Thursday, December 29, 2016

SFV-2016 - The Year That Was



Let us sign off 2016 with a bird’s eye view of what came about during the period. I promise, the review shall not carry shades of an annual report of the MC.

The year has been eventful by and large, and enchanting too. It witnessed an exodus of several families from their erstwhile comfortably-settled houses to the new, and hopefully better, homes in SFV. Few owners had reservations on that if my interaction with them is anything to go by. 

Even the investing community which initially was wary of its returns either because of not getting a tenant, or a good re-sale price, is less skeptical now. Let’s hope demonetization, with its predicted downslide in real estate prices, will not shatter their long-term aspirations. Umeed par duniya kayam, they say (the world is better off on hopes). 

The original inhabitants, not the animal kingdom encompassing our complex-area too, but those who set foot in Forest View first, were a handful as on 31 Dec 2015.  But they paved the way and emboldened others to take a call on relocation. And the late settlers are thankful to them to no little extent for the infrastructure in place. 

I am not sure if Shankaran Ramachandran of Oak was the very first, unless someone stakes claims that he had moved a day or an hour early. Anyway, together they braved all the inconveniences that are attendant with the early birds to a complex - no water, erratic electric supply, no shops nearby, freer flow of reptiles, and ever so many other shortcomings. Undaunted, they brought about improvements slowly but steadily. The antagonists could argue that they did these primarily to serve their own interests. So what? At the end of the day, we all benefit by those. As of now around 200 families have moved in. Which means there is a movement of around 800 humans in the complex, given that each family consists of four members on an average. 

The year also saw Sobha hand over Cedar and Ebony apartments. I am not sure about Pine, if the hand-over was done in 2015 or 2016. Thus, the influx can only be expected to increase manifold in the months to come. And when Alder also gets ready in 2017 our community will be all the more resplendent. More the merrier. We all look forward to it, and welcome in advance the new-residents-to-be.

The SFV community owes a great deal to the members of the MC for an admirable job they did setting in motion several steps - developing a software for easy payment of maintenance fee biannually, pitching Food World, Tata Sky, Airtel, negotiating weekly vegetable-vendor arrangements in the premises, establishing communication networks like ADDA, Hike, SFV Resident Groups, formulating norms and guidelines that serve best the interests of community living, and not make it a free for all (thought one can’t speak with certainty that these are being adhered to). Well the list is endless, and ongoing. Three cheers to the MC. Well begun is half done. Midcourse correction is always a recourse.

By its very nature, the activities of some sub-committees get more visibility like the cultural wing - Ekatva, Onam, Karnataka Rajyotsava… received overwhelming accolades. Others, for no fault of theirs, just fall into the They Also Serve Who Stand and Wait  category - the team that developed the Maintenance fee software, the waste segregation team, the newspaper collection and forest conservation team; not to speak of Vivek …(?) who developed a Ready Reckoner and its revisions. It is a different thing that some residents mistook it for the handiwork of my friend Vivek Jain. But he lost no time in disowning it. Incidentally he is equally active on other fronts.  

Not lagging behind have been the valiant efforts of Jagadeesh and Vijesh, supervisors entrusted to fulfil Sobha’s warranty obligations - thus far, no further. Operating within guidelines and constraints, they both did a commendable job in bending but not breaking the rules, thus satisfying both Sobha and residents in one go. Kudos, my friends, wherever you are now posted. 

And Chandra Kumar? With his imposing figure, he may appear a man to be kept at an arm’s length. But appearances are deceptive. Underneath his tough exterior you find him a person with a good heart. Very few might know that he contributed his mite to India’s first nuclear test-fire from Pokhran. It was done with utmost secrecy, not even USA, Israel, China or Pakistan whose network to sniff around is best, had no inkling. Every morning, along with others he too would go 250 feet (or more?) below the ground where the scientists developed the capsule, to perform his assigned duties, whatever those might be. This is all what he shared with me one day as I waited for the cab at the Gate.

Speaking of Gate, whenever I passed through it, the security staff would greet me with a smile and were courteous. Also when I telephone them of no water, or electricity in my apartment, they were prompt to get the message across, rather than redirect me. We had thus thanked ourselves for this exclusive prerogative. But that impression was short-lived until my morning-walk friend casually mentioned in some context that he was fortunate to be treated the best by the Security force, which the third friend tagging along, corroborated as true for him as well. Though I felt deprived of what I had harboured close to my heart, I was happy for the Security staff and appreciated their knack to give each resident that exclusive feeling. Our compliments to the team. 

These said, life is not, nor intended to be, a cakewalk. And life in SFV is no less. One might encounter difficulties in the parking lot allotments, the car wash, the laundry set up, milk supply, the drive against beehives, with the bees getting the better of humans by switching over balconies for their new habitat…  None of these is insurmountable given the will and patience.

Before I sound being on a sermon spree, let us, SFV-ians, pray and hope to augur 2017 in a spirit of live and let live. Let us resolve that we shall leave the gym items the way we saw them and not just scatter them around, children shall not convert the lift walls into a drawing board to let loose their imaginations with inscriptions and line-drawings, those who still hold dearly the cart or the basket of Food World would return them, and carry with them bags in 2017, residents atop would refrain from aiming the litter to the ground floor dustbin, and the bird-lovers would not feed birds with leftovers of the night in a two-in-one bid - disposal cum compassion.   

May the year 2017 bring all of us happiness, prosperity and plentiful.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195

29 Dec 2016

Friday, December 23, 2016

Retiree's Dilemma

One of the embarrassing moments I face, mostly at social events, is when someone walks up to me and asks, “So uncle, how do you pass your time?”  To say, “Oh me? I wish there were more hours to a day,” is a spot invitation to be branded snobbish. If I begin, “The thing is this…,” he will guess the fellow doesn’t have much to say, but is trying to cook up something. On the other hand, if I venture,  “Well, I browse through my computer for the day’s news, mail…, ” the man is sure to murmur, “Big deal. We too do all these in day, plus slog eight hours in office.” Gradually you begin to wonder if you are at all really busy, or you just think you are. To set at rest this complacency I did a sample check the other day - from morning-coffee till breakfast. Maybe it is a sweet nothing, but here is the recap.

After a morning walk, the laptop in front and the aromatic hot Columbian coffee by the side (in the American-size mug till in USA, courtesy my son’s intervention), I am all set to update myself with the goings-on. At national level, it is demonetisation, open-arms reception by public despite inconvenience, Opposition’s vain bid to cash in, further reforms in the pipeline… At State levels, the sad demise of Jayalalitha, elevation of Sasikala to top party post, saashtang namaskar becoming a permanent stay in Tamil Nadu politics; Mamta Banerjee’s bitter attack of Centre for not informing her of Army’s routine toll-check, her efforts to mobilise Opposition to decry demonetisation, and…

A message pops up on the screen to announce the arrival of a fresh email. It is from my brother’s son Arvind, a happy father sharing the feat of his four-year old son. There was a telescope up for grab at the Memphis Astronomical Society. The child who writes best on what he would do if he got it would receive it. His son submitted one and was not successful. But he did receive a commendation letter from the Society which hinted that he missed it by a whisker. 

When I read this aloud to Aunty, busy clearing her own backlog of 107 mails, she was less keen initially, but when she heard the name Darsh, she jumped, “Read it for me again,” which I did. That only acted as a lead for her to take on. “Remember, last month, Anand (Arvind’s elder brother) shared with us the breakthrough his son and classmate had made on Robotics?” Yes, in a “Catch’em Young” programme, in the august presence of President Obama in Washington DC, the boys made a joint presentation in the same manner as Naveen Kashyap and Sajan compere our SFV functions - Naveen one sentence and Sajan the other. 

As is wont, that steered our conversation to other children and grandchildren of my siblings. As of now my youngest sister’s son’s achievement steals the thunder. Years ago, he and his handful friends sold their start-up company to a giant firm for a three-digit million dollars (if my memory serves me right).  But then records are created to be broken. Tendulkar overtook Bradman as the best batsman. Now his protege,Virat Kohli, is giving Sachin a run for his records. I therefore keep my fingers crossed for the next generation to surpass the milestone, as we just bask on their glory.

Another sibling’s grandson completed his graduation from Cambridge, and is now doing MBA from Wharton. His younger sister is doing medicine from Oxford. In another case the grandson is doing medicine from Rhode Island (he did namedrop a few greats who passed out from there). He plans to specialise in Orthopaedics. By norm, with due respect to those practising these disciplines, Ortho, dentistry are among lower options in India. So when I questioned him on the choice, he said: “Sports activities are an integral part of Americans, and Ortho is a lucrative practice, as I had personal knowledge when I had to consult one,” he clarified. His sister is doing Microbiology (doctorate?) from an Ivy League university. (For the uninitiated, Ivy League, is the collective name given to a select best universities of the East Coast.) In yet another instance, the grandson is pursuing Applied Physics from the University of California, Irvine. The other grandchildren are in their Nursery to the 9th grade, including one whom the school identified as a gifted child, and had him attend the 6th grade maths class while studying in the 4th. 

In the midst we received the customary call from our younger son in California, while driving to office. He is slated to come to Phoenix for a family Reunion. His son, my third grandson, Rishi, is all enthusiastic on two counts - at the prospect of meeting his cousins here, and of not having to enact his role in his school-play scheduled for Christmas eve. “But why? He has won several accolades in recitation, one-act play and the like.” We wondered. Anyway, the teacher was alerted to arrange for a replacement. Instead she advanced the date of the play, with Rishi very much in it. “But why so much resistance this time?” we insisted. “He is playing a side kick to the villain.”

Haan ji, mein ki kya, naashta tayaar, I hear Aunty’s voice, imitating our Delhi neighbour Sonu’s mummy’s call from kitchen to her hubby.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195

22 Dec 2016

Friday, December 2, 2016

Man's Best Friend


Yes, dog is man’s best friend, from Mahabharata to modern times. The dog had the sole distinction to be with Yudhishtira on the last leg of his Heavenward journey, when the rest of Pandavas and Draupadi collapsed en route for being not totally blemish-free. The modern era is replete with instances where owners bequeath wealth to their dog, for him to maintain a  standard of living he is accustomed. 

Closer home, in SFV, months ago a prospective tenant came to rent my son’s apartment in Oak. As he inspected the facilities, I heard him tentatively assign spaces for X and Y. Maybe earmarking places for his two sons, I thought. Nay, for his dogs. In the other instance, my Delhi friend had some disposable income and wanted to buy an apartment in Ebony, Oak or Alder. He chose Alder, though it meant stretching his budget too far. But he persisted. His argument?  “Let me provide my Tiger (Alsatian dog) a large  balcony for him to move around free.”

The relationship between the pet and its owner is such that the love of one for the other knows no bounds. Decades ago on a visit to Tokyo, my uncle directed me to get down at a particular station and “wait for me at the Dog’s Corner.” I was at a loss to know where on earth this could be. Only to realise that it was more popular than the Regal or Rivoli landmarks in Delhi. The story is a dog would see off his master every morning at the rail station and come back again in the evening to accompany him back home. One day the master never returned - died of cardiac arrest at work. But the dog waited for days. A metal statue of the dog still stands to perpetuate its memory. This happened in 1925. When the metal corroded decades later, it was promptly replaced by a new one. In India statues serve more as a repository for bird droppings.

Ko Ko is my sister’s d-i-l’s dog in California. Poor fellow is diabetic of late, and she gives him insulin shots every day. The family takes very good care of him. Both her son and daughter have recently joined universities in the East Coast - the other end of America. But unfailingly they call their mom daily - less to speak to her than to enquire the welfare of Ko Ko and hear his voice - be it a bark.

Biscuit, my son’s friend’s dog, is another instance. Last week the friend had invited us for dinner. Earlier in the day, he rang up to say that he had already announced to Biscuit of the impending visit of Rohan (our younger grandson) and Biscuit was all eager. ‘How could a dog understand that and be enthusiastic in advance?” I murmured. But when we showed up, Biscuit received Rohan as though it was Ram-Bharat milan, or meeting of a long lost friend. He took Rohan to his designated place where the two played together the rest of the evening. No wonder, months before leaving Bangalore when we called our grandchildren to ask them if they needed anything from India, Rohan was prompt: “Can you get me a dog, Thatha?” “A doll, or the real one?” I asked. ”Of course the real one, Thatha. I am eight years old, No more dolls.”

The grief at the loss of one’s pet is often no less than that of losing one’s own offspring. My friend in my previous apartment complex narrated how his ailing dog was literally waiting at the door step for him to come back from his travel.  As soon as he stepped in, the dog prevailed upon him to sit on the sofa and rested his head on the master’s lap. He too enjoyed the brief moments as he sipped coffee only to realise that the dog was resting in eternity. The Delhi old couple’s story is different. They loved Caesar immensely. When he died they buried him at their backyard. On the 13th day they distributed a  big packet of Parle Glucose biscuits to the dogs in the street. “Caesar was fond of them and friendly with them,” they said.

That takes me to a snippet from the great Tamil orator Suki Sivam. One day the street dogs of the village walked up to the pet dog at the corner house and asked him: “Why don’t you get out of the rut and join us? Almost everyday there is a feast in the village, and we get a variety of food to eat; we are never on leash; we roam around free.” “Wait for a while,” reassured the pet, and shared with them a conversation. “Come what may, I will not let you marry the boy next door even if I have to marry you off to a dog,” he overhead his master warn his daughter the other day. “I am waiting for my master to take a final call.”   

And I await Suki Sivam’s next discourse for an update.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195

02 Dec 2016

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Miscellany


Name any family from your village, town, city, apartment complex or anywhere, chances are they will have someone in America - son, daughter, brother, sister, nephew, niece or cousin. And, each family will have a ready tally of trips they made to US so far. It is thus in our interest to know how their offsprings or siblings are faring in the US.  An average Indian family in US earns annually USD 90k as against 50k by a US family. Reasons? Keenness to stay in competition, efforts to be head and shoulders above the crowd, equip oneself better with technology updates. Kudos. They have only reasons to feel proud of giving a good account of themselves. Mind you, these are not my words, but a forwarded US TV telecast clipping.

Yes, TV telecast was what kept us glued on November 8 evening when the US Presidential election results began trickling in. Nail-biting indeed, this time. Aunty and I watched it till 11 pm before retiring to bed. We requested our son to wake us up as soon as the final result was announced. And he did, at 1 pm, “It is Donald Trump, Appa”. Going by exit polls, media reports, analyses, etc. Hilary had an edge over Donald, and many thought America was all set to make history electing a lady President. But that was not to be. 

Donald Trump’s rhetoric that he would abolish Obamacare health insurance scheme, prosecute Hilary for the supposed email scam all of which we thought were not in good taste coming as it did from a Presidential candidate, had apparently gone well with the public at large. But the post-election 60-minute interview revealed a transformation. The spew and hyperbole had yielded place to sobriety and self-restraint that a President-elect should ideally be in command. 

While we wait with bated breath what is in store for US and the world at large vis-a-vis promises and implementation, on the home front peoples the world over are overawed by Modi ji’s undaunted performance matching his election promise - to root out black money. At the blink of eyes, he delivered a death blow to hoarders of black money by scrapping 500 and 1000 notes. Meanwhile, Congress, with its one-point agenda to oppose anything and everything coming from the Modi stable, is busy mobilising the fragmented other opposition force that the move is inconveniencing the farmers, the office goers and others. The supposed entity that they are gearing up to fight for, the people, on the other hand have welcomed the move with open arms, and are braving the temporary inconvenience. Back in their own barn, Congress’ erstwhile spokesman, a legal luminary in his own right, is battling with the Income tax authorities that natural course of justice has been denied to him - to accept his contention that he is unable to provide accounts for his 96-crore worth of assets, as termites had eaten away the documents.  Despite temporary setbacks, people are joyous at PM’s initiative.

Yes, joy and gaiety aptly describe the mood of people in the US as well, though for a different reason. Thanksgiving and Black Friday are on the cards. The story goes about Black Friday that, after an entire year of operating at a loss (“in the red”) stores would supposedly earn a profit (“went into the black”) on the day after Thanksgiving, because holiday shoppers blew so much money on discounted merchandise.

Online and in-store deals are aplenty. They say this is the best season to buy one’s annual requirements, though that never happens. However, unasked for, our grandchildren are finalising their own list. The parents, in turn, are adopting the same gimmick we subjected them to, viz., barter it for a promise of better performance in studies.  As for us, when we left Bangalore we swore to ourselves, “No more acquisitions - Black or White Friday”. We are keeping our fingers crossed that we won’t  succumb to discount-driven rather than need-based purchases. Anyway, that is a week away.

As for things of the recent past, the Indian community in the city celebrated Diwali in style. Nearly ten families - x 4, plus visiting parents (total nearly 50) - met at a house. It was their turn to host the get-together. The gathering split effortlessly into four - the children flocking together in a closed room to let their high-decibel activities disturb none. The ladies gathered in the kitchen discussing the recipes of dishes they attempted recently. The new-generation heads of families closeted together in the living room to discuss if Hilary or Donald would make it, and to keep themselves abreast of technological advancements. The visiting parents made themselves comfortable in the front room and chatted… “When I was in the Army,” or “When I was the Joint Secretary…” , some forgetting half way what they wanted to share - a precursor to the rest, of  what is to befall them). Soon, children and the elderly were invited for a priority treat. Everyone felt the pot-luck dinner was worth waiting for. This was followed by lighting sparkles at the backyard at 10.45 pm. For strategic reasons fireworks were avoided, either as a mark of respect to neighbours, or fear of them dialling 911.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195

16 Nov 2016

Saturday, November 5, 2016

On the Go, with Halloween


The jet lag is over, including the grace period I allowed myself, a la the snooze after the wake-up alarm. It is time to move on and integrate with the local culture. What can be more opportune than Halloween?  And, what is Halloween? To quote, “Halloween is dedicated to remembering the dead. This involved people going house to house (or, in disguise), usually reciting verses or songs in exchange for food. It may have originally been a tradition whereby people impersonated the souls of the dead and received offerings on their behalf. Wearing a disguise was also believed to protect oneself from them.” 

Ashwin, our elder grandson, bought for himself the costume of Darth Vader, a character in Star Wars. Unfortunately, with its mask on, no one will know who the perpetrator of scare is. So each time after scaring someone he has to remove the mask to reveal his identity. Rohan, the younger one, was adamant this time. “No more of Ashwin’s leftover costume, year after year.”  After persuasion and reassurance, he donned Ashwin’s last year’s costume - Power Ranger, whatever that meant. 

The neighbourhood is bedecked with scary items that go with Halloween. A dry skeleton lies on someone’s front yard with stuffed birds around it, hoping against hope to peck some flesh out of it.  A cobweb surrounds the giant cactus plant, set to catch its prey.  A stuffed owl, no less than a real one, still stares at you - even after you have moved 500 yards away from it. Three ghosts in jet black costume, with spot lights for special effects, stand either guard to the owner’s property, or ready to pounce on you as you walk by. Yet in another compound, a ghost fully attired in white prefers to hang on the tree swinging with the pace of the breeze. The two white-on-black king-size ghost-heads stay atop the palm trees as though to warn you, in the erstwhile Soviet Union style, that you are being watched. And the fully grown spider waits on the rock to snatch any unsuspecting passerby. In short, if only the hoo-ha of children spread across the street were replaced by utter silence of a graveyard, it would have been re-living Ramsay Brothers’ Do Gaz Zameen Ke Neeche movie.

Against this backdrop Sunita assigned us Halloween duty after sunset, to sit in front of the house. Shankar was away on duty travel. Sunita and the kids didn’t want to miss the fun themselves. With other moms and children they went around the neighbourhood for trick or treat. And our job? To distribute the bagful of Snickers to kids walking into our house howling trick or treat. Their attires ranged from an angel, fairy, rabbit to ghost and some fiery creatures. While on duty I got the shock of my life when suddenly something tickled my leg. Only that afternoon I had watched a local TV programme where experts explored Arizona mountains for fossils of not dinosaur, but of python. They stumbled upon the fossils of the longest python that humanity had ever known. Then through computer graphics they showed what it would have been like actually, and how it swallowed its prey - with the swiftness of a Baskin-Robbins super-softy ice cream that goes down one’s throat. I worried this one that tickled must have been that python’s great-, great-, great-grandson having made his way to our front yard for a meal. Fortunately it was a dry leaf hissing its way to my leg.

Initially we thought we would be liberal in distribution, with a king-size packet in hand. Somehow better sense prevailed; we didn’t. For, soon children literally flooded our home, and a time came when we had a rethink - of rationing the quota - to last the final visitor. Fortunately we didn’t have to resort to that either. 

Hardly had we finished our assignment when Sunita and children came back with their treasure-hunt - both the kids’ kitties full. Soon they got down to stock-taking and comparing notes. Then came the most unkindest cut of all from Sunita: “Pick just three each, any three. The rest goes for donation.” You have to see to believe their hitherto beaming face transform in split seconds into a gloom. Only the late fine actor, Sanjeev Kumar, could have done it with equal felicity. 

Halloween over, the relics on display had disappeared at the next morning walk -  probably found their way to the residents’ attic, to resurrect themselves next year. Hopefully the children won’t persist with their parents: “Papa, we have been displaying this same stuff over and over again. Even my friends have begun to associate our house with some of these stock items,” and make a fervent plea to discard those and buy fresh ones next year. Good luck, Wal-Mart - and others.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
04 Nov 2016



  


Sunday, October 30, 2016

And now a movie buff


With our son and d-i-l  off to office and grandsons to schools, it is time hi time hai for us.  Even when we perform the daily chores on slow motion, we are free by 12.30 pm. Lunch over by 1.30, and it is movie time till they trickle back one by one. Thus on an average we get to see, courtesy Netflix,  Amazon and TV’s own channels, five movies a week - Monday to Friday - like a physician’s prescription.  Here is my take on some we watched.

The Debt (English). A team of three, two men and one lady, of Mossad (the Israel equivalent of CIA or CBI) is sent on a secret mission to capture and bring alive a German doctor, nicknamed ‘The Surgeon of Birkenau (a concentration/extermination camp)”  to Israel to face a trial for his active role in poisoning and killing thousands of Jews during World War II Holocaust. Whether the team  succeeds, partly achieves its goal, or fails, is all the film is about. With the screenplay shifting back and forth, it keeps you on tenterhooks as events unfold themselves. Rating: 4 stars.  

That took me down the memory lane. I recollect having seen over the years at least three movies on Nazi’s atrocities. One is The Train featuring Burt Lancaster. The Germans overpower France, and try to smuggle some of the finest artefacts from French art galleries to Germany. Burt Lancaster, the French engine driver is forced, at gun point, to drive the train all the way up to the German border. The French Station Master gets a secret message to manipulate in such a way that the train does not leave the French territory; and he does so with alacrity.  He alerts his counterparts in stations en route who promptly change the name-boards of stations as though the train is heading towards Germany, but is in fact making circles all within France. By then the Allied Forces gain upper hand and the German attempt is foiled. A fine movie.

The other is Eichmann. A Nazi member, his job was mass deportation of Jews to concentration camps. After WW II, he escaped to Argentina on an assumed name. One Jew who survives the concentration camp is settled in Argentina and has lost his eye sight since. By sheer chance he gets introduced to Eichmann in a park. By the smell of the scent that Eichmann patronised, he suspects that it was Eichmann and alerts Mossad.  And Eichmann too notices the Concentration Camp ID number tattooed on the guy’s arm when he shook hands with him, and stays extra alert since then. Mossad goes  about collecting more evidence on Eichmann. But Eichmann gives them a slip and was about to board a plane when Mossad whisks him away to Israel for trial. The treatment of subject deserved compliments.

Last but not the least, Life is Beautiful. The Italian hero got the Best Actor award at Oscar for this role. I was told that he specialised  in comedy and got a national award for some other movie. At that time someone asked him if he could make a comedy out of a serious subject like Holocaust. And he  accepted the challenge. The result, Life is Beautiful, another outstanding Holocaust movie. 

On reflection, I wondered why Bollywood should not attempt some of these edge-of-the-seat thrillers drawing inspiration from British rule in India. Off the cuff, I cann’t recollect any movie other than on Gen. Dyer’s Jallianwala Bagh massacre.   

We watched two Hindi movies.  Talvar, (Irrfan Khan).  Debutant director Meghna Gulzar, coming from the Gulzar stable, could have trimmed footage. Another  version featuring K K Menon, I was told, was a shade better. Rating: 2-1/2 stars. Madaari, (also Irrfan Khan). A little long drawn. Just watchable. And, two more English movies  - Heist (Robert De Niro, Jeffery Dean Morgan) gangster type. Nail-biting. Unwittingly your support leans on the criminal. Experiment in Terror, a 1962 movie. A little slow. Fetched the best supporting actor at Oscar for the villain. The movie brings back the charms of the good old days, and of black and white.

V VSundaram

30 Oct 2016

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

The Making of US-2016 Trip


It was with mixed feelings that Aunty and I gave finishing touches to packing, way past midnight. On the one hand, we felt we had made only a modest beginning of our life in SFV with Ekavta-2016 and Navaratri celebrations, though Onam-2016 and the mega Diwali were still on the cards. On the other, there were events lined up in US too: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and Christmas/New Year eve. Given this equally poised scenario, which one takes the cake. Yes, the query from grandchildren. Each time we talked to them in the US, their first question was: “Thatha, are you speaking from the airport?” 

Once bitten twice shy, they say. And exceptions prove the rule or, the incorrigibles like me. Despite a bad experience years ago, I still selected the same European airlines. Last time the flight from Bangalore took off late causing us to miss the connecting flight. We were dumped into another aircraft that covered all airports except Alaska. And on top of that, bread, butter, jam, cookies, chocolates, ice cream were passed off as  Asian Vegetarian meals. They argued they needed 72 hours to cater to special requests. I had made up my mind to take up with higher-ups later. I had even mentally drafted a strong letter to that effect. But the joy of seeing my daughter in law, all set for motherhood in a fortnight, relegated everything to the background, as I said let bygones be bygones.

This time therefore I ensured we had nearly two hours of layover at the airlines’  hub in Europe so that even if the flight from Bangalore took off late, we won’t miss the connecting flight. But my God, the flight took off late exactly matching our layover time. And there was no connecting flight for the next 24 hours. They arranged for stay in Sheraton for a day in their hub. I promptly suspended temporarily my month-long resolution of sugar-free diet, to have a go at pecan pie, brownie with gay abandon.

On arrival in US, it is now dealing with the bunch of mail that awaited us. I segregate it into three. First it is WPB (waste paper basket, for the uninitiated), and a majority of the mail qualifies for it. Second, the lot I retain for posterity - such as the Hair Cut coupon, or the Buy1 Get 1 pizza coupons, each with deadlines. Third, the ones that need to be dealt with urgently. There was  for example one from my US bank that for 21 months I had not operated my account, and giving me five options to activate it. But the most important one was the ballot papers for us to cast our votes to the Presidential election. Not just for the President, it is for the Senator, Representative to the Congress, the city councillors, members to the Water Board, and which of the serving judges (by individual names) should ideally be retained or shown the door; and if the Scottsdale school budget should be increased. Last but not the least, if in your opinion the city should allow residents above 21 years to grow marijuana in their backyard…

Having gotten over the jet lag, we have resumed our morning walk. Aunty stays back to help Sunita (d-i-l) to cope with the early morning mad rush and to permit all of them to leave for school and office before 7.30. Thereafter Aunty goes for the walk. By then I am back from mine - early morning. In that hour, I cross shoulders mostly with dog-walkers. On day one, I maintained a respectable distance from the dogs, fully trained though. But on the second day when the dog tried to lick me and I tried to keep away, the owner lady held me back and said, “She expects you to pat her; she is very old, and very nice,” she reassured me. I patted the dog - superficially - with the words, “Hello, how are you?” The dog took my casual query seriously and drew closer to me. Probably she wanted me to continue patting her. I looked at my watch as though I was getting late. Then the lady said, “if you like I can allow her to walk along with you for a distance”. “That is okay, but it will then be difficult for me to send her back to the owner,” I said. My presence of mind, which disowns me at most crucial times, rescued me this time. On the second round, I met a guy this time with his dog, a ferocious one. I greeted him. He reciprocated and uttered, “Sorry dear, today your friend Mary is missing.” I was taken aback, till I realised that he was addressing his dog, which by then had spotted Mary at a distance and was overjoyed.

In the evenings, it is either gymnastics or American Football** practice for Rohan, our younger grandson; or piano or Scouts drill for Ashwin, the elder one. Sometimes both have their classes at the same time. So I accompany my son, Shankar, when he takes Rohan to one of these sessions, and Aunty goes with Sunita to Ashwin’s piano class or scouts drill. When the boys are busy with their sessions, Sunita and Aunty sneak out to the nearest  Bed, Bath and Beyond, or Ross to help Aunty buy her bathroom or kitchen requirements for use back in Bangalore, while Shankar and I go to Target or other nearby shops for a quick pre-investment survey of my requirements. But everything will wait for the mega offer of the year - the Thanksgiving and Black Friday.

Post-dinner, before retiring to bed, Ashwin obliges us on his  piano with the number he has been taught recently which he renders without missing too many beats. Following this, either Aunty or I play the board game, Othello, with Rohan to keep him in good humour. But, unlike the earlier occasions when we allowed him to win, this time he does win each time, and hands down. 

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
25 October 2016

**Remember, where the players dressed up like Roman warriors minus the trident pounce on the player with a do or die grip to get him to part with the ball he is holding on to.










Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Ancestral House Visit Rekindles Nostalgia


We were in Kerala early this week on a pilgrimage to Guruvayur, Triprayar, Kodungaloor, our family deities, etc.  On such occasions a visit to my ancestral house in Palakkad is a must. It helps me rekindle childhood memories. As I negotiated my way through the ruins of my ancestral house that had this time a half-damaged wall here, or a worn-out pillar there, as though to remind me that here existed at one time our main hall, there the kitchen, and over there the store room… 

That took me down the memory lane. No point in keeping an uninhabited dilapidated house, though still in one piece, the elders felt decades ago. They found a buyer.  And I was asked to go down from Delhi and remove all our household articles before the house changed hands. It was in that process that I had this Date with the Dead experience. I jotted it in my blog some years ago for posterity. Here it is, just in case it interests you.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
24 Sep 2016


“Sundaram, our uncles have decided to sell their ancestral house, and request us to empty our household items stored there before it changes hands. Can you travel to Palghat and handle it, please?” asked my eldest brother. Those were the items with which we had migrated to our maternal grandfather's house when our father's flourishing business collapsed overnight, thanks to World War II. 

Chudamani, my friend in the village, accompanied me to the decades-uninhabited house that awaited a full-blown sneeze to collapse. He checked the rooms on the ground floor. I went upstairs and tried to climb the attic with a jump-start. It was too high. I found the table and chair that stood by me in my school days still there. I placed the chair on top of the table and barely managed. 

The attic was poorly lit, and the twilight added to the darkness. I felt the dust-ridden items one by one, braving bats, lizards, centipedes, and scorpions that mounted a joint assault at my invasion into their unhindered lives. 

First I chanced upon the set of ten king-size Tanjore paintings (kept one on top of the other upside down so that the glasses stayed safe). I could recollect they were embossed with gold. ‘A solid few lakhs, to begin with,’ I said to myself.

Still groping, my hand reached for a large utensil with ‘ears’ to hold by. It was used in the bathroom, for the maidservant to fill water from the well for all of us to bathe. Suddenly, attired in pancha-gachham and uttareeyam, bright vibhooti on forehead, my paternal grandfather surfaced from out of the utensil, smiling at me. “So you are Sundaram, aren’t you, my child,” he asked. I was both struck with fear and drawn in by his affection. When he died my father was not even married; thus there was no way he could have placed me. Anyway this was no time for logic. 

“Yes, I am. And from the photo I have seen at home, you are my Kunjanna Thatha, aren’t you?” “Yes I am, my child. I used regularly this and a host of other utensils that you see around here for feeding the poor until in your father’s time this particular one found its way to the bathroom. Promise me you will donate all these utensils to the Grama Samooham for mass feeding during religious festivities.” “I shall, Thatha,” I reassured him. He vanished into the thin air.

With pimple-like sweat from head to foot, I looked up through the solitary glass roof-tile for light and, if possible, fresh air as bonus. The branches of the mango tree above were dancing merrily to the late evening breeze. As I tried to enjoy more of it, I saw Krishnan Kutty, the handyman of the village balancing on a branch plucking mangoes. (Every season he plucked from all the five tress at our backyard. In return Patti gave him a basketful of assorted mangoes and a four-anna coin. He never grumbled, but he was hard-pressed for money). His eyes fell on me casually. Instead of extending the customary smile at meeting someone ages after, he stared at me, followed by a volcanic eruption. “Did you know why I had to commit suicide, Sundaram?” I was ill at ease at his calling me by name. I wished he didn’t place me after such a long gap. But he did. “But you are alive, plucking mangoes,” I retorted. “No, I am his ghost. You villagers gave me such a raw deal for my work that I could hardly subsist, let alone get married. That is why I had to take that extreme step.”  

“Sorry friend, I didn’t know it. You know I have been away for many years. Anyway, tell me what can I do for you,” I asked him off-guard not realizing that there was very little I could do to a dead.  “I have borrowed several times from your grandmother vettu kathi, spade, axe, the entwined rope for climbing the coconut tree, the multi-hooked trap to dig out kodams from the well-bed. Look around the attic. You might stumble on them. Hand those over to the President of the Grama Samooham, and instruct him to… No, he might change his mind and keep them for the Samooham. Better still, give them to Chudamani and ask him to donate these to Velu who visits the village regularly looking for odd jobs. He can hardly afford to buy these.” “I shall, Sir,” I added the salutation unwittingly. But then they say the dead are to be treated with more respect.

Enough of it, I said, the sweat now turning into a stream. Let me get down; let the buyer of the house take it all, I murmured, and headed down. Now the chair was missing. “Oh my God, what elemental force is loitering around here? Is it the neglect of daily puja in the house for years that is causing this?

No sooner did I utter the word puja than I heard the drumbeat of Chendai from beyond our backyard. It was Friday, and the time 7. Ponnu Thai, the midget, maidservant for many houses in the morning, and an ardent Devi devotee otherwise, was still kicking and continuing with her Friday pujas, I guessed. Yes, as children, we dreaded most the Friday nights with the drumbeat, sound of the oracle wielding her sword, and screams and howling that let our imaginations run riot.

With a full-blown bright red sindhoor, Ponnu Thai confronted me, fully in trance and wielding the oracle-sword.  She smeared vibhooti on me, and asked me how on earth could we think of selling the house. I clarified that it was not mine; it was our grandfather’s. “You... telling me?’ she asked, her sword getting a little closer to me. I pacified her saying that it would in all probability be sold to someone from within the village. “Well that is somewhat heartening,” she said a little pleased, and asked me to continue the good work I was doing. I reassured her. To this day I am figuring out what that good work is.

Hardly had I got over this bout when I saw a chair surfacing all by itself up the stairs in slow motion. This terrified me to the hilt till I saw Chudamani’s head underneath - struggling to balance the chair. “Where did you take the chair?” I asked him in desperation.  “I wanted to check something in the small cellar in the kitchen store-room. The opening was at four feet high. Why? Anything happened?” he asked. “No nothing, just like that,” I said regaining my composure. With utmost care we brought down the ten Tanjore paintings and took them to his house. Under bright light we found all the gold pieces having disappeared, and the hapless paintings staring at us stripped.

I shared with Chudamani disposal instructions exactly the way I received them, but as though they were my brainchild.

“Should we just have one final check to be sure nothing is left out,” Chudamani asked. “No, not necessary,” I replied, substituting in time my real answer, “Never again.” 


Thursday, September 15, 2016

A Date with an SFV-ian Lady


“Nameste Bhai Sahebdidn’t spot you and wife in Mandir for quite some time?”  Yes Mata ji, first there was a bereavement in the family, and then I had a cataract operation. So couldn’t make it.”

“How are your eyes now?” “Fine Ma’m, and am continuing with eye drops. I went for a check up on a morning, got it operated at noon, and returned home in the afternoon,” I said in the Julius Caesar’s I came, I saw, I conquered style, in an bid to impress her on the swift action.

“Well I got mine too done in Rajkot. Mine in the Chat Mangni, Pat Byah style. Today operation tomorrow train journey back to Bangalore,” she said, eclipsing my feat.

Yes, the lady I am talking about is the one and only graceful (sorry, that would be inviting trouble) Vijayaben, Manoj’s mother, and Snehal’s mother in law (Maple 3181). Whenever Aunty and I meet her in the Madheshwar Mandir, we walk back home with her, though that meant a shift to top gear to keep pace with her. 

Vijayaben leads a simple, regimented life. Past her 80, she gets up at 3 am when most of us are in the deep-sleep zone; reads Bhagawat Gita and other religious scriptures for nearly two hours. “Then she would prepare a warm cup of tea to quench her parched throat”, is what you would guess as the next sentence. Precisely not.  She never tasted tea or coffee in life. Can you beat that? And her first contact with food on any day is at 9 am - breakfast.

At 5.30 she is all set for destination-Joggers-Park. When I reach the park at around 6.45, she is mostly back home. But sometimes I do see her on the last leg of her morning quota. Evening, of course, is her unfailing to and fro walk to the Mandir.

“So, you must be compensating this early wake-up with a nap at noon?” I asked her. “No way. Yeah, sometimes I do doze off while sitting in the sofa, but never a deliberate attempt to rest. Never.”  “I must recast my own afternoon liberal quota of sleep, just because I get up at 5.30,” I said to myself.

“Then, surely you must be taking a day off every week - probably Sunday?” I continued, hell-bent on identifying some matching area with mine. “No way. Why should you? Never respond to your mind’s call, it is your worst enemy. Respond only to your body’s call. If your body signals, say, through some pain here or there, then by all means respect it, and skip for a day. Never otherwise.” Now I begin to worry if I should engage myself in further conversation, lest unwittingly I get brainwashed to change my lifestyle. That would mean denying my Sunday off, mid-week skip on the pretext of drizzling, windy, cloudy, or, ‘went to bed late’…
  
“You must be giving a helping hand in the household chores, or you take it easy?”  “Though Snehal insists on me to relax, I volunteer to clean all the utensils. Otherwise my hands will rust. Stay active and alert,” she delivered a crisp message - again running counter to mine: rest and relax. This healthy geriatric hyper-activism reminds me of Geeta Hari’s mother in Palakkad. At 98 - yes 98, no typo error - she gets up at 5 in the morning, sprinkles cow-dung-mixed water in the front yard, draws sparkling rangoli at pre-dawn, washes clothes herself, cooks food - does everything all by herself. Thus, Geeta’s youngest brother who is positioned in the village basically to look after the mother, enjoys being looked after. By the way, Geeta Hari is our neighbour. Strictly speaking, not neighbour but neighbour-in-law, because they are in 3192, and we are in 3195.

“And so, with all work and no play, Vijayaben ji, at what time of the day do you relax?” I asked her. “Every evening I join the ladies meet in the kiosk near the swimming pool, though I can’t vouch I follow all their conversation.” “Why, they speak a language you are not familiar with?”  “No, no, my ears are no longer trustworthy.” 

“Not to worry Ma’m. You are not alone. Mine too have begun to disown me,” I reassured her. “The other day my sister-in-law’s daughter in Oak asked me, “So when did you move in?” And I replied, “No movies… for quite sometime”. Thereafter whenever I utter, ‘Beg your pardon’, or ‘come again”, she would say, “Never mind.”

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
vvsundaram.blogspot.in



Sunday, September 11, 2016

Theft in Oak, and thereafter

 
When someone’s pocket is picked, say in a bus, your basic instinct is to check your own pocket to reassure your money is safe. Or, if a bag is missing in a train, you immediately look under the seat to ensure that your bag is intact. Similarly, strictly between us, when I heard of the theft in Oak, my immediate reaction was not to ring up the poor guy and ascertain the extent of loss. Instead, we hurried to the nearest bank with all our earthly belongings to open a locker -  a post-relocation task that had long been pending.
  
Speaking of lockers, I have only good memories of them. Decades ago, it is one of these very lockers that brought me The Luck of My Life.  People normally go on a treasure hunt, but in my case a treasure found its way into my locker. Yes, a solid jewel box, heavily loaded. And, disregarding any disastrous complications such ill gotten wealth could get me into, I shared the news with readers of Hindustan Times. Here it is yours for the asking - for a long-weekend reading.


Luck of My Life 
(Hindustan Times, 23 Nov 1983)

Some people strike it rich in a lottery, others in a jackpot, and yet a few in matrimony. But I made it via a treasure box. Here is the true account of it.
  
I earmark Saturdays for doing errands – going to Karol Bagh to buy coffee powder, to avail myself of any ‘clearance sale’ that is on - or to fix the wall-clock glass broken by my son attempting a Kapil shot, indoors.
  
That particular Saturday I had three jobs in hand. First, to take out the jewellery from locker in a Karol Bagh bank (my wife wanted to wear it for a marriage the next day). Second, to meet the share-broker in Connaught Place, to see if the shares he had me buy in bulk a few months ago with great promises, 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 close at 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 dug 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 being removed from one’s lockers, but never of a thing being added. Anyway, this is not the time to waste on self cross-examination.  I must hurry home to see the contents. Telling myself so, I cancelled the other jobs and drove home straight, 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 (a few inches bigger than those of both my neighbours), and a VCR. If I am still left with sufficient money, maybe I could buy 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 years ago in feeding 1000 Brahmins (Sahasra Bhojanam) in a row go unrewarded? Surely not.’
  
I reached home, and sent Arakkaani, the maid, to a far off shop in the locality to fetch a difficult-to-get item.  My wife was at a loss. I asked her to close all doors and windows and to draw the curtains. She grew suspicious. Then I unfurled the straw mat on the floor. That left her with no doubt. She shouted, “No nonsense, whatsoever.”  
  
“Calm down dear, can’t you think of anything better? See what I have brought for you. I didn’t want the precious items to spill on the floor. Hence I spread the mat. You get it?” I told her.
  
Then I showed her the treasure that had found its way into our locker. Seeing it, she began to laugh uncontrollably. I had known of people falling unconscious at such a windfall, but never of getting a laughing-gas effect.
  
‘Maybe, it is a little too much for her to bear, being of a tender heart,’ I suggested to myself, and began to calm her down, as her laughter could attract the attention of neighbours, and they might see us with a treasure box in hand, if not the mat spread wide, curtains drawn, laughing merrily...
  
A few minutes later she regained normalcy, and said: ‘I forgot to tell you. The other day, before leaving for Madras on vacation, Leela (my sister) gave me that jewel-box for safe-keeping in our locker.’
  
‘Be that so, but you don’t have to laugh like that.’ I told her, trying to retrieve my supremacy. ‘Anyway, don’t broadcast this to Sonu or Babbu’s mothers (neighbours), okay?” Ordering her so, I rushed to the bank to take out her jewellery for the marriage, only to find the bank already closed.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
09 Sep 2016

Pratyaksha Ganesha in SFV Club House


The 21st century torchbearers will revolt at any such suggestion of God appearing in person, but I did experience it last evening in Club House. Lord Ganesha, setting aside the lavish celebrations of Ganesh Chaturthi all over the city,  predominantly in Maharashtra, descended in SFV Clubhouse. That is the feeling one got, at least from the large hole that appeared in the ceiling right above the deity installed. 

“No, we didn’t see any hole,” some of the discerning SFVian observers might argue. “Nor did I,” I would say. But definitely there is no restriction on my imagination running riot for a while, given the divine atmosphere that pervaded the hall. Raghu looked his best attired in a dark blue panchagachham (Mysore silk?). I would urge Mrs Raghu to do a Chashme Baddoor (drishti)  if she has not done one. 

A group of young mothers sporting, by arrangement, red sarees, enthralled the audience for full half an hour with well-rehearsed devotional songs. “Couldn’t they have obliged us for a little more time?” whispered the man next to me into my ears. “I can’t agree with you more, sir,” I replied. “What exactly do you mean? You agree with me or you don’t? Be categoric,” he asked me, his voice now raising beyond the realms of a whisper. “I do agree, I do agree with you totally, sir.”  “Then better say that. Okay?” 

Not in passing, but on a firm note, everybody congratulated Dileep for his vocal rendering which fell short of professional heights only for the absence of a mridangam. And the best compliments go to …. guess, well, none other than his son, for giving able support to his Dad in violin. Keep it up, young boy. 

On second thought, I shall take back that ‘dent in the ceiling’ remark. I know no SFVian would like, even remotely, to be reminded of a hole, crack, or leak, what with the building warranty having just lapsed. Already the list has swollen into pages in Hike, if not the talk of the town. And I wouldn’t like to add one, be it imaginary. I shall thus reword it. The Lord made no crash landing. He made the customary super smooth landing to witness in person the devoutness of the gathering in large numbers. The ladies did a tremendous job in adhering to the ‘traditional’ dress code prescribed - a majority of them were dressed so. The menfolk? A handful donned a dhoti and a shoulder towel, most a pair of trousers and shirts, and a few skin-fit jeans and T-shirts. Well, viewed from a positive context, it could as well be interpreted as unity in diversity. 

The best dressed, however, were the children who were probably enthusiastic since morning waiting for it to strike 6 pm to be the first to arrive at the scene. Most of them - sorry all of them - were in their best. Watching them playful, talking, whispering and giggle was in itself a feast for the eyes.

A few, standing at the far end used the occasion for an update session on Modi, Rahul, Olympics or Mungaru Male 2. Thankfully, the solver lining was that they lent their ears in between to the songs being rendered. Well, you can’t expect rapt attention anywhere for anything and everything that goes on.

A variety of prasadams, enough to fill a plate, was offered to one and all to the absence of no now-or-never rush. Everybody waited for his/her turn - no one pretended to be busy talking to someone on the line and quietly joined the mainstream. If the corridor news is correct, the prasadam order was given to  the young couple in the SLV restaurant across the road. They proved equal to the occasion. We wish them a good future.

The visarjan event stole the show, if I may say so. At least I liked it very much. The deity was taken around all buildings. Each person got a turn to carry the deity for a distance. I was offered too, but I was not sure of the weight of the idol. The chants of  Ganapathi Bappa Moria, by ladies and children was the best part of this procession. And, with concluding mantras and final Deepa Aaradhana, Raghu held the deity high above for everyone to bid farewell before immersing the Lord in the cauldron, bringing the Ganesh Chathurti 2016 celebrations to a happy conclusion. 

An enjoyable evening, no doubt.

V V Sundarm
Maple 3195

11 Sept 2016

Monday, September 5, 2016

Cab Rides Re-run


For a trip to Hebbal we ordered Ola thanks to my cataract surgery and Aunty’s stubborn ’No’ to put up any more with my backseat driving while she is behind the wheels. She brands it “more a purgative than a tip.”

The driver confided that his owner’s instructions to him were to take only short trips, complete 18 trips, and  earn bonus daily. Nonetheless, he said, he didn’t decline our long ride. Nice of him. Yes, sometimes you receive such kindly gestures for no apparent reason, while at other times you succumb to bitter ones that make you swear, Never again.

During the trip the driver shared with us, unsolicited, that he lived within a radius of one or two kilometres from SFV, and SFVians could call him at short notice on a private basis also - for airport, railway station, or anywhere.  Also, his wife would be keen to take up a maid’s job in our complex. 

That last sentence woke Aunty up from the nap she was enjoying to catch up with her quota.  “Can she report for duty at 6 am?” “Sure madam,” he reassured. 

“Also, can she cook? she asked - a misplaced one rather. Disregarding the traffic, he slowed down and turned back to us,  “Look at me Madam. I have been eating her food.” he said providing a solid proof.

“No, what I meant was whether she could cook North Indian dishes?” she defended meekly. “Not exactly Madam, but she can learn in a week from the lady of the house,” he reassured us. He gave Aunty his wife’s  contact number. 

Aunty remembered that someone had asked for such a cook but, as usual, was not sure who it was. 
“I say, who was it who wanted a North Indian cuisine cook? she fired a salvo at me. “Sorry dear, I don’t accompany you to your Satsangs, Sahasranamams or Bhajans.” 

That seemed a stronger dose. “But you extract all news from me even before I am fully back into the house, and you couldn’t have missed this one,” she shot back, never failing to be at her wit’s end.

Moral: If anyone is interested, Aunty can share the contact number. 
* * * * * * * * * * 
The return journey with a young cab driver is worth writing home about. It was also an Ola cab and, unasked for again, his first statement was the same as the earlier one - that it was not economical for him to take on long trips. On the contrary, Uber’s incentives were on turnover, he said. But he would never say no to trips.

Then he began unfolding his story. In 2009 he came to Bangalore from Chitrakoot (?) district in Tumkur with one set of clothes. He worked in restaurants that entitled him free food, then as an attendant in a car, took driving lessons simultaneously, and bought his owner’s car paying back in instalments. “Yes, this very vehicle is my first one, sir, although I have two newer vehicles also. But this gave me life, and I will never sell it.”

He now deposits in the bank two lakhs per month - I repeat, two lakhs. He would unfailingly complete 18 trips to claim bonus every day.  He doesn’t owe any EMI payments. He takes a sumptuous lunch every day - even if it costs 100 of 150, he proudly says. He takes no tips.

Earlier his house in the native place was just the inside size of the Indica he was driving, but now he has bought a spacious house, and 18 acres of land for his father to cultivate.  Once in a while he would bring his parents to Bangalore, take them around the city for four or five days and visit the best of restaurants.

Once when his mother was travelling in a car along with his father’s relatives for a marriage. When they saw she did not wear any jewellery, they threw her out of the car. To compensate for that agonising experience, he has now bought her Rs.4.80 lakhs worth of gold. Now all relatives from his father’s side are very keen that he gets married with one of their relatives, but he is going to marry from his mother’s side. She is now studying law, and he has organised her apprenticeship with a law firm which hires his cab regularly. He has already bought all the marriage items, including the jewellery for her. 

We wished him well as we alighted from the car, and paid Rs 240 for his bill of Rs 239/-. He hailed us back and returned one rupee.

I am no Nostradamus, but I would place this on record. Who knows, one day this young man might make it to the top like the home grown Infosys Narayanamurthy, Flipkart Bansals, Paytm Sharma, or the internationals - Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Zukerberg, or Jeff Bezos. I can then pat on my back and say to my grandchildren: “Who…? that Manjunatha? Well, I had enjoyed a ride in his taxi some years ago…”  and get them to flock around me for yet another story. 

Moral: Order Uber for long trips, and Ola for short ones.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
05 Sept 2016







Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Oh Death, when is your death?



Those are the translated words of the famous Tamil poet and lyricist late Kannadasan. And that is what I am reminded of when three deaths in a row overtook Srishti-ites. But then comes a gentle reminder that life and death are as inseparable as day and night. We can only pray for their souls to rest in peace.

Sanjay Srivastava, B-104. Because of my closeness with Srivastava ji, Sanjay’s father, I had known Sanjay somewhat well. He is soft-spoken, polite, and measured each word before uttering it. That is, if something needed to be answered in 17 words, it would be just 17, neither 16 nor 18. So precise was his mental make-up. And, as I understood from Jaya during my meeting with the family early this week, that was his forte in all walks of life, unfortunately a short one.

During a morning walk I had introduced Sanjay to my elder son last year when he was here on a vacation. The chat lasted less than five minutes, but the impression, ever. I say this because  when I conveyed to him in USA of this sad news and said he might not be able to place Sanjay, he shot back. “No Appa, I distinctly remember him - tall and hefty like me. Correct? Also Sunita (daughter in law) had the best of interactions with his wife during our short vacation.” 

Shubhada Kelkar, B-402. I can’t claim close acquaintance with her. But during the chance meetings with her waiting for or in the lift, I had always observed her to be a pious, immaculate, and graceful lady. Meetings might be less, but not impressions - they were lasting.

Lalitha however had interactions with her almost every Friday at the Sahasranamam recitals in the Yoga room. When Lalitha returned, seldom did we settle down for lunch without sharing with me her prasadams and mentioning a word or two in praise of her and the way she conducted herself. 

Mr R. Krishnamoothy (RK to me), B-103. Srishti Day and my consequent write-ups on him brought us closer. He is given to casual strolls rather than brisk walks, and he knew of my preference for just the opposite. So, in the morning walks he would let me overtake him, and in the evenings we would take a stroll together before settling down near the swimming pool bench for a chat, till the mosquitoes drove us back home.

Any mention of RK without his keyboard expertise will be something less. I always referred to him in my write-ups as Keyboard Krish. Once or twice I went to RK’s house to hum some old Hindi, Tamil, songs to the best of my poor ability, and hear him capture them and play them for me on the keyboard - Aaja re aa jaa akhiyanum mein…, Tum na jaane kis jahan mein khogaye…, Konjum puraave…, Maasila Unmai cuddle…There was not even a single song where he fumbled. Fantastic. We grew so close that one fine morning he rang my doorbell, and when I opened, I found him holding his 75-year old family harmonium. “Come on both of you, before I leave for US in fifteen days, I will teach you the basics, write notes of some well known Tamil and Hindi songs. You practice them. Don’t give up. When I return from USA after six months, I would like to hear you both play with ease all these songs.” Alas, it worked somewhat with Aunty; not with me. And we returned the harmonium with our deepest apologies. 

My last meeting with him was when I was packing for my relocation to Kanakapura Road. My elder son had handed me down a very good original CD collection of some Western classics like Beethoven, Mozart, and others like James Last, Paul Mauriat, Saxaphonist Kenny G, Celine Dion… I thought the best person to treasure these should be RK. So I went with a bagful of these and knocked at his door. He opened and I handed him. He looked at them with utter surprise as though he was looking just for these. But checked himself and asked me. “Are you sure you want to part with this excellent collection?” “Yes.. see you later,” I said and left in a hurry as I had too many packings to complete. Had I known that that was going to be our last meeting, I would have spent some more time with him.

This morning it was consoling when we talked to Hema that she was bold and able to brave the loss. Alas, it was only for two minutes, thereafter she broke down unconsolably, and we tried hard to pacify her. 

RK, believe me, I will miss you. Yes, I shall recall here once again, also your favourite lyricist Kannadasan’s words, “Chaave, un chaavu eppo,” (Oh Death, when is your death?)

V V Sundaram

(formerly B-703)

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