Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Free Haircut



Within a week of moving to Scottsdale, scores of 'Welcome' letters flooded our mailbox, addressed individually. Hats off to the marketing guys; the ink on the registration paper is hardly dry, and complete data is in their hands.

A leading business magazine, specializing in success stories, offered our son 70% off on subscription, to rekindle his aspirations to strike it rich. Daughter-in-law received an irresistible offer from an upscale cosmetic company. The 'ultimate' kitchen aid manufacturers tempted my wife with their 30-piece set for $450 (normal: 600) to reinforce her thinking that it was time she discarded the dowry lot. The elder grandson got special rates on electronics gadgets, and a franchisee invited the five-year old younger one for a free ice cream. AND ME? A free haircut from the shop that otherwise charges $33/-. And I availed.

As the Lithuanian lady sized up my head for a major cosmetology, my mind strayed into adolescence when I paid just four annas per haircut - four haircuts per rupee. Or 220 haircuts for a dollar. Kalimuthu and his younger brother Murugan, the accredited hairdressers to the village, wielded their straight razor and scissors with reckless abandon under a thatched roof at the far end of their house. No high chairs; just a wooden plank on the floor.

Pre-dawn visitors risked their heads to the duo's artwork under a dim lantern light. Side-burns of differing lengths and uneven patches often emerged from such guesswork sessions. When it rained, one got a shower at no extra cost, dripping through the thatched roof. Occasionally a snake or scorpion crept in to exert their right to co-exist.

As specialists in Kudumi (tufts) and shaving, the duo catered basically to elders. To us the younger ones, they offered three flat fares: Crop, Motta Crop (crew-cut), or Mottai (tonsure). Any plea for a Sivaji, MGR, or Prem Nazir cut fell into their deaf ears.

In the bazar, a mile away, saloons were aplenty, all fitted with swivel chairs, king-size mirrors that reflect no wavy faces, radio, fan, tube-light, and magazines. But they charged ten annas. No parent obliged, except for the only-son Balu's father. Thus, after a haircut when Balu reached the pond for a bath, we flocked around and subjected him to an intense inspection as he unfolded his experience. “You look up at the ceiling, the hairdresser switches on the fan; pass a side glance at the radio, he would turn it on; look back at the table, he would hand you a magazine.”

Friction surfaced between the brothers because of their wives. Partition of the premises seemed the sole solution. They approached my grandfather, an advocate, to mediate. With both arguing at the top of the voice and Thatha reminding them, "order, order," it was practically a court in session at our backyard. After week-long deliberations, he settled the issue amicably. To express gratitude Murugan rushed home and plucked two king-size ready-to-eat jackfruits from the portion of the backyard that had since become his in the partition just concluded. Kalimuthu followed suit with a basketful of juicy mangoes. Thatha politely declined. “Both of you are like part of the village community, and I won’t accept anything.”

Unable to bear our deflated face at Thatha’s stance, Patti jumped in. “Yes, that is right. But, at the same time it doesn’t look nice to displease you when you both feel very happy at the outcome,” she overruled, and gestured to them where to keep the fee in kind.

"Care for shampoo, or massage, sir?" asked the hairdressing lady with a gentle tap on my back, more to bring me back to the present.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Forty Years of Married Life - pleasant and embarrassing moments


Forty Years of Married Life
pleasant and embarrassing moments

Like the TRP rating that assesses the most-viewed TV channel, if I were to select the message that is flashed around most to the three Seniors groups in which I am a member (14 000 membership), I would pick the one on how to spend your time peacefully.

One of the tips is to bask on pleasant memories of the good old days, as opposed, probably, to brood over one's sugar-, cholesterol- or BP-levels, the cataract that is eclipsing one's vision or, at a personal level, which of the 100 civics questions will the USCIS officer select to unleash for you at the US citizenship interview. Precisely why I thought the best way to celebrate our 40th marriage anniversary is to simply go down the memory lane and enjoy some pleasurable moments.

I am not trying to steal a march over my friend's parents who celebrated 72 years of marital bliss. Compared to that 40 years is just a little more than half way mark. But that definitely doesn't deny me the privilege to recall the events that led to the solemn occasion.

Bangladesh had just been liberated and had emerged as a new nation. Along side, the ravages of war had just begun to take their toll with dead bodies strewn all over, and diseases of every kind assuming epidemic proportions. The UN Relief Operations, Dhaka, pitched in for assistance - rehabilitation, resettlement, food, clothing... From Delhi, WHO deputed me to set up an office to help medical experts address public health issues.

On my way to Dhaka, I stopped over in Calcutta (Kolkata) for a day. In the exodus from my village to eke out a living, half the population migrated to Calcutta, and the other half to Bombay (Mumbai). A few strayed into Madras (Chennai) and Delhi. I was keen to meet my village friends in Calcutta.

Manikkam (name changed) took me around the city. During the course, he pointed to a building and said, Over there, Sundaram, works a relative of yours, but I don't know his name. That aroused my curiosity. "Doesn't matter, let's go there." It turned out to be Pammechan, a distant relative. He was as much delighted as I was. He said he would meet me in my hotel in the evening and take over from Manikkam.

It so happened, next to my hotel lived his eldest brother Murthy Anna. So on arrival Pammechan asked me, Wouldn't you like to call on Murthy Anna who is next door?" Personally I was not very keen. As a lad I had seen Murthy Anna in person only once or twice when he visited my village to pay obeisance to my grandfather (one of his elder cousins). But I couldn't say no, because he was after all Pammechan's eldest brother and head of his family. So I said yes. To this day I cherish that decision, for there I met his daughter who was 'next in line' for marriage - second of the seven.

Next, a strategy to stay in touch with her. I didn't know even her name; she just said she worked in a bank. At the hotel I brooded at night and hit upon a plan. I had with me more Indian currency than I was allowed to take to Bangladesh. Early next morning before emplaning I knocked at the house. She opened the door and was ill at ease to see me. She was literally dipped in oil for her weekly oil-bath. She blushed and tried to rush to the kitchen to call her mother or one of her sisters. But before that I handed her the excess cash and requested her if she could make a bank draft and send it across to my bank. And I left my Dhaka address for her to confirm the action taken. It was a 50-50 chance that I took. She could just drop a line confirming the deposit, with or without leaving her address. I received a matter-of-fact reply from her, but fortunately with her address. That was enough to take off - at the rate of one letter a day, to start with. We got to know of each other better and decided to take the final plunge. At this stage I informed my parents. She was clever. On receipt of my thank you and introductory letter, she asked her father: "Appa, today shall we leave for Office together?" En route she showed him the letter. "Sounds a perfect gentleman," he judged on reading it. He had no clue how much I had laboured to get it to that shape. He gave her the go ahead to respond to it.

"No doubt it eliminates the need for a family background check, but horoscope-match is a must," came the diktat from my father. "Not to worry, we will manage," came simultaneous private reassurance from both my elder brothers in Mumbai and Delhi. My father-in-law-to-be verified with his astrologer in Calcutta, and my father with Panikkar in Palghat. The unanimous verdict: "uttama poruttam", or ideal match - of horoscopes. Yes, that was God's way to chart the course to bring us together, and I have nothing but gratitude.

How about the promised unpleasant or embarrassing situations? Well, nothing much of significance - I can recount just three off the cuff. We had sold our Delhi house and were shifting to South. The movers had loaded all the goods. We rang up our elder son in the US to convey that we were heading for the airport, and the goods had all been packed and loaded. "Have you cleaned up everything from the first floor attic?" he asked. "Yes, of course, but why?" "No, nothing, just that years ago when I was stacking all the Brilliant Tutorials IIT Study material in the attic, I stumbled upon the well-preserved bunch of letters between you and Amma wrapped in a lungi."

Second, forty years though, I am still looking for a breakthrough in winning an argument with her. Doesn't matter. At the end of the day, her pronouncements have been more marked than my impulsive utterances.

The third regret, and a sincere one, is that we have only one life to live, to love, or be loved.

P.S. To complete record, our second son in Santa Clara rang me up to greet us on our milestone marriage anniversary. In an effort to sound polite I said, "Yes, it is nice of Amma to have put up with me all these 40 years." "It is not just her, all of us, Appa," he reassured me. 

V.V. Sundaram

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Everything has a price


Everything has a price

Yes even the words that I utter. For instance, if I tell my wife casually, Looks like I have gotten over my sneezing problem, the next moment a virulent variety uproots my system to assert that it is dormant, not disappeared. So last time when I got relief from a self-inflicted knee-pain while trying to outpace the guy in the morning walk, I didn't announce it to her, I just whispered into her ears. Discretion is the best part of valour.

The other day I wrote to my apartment-complex Yahoogroups in Bangalore that in USA we live with our son in Scottsdale, popularly known as Retirees' Paradise. (It will be a few decades before he earns that status, though.) It is located on the foothills of a long stretch of mountains. Hardly had I clicked the "Send" button to joyfully share with them the finer aspects of life over here when a circular landed from Home Owners Association here that a mountain-lion and bob-cat have been spotted in the vicinity, and alerting residents to be watchful. In any case, not to let children step out unaccompanied. My grandchildren clarified, fighting with the customary me first gusto, that a mountain-lion is the 'younger' brother of a forest lion, and a bob-cat, that of a wild cat.

Since then, we avoided the park-route for our morning walks. It has far too many hedges and hideouts for these wild animals to wait in ambush - for an Indian vegetarian delicacy, tenderly nurtured over decades with sambar, curd rice and chappati. So we now cross the busy Raintree Road to go for the walk. Two days later however I persuaded my wife to switch to our original park-route, with the chauvinistic reassurance, Main Hoon Na. Strictly speaking it was no chauvinism, just a ploy. I weighed the chances of being mauled by the animals against getting under a wheel with her unshakable commitment to zig-zag her way through the rush hour traffic in blatant disregard to signals. For certain things my wife is still in India.

This came about hardly a few days after another episode when our son rushed back home two minutes after he left for office early morning. Probably last night's restaurant dinner has not gone well with him, I guessed. No, he had seen a herd of coyotes (also called prairie wolves) howling merrily in the park. He had come back just to warn us to avoid the park. Yes, the coyotes visit the park for an early morning breakfast of bunny rabbits that have unsuspectingly migrated en masse from the foothills to the residential bushes for safety.

Until a few years an envious landscape in front was, among the residents, the yardstick to keep up with the Joneses. They have moved on. It is now car wars. Ideally you should drive a German BMW, Mercedes, or a high-end American Cadillac, Lincoln, or a British (sorry, now Indian-owned) Jaguar. No Japanese cars whatsoever, Lexus included. The city is already jam-packed with them. My son still holds on to his Toyota Camry. But, I did hear him collect details from a Jaguar dealer.

There is a price even to be with grandchildren. Instead of allowing me to get on with my library collection - Divine Justice by David Baldacci, Best Friends by Debbie Macomber, or A Walk to Remember by Nicholas Sparks - the kids insist I read theirs: Charlotte's Web or The Trumpet of the Swan. And I oblige them - whenever I am not consulting in private the Tell Me Why to answer their volley of questions fired during breakfast, at AK47 speed. (Precisely why these days I delay my breakfast for their departure to school.) For want of a spot answer, I normally evade saying, I am busy now, I will tell you later, and make a mental note of them. Happily here , however, it is not a price I pay, but a benefit I reap - teaching for better learning.

-------
One for the road: My younger son rang up early this week to wish us happy marriage anniversary. To sound modest I said, "Yes, nice of Amma to have put up with me all these 40 years." "Not just her, all of us, Appa," he reassured.

Saturday, May 11, 2013

Nostalgia Thy Name


Nostalgia Thy Name

The recent Srishti photo session featuring smiling faces; occasional email chats, telephone and Skype talks with a few; an email invitation from a neighbour to bless their son on his Upanayanam and, above all, a request to post email regularly to the Group, rekindles nostalgia.

It is good to know that re-laying of the road inside Srishti is shaping well. That should settle the issue for another two years. The garbage centre has moved a few metres away. It now faces Vavad (?). I don't know how much credit goes to Srishti. But kudos to Siroya for posting a guard 24x7. For Srishti-ites the garbage will no longer waft its concentrated version but a marginally diluted stink. We feel sorry for Vavad. We can close windows and doors, But Vavad cannot down its shutters. Let's hope Vavad will pull strings to get the dump shifted a little further, and the guy next still a little more, and gradually the Centre will find itself in the main Bellary Road. That will probably force civic authorities to take a call.

Here the roads are clean. The air is unpolluted. You can be sure to fill your lungs with fresh air each time you breathe. The feeling is high that the community belongs to us. The other morning we saw an American couple pick up two crushed Coke cans and a disposable coffee mug. "For some the community is yet to belong to them. They throw these on the road," they said as they dropped them in a nearby trash can. Back in India people would laugh at it and brand the couple well dressed ragpickers.

This is not to deny some pleasures of being in India. Neighbours, residents from other floors or the other Block, would just walk in to our home, and we enjoy their company for a chat. It helps break the monotony. Here such a visit is always by prior appointment. Also it is considered bad manners to ring up someone after 9 pm. In India, you can always rush to the intercom and check with someone if he is watching Chris Gayle's fastest 100, or a corrupt politician being grilled by Karan Thapar or Arnab Goswami.

Also, in India, aside from the dishes prepared by your spouse you get to taste the Vadu Mangai and Jackfruit jam prepared by one resident, the special Hyderabad mango pickle (a little more spicy) that is the trade mark of another, or the 'poha' and home-ground rasam powder of yet another the fragrance of which has a knack of alerting the neighbourhood on what is cooking, or the inimitable Neyy Payasam of someone else, or a totally satisfying meal that yet another resident serves - to name a few. These privileges are exclusive to India - and India alone. And on that score the spirit of community living is simply matchless.

A scenario in contrast. Here, two years ago Aunty and our d-i-l prepared Rasagulla, and it came out well (I dare not say, for a change). They decided to share it with the Caucasian neighbour with four children. Their grand foray into the neighbour's house proudly carrying a glass bowl with 'while balls' shining was shattered when those children looked at it more with a frown.

Yes, Rudyard Kipling is right: East is East, West is West (and never the twain shall meet).

V.V. Sundaram
B-703
10 May 2013

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Seniors California Meet


Seniors California Meet

It is always a pleasure to meet a person to whom you owe gratitude. Shri K. Raman, a co-founder of the Thatha Patty Yahoogroup inducted us into it which keeps our mornings occupied. I always look forward to meeting him. But seldom we stay in the same city. Thus when I learnt we both are in California, I swore to myself, “Well, I will not let go this opportunity; I am already scheduled to move to Phoenix next weekend.” I rang him up, and he was all eager. “Shall we also invite another member, one Mrs Visalakshi and her husband Gopal in San Ramon?” I quipped. “Well, Sundaramji, it is not 'one' Visalakshi. Gopal is my cousin,” he corrected me, reinforcing that it's a small world.

Acquaintance with Visalakshi is a compliment to her sheer investigative skills. Responding to a piece that I wrote, replete with Bangalore and none whatsoever of Delhi, she wrote back, “Do you by any chance have any Delhi connection, sir?” That was the starting point before she unfolded how our two families have a common friend in Delhi who used to talk a lot about us ('only good things, by the way,” she had reassured me). Since then it has been an email- or telephone-chat between her and my wife - once a day as prescription; and twice, time permitting. It was nice of Sudha, their daughter, to fit in her packed weekend schedule (dance classes, son's Tabla class, Sai Bhajan rehearsal for son and daughter) an hour-long drive to drop her parents and mother-in-law at Raman's place.

We arrived a little ahead of the other group. As we waited at Raman's doorstep, we could smell Paav-Bhaji that Ritu, Raman's d-i-l, was preparing. And, like they say, “Yaanai varum munne, mani osai varum,” even before the Gopals made their foray later, the aroma of Samosas they brought began to waft. The sealed pack of 'Brownie Bites' that we brought might be a feast to the eyes but had no fragrance to offer.

Raman formally introduced the Gopal family to us, which was marked by a spontaneous bonding between Visalakshi and Lalitha, as though two classmates were meeting after decades. Earlier Gopal had reportedly expressed reluctance to join the meet because only Visalakshi and not he knew us. I therefore feared he would be a recluse. I was wrong. He was an interesting conversationalist and, if I may say so, he took charge of most of the proceedings. Raman is witty, and his deliveries are packed with punches. He unleashes interesting anecdotes at regular intervals.

Raja, Raman's son, claiming to be an expert coffee maker, offered to prepare coffee to add more warmth to the session. The assorted fragrance of food items by then had become irresistible, prompting someone to suggest, “Not a bad idea. Equally good however would be something to munch to precede coffee”. This was enough for the three youngsters, Ritu, Raja and Sudha to get to work. They headed to the kitchen with Raja taking over coffee, and the two ladies arranging snacks, while the seniors felt happier at more and more common friends surfacing from their conversation. The children – Ritu-Raja's Rishi and Rahul; Sudha's Skanda and Swara; and our grandson Rishi. all between 9 and 5, locked themselves in a room upstairs, preferring to be in their own world.

Fortified with heavy snacks and Pete's coffee that corroborated Raja's claim to fame, the second round of discussions proved no less interesting, each group apprehensive of the nearing pick-up time. Raman attributed the secret of his health to the rejuvenating Grandma's dry-powder preparation from various medicinal herbs, shrubs, roots and plants. Gopal & Co revealed they got regular supply of such remedies from their home town, Palamadai, Tirunelveli. Thus my wife and I felt left out, relying on modern Multi Vitamin tablets.

In between these interesting proceedings we got a call from our son and d-i-l if they could pick us up. We successfully evaded them twice, but not any longer. They too spent a few minutes with Ritu and Raja (Sudha already having taken children for their classes). Each couple promised to stay in touch.

“A well spent evening,” my wife and I uttered at the same time as we got into the car.

V.V. Sundaram
San Jose
18 Feb 2013

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Dwaraka Trip: Somnath and Veraval (Chapter 5 of 5)



Dwaraka Trip: Somnath and Veraval
(Chapter 5 of 5)

Somnath is the first of the 12 Jyotirlingas. Gujarat houses the 12th as well – Nageshwara – that we saw a day before. I wish someone recited a sloka that suggested that if one had darshan of the first and the last Jyotirlingas, it was equivalent to having visited all the 12. Anyway, each member took a tally of the Jyotirlingas he/she had covered including Somnath. Personally we recorded seven.

Located right by the Arabian seashore on Saurashtra, Somnath was plundered sixteen times by the Muslim rulers. In 1951 Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel reconstructed the temple in its present form. Apart from a magnificent structure, a beautiful garden surrounds the temple, thus serving both as a place of worship and one for enjoying the sea breeze under shade with flowers blooming all around. From what I have seen, this gigantic idol is next only to Brihadeshwara in Tanjore - leaving no chance to anyone to complain that, back home, he is unable to visualize the deity.

Thanks to Ashutosh and Siva's social networking we learnt that on the day we had planned our visit, the temple would close at five in the evening - something unheard of in Somnath's history. The idol was to get a face-lift in the form of a gold covering, and expert goldsmiths would be at work all through the night giving finishing touches. So we were all the more in a hurry not to miss darshan amidst possible bus loads of devotees that would line up to fit into the timeframe.

Ironically we had a very good darshan; it was less crowded. (Other devotees, had better foresight; they postponed their visit to the morrow - to have darshan with gold covering.) After darshan Siva collected all of us to sit by the side of the sanctum sanctorum, and together we spent about twenty minutes chanting slokas in unison in an intonation that the crowd in Gujarat was not accustomed to. In other words, it attracted attention.

As we came out we saw a replica of the presiding deity being decorated with an artificial gold covering to be taken in procession on a chariot for people to have an advance glimpse.

Spontaneously we decided we would visit the temple again to see the idol with gold covering. We did so the next day and had darshan amid a teeming crowd.

Then came the last leg of our pilgrimage part – visit to Bhalka Teerth (in Veraval) where Jara, the hunter shot Sree Krishna's red foot mistaking it for the face of a deer. Krishna was seated on a peepal tree. The lower portion of the tree is now covered with a silken dhoti so that people did not touch it. The roof of the temple had been built around the tree so that its jet-out skywards was unhindered. Near the tree-bed is a statue of Jara kneeling down with folded hands, apologizing for his blunder. It is said that soon after the shot, waves from the nearby sea swept Lord Krishna heavenwards. We had the privilege to spend a sun-setting session on the seashore the previous evening.

Family members who had been to Bhalka Teerth earlier, had cautioned us of a possible scene. There would be sudden wails in anguish by lady devotees at what had befallen the Lord. But we were in for a different setting. The Security Guard was shouting at a person taking video shots of the premises. The offender countered it with a matching volume that the prohibitory orders had not been displayed prominently. But finding it of no avail, he switched over to English hoping that that would settle things because of the possible inability of the Guard to retort. But it boomeranged. The Guard asked him to collect the Camcoder from the office of Archaeological Society of India. The offender's voice suddenly acquired a pleading tone. We wish we had stayed on till the end of the episode.

Earlier in the day we had gone to Gir forest to keep our date with the Asiatic lions. Normally all the open-safari jeeps are booked months in advance, and only about 35 are kept open for 'current' booking. So Siva and Ashutosh hurried at four in the morning to try their luck. Fortunately they were among the last to be accommodated.

Ashutosh and family got into one jeep, and us in another. There are eight dedicated routes, and each jeep is allotted one route at random. Ashutosh got route 5, and we 7. All through the route our guide prepared us well for disappointment saying that for the past five days nobody was lucky to spot lions. As a compensation he showed us different migratory birds, deer, peacocks, langoor, owls... Towards the fag end of the safari, there was a sudden hushed exchange of cell phone talks among the various guides. Then our Guide announced that if we were lucky we might encounter lions, though he might have to change the course from 7 to another, at the risk of his job. We took it as a ploy for a larger tip. Suddenly our jeep, as well as a few from other directions, stopped and switched off engines so that there was no purring sound. One jeep at a time made a detour from its designated route, into the deep forest where three lions were relaxing in a semi-sleep pose probably after a heavy lunch. Two of them raised their heads repeatedly to ponder whether the human species didn't have anything better to do than disturb them from their preparation for a siesta. On reaching a place where we were allowed to break our silence, we complimented each other at the day's catch. Siva tipped the guide and the driver rather liberally. All all of us celebrated the success with a freshly cooked sumptuous Kathiawadi lunch.

On comparing notes with Ashutosh, he said they heard a heavy roar of lions, though they didn't spot any. But they passed through a lake where they saw crocodiles.

At night we boarded the train to Ahmedabad where we had earmarked a whole day for shopping. Again, the organizing duo suggested that we should end the trip in as grand a manner as we began it, and took us to the famous Goardhan Thal. It was something that would stay in memory for years – so much of fare and so unending.

For return journey, it was in three groups – Ashutosh and family leaving by the same evening, Siva and company visiting Baroda to meet Dr Murali Krishna's brother, and the two of us leaving for Bangalore next early morning.

Before parting ways, one spontaneous sentence hung on everyone's lips: “So, when and where next?”

San Jose
28 January 2013

Friday, January 25, 2013

Dwaraka Trip: Nageshwara Jyotirlinga and Bet Dwaraka (Chapter 4 of 5)





Dwaraka Trip: Nageshwara Jyotirlinga and Bet Dwaraka
(Chapter 4 of 5) 

A fun-filled trip of guessing games, anecdotes, and what have you, came to a grinding halt when our Innova stopped at the hotel we had booked. The “Mumbai' group, consisting of Ashutosh, Ruchi, their two charming daughters, and Ashu's mother, landed at the same second thanks to Siva and Ashu's spacecraft-docking-precision coordination.

The meeting of the two groups was no less joyous than Ram-Bharat milap, making onlookers guess we were meeting after ages. Siva was happy having met his marathon-, badminton-, cricket-, and man-for-all-seasons friend Ashu; Prashanti, of Ruchi; and the entire group welcoming the addition of a third front, of kids, to the senior and middle-aged teams`.

We arrived long before our check-in time. Nonetheless, as one experiences in hotels in small towns and cities, the management made temporary arrangements for us to freshen up before we could undertake the visit for which the group had come all the way – the Dwarakadeesh temple.

Name any place, and chances are Dr Murali Krishna has a contact person. And so he had one in Dwaraka too, as in Jamnagar. He had telephoned his friend in advance to depute a reliable priest who combined the qualities of knowledge of the sthala puran and not relieve us of our pockets in toto.

Soft-spoken, mild mannered, the young priest, in his early thirties, negotiated us gently through the crowd at the Dwaraka temple, explaining at each point its importance.

Dwaraka is one of the seven holy places in India, along with Kashi, Mathura, Puri, Kanchi, Avantika, and Ayodhya. It is one of the char dhams that Adi Sankaracharya established: Jyotirmath, Dwaraka, Puri and Sringeri.

We had the best possible darshan of Dwarakadeesh for more minutes than we could hope for, thanks to the priest's deft handling. The highlight of his briefing was that we had entered through the Moksha dwar and exited through the Swarg dwar although ideally one should have done the other way round.

Siva picked one of the professional photographers hanging around. He took a group photo with the temple as the background. For a change everyone felt happy at his/her pose.

Back to hotel, the driver confided in us that our hotel might not be the best in comforts, but matchless in food. It was evident, for we had to take our turn, but it was worth waiting for. We ordered Punjabi thali, and the appetite pepped up the taste.

We then left for Nageshwara temple about which I gave an account in my last post, out of turn, thanks to a mix up in the route.

Our next destination was Bet Dwaraka. It is a tiny island the top of which houses the abode of Sri Krishna. One has to sail by boat for about twenty-five minutes. The boats were run by private bodies and hence until the boat was full – or, rather overfull – the anchor won't be released. Consequently we felt insecure both when we stepped into it which was shaky, and while sailing through to the destination jam-packed, literally breathing on the next person's shoulders. As you came out of it, you felt you had been granted a fresh lease of life.

At Bet Dwaraka one could safely vouch for the historical calculation that Mahabharata took place about 5200 years ago. The near-ruins of the structures suggested that. Even carbon dating places their age at 4000 years, we learnt. All through the time we were in Bet Dwarka we felt we were living in that era, passing through the small lanes, cows claiming equal rights, waylaying our paths, and the inhabitants donning clothes a la BR Chopra's Mahabharat.

The next day we set about for Somnath temple (to be continued...).



A fun-filled trip of guessing games, anecdotes, and what have you, came to a grinding halt when our Innova stopped at the hotel we had booked. The “Mumbai' group, consisting of Ashutosh, Ruchi, their two charming daughters, and Ashu's mother, landed at the same second thanks to Siva and Ashu's spacecraft-docking-precision coordination.

The meeting of the two groups was no less joyous than Ram-Bharat milap, making onlookers guess we were meeting after ages. Siva was happy having met his marathon-, badminton-, cricket-, and man-for-all-seasons friend Ashu; Prashanti, of Ruchi; and the entire group welcoming the addition of a third front, of kids, to the senior and middle-aged teams.

We arrived long before our check-in time. Nonetheless, as one experiences in hotels in small towns and cities, the management made temporary arrangements for us to freshen up before we could undertake the visit for which the group had come all the way – the Dwarakadeesh temple.

Name any place, and chances are Dr Murali Krishna has a contact person. And so he had one in Dwaraka too, as in Jamnagar. He had telephoned his friend in advance to depute a reliable priest who combined the qualities of knowledge of the sthala puran and not relieve us of our pockets in toto.

Soft-spoken, mild mannered, the young priest, in his early thirties, negotiated us gently through the crowd at the Dwaraka temple, explaining at each point its importance.

Dwaraka is one of the seven holy places in India, along with Kashi, Mathura, Puri, Kanchi, Avantika, and Ayodhya. It is one of the char dhams that Adi Sankaracharya established: Jyotirmath, Dwaraka, Puri and Sringeri.

We had the best possible darshan of Dwarakadeesh for more minutes than we could hope for, thanks to the priest's deft handling. The highlight of his briefing was that we had entered through the Moksha dwar and exited through the Swarg dwar although ideally one should have done the other way round.

Siva picked one of the professional photographers hanging around. He took a group photo with the temple as the background. For a change everyone felt happy at his/her pose.

Back to hotel, the driver confided in us that our hotel might not be the best in comforts, but matchless in food. It was evident, for we had to take our turn, but it was worth waiting for. We ordered Punjabi thali, and the appetite pepped up the taste.

We then left for Nageshwara temple about which I gave an account in my last post, out of turn, thanks to a mix up in the route.

Our next destination was Bet Dwaraka. It is a tiny island the top of which houses the abode of Sri Krishna. One has to sail by boat for about twenty-five minutes. The boats were run by private bodies and hence until the boat was full – or, rather overfull – the anchor won't be released. Consequently we felt insecure both when we stepped into it which was shaky, and while sailing through to the destination jam-packed, literally breathing on the next person's shoulders. As you came out of it, you felt you had been granted a fresh lease of life.

At Bet Dwaraka one could safely vouch for the historical calculation that Mahabharata took place about 5200 years ago. The near-ruins of the structures suggested that. Even carbon dating places their age at 4000 years, we learnt. All through the time we were in Bet Dwarka we felt we were living in that era, passing through the small lanes, cows claiming equal rights, waylaying our paths, and the inhabitants donning clothes a la BR Chopra's Mahabharat.

The next day we set about for Somnath temple (to be continued...).

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Dwaraka Trip: Jamnagar, Bhandini sarees and Temple Tours (Chapter 3 of 5)


Dwaraka Trip: Jamnagar, Bhandini sarees and Temple Tours
(Chapter 3 of 5)

We made an abortive attempt at buying Bhandini sarees from Jamnagar (the nerve-centre for such sarees), more because we entered the market when most shops had closed, or were in the process. But we did kneel into a shop that had almost lowered the shutter to deny fresh entries but had kept it open partially for the customers inside to leave.

From the few twisted sarees that the salesman flung at us in quick succession before he could hurry back home, we could not visualize how the sarees would look when treated or polished. “We wish Prashanti were here,” we murmured. She was slightly unwell and wanted fully up to the temple-portions of the tour commencing the next morning. So she decided to call it a day and rest in the hotel.

We should not leave Jamnagar empty handed; must buy something,” pronounced Siva. “In that case,” interrupted Haider Ali, the driver, “I shall take you to the famous farsan (snacks) bhandaar; and drove us to Jain Vijay Farsan. We selected items that are typically Gujarati. What stands out of our visit to the shop was the liberal free samples they forced on us before buying.

The highlight of our Jamnagar visit, however, was being part of an Akhand Bhajan that we learn had been going on uninterrupted since 1932 or even earlier. During the time we were in, a 90-year old was at the helm singing with gusto. A remarkable feat indeed.

Bidding farewell to Jamnagar, we headed to Nageswara temple, the 12th of the twelve Jyotir Lingas. The three-hour stretch in an Innova van was rendered less arduous thanks the soft-spoken Ganesh (?) at the wheel, and us playing the ’20 questions’ game. One person would mentally identify a well-known person in any field. The rest would fire 20 questions at him/her for response in yes or no before they guess the right person. In almost all cases we arrived at the right answers. These included: Archrekar (Tendulkar’s coach), Vijay Amritraj, Potti Sri Ramulu, and Dr Zakir Hussain (educationist, minister, and later President). However in two instances the 20 questions led us nowhere. The answers were M.S. Swaminathan, the famous agricultural scientist, and Shahnaz Husain, the beautician. After the first game, at Ganesh’s request we changed the medium of communication to Hindi so that he could be part of it, which he did with his own limitations, but drew applause for his participation.

That Gopuram that you see on your right,” Ganesh interjected as we were still in the thick of our question-answer session, “is Nageswara temple.” We heaved a sigh of relief as we saw not a big crowd. But as we parked the vehicle, left our slippers behind and walked to the entrance, there was a sudden spurt of visitors, like a flash flood.

We stood in the queue for about thirty minutes before we got a fleeting glance of the deity, as in Tirupati or Guruvayoor. But Siva recalled the briefing Ganesh had given us earlier, went to a nearby counter and bought Abhishekam tickets. The three male members, Dr Murali Krishna, Siva and I, went to a room earmarked, picked a dhoti at random, tied and went to the sanctum sanctorum. The security chaps stopped us promptly, and sent us back to the room to wear just dhoti, and not over the pant. We did that and sat right in front of the deity, touching it, for about 7 to 10 minutes doing Gangajal abhishekam. It looked as though some celebrities were getting special darshan. The ladies watched us from a raised platform about 25 yards away where the statue of Nandi stood guard to God. We met them over there after being in “Kailash” for a while. Nandi attracted no less attention. We saw several devotees whispering something into his ears - some almost holding a telephone conversation. We were told that one could express one’s wish to him, and it would be fulfilled. We didn’t want to be left behind. Each one of us whispered into his ears. I still can’t reckon what I had asked for - “Lokah Samastha Sukhino Bhavanthu,” maybe.

As we came out of the Exit gate with a victorious look having had a one-to-one meeting with the Lord, we saw that the crowd had dissipated, and one could walk straight up to the permitted area unhindered. We didn’t allow the new situation, however, to dilute the privilege that we just had. We learnt later that the crowd or the absence of it depended on the busloads of pilgrims that make it at a given point in time.

It was photograph session thereafter under a banyan tree – some clicking their professional cameras, while others make-do with their cell phones.

With a fully satisfied feeling we headed for Dwaraka. (To be continued.)




Dwaraka Trip: from Ahmedabad to Jamnagar (Chapter 2 of 5)


Dwaraka Trip:  from Ahmedabad to Jamnagar
(Chapter 2 of 5)

The train from Muzaffarpur (Bihar) to Porbandar in which we had booked, was late by two hours. That gave us time to have breakfast at the station. Siva and Prashanti did a hurried pre-investment survey, and returned identifying one stall, and sent us in batches, so that someone would guard our earthly belongings.

A word about Ahmedabad. Visiting the place after a gap of more than15 years, we saw ample evidence of the much acclaimed “Vibrant” Gujarat. It was just not vibrant, a mild earthquake. We stayed in Hotel Ginger, a Tata enterprise. By international standards it would be a grade above any budget hotel and, by Indian standards, an entry-level luxury hotel. It was unanimously agreed that we would book in the same hotel on our way back.

A few minutes before the train was to arrive we heard an unclear announcement in the public address system that raised our doubts if it was arriving in another platform. The duo porters who earlier transported our suitcases from car to the platform, felt happy at an additional income, and hastened to tell us of the change in platform. We engaged them to help us with loading and unloading once again. The train had already arrived in the platform before the porters reached with luggage, adding to our anxiety. 

Then it was the usual hullabaloo one witnesses in any mid-way station – passengers trying to alight, others to board, and the cleaning staff surging ahead of both to finish their task, all at the same time. We saw Siva composed that most of us were devoid of.

Everything was settled and a mutual arrangement was made with co-passengers for us all to sit together in one cubicle, and offering equally the other small family seats close to one other in one row. Comfortably seated, say it with sweets, everyone said. Thus we set about our six-hour travel stuffed with sweets that each group had brought into the already full stomach. But then train journeys are occasions to break free from normal eating regimen.

Prashanti unearthed two sets of playing cards from her luggage, as Siva converted the well between the seats into a table with suitcases. Siva announced that the winner would treat everyone with breakfast the next morning. “In that case no one would be keen to win,” I quipped.

What started off as ‘time-pass’ acquired world championship characteristics with each racing against the other. In between, an order was placed on the vendor for special masala tea with tender ginger, elaichi, and what have you. To go with it someone opened the knick-knack that she had brought. Hardly had the game finished, when we realized that Jamnagar was only a station away.

You must be wondering who in the end was the winner and the loser. Handsdown Siva was the winner when I touched first the prescribed 200 negative points to be declared the loser. Siva modified his statement slightly to say that the loser should offer breakfast to the others. With voice decible gaining upper hand, I had to give in. Fortunately the next morning’s breakfast was complimentary in the hotel we stayed. Escaped unhurt.

On arrival in Jamnagar, Dr Seth, an old colleague of Dr Murali Krishna, Prashanti’s father, received us. Decades ago, the two had worked together as food technologists in a firm in Panipat until they parted ways. He had brought two cars to transport us to the hotel, and invited us for dinner. Barring Prashanti’s parents, the rest of us excused ourselves to permit us visit temples and do some shopping.

Jamnagar has certain distinct features. It is the nerve centre of Bandhini sarees. For ages the Birlas have their famous Digjam suiting factory. Dhirubhai Ambani had set up Asia’s largest petroleum refinery. The Essar group also has their refinery side by side. Consequently, the city has two types of hotels – the high-end or the low end ones – nothing in between. So we had booked the high-end one. More than enjoying the luxury, we were busy watching India-Pakistan nail-biting T20 that night.

The next morning, after a sumptuous breakfast, we got ready to leave for Nageswara – the 12th of the 12 Jyotir linga temples. The beginning of the pilgrimage.

(To be continued…)


Dwaraka Trip: Combining Pleasure with Pilgrimage (Chapter 1 of 5)


Dwaraka Trip: Combining Pleasure with Pilgrimage
(Chapter 1 of 5)

When Siva and Prashanti (B-702) asked us, out of the blue, if we would join them for a weeklong trip to Ahmedabad, Jamnagar, Nageswar, Somnath, Veraval, etc., I flatly declined. After all, no senior with a sense of propriety would wish to be a spoilsport tagging along with a young couple for the entire duration of their vacation.

No uncle and aunty, my parents from Hyderabad will join us,” hastened Prashanti. “My mother too,” added Siva. Again I wriggled out, for who would disturb a perfect family re-union where exclusivity is the name of the game.

UNCLE, not just that, Ashutosh, Ruchi and kids (B-701) will also be with us, as will Ashu’s mother be from Delhi,” emphasizded Siva raising his voice a little, guessing by then that I was the stumbling block for B-703 joining the bandwagon.

Yes, we will,” I said, before the Lady of the House could say so, as I side-glanced her rushing from the kitchen.

With an itinerary worked out meticulously by Siva and Ashutosh, it was decided that Prashanti’s parents and Siva’s mother would fly from Hyderabad, and Siva, Prashanti, and the two of us would from Bangalore and meet at Ahmedabad.

Ashutosh, Ruchi and kids would leave for Mumbai a few days earlier to be with Ashutosh’s friends, and his mother would join them from Delhi.
The confluence of the two groups would take place at Dwaraka, one of the favourite abodes of Lord Krishna. I deliberately use the term one of the… lest any Srishti-ite from Mathura should raise an objection.

It always augurs well to start with a bang. And so did we, in Ahmedabad. Siva had google-searched one of the finest restaurants for dinner where they recreated a village ambiance - a side pillow to recline on a coir cot, have a sip of lemon juice with bon-fire helping you stay warm from the nightly cold, enjoy the mutka dance with incredible speed, culminating into a balancing act on sharp steel or glass objects. Then their turbaned man in the typical Gujarati attire sporting a liberal moustache (one that you get to see at the doorstep in any five-star hotel ushering guests) escorts you to a dinner area. Again another typical village setting that you love to be in. Then follows a deluge of dishes for you to try out, so much so that the very sight fills your belly.

Fortunately everyone had come prepared to have a go at them, setting aside temporarily one’s health constraints. But in the end, I bet no one could vouch that he/she tried all the items. To sum up, each one helped the other to get up and walk up to the area where, once again too many varieties of suparis, mukhwaas, digestives and paan were served with gay abandon.

The result? Each one felt there would be a casualty or two during the night to hamper the next early morning train journey to Jamnagar. Fortunately, the pattar-hazams and lakkad-hazams served post-dinner (digestives that are capable of assimilating stones and wood) did their job well. Everyone reported at the lobby on time to head for the railway station.

Rail journey to Jamnagar (to be continued).

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Community Living at Srishti Apts Complex



COMMUNITY LIVING AT SRISHTI APTS COMPLEX

Once again Srishti-ites spent an evening together to bid farewell to 2012 and usher in the New Year 2013. 

Well attended, the residents were in for a variety of home-made foods - steaming hot tomato soup, Idli, Sambar, Khara bathk, bonda, carrot halwa, kesari bath,  gulab jamun, varieties of rice, dahi bhalla, samosa,  Pav Bhaji, sandwiches, baked products, and chilled ice cream that sold like ‘hot cakes’. 

However, the first to display the ‘Sold Out’ placard was the duo Kalyani-Visweswaran. “Could it be, Visweswaran, you brought limited quantities?” we asked. “No way. We brought 70 idlies,” he retorted. Kalyani attributed the response to the quality of the product while Visweswran contested it was his sales acumen.  Anyway, looks like back home this argument should take the couple hopefully till mid-January to settle, with my friend ultimately Visweswaran giving in, if my personal experience is anything to go by.

Aside, one spotted Srinivasan ji calling it a day with a bag in each hand accommodating the empty vessels, and a clinking box of cash delicately balanced under the arm.

As the residents did justice to the dishes at various counters in the order they had mentally outlined, the Tanishq Jewellery representatives busied themselves convincing everyone to join their gold savings scheme; simultaneously a resident cum staff member of Reliance Time Out walked around handing special discount coupons and inviting all to the Cunningham Road shop.

Nothing works on an empty stomach. So once the belly’s requirements were met it was time for invocation – on course by the one and only Surekha, this time unaccompanied by her inseparable partner, Gita.
Bollywood dance by the talented Srishti children followed. Then it was distribution of prizes won at the recently held Sports Day. It was a close call whether those who won prizes were more than those who did not. But it was a happy occasion and everyone joined the merriment.

With everyone wishing one another a Happy and Prosperous 2013 at the stroke of midnight, the gathering dispersed.

Long live the community living spirit in Srishti.

V.V. Sundaram
Bangalore
02 Jan. 2013

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