(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.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
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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