It's a Small World

Adjustment is the name of the game these days. “Swalpa adjust maadi,” in Kannada, “Sahayichhu irikku,” in Malayalam, or ‘Sab mil ke chalo,” in Hindi, are choice expressions an unsuspecting third passenger deploys to squeeze himself, without any guilt, on to a seat meant for two.  With one leg hanging on the edge initially, the other finding its way gradually on to the lap of the one who surrendered a portion, it makes the latter wonder if he should get up and yield in full. 

Precisely for these reasons when Ola and Uber introduced the share-taxi concept to counter the recent exodus of the commuting public to metro rail,  Aunty and I swore never to avail of it. But, during a morning walk-the-talk session, my friend shared with me in superlative terms his experience in Mumbai, Delhi and Bangalore. Seven out of ten times he and his wife had exclusive-rides at share-taxi rate. We fell for it.

Fortunately, we make and break promises with equal felicity. Thus, for a return trip from Whitefield to SFV on a Sunday we booked a share-taxi. 

When the cab arrived, we patted ourselves. “Augurs well. We are the only ones”. But alas, he drove in the opposite direction, to a villa complex to pick up a passenger. At the last minute she cancelled the booking forcing him to halt the vehicle for the mandatory cancellation-waiting period. In less than two kilometers, he picked another passenger and did a small detour before dropping him somewhere in Whitefield itself. “Now, a straight drive,” we heaved a sigh of relief. No. again another passenger. and yet another, till the last pick-up was dropped in Brigade Millennium in JP Nagar. It was exclusive thereafter. “At least the ending was good,” we told ourselves as though we stepped out of a theatre.

A never-say-die, we tried it another occasion, this time from Jayanagar. There were two passengers already - a young lady at the rear, and a young man in front. As we boarded they were busy talking, making us wonder why then they chose sit thus. In the travel that followed  Aunty and I maintained an observer status. Soon it emerged that they were both from North, and both in their own separate ways were aspiring for IIM - one in Ahmedabad and the other Bangalore. Yes, the girl is now doing her BBA from Bangalore, and the young man Management studies. 

When at one stage their conversation centered around Delhi, I could no longer remain a silent spectator. I wished to initiate a dialogue with them. I asked Aunty if I could, so that back home, during the coffee session, she doesn’t grumble, “The problem with you is…”. But this time she readily agreed. She even prompted me, when it took me a little longer to start. Once we opened our mouth, both the youngsters very joyous - that we too were from Delhi. The conversation instantly acquired a friends-for-long tone. “Uncle, have you tried Samosa from the restaurant behind the IIT campus?” “Just once a week, not more,” I said, to sound modest, though it was more often than that. “How about Shiv…. dhabha in Gurgaon, uncle?” “No, never had a chance. I just had gone to Haldiram’s in one of Gurgaon’s main malls.” “You must, uncle. In fact I took my father last time. He was very reluctant; never wishes to venture out. But he was glad, he didn’t miss it.” Not to be left behind, I shot back, “Have you tried Dhoda burfi of Om Sweets in Gurgaon?” “How can anyone could miss it, uncle?” 

He told the girl that ever since he moved to Bangalore a week back, he never missed one sweet called Mysore Pak. The girl, in the final year of BBA reassured him that it was one of the more popular sweets of South. He got down at a busy lane in Banashankari. “Glad I got a friend at last in a week’s time,” he told the girl as he bade farewell to us all. We watched him head towards a sweets shop. Probably the price for a debate on mouth-watering dishes. 

Then began an active engagement between Aunty and the girl. Her father is in spare parts business until recently in Hyderabad, and now in Bangalore  Thus, somewhat acquainted with Telugu, her current focus is to learn Kannada by actively talking to her classmates only in Kannada. “I give them ample chances to have a hearty laugh at my expense.  But that is the only way one learns, isn’t it Aunty?” Her mother is very good at tailoring. “For a marriage reception, she stitched a lehanga for me, using one of her old but expensive sarees. Everyone admired it.” Aunty jumped at it and immediately noted her mother’s cell number. Hopefully some of the sarees overflowing from our cupboard will now find their way to that place for a makeover into salwar kameez for her morning walks. 

After dropping her in Uttarahalli, the driver took us home through the Pipeline road, the only exclusive ride, bumpy though. “It must be a hard day for you taking every passenger through to different places, driver sahib? I asked him, so that he doesn’t feel left out. “Yes, sir. And, today my driver fell sick, and I had to take a day off from my office to drive our cab,” he said to clarify that he worked for an insurance company - like Policy Bazar. His family owns two or three cabs. When he did announce the company he worked for, I shot back, “Are you by chance Lokesh (name changed)?” He said yes. Gosh, it was  through his company that I had insured my car in the last two years and he was the one who attended on me, though over the phone only. Also, just to be sure,I asked him, “Isn’t the name of your top boss in Ahmedabad  Farooq?”  “Siddique,” he corrected. I knew it was Siddique, but deliberately uttered a wrong name to see if he was not taking me for a ride, aside the cab ride. Unfounded suspicion, I realized.

As we alighted at SFV our fare was Rs 163. I gave him 170 and got down to allow him to keep the change. But he was one up. He gave me a tenner, saying he didn’t have change either. “There is no dearth of good humans in the world,” I said to myself. As for Aunty, she couldn’t be more overjoyed that she found at last an outlet for some of her sarees that she could neither keep nor throw.

V V Sundaram

Maple 3195

20 July 2017

Final Farewell to m-i-l

A bright July. With steaming hot idly, chutney and gunpowder-paste Lalitha and I waited for my two sisters and their spouses for a week-long tour to Coimbatore, Guruvayoor, and other places.  We got a call from my sister that they had just boarded the Innova from Bannerghatta Road and would be in SFV in twenty minutes. Hardly had I disconnected the phone when it rang again. “Must be wanting us to bring something more.” No, it was from my b-i-l this time, from Malleswaram,  “Amma (my m-i-l) doesn’t respond when I went to her room with coffee,” her most cherished item of the morning. We rang up my sister, excused ourselves from the tour, and headed to Malleswaram instead. Meanwhile doctors confirmed our worst suspicions.

This was last year. Now after a year, it is time to bid final farewell to the departed soul. The ceremonies lasted three days. It is a family of six daughters (originally seven) and one son. So one can imagine a gathering with all of them, their children and grandchildren present - a mini-auditorium packed scenario. Such family-reunions also serve as a platform to recount interesting past.  Amma,  Ammammai, as she is hailed by children and grandchildren, she couldn’t boast of high education, but was bestowed with a matchless wisdom. A middle class family for all intents and purposes, she ran the show single-handed as Moorthy Anna (father in law) busied himself in Office during the day, and religious activities in the evening.

Amma was 90-plus, and her memory had begun to fade. Conversely, she would recite with incredible correctness some of the age-old Sanskrit slokas, and some Tamil renderings on Lord Muruga. Lalitha was hell-bent on tracing the Tamil renderings from her collection all this while. No luck, until last week she managed to meet her friend Uma’s mother(14th floor) who too recited them. She has kindly promised to get the book from Nagarkoil or, failing that, to write them down for Lalitha.

Amma is a good conversationalist. It is just that she would like to take charge of it, if not wholly. Since she spent the best part of her life in Kolkata, her Hindi bore a

heavy dose of Bengali accent, quite often leading to embarrassing situations. “Mera beti ki baadi bahut achhi hai”. Her Punjabi friends in Delhi were intrigued at what exactly was she trying to convey. Baadi in Bengali is home. “Mein Kolkata me 50 saal roi (rahi) thi”, she said on another occasion, sending her friends to peels of laughter. The young college-going girl downstairs would often drop in, just to have a chat with her. She had a younger brother. Her grandfather, a widower, too lived with them. One day Amma asked her, “Tumhara Dada ka umar kya hai?” She was wonderstruck. Why should Aunty, a widow, ask my grandpa’s age? Later she was told that Dada in Bengali means younger brother. 

Amma is an outstanding cook, if only one can put up with her action-replay speed. But the final product is just fabulous, and worth waiting for, you would realize. I like her rasam and Maa Laadu, (besan ka laddoo) the best. For her, sons-in-law are always a cut above the rest. Only when she decides to give them a bit of her mind she treats them at par with her children. But no one minded it.

When it comes to marketing her children, she is at her elemental best. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that her only son is an MD in a multinational firm, has met the likes of Tendulkar, Sir Clive Llyod, for endorsement negotiations.  Her eldest daughter is an accomplished singer for dance-drama performances. All the rest of her children work in banks. And the sons in law? Well, one joined the Board of Directors in a firm after retirement from a senior position in a bank. The other retired as Chief Manager from a bank, declined a series of senior-position offers from the corporate world. A lover of Nature, he preferred to spend his time in gardening. No wonder his garden is still rated a model in his layout. Yet another is an accomplished flute player and has given several performances, not to speak of his outstanding yoga acumen which keeps him fit like a fiddle in his mid-eighties. Well, the list goes on for her. What was unique about her was that she believed in an equitable distribution of praise.

I won’t wonder if she is equally busy so at the heavenly abode too - amidst those whom she missed badly until a year ago. For one, she should be updating Moorthy Anna since his departure years earlier. “Do you know that all your children are now in Bangalore?” Amma tells him. “Be that so. But say our children,” he corrects her, getting back at his old habit.  

“Just one clarification. Is it that your good deeds have brought you here or, the fact that during one’s lifetime if one sees one’s own son’s, son’s son it would qualify one to the heavenly abode? Moorthy Anna queries, deliberately to tease her. “What do you mean?” ”Of course, my own deeds, m a n. To keep records straight, I have been devoting more time in my communion with God than you were with your religious activities,” she clarified, beginning to get back to her basics. And, for your information our son’s elder son is still in his teens, and so there is no question of son’s-son’s-son route, clear?” she affirmed. “Thanks for the info. But, you hailed me man, deviating from the Enna (I say) style. How come?” Moorthy Anna quips. 

“I trust you will permit that upgrade henceforth. That makes me feel a little more close to you. Now that we are in a totally different world and start life all over again, I think I am entitled to that. You agree?” she asked. Okay dear, have it your way - as always,” he granted. “Is khushi mein, give me a hug,” he mustered courage to ask her. “Wait a minute,” she said as she got up to close the door. And then they lived in eternal peace thereafter. 

V V Sundaram

06 July 2017