Saturday, December 31, 2011

SUNDARAMS MEET SUNDERAMS

One benefit I have derived as a member of the group is to have befriended a few members by email or telephone. One such call culminated into a personal meeting between the two families, since both are based in Phoenix – and, for record, from neighbouring villages back in Palghat.

Responding to one of my ramblings in the forum, Mr Sunderam emailed me that he also studied in the same school, but that he couldn’t place me. He gave me his phone number, and requested for mine. I rang him up. In another half an hour I found a Lexus SUV trying to park in front of my house. Yes Mr and Mrs Sunderam dropped in for a ‘short’ chat that, much to the liking of both, lasted 90 minutes. It would have prolonged, but they had to pick up their d-i-l from office as she was all set for a mother-to-be, and had permission to leave for home before the rush hour.

My wife and I couldn’t wait for the customary two or three days’ gap to return their visit. We were at their doorstep the very next day. The discussions revolved around performing their d-i-l’s Seemantham, finding a suitable purohit and a well-versed team to recite Rudram, Chamakam, Purushasooktam, etc. Equally, they were anxious to locate a reliable caterer. Scores of caterers were available, but they all specialized in North Indian dishes, but not many who could prepare authentic South Indian food for the occasion. They sought our help on both. We were no better than them. It was one blind leading the other.

But, at the function on the 29th, we found the Purohit, in his late-20s having done his Adhyayanam from Sringeri Pathashala, and perfect in his intonation and diction. And the Japam group? Well, it consisted of equally young Ph.Ds, MS engineers employed in Intel, Honeywell, IBM; and boys pursuing higher studies in Biochemistry, Aerospace engineering, and what have you. They should make their parents feel proud of them, I thought.

How did the Sunderams go about for the caterer? Well, the whole family tasted lunch or dinner at a few Indian restaurants in the city. Fortunately they landed on one who was chef at ITDC Kochi. His preparations for the function were good. After making room for an extra ladle of Pal Ada Pradaman, I requested the Sunderams to convey my compliments to the caterer, more so for the excellent Rava Kesari, Pulikkachhal, and the Puliodarai. The Sunderams had a hearty laugh. “My wife prepared just these three items,” announced an excited Sunderam. Now they insist that we plan our visit to India in July to attend their grandson’s Upanayanam in Coimbatore. Man proposes, God disposes.

At my house too it was a family re-union - sans the religious function. My Bay Area son and family have driven all the way from San Jose to Phoenix for the Christmas/New Year vacation. My Phoenix son had drawn a schedule to get the best out of the time together – day-long trips, food and games centres for children, family portrait session with the studio, eating out at Indian, Thai, Mexican, and other restaurants. However, the Sunderams made a special request to bring my sons and their families for the function. Reason? We both have one son in Bay Area and one in Phoenix. They should ideally meet one another. At parental level we both wanted the relationship to be carried forward to the next level. Fortunately the children exchanged email IDs, and contact details to stay in touch. Now it is their call.

Yes, the catchy ad of high-end watchmakers, Patek Philippe of Geneva, comes to my mind: “You never actually own a Patek Philippe. You merely take care of it for the next generation.”

V.V. Sundaram

http://vvsundaram.blogspot.com/

31 December 2011

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

CATCH'EM YOUNG ON HINDUISM

The Indian community in America deserves full compliments for the way they preserve the India’s cultural, social, spiritual and religious heritage. For two months a year, my friend’s house in Phoenix is an open house for musicians and artists visiting from India. A retired official in New Jersey has just completed a weekly discourse on Bhagawatham, through the teleconference network at a fairly convenient time from the East coast to the West. On public demand, he is giving a discourse on Narayaneeyam. In Cupertino, my niece and her husband are fully committed to carrying forward the Art of Living activities, outside their official commitments.

We have a senior scientist, Mr Krishnamurthy, (Krish to his friends) who wears many caps. A Tamil by birth, he is neck-deep into Kannadiga Sangha activities in Phoenix. He conducts a weekly Kannada class in the ‘Udupi’ temple. Instead of looking for some relaxing moments on Sunday mornings, he channels them to teach children of 4 to 8 years the basic tenets of Hinduism, and helps them recite and understand the meanings of several slokas.

He holds annually a ‘jeopardy’ dividing at random his students into two groups. He allows them to select a team leader as well as a name to the team. I had the pleasure of attending it today. I understand it is conducted on the lines of the popular Jeopardy programme in the American channels. I am yet to view one though. But I was more than happy watching Krish conduct one. It was both gripping and engrossing. Twenty-five questions spread across five categories, each carrying five questions, fetching scores of 100, 200, 300, 400 and 500. On one’s turn the team selects a question from the different score category. If that team is not able to answer the question it is passed on to the other team.

Now a peep into a few questions for the 4 to 8 age group. What is the Sanskrit word for Ant Hill. It starts with the letter V. The team answered it Valmiki, but Krish clarified that it was Valmika, and the person who got covered with ant-hill during his long penance and got named thus is Valmiki. So he gave them 250 marks instead of 300. What is another name for Parvati, which starts with the letter ‘A’. The answer: Agaja. What is the word in Sanskrit starting with ‘A’ for face or head? Anana. What are the words, both starting with the letter ‘A’ for No Disease, and No Infection. This was the solitary question that neither of the teams could answer (nor could I, truth be told). The answers were: Arogatam, and Ajadhyam. In the Avataar category, he asked what is Man-Lion starting with the letter ‘N’ – Narasimha. Whose tool is Axe – Parasurama. What is the Sanskrit word for fingertips – Karagraha, and who occupies the centre of one’s palm – Saraswathy. Well it went on and on, with the difference in score narrowing down just to 100 marks. With all the questions answered, there was the final question fetching 1000 marks. What is the real name of our Hindu religion. It reads: S…………D………… The team leaders were given 30 seconds to write the answer. The team that answered within the allotted time wrote Sanatha Dharma. So they were granted 750 marks, reducing 250 marks since the answer was incomplete. The other team that managed to do it during the extra time, wrote it fully, Sanathana Dharma, and marched ahead of the other team by a slender margin of 50 marks - 4300 and 4250. It was all fun and frolic, everyone enjoying. At no time during the jeopardy could anyone say with certainty which team would make it. So intense was the competition. The parents simultaneously were busy taking snaps and videos of their children in action.

As a gesture, the parents presented Krish with Kindle Fire tablet, e-book reader. He said he was planning to buy one himself, and thanked them. A group photo, and a delicious lunch by Girija Krish followed. We understand she politely declined the potluck offer made by children’s parents. She wanted to have the pleasure all for herself, for hosting the lunch.

The parents with a full belly and more inclined for a reclining pose, were treated at a piano recital by Krish’s son, Sharad, in his twenties. Starting with Christmas carols befitting the season around, he went on to play Hindi, Tamil, Kannada, and English songs, with a finale Bhagyatha Lakshmi Bharamma.

No doubt everyone left his home on a happy note. If only there was one Krish in each city of US for an orientation on Hinduism, the spiritual moorings of Indian-American children are sure to be firmly rooted.

V.V. Sundaram

18 December 2011

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

LAS VEGAS UNPLUGGED


We prefer convenience to cost. Last time we rented a furnished house, drove our van with children and their families, and had fun. But this time around, when we saw a three-day package to Las Vegas by a tour operator and many members of the Indo-American Cultural Association racing to enroll, our preference took a U turn. We began to see the finer points in a group tour: you meet fresh faces, move with new people, and make many friends. The reasonable fare included transport, accommodation in a five-star hotel, and three complimentary buffet lunches and one dinner. “This is it, and we make it,” my wife and I said and jumped on the bandwagon. We roped in our friends Marathi and Kannada couples, also. Apart from the six of us, the Indian contingent consisted of 21 more, all from Gujarat fraternity.

The game plan of the sponsors for such a low-cost offer is this. The Casinos are located on the ground floor of the skyscraper hotel. You are there for three days, and have to pass through the casino for coffee, breakfast, lunch, shopping – everything. So they expect you to try your hands at the slots on a modest scale to begin with. But with so many Indians in the group and their mental makeup we were sure this trip would be a loss, and the organizers would write it off to ‘Indian influx.’

Out in the open from the gambling den in Vegas, a fantastic world with marvels of modern architecture awaits you - hotel Bellagio, their registration lounge (in itself a feast for the eyes), their exhilarating fountain-show, Caesar’s Palace, The Venetian, The Treasure Island, and the evening shows at the Fremont Square, renovated at a cost of $ 30 million to add extra pixels in order to improve sharpness of images. The Christmas festive decoration was a bonus. A penguin in its snow-covered home peeping out alternately from its main door and the rooftop, the life-like Santa Claus ever ready to oblige, the huge artificial bells hanging as though all set to chime, and the Christmas trees with gifts carefully hidden here and there, all made us feel we have recovered value for our money.

Many in the group were tried and tested hands. One lady makes it a few times annually. An Indian-American doctor in Chicago is invited annually with all expenses paid. He carries $ 50,000/ to play around.

Exchanging day’s score, one enterprising Gujarati said on day One, “Well, I have lost just $40/, and I have a ceiling of $200/-, so I still have $160 for the next two days.” Another joined the group coming all the way from Idaho.

In our sub-group, my wife was game, and so was the Kannada lady. The Marathi lady was fifty-fifty. Among gents, I was not interested; the Kannadiga swore he wouldn’t play, and the Marathi was noncommittal. Thus my wife and the Kannada lady made a beginning, with the pendulum swinging in favour and against. Wednesday, is not a lucky day for me, announced my wife after a while as a ploy to get me to play. I did, and the first dollar got me $ 3.25. I went and cashed my first ever easy-money in life. Then I tried another dollar. It fetched me $ 3.05. I cashed it. The End I said, and gave the money to my wife, to play if she wanted. I reckon our net gain at $3.

The Kannada couple meanwhile was found missing. There at a corner my friend was glued to the machine, busy playing – yes the one who swore. At the end of the trip, their loss was around $10.

The Marathi couple entered the arena backed by experience. Their son and d-i-l were in Las Vegas a few days earlier and had earned $150/-. They went for a full blast till the figure touched zero. So the parents decided they would exit on high, which they did. They gained $5.

Not satisfied at individual performance, some of our Gujarati friends pooled money together, and went for a final unified assault before boarding the bus to Phoenix. They pulled the handle vigorously taking turns, some silently praying their favourite God, but luck evaded them. Die-hards, they shouted jointly, “doesn’t matter, there is always a next time,” which there is. The next bus leaves on 27 December, and we learn it is getting full. Wonder how many have re-booked.

There is no such thing as free lunch, it turned out, disproving our prediction of loss to sponsors.

V.V. Sundaram

12 December 2011

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Hinduism, 9/11, and our grandson


Hinduism, 9/11, and our grandson

Recently a friend had forwarded to me a Handbook of Hindu Rituals, with a fervent appeal to explain their importance to children of 8 to 12 when their inquisitiveness is at its peak.

The immediate reaction on reading such a message is to ask yourself: Do I measure up to his appeal? In this particular instance, however, I felt happy we do. Ashwin, our grandson, aged 7, attends an hour-long sloka class every Sunday. A senior MNC executive conducts the class. He selects a sloka, explains its meaning threadbare, and narrates related stories from Hindu scriptures. This is followed by a question-answer session on the sloka in particular and on the religion. It is heartening to watch the enthusiastic young ones vying with one another to respond. The accompanying parents, equally involved involuntarily, prompt answers from behind.

Every year the City of Phoenix observes a 9/11 ceremony to perpetuate the memory of those who lost their lives. This being the 10th year, they introduced a new item to their regular programme. They wished ten children below 8, from different religions, faiths, to convey in two minutes what his religion propounds which would run similar to: Do Unto others as you would have others do unto you, to emphasize that at the end of the day all religions try to get the same message across. The Sloka Guru selected Ashwin to represent Hinduism, and we felt elated at this honour.

Appearing in alphabetic order, it fell upon Ashwin to be the first on stage. My son, d-i-l, wife and I were a bit nervous. Reason? Only the previous night Ashwin had helped himself liberally with the Popsicle that my d-i-l had prepared as an experiment. Consequently the next morning his voice just would not take off. Fortunately at the function he delivered his portion to perfection.

The regular agenda included speakers connected with 9/11 in one way or the other. The wife of a victim spoke of the book that she had penned to perpetuate his memory. On each anniversary their son pledged to his departed father to uphold yet another good principle in life. The brother of a young innocent Sikh working in a gas station who was shot dead soon after 9/11, was all for forget and forgive and to work for the unity of America and fight terrorism.

A selected few belonging to different religions, faiths took the podium - one from Islam, a Jew, a Native Indian, a Sikh, a Catholic, and others. The programme ended with a soulful rendering on the subject by a lady who, I am sure, must be a professional.

Considering that the Phoenix temperature that day was anywhere between 110 and 115 F, the presence of around 200 people in the open ground, at midday, spoke highly of the dedication and commitment of the people for the values they cherished. A representative from the Fire Service stood in attention all through the function, as also a few in other uniforms I was unable to distinguish. Quite timely, a few young Sikhs, in their true spirit of seva, distributed bottled water to all those braving the sun, to quench their thirst.

The local TV channels covered the event in their evening bulletin, which fortunately featured Ashwin also. My wife also managed to get into the frame.

Later, a lady correspondent rang us up to seek permission to use Ashwin's photo in the local tabloid along with a write-up. We were only eager to grant it.

Ashwin laboured for the event, and gave a good account of himself. Quite deservedly he was treated at lunch in a restaurant of his choice - with us joining him.

V.V. Sundaram

Phoenix

19 October 2011

Monday, September 12, 2011

HAND IN HAND WITH GHOSTS



Hand in Hand with Ghosts
The usual cheerful look on our ‘park’ friends (an Indian couple in their early sixties) was missing as they wore a gloomy look that evening. Reason? During the weekend they had accompanied their daughter and s-i-l to buy a home. Most of the houses were fabulous, as were their prices. Seeing their raised eyebrows at the mention of the price, the agent took them to one that was being offered at a throwaway price - with high-end furniture, drapery and chandeliers. Why did he not show them this in the first instance, they insisted which, on hindsight, they regretted. “Well, there was a suicide in the house, and buyers dread it ghost-haunted,” the agent replied. That was enough for them to take to their heels, broad daylight though.
Now they face a different problem. Instead of the ghost, the dirt-cheap price seems to haunt them. “Sundaramji, should we just buy the house, do a purification puja and move in?” they asked, totally confused. I made a clean breast that I was the least competent, more so with my own brush with a ghost as an adolescent.
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 in the outlying area of our village once discovered his spouse in an unacceptable position with one of his friends. He strangled her the same night and threw the body in a nearby well. Her spirit started haunting 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 adopted 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 that was the terror for 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, ghost 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 courage and kept moving. God knows what elemental force 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 white 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, Sundaram, Sundaram. “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 Christmas vacation.
Sundaram Uncle, B-703
14 August 2011

Sunday, July 10, 2011

SENIORS SPECIAL - SHRISTI APTS



SENIORS SPECIAL

(Strictly time-pass piece please)

Hello Dada, how are you? I asked my friend Mr Bhattacharya who is visiting his daughters in A and B blocks. “Not okay. I fell off my cot in Kolkatta and suffered a head injury.” “But you look perfectly fine,” I told him. “No, no, after that incident I am forgetful. I remember well the theories and principles I studied in my engineering course, but forget things that happened an hour ago.” “Not to worry Dada, it happens with me too,” I told him, off-guard. “Like what?” he quipped. “Well in my case it is different. I forget when I owe money to others, and remember distinctly when I have to recover.”

It is nice to have him with us. The only occasion I welcomed his absence, however, was at an earlier Srishti Day seniors’ walking race, which enabled me to win it. Had he been around, with his tall figure and long legs, he would have re-enacted the Vamana Avtar when, with one step the Lord measured the world, the nether world with the second, and with no space left, he placed it on the king’s head, for him discard pride for humility.

We called on Krish and Hema, B-Block, on the eve of their departure to USA. Hema had just ticked the last item on her list – rava laadu (suji laddu) for her grandchildren. Krish was already mentally in USA on his bicycle, ears plugged to Beethoven’s 5th symphony, waiting at Saratoga for the signal to turn green. Srishtites will miss his morning flute jugal bandhi of old Hindi and Tamil film songs. I am still to figure out why he hurries to the next song before he plays even one stanza of the first; maybe he wants to rehearse as many tunes as possible within the time he allotted to the music session.

The Radhakrishnans, of A Block, have arrived from London - not that it is a Srishti mandate that each departure must match an arrival - just a coincidence. While most of us return from such trips either having put on or pulled down, Radhakrishnan’s weight stays to the last milligram, I bet. There is a touch of class in everything that he does. I am sure he must have completed the To-Do list that awaits such long absences - pay property tax with penalty, retrieve the telephone instrument deposited for safe custody from one of BSNL’s umpteen gunny bags stacked under their staircase, restore internet and landline connections, locate and reinstate domestic help, and what have you. Thus one could now hope for some unadulterated Carnatic music – the best of it to A Block and the rest to B Block residents.
We were happy to welcome back Ganesan-ji (A-Block Siva’s father) who was admitted to hospital for bed-rest when he was taken ill. The Siva family has since shifted to HSR Layout. Like Brutus said in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, “Not that I love Caesar less, but that I love Rome more,” defending his complicity to Caesar’s assassination, Siva said that it was not the lack of love and affection from Srishti-ites but proximity to his office that forced this decision. Srishti’s loss is Shoba Daffodil’s gain.

Last but not the least, Mr D’Souza, of B-Block, is back in action with his resplendent smile, which was missing for a while when his health suffered a setback. He is now regular in his rounds, though walks a little slow, but his movements are no longer calculated to draw the minimum of attention. He is brimming with confidence. After the Srishti Day carom tournament a few years ago, we had promised we would continue play carom. Instead, we seem to be playing hide and seek.

Sundaram
B-703
10 July 2011

Sunday, June 5, 2011

IF WISHES WERE HORSES



IF WISHES WERE HORSES
To quote Shakespeare in full for record, “If wishes were horses beggars would ride”. But the word ‘beggars’ is irrelevant and inappropriate in the context of Srishti, which is the abode of millionaires - from the value of the apartments, to begin with.

Wishes expressed date back to the time the noncooperation movement of the lifts surfaced. Was it during the warranty period itself, or exactly a day later as it happens with my household investments?
The most recent wishes are replacing all the four lifts, or one lift in each block, ramp, external beautification versus internal need, premonition of fatality of lifts sooner than later, Johnson vs Otis, propagating the concept, “Sasta roye baar baar, Mehnga roye ek baar” (buy cheap and regret repeatedly, buy costly and feel just once), or, its equivalent French saying, “it is costly to buy cheap things.” (A small world isn’t it? For every saying you have an equivalent in every other culture.).

Suggestions made earlier include inviting installation of an ATM outside the front compound wall, protruding partly into any unsold car parking lot in the premises, or where the lamppost disallows a parking space. The rental proceeds can be syphoned to periodic lift(s) repair, external painting job, and other contingencies. A legal activist shot it down - residential premises cannot be let out for commercial purposes. The commonsense-approach friend counter-argued it that if we can generate income from exhibition-cum-sale of textile goods, home appliances or automobile display in the premises, this too can pass muster; law does not distinguish between petty thieving and dacoity, he corroborated.

Another corridor suggestion, by a lady resident this time, was that a hefty fee should be levied on relocation cases. She attributes overloading of the lift by the movers the chief cause for repeated breakdowns. Synchronizing the operation of the lifts for operational efficiency, cost-effectiveness, and to set at rest preferred exclusive rides was yet another proposal that found its way.

“Uncle, you must write something to mobilise public opinion,” suggested a lady of the younger generation. “Damn public or opinion; I have my own worries,” I said to myself. In ten days my brother (on the wrong side of seventies) and Bhabhi (with gasping problem in attendance) will set foot in Srishti for a fortnight, bowled by my superlative hype of Srishti. And I just cannot visualize them on a mountaineering expedition of eight floors (0 + 7) balancing a suitcase in one and a sky-bag in the other hand each. Equally, as they fasten their seat belts for their homeward journey, I don’t wish either they sum up their Srishti sojourn with the words: “Hmm, is this that he was speaking so highly of?”

Well, wishes abound and vary but, to quote an Urdu couplet in part, “…wahi hota hai jo manzoor-e-khuda hota hai. To translate, “(whatever one might wish) only that happens which has the approval of the Almighty (Vishweshwar) - or the tireless and dear Visweswaran-ji in our case.

Sundaram
B-703
4 June 2011

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Mini Srishti Day

Mini Srishti Day

The Upanayanam of Srikant-Sudha’s son Srivatsa, a private function though, can easily qualify for a mini Srishti Day because it had most of the ingredients of a Srishti Day – camaraderie; joy of meeting and greeting each other; getting to know of Srishti-ites you have seen but not known; and, no less, an orientation on who’s whose who. Equally, you have an enjoyable time together at the breakfast or lunch table – or both.

The attendance was good, but the turnover more brisk, it being an auspicious day. Many had more invitations to honour. We spotted a senior-couple rush to the venue, mark their presence, hand a gift, wave a quick hello to the Srishti gang and slip away at lightning speed. I bet, before alighting from the car they must have instructed their driver to reverse the car and keep the engine on. A real Bollywood style guest appearance.

A variety of information emerged from group discussions – I hate the term gossip. The Hema-Krish duo of B-Block, off to California next month, would move to a new house there, still farther from ours in San Jose. It was not deliberate, they reassured us, but driven by closeness to grandchildren’s school. Krish clarified, as consolation, that Gautam, the third Srishti-ite, would equally be farther, but the meeting of the trio would continue as hitherto, to enliven the spirit of Srishti, outside Srishti.

Mr Janardanan, the peppermint-uncle to the Srishti children, and picnic-organizer to the upward of 40s, shared with us of a proposed day-long trip to Sivasamudram dam/falls, and a few temples en route, the chief attraction being that he had pulled the right strings to get the closest view of the turbine-functioning, dam, falls, and what have you, which to a normal man access is denied. In addition, a special lunch would await the group at the Guest House after the tour. (We hear since that the 12-member group had a wonderful time on Thursday, 19 May, and the sound of the generous waterfalls is still ringing in their ears.)

Now it was time for Asheerwadam. The Srikants had specified, “Only your Blessing, please”, and everyone bestowed it liberally, but with an accompanying gift (not excluding us).

The unanimous verdict on the lunch served was that henceforth the caterer should be permitted to add in his business card: “By Appointment to all Srishti functions – private or public”.

Guests without a vehicle had meticulously managed to tag along with someone to return home. We were the only exceptions. Seeing our inability to persuade any auto chap to take us for the short distance, the young couple at B-603, with their kids of 6+ and 2+, kindly offered to accommodate us in their car although my cool-operator friend Narayan had already ensured his seat. Thus, the young family of four squeezed themselves in the front, and offered the three of us seat at the back. The pleasure of keeping a 6+ on one’s lap ceases at the forty-fifth second. Thereafter you yearn for your destination. With both the boys on her lap fighting for the window seat, and the young lady’s own concern to get the return-gift home in one piece, she braved the ordeal with a great spirit of accommodation. And at the driver’s seat, the young man’s discomfiture was no less. Each time he moved his hand to shift the gear, he found himself moving his son’s leg instead. But then good manners are made up of petty sacrifices they say, and that is precisely what the young couple did for us.

Long live Srishti spirit.

Sundaram Uncle

B-703

21 May 2011

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Cars, Parking, ...



An array of cars parked around the inside of Srishti compound and the golden rays of the early sun bestowing a gentle glow to them may not particularly be spectacular, but is a reasonable bargain for a morning walk. You start late, and you pay a price – the rays get warmer.
Earlier the parking lot was the monopoly of Maruti and Hyundai. Now it boasts of almost all brands and variants. Only Mercedes and Nano are conspicuous by their absence. I think someone enterprising should buy a Nano and write on its back, “When I grow, I will become Mercedes,” and make up for both.
Innovative inscriptions are the hallmark of Delhi cars. “Pappu, Sonu, Nina aur Chotti di Gaddi”, writes one putting the constituents of his family on the public domain. “You dare overtake me,” prints the other warning you of the youth at the wheels and the challenge ahead. The lorry drivers follow their own pattern. “Buri Nazar Wale, Tera Moonh Kaala” (You evil-eyed, blackened be thy face), they write, as if there are no better vehicles on road to cast one’s eyes on than theirs with rattling engines, wobbling bodies and jarring beats of retreaded tyres.
In our open parking area, some have the knack of parking at 90 degrees in a slanted slot. One could guess three possibilities. They wish to be head and shoulders above the crowd; they are too well connected to have undergone the rigours of driving and parking tests; or, they return home very late and are eager to join their kids and spouse to observe norms. An incurable optimist, I would bet my rupee on the last.
It doesn’t require a Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot to guess how many residents are on travel status at a given time. Just spot the cars that are covered, and you get the figure - with residence numbers. A perfect shortcut to an elaborate door-to-door survey for any prospective burglar to decamp with valuables.
Speaking of covers, some tend to be an apology for covering. Lack of tight knots at places aided by wind turn them into a maximum cloth, minimum coverage.
The weekly open carwash is as much enjoyable as, back in the village, the mahout gives the elephant a bath before it is bedecked and taken around with a replica of the village deity mounted. Here, some cleaners give the car a sponge bath with a cloth that has seen better days - and keep you guessing which way the dirt-transfer is taking place. A few splash mugs-full of water at incredible force and speed, and you are better off keep a distance unless you enjoy the rebound spray. Yet others, with their 9-to-5 regular job, pour a bucket-full from the top and call it quits. The ground still fully wet when the owner lands and inspects, he drives to work fully satisfied at his HR skills that he has hired the best cleaner in town.

B-703 Srishti
18 May 2011

Thursday, May 12, 2011

SHRISHTI REVISITED

It is nice to be back in Srishti Apartments after months of absence. You are greeted either with a, “Oh God, you have pulled down,” (a negative statement you welcome as in a lab report) or, Now you look healthy” (a mild hint that you have put on weight).

Physical fitness fervor in Srishti is at its best on this visit. The ladies’ yoga sessions continue unabated. It seems the group had a go at a potluck lunch to celebrate its fifth or sixth anniversary. Morning walkers can seldom miss their chant of Om and Gayatri mantra - maybe in varying volumes and modulations, but it establishes their unity in diversity

The one that steals the show however is the yoga lessons a group of office-goers, and in some cases their spouses and children, undergo early morning in the basketball court. Their teacher prefers “Sahana Bhavatu, Sahanao Bhunaktu…,” the peace mantra from Kata Upanishad, for invocation. His resonating voice can give Harish Bhimani, of the Mahabharata serial introductory-remarks fame, a run for his money. Sorry Srishti-ites, only RAC or Waiting list booking is open.

This is not to rob you of the pleasant sight of the Karate session that goes on in the evening. Donning their all-white uniforms with their respective well-earned grades of belts around, it is a treat to watch young children attempt the various forms in unison. Unlike yoga, this provides the younger generation their much-needed freedom to shout at will as part of the regimen as they enact their action-packed movements a la Bruce Lee.

The male elderly group lags behind in no measure. In the evenings one can watch them take steps with military precision, but in super slow motion. Given a pair of cymbals each, this group can easily pass for a Bhajan troupe doing parkirama or pradakshinam of the complex praying for the welfare of the residents. The topics they cover could be the day’s TV news, the flourishing garbage warehouse adjacent to A Block with sorting centre and pick up facilities added, or to its minuscule companion in B Block but in much closer proximity to compensate.

The young mothers are a group in themselves. With time constraints weighing in their minds as homemakers and having to give attention to children, they walk on a fast track. At the wink of eyes, they are at the other end.

These activities take me down the memory lane on my own efforts to keep fit 45 years ago. First it was a gadget called Bullworker that promised to make a Mohammad Ali out of me. With Mohammad Ali or even his distant cousin nowhere in sight after a couple of months, I switched my allegiance to another gadget, Tummy Trimmer. However, owing to constant non-use the trimmer itself developed tummy. A few more fitness equipment till my mother, mild in nature otherwise, came heavily on me, “I can take no more of decorative pieces in the drawing for dusting.”

I picked up weightlifting this time. After weeks of preparatory workouts the instructor who had won the “Mr Delhi” title inducted me to the actual lifting of the bar. I lifted it with full vigor and, can you believe it, held on to it for full five minutes. He patted me and said, “Very good. This time you raised it up to the ankle. Next time you bring it to the knee level.” “Not my cup of tea,” I said to myself and moved on.

14 April 2011

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