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)

Ekatva in Letter and Spirit

Let me, before someone else does, give you an overview of SFV’s Ekta-2016 celebrations today.

The heading perhaps aptly summarizes in minimum words the day’s proceedings. Sorry friends who could not or did not make it. You can’t fathom what you missed. Anyway, it is never too late. Be sure to be present next time. 

As a concession, however, this time I shall partly make up for your loss. I shall take you on a conducted tour like Sanjay did. He explained the goings-on in the battlefield to the blind Dritharashtra in Mahabharata. But don’t take this for granted. I may not do it next time. (Sorry, that is just to prevail upon you to witness it next time, okay?)

Now, on to the event. SFV has been buzzing with sports and athletic activities in the past few weekends - walkathon, badminton, swimming, volley ball, rangoli, drawing competition, and what have you. This in itself was an arduous task, and the young SFVian ladies lived up to it - acquitted themselves creditably, assisted ably by menfolk.  Kudos.

One could guess from the exchange of notes in WhatApp in the preceding days the behind the scene work that went on for the culmination of these into Ekatva-2016. Not just that, the team of volunteers split into several groups and visited each household to invite/remind them of their date with Ekatva, and to come empty stomach (not for any free lab test). There would be a lot of stalls offering fun and food, they reassured. The net result? All of us had a gala time - from the toddlers to the octogenarians.

The ceremony began with the customary lighting of the lamp. Those honoured to do that, outsmarted the full-blast cross-ventilation wind to lit the lamp. It was then prize-distribution for the various events. This done, it was time for a fresh bout of competitions  - Selfie Le Le Re, My Doll My Mom, Lapet-te-jaa, Aaja Nach le…

A row of stalls occupied the entire length and breadth of the Oak ground-level car park. Food stalls included pizzas, burgers, South Indian and North Indian lunch packs, tea, home-made cakes and pastries, vadapav, paani puri, dosa corner…  The clothing stalls were an equal match. also jewellery, online e-teaching software, organic vegetables and fruit,  Well you name any, and it was there. 

The public address system, for a change, worked without warranting the customary last-minute manipulations. The sound too was well within tolerable decibels. The organizers were fully prepared should the Rain God favour the farming community which He did in the evening. The venue was shifted to the car park and the stage was set in no time.

If one asks me, “Uncle, among the host of dances and songs from toddlers to the young mothers, which one in your opinion stole the show,” I would say he is trying to corner me. It is a tall order for, each time I watched a number, I surmised it was the best, only to be overtaken by the next. And if I take a recap of the whole show, I find my confusion worse confounded. Nonetheless, I would definitely say word about Navin Kashyap and Sajan’s compering. It would seem they are a made for each other duo - not Laurel and Hardy. They kept the audience in tenterhooks with their riddles and quiz items. But the audience proved too good. To sum up, a day well spent.

* * * * * * * *

For me personally it also provided the right platform to make new friends and renew acquaintance with the old. One such was Col Padmanabhan whom I met at the earlier mock fire-drill. During the exchange of info, it transpired that we were both from Palakkad and that he has a house in my native place, Ramanathapuram village. And it so happened that the events next to his property inspired me to pen an article, “An Encounter with a Ghost” that Hindustan Times carried in 1983.  Today he shared with me an experience of his own while serving the army. Well, a good time pass, isn’t it? I shall be delighted to share both the stories should it interest readers.

V V Sundaram

Maple 3195

27 Aug 2016

A Tale of Two Cataracts

“I wonder why the newspaper chaps are stingy, persisting with dry ink on an already smaller font?” I began my day over a cup of coffee. 

The lady of the house seldom reacts to my newspaper observations, more so when they are critical, and goes about her job. She knows that I am a born arm-chair critic, and if she ventures, her more important kitchen work would suffer. 

“The laptop industry is no less. The impression on the screen too has since faded,” I grumbled unabated. Again no response, until she felt she could take the barrage no longer.

“Why don’t you get your eyes examined instead of blaming the whole world for everything?” she said, rather uncharitably.

I had my eyes examined at an eye hospital nearby the same afternoon. After the rigmarole, the Counsellor advised me that both my eyes needed cataract surgery and, in passing, hinted the amount I would be relieved of. “Think about it,” she said, as she saw me off the door.

While getting back home, a host of newspaper articles on nexus between the various sectors converged on my mind - the 

hospital Management allocating financial targets to the consultant-doctors, the  jugaad between the Management and imported lens suppliers (Buy 1 Get 1, but charging the patients for both), and the like. Hardly had the thought process taken a complete round when I got a call from my elder brother in Mumbai. Yes, the network in our inner family circle is faster than the speed of light.

“Sundaram, have you heard of Bhujang Shetty?” 

I pleaded ignorance. 

“You are in Bangalore for ’n’ number of years, and you don’t know about him?” he quipped somewhat disappointed. 

“No, not exactly. What about him? I have not read today’s newspaper,” I said, my defence-mechanism beginning to take charge. 

“Nothing to do with newspaper. He was the right hand man of the famous Dr Badrinath of Sankara Netralaya. And now Dr Bhujang Shetty has set up his own hospital in Bangalore. You better get your surgery done by him -  and him only. Okay?” he said in a tone that had the touch of an order. Yes, past his eighties, and head of our family he is entitled to that.

“I will,” I reassured him. 

“You remember his name or have forgotten as in your school days - Akbar for Aurangzeb?” he asked.

“No way. How can I? I know it is Dr Bhajrang Shetty, correct?”

“It is neither Bhajrangi, nor Bajirao. Don’t watch too many movies. It is BHUJANG Shetty. Got it? Repeat it three times over the phone,” he made sure.

The next day we headed for Narayana Netralaya where Dr Shetty is the Chairman. We were supposed to take an appointment, but I just  gate-crashed into his office. He gave a patient hearing to my blabber, and promised he could arrange for all the tests on a fast-track.  

“I shall undergo the pre-op tests, Doc, but shall take a call when to go for surgery,” I said, still choosing to hold the cards close to my chest. But he was a past-master in mind-reading, and asked his Secretary to put me through the tests on a fast tract, and have the Counsellor personally accompany me to all the testing rooms. 

Tests confirmed that it was cataract in both eyes, but in early stage. Surgery could be done either now or three or four months later. They would do both with a gap of one week, so that the six-week eye-drops regimen could go on somewhat simultaneously. The Counsellor explained the options: the age-old method, or the bladeless surgery, the laser technology as it is called. The latter would cost a little over 100% more than the conventional one.

My wife and I had a whisper talk in front of Dr Bhujang Shetty for a decision. He busied himself browsing a file but, given the human instinct, I guessed his ears were stretched towards us. 

“What is the difference,” we asked. “If you draw five circles with hand, each one would differ from the other. Whereas if you draw a circle with a compass it would be precise. Thus, in laser surgery precision is the hallmark. But that said, I see no reason why under the experienced and able hands of the Head of Cataract Department, who is operating today, you should not opt for the conventional kind,” the Counsellor said. 

It was confusion worse confounded, for me and my wife. Again, we were closeted in a whisper lasting a few minutes, then fixed our finger on  the laser surgery column. And she marked it in the sheet. 

What prompted you two to go for that? you might ask. Two reasons. First, that was the first time, we found a staff member suggesting with fervour a course which would bring less revenue to the organisation she worked for. She was honest to the core, as was Dr Bhujang Shetty. When we asked him earlier the difference between the blade and bladeless surgery, he said, “It is like travelling from Bangalore to Mumbai in a train or by air. But, mind you,  just because the laser surgery costs double, don’t expect double the benefit.” These two independent statements, we felt, were replete with honesty.  

Second, and more important, back home our sons talk to us on phone normally with an AK-47 in hand. And we were not sure we could defend ourselves if we went in for the conventional one.

Now both the surgeries are over and I am relaxing with just  regular eye drops. Thankfully, the doctor’s “Don’ts” list covers all activities that I looked forward to - no exercises, full rest and relaxation, no head bath for ten days, no brisk walk, no strenuous activity.  My Malayalee friends would be reminded of the old saying, “Acchan ichhichatum paalu, Vaidyan Kalpichatum paalu,” (Father wished for milk, and the doctor also prescribed milk.)

As for TV viewing and reading newspapers the doctor relaxed the rules a bit. For driving the car he was noncommittal, “It’s Bangalore traffic, your choice, sir.”

V V Sundaram

23 August 2016

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