that had managed to evade my annual appraisal reports in the preceding 35 years. (What bothers me is why they reserve these expressions for the farewell function?) Anyway, I was taken in by these encomiums, and in that moment of weakness I listed in my thanksgiving speech things that I hoped to be busy with on retirement - with a time schedule, to cap it all. And with email coming handy, many of them still stay in touch, all eager to get the ‘progress report’, if any, that is.
So, driven to despair from all quarters, here I am hammering a piece to reflect the thought process of a retiree, for whom freedom and quietude still remain cherished ambitions.
V.V. Sundaram
16 August 2006
Result Fever
(Hindustan Times, 26 June 1989)
With my office located not very far from that of the Central Board of Secondary Education, I cannot but sympathize with my neighbouring colleagues at the hardy annual that announcement of examination results has come to mean.
Going down memory lane, I still recall vividly the anxious moments I had when the result of my school final examination was round the corner. Hardly had I disentangled myself from the examination fever to enjoy a few days of respite, when the result fever struck me. The unanimous forecast of the elders in the village was that all the five boys from the village would re-visit the examination hall later in the year. In the case of the two girls, the opinion was divided - would they pass with distinction, or just in first class?
We had heard that the results would be announced in Madras at 2 pm. They would be flashed to a Coimbatore newspaper which would bring out a special evening edition to reach us in Palghat by seven the same evening.
In preparation for the event, I got up early morning, bathed in the river, went straight to the temple and recited Vishnu Sahasranamam (the thousand names of Lord Vishnu - the rescuer, friend of the needy, protector of the weak, etc.), and, for a good measure, chanted slokas in praise of Saraswati, the Goddess of Learning.
Towards the evening, my friends and I left for the bazaar to wait for the Coimbatore bus. The bus which generally came in unnoticed, received a rousing reception that day. The evening news arrived, and in a few seconds the newspaper vendor displayed the board: "All copies sold out", and got busy tallying the day's takings. I managed to get one copy and we checked the results. Yes, the girls had passed. And so had I!
The village boys were very joyous over the fact that it was after all not an 'all-girl' show and that one from the boy's groups had also made it. They collected some money, bought a garland, hung it around my neck, and raising me on their shoulders, took me to the village shouting, "hip, hip, hooray".
As was customary, on the way home, I bought 108 coconuts (on credit - not customary), and offered them at the wayside temple to Ganesha, the Lord of Obstruction, for having cleared my way.
At home, my mother was immensely pleased to hear the news, and she prepared some instant sweets and distributed them to friends and family members. My father happily accepted the congratulations of the villagers and discussed with them my future plans.
Later, overcome with emotion, and responding to the enthusiasm of my friends, my mother unknotted her small savings from the tip of her saree pallu and handed them over to enable me to entertain my friends to a picture that night.
Feeling on the top of the world, I went to bed. My sound sleep was disturbed by a commotion early next morning. I rushed out to enquire, but was greeted with sudden silence. They all had the morning newspapers in hand.
When I insisted on knowing the problem, an elderly person took me affectionately to a corner and patted me: "Printer's devil does occur once in a while, as has happened in your case yesterday's evening news. But let me assure you young boy, you will definitely pass in your next attempt."
With my office located not very far from that of the Central Board of Secondary Education, I cannot but sympathize with my neighbouring colleagues at the hardy annual that announcement of examination results has come to mean.
Going down memory lane, I still recall vividly the anxious moments I had when the result of my school final examination was round the corner. Hardly had I disentangled myself from the examination fever to enjoy a few days of respite, when the result fever struck me. The unanimous forecast of the elders in the village was that all the five boys from the village would re-visit the examination hall later in the year. In the case of the two girls, the opinion was divided - would they pass with distinction, or just in first class?
We had heard that the results would be announced in Madras at 2 pm. They would be flashed to a Coimbatore newspaper which would bring out a special evening edition to reach us in Palghat by seven the same evening.
In preparation for the event, I got up early morning, bathed in the river, went straight to the temple and recited Vishnu Sahasranamam (the thousand names of Lord Vishnu - the rescuer, friend of the needy, protector of the weak, etc.), and, for a good measure, chanted slokas in praise of Saraswati, the Goddess of Learning.
Towards the evening, my friends and I left for the bazaar to wait for the Coimbatore bus. The bus which generally came in unnoticed, received a rousing reception that day. The evening news arrived, and in a few seconds the newspaper vendor displayed the board: "All copies sold out", and got busy tallying the day's takings. I managed to get one copy and we checked the results. Yes, the girls had passed. And so had I!
The village boys were very joyous over the fact that it was after all not an 'all-girl' show and that one from the boy's groups had also made it. They collected some money, bought a garland, hung it around my neck, and raising me on their shoulders, took me to the village shouting, "hip, hip, hooray".
As was customary, on the way home, I bought 108 coconuts (on credit - not customary), and offered them at the wayside temple to Ganesha, the Lord of Obstruction, for having cleared my way.
At home, my mother was immensely pleased to hear the news, and she prepared some instant sweets and distributed them to friends and family members. My father happily accepted the congratulations of the villagers and discussed with them my future plans.
Later, overcome with emotion, and responding to the enthusiasm of my friends, my mother unknotted her small savings from the tip of her saree pallu and handed them over to enable me to entertain my friends to a picture that night.
Feeling on the top of the world, I went to bed. My sound sleep was disturbed by a commotion early next morning. I rushed out to enquire, but was greeted with sudden silence. They all had the morning newspapers in hand.
When I insisted on knowing the problem, an elderly person took me affectionately to a corner and patted me: "Printer's devil does occur once in a while, as has happened in your case yesterday's evening news. But let me assure you young boy, you will definitely pass in your next attempt."
My Encounter with a ghost
(Hindustan Times, 24 February 1983)
I lived in a haunted village. The late 20th century scientific brain may revolt at any suggestion of the existence of ghosts but I encountered one at the age of fourteen.
A landlord of our village once discovered his spouse in a compromising position with one of his friends. He strangled her the same night and threw the body in a nearby well. Her spirit starting haunted the house to take revenge on the killer. People heard muffled sobs proceeding from the house to the well where the corpse lay rotting. In the dead of night, a sound of descending steps was heard in the house. In the hushed silence, when people stretched their ears to discern more of the mysterious noise, they would hear a pathetic wailing sound as though bemoaning the loss of some beloved. The landlord fled in terror and the haunt became notorious in the vicinity.
A few years after this gruesome incident, two beggars decided to live in the haunted house. Of course they were cautioned about the ominous symptoms, but they ignored the warnings. The second night neighbours heard loud agonized, piercing shrieks coming from the house, but none dared to approach the scene. Death had snapped the life-thread of one while the other fled, leaving his meager belongings never to come back.
Persons coming late at night to the village sometimes chanced upon a lady immaculately dressed in white moving sadly along the farther bank of the canal. Some even were hailed by their names but thought that to respond was too dangerous.
It was gradually established that moving out of doors at night was a risk that only the desperate would undertake. I was a young, dashing lad, cock of the village boys’ flock. The house which was the terror of others was our rendeavous in the afternoons. We would ape our elders in narrating the mysterious occurrences.
One particularly gloomy dusk, when it had been raining torrents and lightning was flashing with incredible frequency, the condition of my aged grandmother, who had been ailing for quite some time, worsened rapidly. We waited for the village apothecary’s routine visit, but the weather probably deterred him from venturing out. We wanted to call in medical assistance, but no one voiced his willingness dreading the ghost. It was 11.30 pm. Finally, seeing how much my grandmother was suffering I volunteered to fetch the apothecary and despite the dissuasion of all, rushed out of the house. The young spirit cannot easily be dominated. It was time to act, ghose or no ghost.
The rain had stopped and the clouds had dispersed. In the chilly December night, I was striding along, surrounded by utter silence and frightening darkness. Stories about the ghost converged upon my mind. The hushed silence was suddenly disturbed by something falling with a thud. My heart palpitated. It was some bird. I mustered up courage and kept moving. God knows what elemental fore was hidden in the dense, dark mysterious jungle. My spirit seemed frozen. Fear, for the first time, gripped my mind. The hooting of an owl froze me to the marrow. Some unknown bird abruptly flapped past me swiftly, leaving me dazed. I found myself trembling with fear, when, with my own eyes, I saw somebody clad in while slowly moving towards me.
There was no doubt now about the ghost. “Make the most of your time”, the thought rose up from within. I turned back and started running home. The ghost recognized me and called me by name. “Oh God, I am done for”, I said to myself. I was sure to be trapped. Terrified, I dashed home at top speed, knocked at the door and fell in, unconscious. The ghost pursued me right up to the doorstep, and actually knocked.
Later, I was told the ghost I had dreaded was my cousin on his way home for the Christmas vacation.
I lived in a haunted village. The late 20th century scientific brain may revolt at any suggestion of the existence of ghosts but I encountered one at the age of fourteen.
A landlord of our village once discovered his spouse in a compromising position with one of his friends. He strangled her the same night and threw the body in a nearby well. Her spirit starting haunted the house to take revenge on the killer. People heard muffled sobs proceeding from the house to the well where the corpse lay rotting. In the dead of night, a sound of descending steps was heard in the house. In the hushed silence, when people stretched their ears to discern more of the mysterious noise, they would hear a pathetic wailing sound as though bemoaning the loss of some beloved. The landlord fled in terror and the haunt became notorious in the vicinity.
A few years after this gruesome incident, two beggars decided to live in the haunted house. Of course they were cautioned about the ominous symptoms, but they ignored the warnings. The second night neighbours heard loud agonized, piercing shrieks coming from the house, but none dared to approach the scene. Death had snapped the life-thread of one while the other fled, leaving his meager belongings never to come back.
Persons coming late at night to the village sometimes chanced upon a lady immaculately dressed in white moving sadly along the farther bank of the canal. Some even were hailed by their names but thought that to respond was too dangerous.
It was gradually established that moving out of doors at night was a risk that only the desperate would undertake. I was a young, dashing lad, cock of the village boys’ flock. The house which was the terror of others was our rendeavous in the afternoons. We would ape our elders in narrating the mysterious occurrences.
One particularly gloomy dusk, when it had been raining torrents and lightning was flashing with incredible frequency, the condition of my aged grandmother, who had been ailing for quite some time, worsened rapidly. We waited for the village apothecary’s routine visit, but the weather probably deterred him from venturing out. We wanted to call in medical assistance, but no one voiced his willingness dreading the ghost. It was 11.30 pm. Finally, seeing how much my grandmother was suffering I volunteered to fetch the apothecary and despite the dissuasion of all, rushed out of the house. The young spirit cannot easily be dominated. It was time to act, ghose or no ghost.
The rain had stopped and the clouds had dispersed. In the chilly December night, I was striding along, surrounded by utter silence and frightening darkness. Stories about the ghost converged upon my mind. The hushed silence was suddenly disturbed by something falling with a thud. My heart palpitated. It was some bird. I mustered up courage and kept moving. God knows what elemental fore was hidden in the dense, dark mysterious jungle. My spirit seemed frozen. Fear, for the first time, gripped my mind. The hooting of an owl froze me to the marrow. Some unknown bird abruptly flapped past me swiftly, leaving me dazed. I found myself trembling with fear, when, with my own eyes, I saw somebody clad in while slowly moving towards me.
There was no doubt now about the ghost. “Make the most of your time”, the thought rose up from within. I turned back and started running home. The ghost recognized me and called me by name. “Oh God, I am done for”, I said to myself. I was sure to be trapped. Terrified, I dashed home at top speed, knocked at the door and fell in, unconscious. The ghost pursued me right up to the doorstep, and actually knocked.
Later, I was told the ghost I had dreaded was my cousin on his way home for the Christmas vacation.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Reincarnation
(Hindustan Times,22 July 1983)
This topic is of interest to many. Here are two incidents about which I have personal knowledge.
A fairly well-placed American came to know that an old American lady had the capacity to tell one's past life. For no rhyme or reason he got interested and approached the lady. This happened in the US. She told him that in his precious life he had a younger brother and that both had been very attached to each other. On being questioned further, she told him that his younger brother was now living in India, as a Sikh gentleman, that his name began with a G, and that the American would find him as soon as he landed in India.
Things were left at that. A few months later, the American had occasion to go to Manila. During his stay there, he learned that there was an old lady in the outskirts of the city who could tell about one's past and predict the future. He met her, Strangely her version matched exactly the one given by the American lady.
He was now fully convinced that what he had been told by the two women was not just coincidence. So, instead of returning to the States as planned, he changed his course and set out to India. In Delhi, having nothing specific to do, he went to the Tourist Department to hire a car to visit the Taj Mahal and other places. A car was given to him; On the way he enquired the driver's name. "Gurmeet Singh," was the reply. There was no doubt in the American's mind that he had located his brother. But he kept mum. At the end of the trip, he tipped the Sardarji lavishly and also jotted down his address. Gurmeet did not attach any special significance to this except feeling happy that after a long time he had got a tourist who was liberal with tips.
Thereafter, correspondence began between the two. For Gurmeet's sister's marriage, the American sent a substantial sum. Later, he disclosed to Gurmeet what he had heard from the two different ladies, and asked him if he would care to come to the States and live with him. He then helped Gurmeet to buy land in the Punjab for the members of his family and arranged for Gurmeet's immigration to the States. Gurmeet (with his wife and children) and the American are now living together happily, with Gurmeet in no cashing in on the situation but devotedly attached to his elder brother.
Another instance in which a colleague of mine was involved went like this. He and a relative were once passing through the interior of Punjab in a bus. At a particular spot, the relative shouted to the driver to stop the bus, although his destination was far far away. He got down and ran across the field shouting: "They have broken my leg; but I won't spare Man Singh. I will shoot him. Let me get my gun." He ran towards the Police Station. This was the first time that he had set his foot in that area, but he passed through the various roads as though he knew exactly the way to the Police Station. On reaching there, he looked here and there and asked the police officials. "Who has changed the set up here, my room used to be here; and where is my gun? I used to hang it here." My colleague, who was following, was flabbergasted, unable to make anything of it.
On thorough Investigation, he came to know from an old man of the locality that, about fifty years or so ago, there had been some very notorious dacoits in the area: Man Singh was their chief's name. The then SHO of the Police Station, a devoted police officer, had faced them boldly, but the dacoits had cut his leg in two. Despite this he had taken a vow to contain them, but he had died of the injury a few days later.
The names uttered by my friend's relative and the other details matched exactly the story narrated by the old man. My friend strongly feels that his relative was that SHO in a previous birth.
This topic is of interest to many. Here are two incidents about which I have personal knowledge.
A fairly well-placed American came to know that an old American lady had the capacity to tell one's past life. For no rhyme or reason he got interested and approached the lady. This happened in the US. She told him that in his precious life he had a younger brother and that both had been very attached to each other. On being questioned further, she told him that his younger brother was now living in India, as a Sikh gentleman, that his name began with a G, and that the American would find him as soon as he landed in India.
Things were left at that. A few months later, the American had occasion to go to Manila. During his stay there, he learned that there was an old lady in the outskirts of the city who could tell about one's past and predict the future. He met her, Strangely her version matched exactly the one given by the American lady.
He was now fully convinced that what he had been told by the two women was not just coincidence. So, instead of returning to the States as planned, he changed his course and set out to India. In Delhi, having nothing specific to do, he went to the Tourist Department to hire a car to visit the Taj Mahal and other places. A car was given to him; On the way he enquired the driver's name. "Gurmeet Singh," was the reply. There was no doubt in the American's mind that he had located his brother. But he kept mum. At the end of the trip, he tipped the Sardarji lavishly and also jotted down his address. Gurmeet did not attach any special significance to this except feeling happy that after a long time he had got a tourist who was liberal with tips.
Thereafter, correspondence began between the two. For Gurmeet's sister's marriage, the American sent a substantial sum. Later, he disclosed to Gurmeet what he had heard from the two different ladies, and asked him if he would care to come to the States and live with him. He then helped Gurmeet to buy land in the Punjab for the members of his family and arranged for Gurmeet's immigration to the States. Gurmeet (with his wife and children) and the American are now living together happily, with Gurmeet in no cashing in on the situation but devotedly attached to his elder brother.
Another instance in which a colleague of mine was involved went like this. He and a relative were once passing through the interior of Punjab in a bus. At a particular spot, the relative shouted to the driver to stop the bus, although his destination was far far away. He got down and ran across the field shouting: "They have broken my leg; but I won't spare Man Singh. I will shoot him. Let me get my gun." He ran towards the Police Station. This was the first time that he had set his foot in that area, but he passed through the various roads as though he knew exactly the way to the Police Station. On reaching there, he looked here and there and asked the police officials. "Who has changed the set up here, my room used to be here; and where is my gun? I used to hang it here." My colleague, who was following, was flabbergasted, unable to make anything of it.
On thorough Investigation, he came to know from an old man of the locality that, about fifty years or so ago, there had been some very notorious dacoits in the area: Man Singh was their chief's name. The then SHO of the Police Station, a devoted police officer, had faced them boldly, but the dacoits had cut his leg in two. Despite this he had taken a vow to contain them, but he had died of the injury a few days later.
The names uttered by my friend's relative and the other details matched exactly the story narrated by the old man. My friend strongly feels that his relative was that SHO in a previous birth.
Parent-Teacher Meeting
(Hindustan Times, 1983)
As instructed, we reported at the school at 8.30 a.m sharp.
“In our school we maintain strict discipline and don’t let children come late,” said the Head Mistress in her opening remarks as she showed up forty-five minutes later to address us.
“The role of parents in teaching their children at home,” she cautioned, ‘has acquired increasing importance, especially in view of the stiff competition from other schools.”
“Ours,” she continued, “is an English medium school, therefore at the outset I must call upon you to speak to your children only in English.” She ran her eyes over the audience quickly and added: “I realize the difficulty some of you will have; but it just can’t be helped.’
At this point a person, who looked like an MP, entered the hall. Quickly judging the situation, she added: “Of course, I need not emphasize the importance of speaking in Hindi since it is our national language. Here I have observed that children speak faulty Hindi. For example, what will you say in Hindi for ‘out’ she asked pointing her finger towards me. (A penalty I paid for being on the front bench and having listened to her too keenly). However, backed by 20 years of stay in Delhi, I had no difficulty in answering her. “You see, this is exactly what I have been trying to correct in the children. You pronounce it as ‘baar’ and not as ‘bahar’. To be sure that I got it right, she told me to repeat it thrice. This done, she asked me to meet her after the class which I did to be told that I should engage a teacher for myself first before venturing to teach my son.
“As regards mathematics,” she continued ‘help your children in counting by means of beads”. She demonstrated the technique twice for our benefit. Each time she arrived at a different total. “Anyway, you have got the idea; that is important.”
“Whenever you teach them any lesson, please explain the picture therein. Take for example Ramu’s lesson. By the way, how many of you have gone through the lesson?” she asked. A few of us raised our hands. “That is a good sign. Now tell me from the picture what are the things you saw in Ramu’s room?” No one responded. She said that, like the teachers, we should also be observant, in future. “You see there was a ball, a dog, and…what else was there in the room, Mrs Gulati?” she sought the assistance of the class teacher who hesitated for a moment and replied. “I think that is about all.”
The Head Mistress moved on to the next topic, but suddenly remembered something. “I think there was a doll also, wansn’t there?” “Yes, yes,” hastened Mrs Gulati feeling ill at ease.
This was followed by a few sermons on neatness, dress, weekly nail-cutting and then we were asked if we had any questions. One person got up and complained that his son was not getting any instructions on home work.
“What is his name?” asked the Head Mistress.
“Arun Saxena”.
“Oh Saxena. I think the less said the better. She looked at the class teacher triumphantly and verified if it was not about him that she was complaining the previous day. She clarified it was Arun Shukla. “Anyway, all Aruns are the same”, said the Head Mistress taking an on-the-spot decision.
“An other problem?”
No one answered.
I am very happy at this exchange of thoughts, and hope that your continued efforts and the performance of your children will further improve the image of our school.”
She was about to close the meeting, when one of the staff handed her a chit. She hastened, “Ah, the beads I showed you a little while ago. They are available in our canteen stores and are cheaper”.
“When will we have our next lessons?” whispered a parent as the Head Mistress left the hall.
As instructed, we reported at the school at 8.30 a.m sharp.
“In our school we maintain strict discipline and don’t let children come late,” said the Head Mistress in her opening remarks as she showed up forty-five minutes later to address us.
“The role of parents in teaching their children at home,” she cautioned, ‘has acquired increasing importance, especially in view of the stiff competition from other schools.”
“Ours,” she continued, “is an English medium school, therefore at the outset I must call upon you to speak to your children only in English.” She ran her eyes over the audience quickly and added: “I realize the difficulty some of you will have; but it just can’t be helped.’
At this point a person, who looked like an MP, entered the hall. Quickly judging the situation, she added: “Of course, I need not emphasize the importance of speaking in Hindi since it is our national language. Here I have observed that children speak faulty Hindi. For example, what will you say in Hindi for ‘out’ she asked pointing her finger towards me. (A penalty I paid for being on the front bench and having listened to her too keenly). However, backed by 20 years of stay in Delhi, I had no difficulty in answering her. “You see, this is exactly what I have been trying to correct in the children. You pronounce it as ‘baar’ and not as ‘bahar’. To be sure that I got it right, she told me to repeat it thrice. This done, she asked me to meet her after the class which I did to be told that I should engage a teacher for myself first before venturing to teach my son.
“As regards mathematics,” she continued ‘help your children in counting by means of beads”. She demonstrated the technique twice for our benefit. Each time she arrived at a different total. “Anyway, you have got the idea; that is important.”
“Whenever you teach them any lesson, please explain the picture therein. Take for example Ramu’s lesson. By the way, how many of you have gone through the lesson?” she asked. A few of us raised our hands. “That is a good sign. Now tell me from the picture what are the things you saw in Ramu’s room?” No one responded. She said that, like the teachers, we should also be observant, in future. “You see there was a ball, a dog, and…what else was there in the room, Mrs Gulati?” she sought the assistance of the class teacher who hesitated for a moment and replied. “I think that is about all.”
The Head Mistress moved on to the next topic, but suddenly remembered something. “I think there was a doll also, wansn’t there?” “Yes, yes,” hastened Mrs Gulati feeling ill at ease.
This was followed by a few sermons on neatness, dress, weekly nail-cutting and then we were asked if we had any questions. One person got up and complained that his son was not getting any instructions on home work.
“What is his name?” asked the Head Mistress.
“Arun Saxena”.
“Oh Saxena. I think the less said the better. She looked at the class teacher triumphantly and verified if it was not about him that she was complaining the previous day. She clarified it was Arun Shukla. “Anyway, all Aruns are the same”, said the Head Mistress taking an on-the-spot decision.
“An other problem?”
No one answered.
I am very happy at this exchange of thoughts, and hope that your continued efforts and the performance of your children will further improve the image of our school.”
She was about to close the meeting, when one of the staff handed her a chit. She hastened, “Ah, the beads I showed you a little while ago. They are available in our canteen stores and are cheaper”.
“When will we have our next lessons?” whispered a parent as the Head Mistress left the hall.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Nose for News
(Times of India, 30 January 1982)
Our journalism teacher suggested that in order to develop a nose for news we should keep our eyes and ears open. This, he said, would also put us in the way of clues to solve bank robberies, murders, kidnapping, and the like. As a budding journalist I could not wait.
I found myself in a bus. A young man and a young girl were seated in front of me. I kept my eyes and ears wide open. Their togetherness was a feast to my eyes but I could not hear their conversation. I leaned forward. It worked.
I rushed to a telephone booth, still in possession of vital information which, if used properly, would attract a cash reward. I also worked out a disbursement plan for the money. Ten per cent would straightaway to a mandir. I would then clear the washerman's account (of late he has been recovering his dues in kind, then those of the provision-store and milk vendor. With the remainder, I would buy my wife a necklace.
I rang up the number which had become available to me during the bus conversation. The person who answered the phone was a colonel. This created some starting trouble but I recovered myself and began. 'Excuse me, Colonel, I hold some very important information about your daughter. I am sure you will appreciate my timely warning as I divulge it. If you feel really grateful, you could call me to some convenient place for any reward you may wish to give.'
The colonel became impatient. 'Tell me what is the matter, you will you?' he asked in an orderly tone - i.e., a tone generally used to address an orderly, but the prospect of a cash reward made me ignore all side-issues. I took a breather, rearranged my vocal chords and moving closer to the mouthpiece, said: "your daughter is getting married to a chap tomorrow in a civil court."
"Is that all?" he shot back.
"Isn't that enough?" I asked. His reply stunned me. "It was I who worked out the plan to the minutest detail. Saves dowry. And stop poking your bloody nose into this. If you don't, I will have you flogged in public."
That was sufficient incentive for me to rest the receiver instantly.
A nose for news might be okay in journalism but it is not much use in police cases.
Our journalism teacher suggested that in order to develop a nose for news we should keep our eyes and ears open. This, he said, would also put us in the way of clues to solve bank robberies, murders, kidnapping, and the like. As a budding journalist I could not wait.
I found myself in a bus. A young man and a young girl were seated in front of me. I kept my eyes and ears wide open. Their togetherness was a feast to my eyes but I could not hear their conversation. I leaned forward. It worked.
I rushed to a telephone booth, still in possession of vital information which, if used properly, would attract a cash reward. I also worked out a disbursement plan for the money. Ten per cent would straightaway to a mandir. I would then clear the washerman's account (of late he has been recovering his dues in kind, then those of the provision-store and milk vendor. With the remainder, I would buy my wife a necklace.
I rang up the number which had become available to me during the bus conversation. The person who answered the phone was a colonel. This created some starting trouble but I recovered myself and began. 'Excuse me, Colonel, I hold some very important information about your daughter. I am sure you will appreciate my timely warning as I divulge it. If you feel really grateful, you could call me to some convenient place for any reward you may wish to give.'
The colonel became impatient. 'Tell me what is the matter, you will you?' he asked in an orderly tone - i.e., a tone generally used to address an orderly, but the prospect of a cash reward made me ignore all side-issues. I took a breather, rearranged my vocal chords and moving closer to the mouthpiece, said: "your daughter is getting married to a chap tomorrow in a civil court."
"Is that all?" he shot back.
"Isn't that enough?" I asked. His reply stunned me. "It was I who worked out the plan to the minutest detail. Saves dowry. And stop poking your bloody nose into this. If you don't, I will have you flogged in public."
That was sufficient incentive for me to rest the receiver instantly.
A nose for news might be okay in journalism but it is not much use in police cases.
The Misfiring Knack
(Hindustan Times June 17 1983)
RELAXING at home on a Sunday morning. I felt a strong smell emanating from the kitchen. I asked my wife: " I say, is some rat dead; or you have opened an antique 'achhar' jar from the attic; or, are you trying some new dish?"
The last delivery was a bouncer and she turned in on me like a wounded tigress. "It is all because of your wonderful prediction-yet another instance of your misfiring ability."
"Yes, it was a bright sunny morning a few days before this. I had suggested to her that I expected the next few days to be very hot; she could make the rice paste for Karu Vadaam (a pappad variety-Phul wari in Hindi), and get the preparation dried up in the sun before the dust-storm season set in. She promptly prepared the paste the next day. That was all. Since then there had been nothing but rain, Rain and RAIN. (Remember our Madam Prime Minister even announced that she was going to get foreign experts' opinion on the sudden change in the weather pattern? Exactly those very days.) My wife had fondly been hoping for the sun to show up, but meanwhile the paste was well past its expiry period and had begun to permeate its pungent smell all over the house, and perhaps our neighbourhood too.
Okay, I take the responsibility for this mishap. But what did she mean by her sweeping remark; "Yet another instance of your misfiring ability?" Anyway, it did not take her, to refresh my memory.
We were once shopping from a South Indian store. The young Tamil salesgirl quoted the price of an item at Rs 80. I spoke to my wife in Bengali and in code words (we know a bit of Bengali). We conveyed our offer, but the girl flatly refused. And we bought the piece without any reduction. As we were leaving the girl thanked us in chaste Bengali: " I would have agreed to reduce the price by the age of elder son as you were suggesting to each other, but you were also telling that even if the price was not reduced it would still be a good buy. So I thought I might as well charge you the full price." Later she confided that she was a child of Banglo-Tamil collaboration.
Way back in my childhood, I had wanted to participate in a village drama. The director told me that he would have gladly given me a role but for my substantial nose. Since I belonged to an affluent family then, influence was brought to bear at parental level, and I was included-as a king. In consideration, my father agreed to provide all the stage lighting with connection from our house (only a very few houses had electric connecetions those days). In my role I was to react sharply to a suggestion of my wicked lieutinent and say "huuhh" steaming forcefully through my nose. In the force of the air released, the moustache fell off. The alert lightman (Working in our household) switched off the light to enable me to pick it up and refix it. This done, the light was switched on. But there was again an uproar of laughter. Yes, in the spade work done all too soon in darkness, the kingly moustache that was majestically looking upwards, was bowing most humbly downwards.
This incident relates to a scheme offered by a bank. You deposit Rs 500 for ten years and get entitled to participate in their monthly draw of lots for Rs 1 lakh and downwards. I went to buy one certificate. Being a believer in numerology, as the man ahead of I would be allotted, from the stand point of numerology. No, that won't bring me any luck, but the next one would. So I allowed the man behind me to buy the certificate telling him that I was still in two minds. And, as soon as he bought it, I got mine too. I checked last month's results. Yes, the first prize I just missed by one number. That chap to whom I surrendered my place had bagged it.
Anyway, the world has not come to an end, has it? As an incurable optimist, and with double faith in God on such matters, I keep telling myself. "If summer (...0433) has come, can winter (...0434) be far behind?"
RELAXING at home on a Sunday morning. I felt a strong smell emanating from the kitchen. I asked my wife: " I say, is some rat dead; or you have opened an antique 'achhar' jar from the attic; or, are you trying some new dish?"
The last delivery was a bouncer and she turned in on me like a wounded tigress. "It is all because of your wonderful prediction-yet another instance of your misfiring ability."
"Yes, it was a bright sunny morning a few days before this. I had suggested to her that I expected the next few days to be very hot; she could make the rice paste for Karu Vadaam (a pappad variety-Phul wari in Hindi), and get the preparation dried up in the sun before the dust-storm season set in. She promptly prepared the paste the next day. That was all. Since then there had been nothing but rain, Rain and RAIN. (Remember our Madam Prime Minister even announced that she was going to get foreign experts' opinion on the sudden change in the weather pattern? Exactly those very days.) My wife had fondly been hoping for the sun to show up, but meanwhile the paste was well past its expiry period and had begun to permeate its pungent smell all over the house, and perhaps our neighbourhood too.
Okay, I take the responsibility for this mishap. But what did she mean by her sweeping remark; "Yet another instance of your misfiring ability?" Anyway, it did not take her, to refresh my memory.
We were once shopping from a South Indian store. The young Tamil salesgirl quoted the price of an item at Rs 80. I spoke to my wife in Bengali and in code words (we know a bit of Bengali). We conveyed our offer, but the girl flatly refused. And we bought the piece without any reduction. As we were leaving the girl thanked us in chaste Bengali: " I would have agreed to reduce the price by the age of elder son as you were suggesting to each other, but you were also telling that even if the price was not reduced it would still be a good buy. So I thought I might as well charge you the full price." Later she confided that she was a child of Banglo-Tamil collaboration.
Way back in my childhood, I had wanted to participate in a village drama. The director told me that he would have gladly given me a role but for my substantial nose. Since I belonged to an affluent family then, influence was brought to bear at parental level, and I was included-as a king. In consideration, my father agreed to provide all the stage lighting with connection from our house (only a very few houses had electric connecetions those days). In my role I was to react sharply to a suggestion of my wicked lieutinent and say "huuhh" steaming forcefully through my nose. In the force of the air released, the moustache fell off. The alert lightman (Working in our household) switched off the light to enable me to pick it up and refix it. This done, the light was switched on. But there was again an uproar of laughter. Yes, in the spade work done all too soon in darkness, the kingly moustache that was majestically looking upwards, was bowing most humbly downwards.
This incident relates to a scheme offered by a bank. You deposit Rs 500 for ten years and get entitled to participate in their monthly draw of lots for Rs 1 lakh and downwards. I went to buy one certificate. Being a believer in numerology, as the man ahead of I would be allotted, from the stand point of numerology. No, that won't bring me any luck, but the next one would. So I allowed the man behind me to buy the certificate telling him that I was still in two minds. And, as soon as he bought it, I got mine too. I checked last month's results. Yes, the first prize I just missed by one number. That chap to whom I surrendered my place had bagged it.
Anyway, the world has not come to an end, has it? As an incurable optimist, and with double faith in God on such matters, I keep telling myself. "If summer (...0433) has come, can winter (...0434) be far behind?"
Luck of My Life
(Hindustan Times, 23 November 1983)
Some people meet with their luck in a lottery, some in jackpots, yet a few, in matrimony. But I made it via hidden treasure. Here is a factual account of it.
I earmark Saturdays for doing errands – going to Karol Bagh to buy coffee powder, to avail myself of any ‘clearance sale’, or to fix the wall-clock glass broken by my son attempting a Kapil shot.
That particular Saturday, I had three jobs in hand. First, to take out the jewellery from my locker in a Karol Bagh bank (my wife wanted to wear it for a marriage next day). Second, to meet the share-broker in Caonnaught Place, to see if the bulk shares he had me buy a few months ago were selling anywhere near par. Third, to collect the colour photos I had taken of my sister-in-law’s marriage, making my debut at photography.
Since the bank would be open only up to 12 noon on Saturdays, I listed the bank job first, and headed towards Karol Bagh. I opened the locker and slipped my hand in. What little things we had kept were all safe there. But as I delved deep into it, I chanced upon an antique jewel-box that was definitely not ours. I took it out, It was locked. It was heavy, and when I shook it, I could hear the rumblings of pearls and diamonds. Hitherto I had heard of items missing from one’s lockers, but never of thing being ‘added’. Anyway, this is not the time to waste on self cross-examination. I must hurry home to see the contents in the box.’ Telling myself so, I cancelled the other jobs and drove home, at a speed I had never ventured earlier.
On the way I estimated the worth by its heaviness, and decided on my plans. ‘Come what may, I must go for a house in a posh locality. A car comes second. Then a colour TV, and a VCR. If I am still left with sufficient money, maybe I could four identical necklaces for my two sisters and two sisters-in-law and a slightly costlier one for my wife.’
‘Anyway, God is great. If he denied me promotion the other day, he has more than compensated for it in another way.’ “After all’, I asked myself, ‘how could the good deed that my grandfather had done 50 years ago in feeding 1000 Brahmins at a stretch go unrewarded? Surely not.’
I reached home, and sent the maid-servant to the farthest shop in the locality to fetch a difficult-to-get item. I asked my wife to close all doors and windows and to draw the curtains. Then I showed her the treasure that had found its way in our locker. Seeing it, she began laughing uncontrollably. I had known of people falling unconscious at such unexpected news, but never of laughing like that. ‘Maybe, the windfall is too much for her to bear,’ I suggested to myself, and began to calm her down, as her laughter might attract the attention of neighbours. A few minutes later she regained her normality, and said: ‘I forgot to tell you. The other day, before leaving for Madras on a holiday, Leela (my sister) gave me that jewel-box for safe-keeping in our locker.’
‘Even if that is so, but you don’t have to laugh like that.’ I told my wife, ensuring continuity of my supremacy. ‘Anyway, you need not broadcast this to Sonu or Babbu’s mothers, okay? I ordered her and rushed to the bank to take out the jewellery that rightfully belonged to us only to find the bank closed.
Some people meet with their luck in a lottery, some in jackpots, yet a few, in matrimony. But I made it via hidden treasure. Here is a factual account of it.
I earmark Saturdays for doing errands – going to Karol Bagh to buy coffee powder, to avail myself of any ‘clearance sale’, or to fix the wall-clock glass broken by my son attempting a Kapil shot.
That particular Saturday, I had three jobs in hand. First, to take out the jewellery from my locker in a Karol Bagh bank (my wife wanted to wear it for a marriage next day). Second, to meet the share-broker in Caonnaught Place, to see if the bulk shares he had me buy a few months ago were selling anywhere near par. Third, to collect the colour photos I had taken of my sister-in-law’s marriage, making my debut at photography.
Since the bank would be open only up to 12 noon on Saturdays, I listed the bank job first, and headed towards Karol Bagh. I opened the locker and slipped my hand in. What little things we had kept were all safe there. But as I delved deep into it, I chanced upon an antique jewel-box that was definitely not ours. I took it out, It was locked. It was heavy, and when I shook it, I could hear the rumblings of pearls and diamonds. Hitherto I had heard of items missing from one’s lockers, but never of thing being ‘added’. Anyway, this is not the time to waste on self cross-examination. I must hurry home to see the contents in the box.’ Telling myself so, I cancelled the other jobs and drove home, at a speed I had never ventured earlier.
On the way I estimated the worth by its heaviness, and decided on my plans. ‘Come what may, I must go for a house in a posh locality. A car comes second. Then a colour TV, and a VCR. If I am still left with sufficient money, maybe I could four identical necklaces for my two sisters and two sisters-in-law and a slightly costlier one for my wife.’
‘Anyway, God is great. If he denied me promotion the other day, he has more than compensated for it in another way.’ “After all’, I asked myself, ‘how could the good deed that my grandfather had done 50 years ago in feeding 1000 Brahmins at a stretch go unrewarded? Surely not.’
I reached home, and sent the maid-servant to the farthest shop in the locality to fetch a difficult-to-get item. I asked my wife to close all doors and windows and to draw the curtains. Then I showed her the treasure that had found its way in our locker. Seeing it, she began laughing uncontrollably. I had known of people falling unconscious at such unexpected news, but never of laughing like that. ‘Maybe, the windfall is too much for her to bear,’ I suggested to myself, and began to calm her down, as her laughter might attract the attention of neighbours. A few minutes later she regained her normality, and said: ‘I forgot to tell you. The other day, before leaving for Madras on a holiday, Leela (my sister) gave me that jewel-box for safe-keeping in our locker.’
‘Even if that is so, but you don’t have to laugh like that.’ I told my wife, ensuring continuity of my supremacy. ‘Anyway, you need not broadcast this to Sonu or Babbu’s mothers, okay? I ordered her and rushed to the bank to take out the jewellery that rightfully belonged to us only to find the bank closed.
Holiday Homework
(Hindustan Times, 8 July 1983)
Friends and relatives will please refrain from calling on us this week. With the school just about to re-open, we are busy catching up with our children's homework.
We made the fatal mistake of going out of Delhi for the summer vacation. As a result, a pile remains to be completed before their school reopens. The summer vacation is the period when, in any school, a major portion of the annual quota of activity takes place. If you don't believe us, you are welcome to have a close look at the task we have to accomplish. Right now I am helping my elder son, studying in Class IV; and my wife, the younger one, studying in Class I.
This is the gist of my assignment. This evening I must visit the petrol pump with my son and find out the price of one litre of petrol and one of kerosene, and explain why the price of one is more/less that the other. I must also help to prepare a chart of the monthly consumption of household things in my home.
Last Saturday, I spent a whole afternoon at the Super Bazar with my son, helping him note down the names of articles sold there (about 243). Initially the shopkeeper resisted our attempt. But fortunately the old Sardarji who is in charge, arrived at the scene and allowed us to go ahead. (A few days back I had returned to him Rs 10 which I thought he had overpaid me),
Next, I should find out how many sweets are there in a half-kilo packet, and the number of biscuits in a pack of 150 grams. For these I see no escape from a financial expenditure. You can't, after all, ask the sweetmeat chap to weight 1/2 kg sweets, count them, and ask him to keep them back. Not when he has half a dozen hefty servants at his beck and call!
There is one question which I plan to attempt at night (during Chitrahaar, to be precise). And that is to measure the distance between my house and the nearest school in close steps. The same act is to be repeated from my house to an important building nearby. One could in fact venture this in daytime as well. Worse comes to the worst, the busy traffic might come to a standstill to watch our act, or we become the laughing stock. Who knows, that this is just the purpose intended by the school.
I must visit the American Library and collect details on spaceships. Any information provided in less than a foot's length does not constitute an answer in my son's school. Therefore transferring a common man's knowledge acquired from reading newspapers to a Class IV student is considered insufficient.
"What causes air pollution? What are the harmful effects of air pollution, and the ways in which it should be checked." This is the next question. To find the answer, we plan to visit the Ranganathans (Mr R is an environmental specialist) in the guise of a courtesy call and broach the subject casually without letting him suspect the purpose of our visit.
Last but not the least will be a visit to Dr Kurup, the indigenous medicine expert. I must remember to take with me fresh flowers and leaves from my locality, not as a bouquet, but to find out from him their botanical names and uses. If is out of Delhi, I will buy a Tamil-English botany dictionary and see what they say in English for Kolaambi Poo or Narakathelai which grow near my house.
Incidentally, please don't ask us to which school our children belong. On extensive verification, we have observed that this tale of woe is Ghar ghar kis kahani.
Friends and relatives will please refrain from calling on us this week. With the school just about to re-open, we are busy catching up with our children's homework.
We made the fatal mistake of going out of Delhi for the summer vacation. As a result, a pile remains to be completed before their school reopens. The summer vacation is the period when, in any school, a major portion of the annual quota of activity takes place. If you don't believe us, you are welcome to have a close look at the task we have to accomplish. Right now I am helping my elder son, studying in Class IV; and my wife, the younger one, studying in Class I.
This is the gist of my assignment. This evening I must visit the petrol pump with my son and find out the price of one litre of petrol and one of kerosene, and explain why the price of one is more/less that the other. I must also help to prepare a chart of the monthly consumption of household things in my home.
Last Saturday, I spent a whole afternoon at the Super Bazar with my son, helping him note down the names of articles sold there (about 243). Initially the shopkeeper resisted our attempt. But fortunately the old Sardarji who is in charge, arrived at the scene and allowed us to go ahead. (A few days back I had returned to him Rs 10 which I thought he had overpaid me),
Next, I should find out how many sweets are there in a half-kilo packet, and the number of biscuits in a pack of 150 grams. For these I see no escape from a financial expenditure. You can't, after all, ask the sweetmeat chap to weight 1/2 kg sweets, count them, and ask him to keep them back. Not when he has half a dozen hefty servants at his beck and call!
There is one question which I plan to attempt at night (during Chitrahaar, to be precise). And that is to measure the distance between my house and the nearest school in close steps. The same act is to be repeated from my house to an important building nearby. One could in fact venture this in daytime as well. Worse comes to the worst, the busy traffic might come to a standstill to watch our act, or we become the laughing stock. Who knows, that this is just the purpose intended by the school.
I must visit the American Library and collect details on spaceships. Any information provided in less than a foot's length does not constitute an answer in my son's school. Therefore transferring a common man's knowledge acquired from reading newspapers to a Class IV student is considered insufficient.
"What causes air pollution? What are the harmful effects of air pollution, and the ways in which it should be checked." This is the next question. To find the answer, we plan to visit the Ranganathans (Mr R is an environmental specialist) in the guise of a courtesy call and broach the subject casually without letting him suspect the purpose of our visit.
Last but not the least will be a visit to Dr Kurup, the indigenous medicine expert. I must remember to take with me fresh flowers and leaves from my locality, not as a bouquet, but to find out from him their botanical names and uses. If is out of Delhi, I will buy a Tamil-English botany dictionary and see what they say in English for Kolaambi Poo or Narakathelai which grow near my house.
Incidentally, please don't ask us to which school our children belong. On extensive verification, we have observed that this tale of woe is Ghar ghar kis kahani.
Half Way All the Way
(Hindustan Times, 19 August 1983)
I don't know how it is with others; but any venture I undertake, I give up half way. In fact blessed is the occasion when I even get that far.
Years ago, I lived not far from the famous Mrdigangam player, the late Palghat Mani Iyer. This aroused my interest in that percussion instrument. My father promptly arranged with an old hand to teach me. This man believed in 'Slow and steady wins the race', and I, a dashing young lad, had harboured ideas of making it to the No.2 position in six months. After six months I was still doing rudimentary lessons."Not my cup of tea", I said as I laid down the instrument before my Guru.
I renewed my association with music two decades later, in Delhi. This time with the guitar. Donning a silk kurta and pyjama, specially stitched for the music class, with a guitar in hand, I felt on top of the world as I walked down my street in Karol Bagh. A few months later, the patience-incarnate teacher led me to a corner and said: "You have the making of a music director. You must try to become one. Because, at each attempt you produce effortlessly a new tune." He was willing to refund my fees if I gave up the lessons.
Unable to make any dent in the field of music, I went in for body-building, beginning with weight-lifting. The onset of winter arrested my pursuit, but I vowed to start again in summer. This was thirteen years ago. Anyway, what I could not achieve through weight-lifting, I tried through yoga, early morning walks and jogging, in that order. The last (or, better still, the present last) venture was when I bought one of those mail-order gadgets which promised to make a Mohammed Ali out of me. The gymnastic feats at the recent Asian games rekindled my enthusiasm. I unearthed that instrument and renewed my body-building activity. But having enjoyed a long holiday, the springs in it just did not oblige; and my wife firmly disallowed a fresh investment on the gadget as, she said, the attic could accommodate any more articles. And there remains in suspense my body-building enterprise.
If things had gone well, I would have been hailed as Colonel Sundaram by now. During the foreign invasion in the early sixties, the country drafted college students for the army. I volunteered. One day it fell to my lot to be at the top of the line. The drill started, and the Gurkha Subedar shouted, 'Daai", and "Baai' at will. My association with Hindi was still in its infancy. Obeying his command to the best of my poor ability, I found myself a few minutes later marching all alone in one direction. The Gurkha gave me a dressing down and awarded ten rounds of the ground. And that laid to rest my aspiration for an army career.
A few other stints include frequent decisions to start daily prayers (often after hearing religious discourses), half a dozen abortive attempts on the French language, a resolve to talk less, and a few purely personal ones. But none of these has been able to survive my essentially easygoing self.
Circumstances also conspire to render the half-way concept possible. Since our children are grown up, I decided the other day to get rid of the letters my wife and I had exchanged during the intervening period of our engagement and marriage. Instead of getting rid of them I was in the midst of enjoying reading them when suddenly my sons barged in from nowhere bringing the operation to a hurried halt.
Yes, the forces at work might be absent-mindedness, circumstances, or a raw deal, but things do manage to stick half way with me. The only exception is that I have not stopped this half-way practice at half way, but have carried it all the way.
I don't know how it is with others; but any venture I undertake, I give up half way. In fact blessed is the occasion when I even get that far.
Years ago, I lived not far from the famous Mrdigangam player, the late Palghat Mani Iyer. This aroused my interest in that percussion instrument. My father promptly arranged with an old hand to teach me. This man believed in 'Slow and steady wins the race', and I, a dashing young lad, had harboured ideas of making it to the No.2 position in six months. After six months I was still doing rudimentary lessons."Not my cup of tea", I said as I laid down the instrument before my Guru.
I renewed my association with music two decades later, in Delhi. This time with the guitar. Donning a silk kurta and pyjama, specially stitched for the music class, with a guitar in hand, I felt on top of the world as I walked down my street in Karol Bagh. A few months later, the patience-incarnate teacher led me to a corner and said: "You have the making of a music director. You must try to become one. Because, at each attempt you produce effortlessly a new tune." He was willing to refund my fees if I gave up the lessons.
Unable to make any dent in the field of music, I went in for body-building, beginning with weight-lifting. The onset of winter arrested my pursuit, but I vowed to start again in summer. This was thirteen years ago. Anyway, what I could not achieve through weight-lifting, I tried through yoga, early morning walks and jogging, in that order. The last (or, better still, the present last) venture was when I bought one of those mail-order gadgets which promised to make a Mohammed Ali out of me. The gymnastic feats at the recent Asian games rekindled my enthusiasm. I unearthed that instrument and renewed my body-building activity. But having enjoyed a long holiday, the springs in it just did not oblige; and my wife firmly disallowed a fresh investment on the gadget as, she said, the attic could accommodate any more articles. And there remains in suspense my body-building enterprise.
If things had gone well, I would have been hailed as Colonel Sundaram by now. During the foreign invasion in the early sixties, the country drafted college students for the army. I volunteered. One day it fell to my lot to be at the top of the line. The drill started, and the Gurkha Subedar shouted, 'Daai", and "Baai' at will. My association with Hindi was still in its infancy. Obeying his command to the best of my poor ability, I found myself a few minutes later marching all alone in one direction. The Gurkha gave me a dressing down and awarded ten rounds of the ground. And that laid to rest my aspiration for an army career.
A few other stints include frequent decisions to start daily prayers (often after hearing religious discourses), half a dozen abortive attempts on the French language, a resolve to talk less, and a few purely personal ones. But none of these has been able to survive my essentially easygoing self.
Circumstances also conspire to render the half-way concept possible. Since our children are grown up, I decided the other day to get rid of the letters my wife and I had exchanged during the intervening period of our engagement and marriage. Instead of getting rid of them I was in the midst of enjoying reading them when suddenly my sons barged in from nowhere bringing the operation to a hurried halt.
Yes, the forces at work might be absent-mindedness, circumstances, or a raw deal, but things do manage to stick half way with me. The only exception is that I have not stopped this half-way practice at half way, but have carried it all the way.
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