2018: The Year That Was

On 31 December 2017 when I went to bed a little before ringing in the New Year, I swore to myself, “Tomorrow I will wake up a changed man with three firm resolutions for the New Year. I didn’t want to share them with Aunty. After all no one wants one’s wife to laugh at you on a New Year morning. I would live by my resolve and let her notice the change in me. And I did, for full one week, before I laid them to rest. There is always a next year.

For reasons best known to them, cough, cold or fever decided to stay away from me, denying me excuses to skip my morning walks. Still I stole a couple, on the pretext of having to leave home early for a function, or an early ODI match… Where there is a will, there is a way.

My quota of outstation trips suffered a set back. We spent half the year in the US, but on record it was just one trip. Second, a few trips got cancelled after booking. One was to Trichy, Kumbakonam and Tanjore temples with our family friend. (Anyway, it is never too late. We leave on the New Year night for the same destination for four days.)

The other was to Hampi. The prominent display of cultural and historical places of Karnataka on the stage at the SFV Rajyotsava, rekindled my desire to visit this UNESCO heritage city, which incidentally has been voted the top Asian travel destination by five of the world’s top travel influencers and bloggers. Soon, six of us (three senior couple, to be precise) made hotel bookings and also arranged with Akram for Innova. Meanwhile, a common friend had to be hospitalized for surgery exactly for those two days.  “The Vijayanagara ruins can wait, but not hospital duty,” we reminded ourselves, and cancelled the trip. (We do it on the third week of January.)

On my birthday the Madeshwara temple remained open throughout the day - for some other reason. So Aunty goaded me to go to the temple, pay obeisance, and stuffed the Rudram-Chamakam book into my hands with a suggestion (read order) to recite the slokas at the temple. I began, and soon the two priests went hither and thither to organize the public address system for me. I politely declined. “Modesty,” the two whispered among themselves. Poor fellows didn’t know that I didn’t want my Rudram-expert friends Navin Kashyap and Muthuraman in SFV to hear on the loudspeaker a version replete with mispronunciations and devoid of diction, and blame the temple authorities.

After a gap of three years, we bade farewell to our spectacles that had become a part of our body. To be honest, the change was ad-based rather than need-based. Usually we patronize an international optical firm, but this time I fell for the Buy-1-Get-1 offer by another company having nearly 150 branches pan India. No doubt they sold good frames and lenses, but as you left the shop you began wondering if you really got a good deal. Moral: Never harbor hopes of outsmarting the seller. The buyer will always be at the receiving end.

This morning we got a call from my elder son in Phoenix. I thought he would brief us on the shops they ransacked for Christmas. Far from it. “Appa, we got a Christmas gift,” he said. “Guess what? A seven-week old puppy.” After great deliberations among the four, they named him Max. Pedigree? Father a German hound, and mother, the Australian version of a German shepherd. Then he showed the cute little brown Max to us on Face Time, with the  two grandsons fighting for turns to cuddle him. Until recently I didn’t have a soft corner for dogs. I avoided them. But now I am not sure. “I think we should visit US sooner than later, and make friends with Max while he is still a baby,” I told Aunty who was only eager to nod. “A welcome addition to the family,” we said in unison.

On that happy note we herald the year 2019.

SFV Christmas - A Fitting Finale to 2018

Holding any event is a project in itself, and no less when it is planned only a week before. And challenges are to be met with responses - and befitting ones at that. Precisely that is what Neetha Kurien, Ambica Suresh, and other volunteers did when it came to celebrating Christmas.

Initially, with no more than 25 to 30 responses for participation, the ladies were apprehensive if it would at all take off. But undaunted, they went ahead, and a stage came when they had to close registration lest the event became a case of more performers and less audience. About 120 persons were registered, including children, adults and volunteers. No doubt, the enthusiastic crowd far outnumbered them.

Both Santa Claus and his junior did a very good job.

More so when, between them, they had to hand hundreds of ‘surprise’ gifts to children whose parents had bought for them without their knowledge.

When Santa Claus had somewhat unwound himself, I walked up to him and whispered into his ears: “Could you disclose your identity, sir?”

“Tomorrow,” he answered promptly. But hearing his sound, my friend identified him. Yes, Ravi Parthasarathi, Dr Aarti's husband, had volunteered to don Santa Claus. As for the junior Santa Claus, I am told it was Harsh, Ambica’s son.

Carol singers, attired in traditional style, circumambulated the complex singing merrily the well-rehearsed, “Mary Boy’s Child, Jesus…’, “O Come All Ye Faithful…’;  “Jingle Bells…” I could hum the last number with them. Not surprising, it reminded me of The Sound of Music genre of  Hollywood movie.

Later everyone assembled at the amphitheatre where the programme ended with a candle dance and a film number by teenagers.

Participation in such events does take you down the memory lane. Aunty and I visited the Vatican City not once, but twice. While going around, ask for a route from a Malayalee sister passing by, and she would be all smiles (you can literally count her 32 teeth), and goes out of the way to guide you. So happy is she to see another speak Malayalam in another land.

After great deliberations we both decided to climb to the top through the never-ending spiral stairway. On climb-down we swore never to repeat it because it was arduous. Strange as it may seem, we did it on our second visit too.

Lourdes, in France, was yet another place that we visited on another occasion. We felt it would be yet another church with its accompanying grandeur and magnificence. But only on arrival we realized it was a major Roman Catholic pilgrimage centre, with a dip in the holy running water providing miraculous healing. Aunty was taken to the ladies section.  I was taken to the other where volunteers unclothed me putting on me a bear minimum cloth. Asking me to lie down, two WWF-type men lifted me by my hands, and the other two by legs, swung me back and forth twice before dipping me in the biting-cold flowing water running through a tub. It is supposed to have miraculous healing effect. All I know is that my acute dust-allergic non-stop sneezing came to an abrupt halt thereafter. Touchwood.

‘Today Lourdes hosts around six million visitors every year from all corners of the world. It is the second most important center of tourism in France, second only to Paris, and the third most important site of international Catholic pilgrimage after Rome and the Holy Land.’

Anyway, back to SFV, if there were to be a contest in Bangalore for the most secular apartment complex, chances are SFV will take the cake.

Planned Tirupati, Landed Guruvayoor

“Tirupati is one of the best for senior-citizen darshan facilities,” said over the phone my youngest sister of 70+, as gave an account of her last visit. We were bowled over, and decided to leave by the evening train, if possible.

We asked her to join too. She checked with Raja, her husband. He was okay with it. “So you book the tickets for all the four of us,” she told him. He checked and announced, “no tickets for the dates that suit us.”

“Then why not we try Guruvayoor. We have not visited this year,” said Aunty, now fully charged up. “Fine,” endorsed my sister, and asked her husband to try Guruvayoor. “No” checked Aunty. “We will try from our end. Maybe, our desktop or laptop is more user-friendly.”

Tickets bought, arrangements made for who would bring breakfast, lunch, knick-knacks, there we were in an early-morning train.

In the 3+2 row, Raja occupied the window seat to be able to plug in the charger and make optimal use of his mobile. The ladies took the other two seats to cover everything under the sun in the nine-hour journey. It fell to my lot to fend for myself in the two-seater row. It is in such solitude that one recapitulates earlier visits.

It was 1973. Aunty and I had just got married. Instead of a honeymoon, we embarked on a visit to temples. Some family members no doubt laughed at us. But we were determined.

For Tirupati we had wangled a letter from the Governor of Tamil Nadu to accord us an out-of-turn darshan. The TTD man asked us to wait outside. Seeing us wait a senior couple walked up to us and said, “We have a special-darshan family ticket of Rs 3000 (?) that allows four persons. We are only two. Would you like to join us?” I thought he expected me to share the amount, so I politely declined. He guessed and clarified that it was just accompanying them to avail of the quota. We agreed, and the lady so lovingly held Aunty by hand as though she was her own d-i-l. Her husband and I greeted each other as we walked to the sanctum sanctorum area where was watched the Abhishekam for full 15-20 minutes. What more could you have asked for?

If I heard him right, it was Kasturi Rangan (Editor, Hindu) and his wife. As we bade farewell, they confided they had guessed we were newly married, hence couldn’t make a better choice from among the multitude.

In Guruvayoor it was a different experience. We were on one of our yearly trips, this time jam-packed. We underwent squeeze, pull, push, before we barely managed a glimpse of the deity. Back in the lodge, I realized my sacred-thread with silver Guruvayoorappan locket knotted to it was missing. The locket was bought on our maiden trip to the temple after marriage, hence it had more sentimental value. Aunty got upset and said she would search for it. “Where? In the whole of Guruvayoor?” I asked. She didn’t listen, and set out. She passed through the same crowded serpentine queue looking all the time at the ground if it had fallen anywhere along. She was now right in front of the deity, but no luck. “With your blessings I will buy another one to replace it,” she swore to the Lord and bowed before the deity only to see the sacred-thread lying on the ground right in front. She bent to pick it. The staff on duty checked her, “Madam, you can’t prostrate here, you have to do outside only.” She clarified that she was only picking up an item of hers that was on the ground. Our joy knew no bounds.

                                    * * * *

The train whistled to signal its arrival in Thrissur. We hurried to Guruvayoor not to miss the evening senior-citizen darshan, which we had to our heart’s content. We had one more round next morning.

Now in Bangalore, it is back to basics – rushing to RTO to renew Aunty’s driving licence, stop by to give our water kettle for repair, pick up groceries from D’Mart…

SFV Rajyotsava-2018 - Glitters again

Having missed both the earlier SFV Rajyotsava celebrations (out of station on both occasions), we considered ourselves fortunate to be present this time.

We were at the venue in advance to reserve our seats in the front row, which we did in the customary handbag and hanky method, as we got busy renewing acquaintances with fellow residents. 

However, when the function started we found ourselves relegated to the third row. Yes, the innovative kids brought chairs and fixed themselves in the open space in front. Most welcome. That in no way marred our view.

The organizers had a different game plan this time. Doing away with the beaten track of hosting it in one of the parking lots, or the designated amphitheatre, they chose the open lawns in Alder. With what result?  “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Yes, SFV functions, no matter where they are held, will never lose their sheen. It only added glory to the event.

It was great relief to see bright sunshine after a spell of gloomy weather, as a ripple effect of the recent Gaja cyclone in coastal Tamil Nadu.

The daylong programme started with breakfast offering a menu of half a dozen delicacies. We relished our pick - Masala Dosa and Puri-sagu and a steaming cup of coffee.

A row of 20-30 stalls was being readied along the road leading to Alder Gate. Their products ranged from laboratory services, time-sharing holidays, banks, sarees and dress materials, cosmetics, and the stall doing brisk business with digestive churans. As the day progressed one could see a stream of residents making a beeline to the stall area. “We had a fairly good business,” replied a stallholder at night as he was winding up.

At 4.20 pm, one heard the welcome foot-tapping drum beat to alert residents of the events to follow. In the next ten minutes, people had gathered in large numbers to accompany the pageant depicting Kannada culture, from Oak to the amphitheatre. Here the ladies attired in their best danced merrily, and menfolk joined the fun with some initial hesitation. This was followed by complimentary coffee and snacks before everyone headed to the venue.

Navin Kashyap, SFV’s all-rounder, compered the programme; needless to say, with his customary clarity and sincerity. The programme was filled with songs, dances, or skits, all of them carrying a touch of class – be it the young children’s dance, the songs of the adolescents, or the group dance by homemakers.

Some events, nonetheless, unwittingly linger in memory for a little longer. In my case these include the outstanding performance of the ‘evil’ in the good versus evil dance-drama by young girls. Also the film songs rendered by the professional singer – Oak resident. Scintillating.

The other is the scene where the Odeyars known to be descendants of the Vijayanagara clan coming to Maaballa-theertha now known as Chamundi Hills to relieve the surviving widowed queen and her daughter from the atrocities of the wicked commander – Maaranaayaka.

Also the one where the 5th descendant Odeyars fell prey to the unsound advice to acquire treasured jewels of Alamelamma, the surving queen of Timmarasu, a descendant of the Vijayanagar family, whom he had killed in war. Unable to withstand the persistent pressure from the king, Alamelamma jumped into an overflowing Cauvery at Talakadu along with her jewels, but not before cursing the Odeyar Dynasty. “May Talakadu the confluence and fertile province turn to be a desert and Maalangi be a whirlpool – May the Mysore Odeyars fail to beget heirs…”

The function over, it was time for dinner. We learn the organizers had sold nearly 700 coupons. Understandably fear engulfed that pandemonium might prevail for dinner. No, never. It was quite orderly. One had the taste of Malnad cuisine. Kudos organizers also for hosting free dinner to 200 SFV support staff. 


As Aunty and I headed home, she said, “I think we should have invited your sister in JP Nagar, and mine in Whitefield who too live in massive apartment complexes as ours, to see what it is to be living in SFV”. I couldn’t agree with her more.

From Cockroach-hunt to a Musical Bonanza

It was yet another day in the everyday holiday life of a retiree, except that  Aunty didn't have to cook lunch that morning. A common friend hosted lunch to a senior couple going abroad for a few months, and he invited us too. 

One enjoys such bonus free morning hours at home with an extra cup of coffee with something to go with it. “I give you two options,” said Aunty.  I guessed, it must be Idly or Dosa for breakfast. “Should we,” she quipped, “weed out the attic of things we had hoped we would find a use later or, should we re-set the furniture to be remotely close to my friend's enviable interior in Oak?” (Comparative dissatisfaction, thy name!)

Observing my stoic silence on both these labour-intense projects, she reduced the sentence. “Or, shall we just dust the living room?” I agreed. It was ages since the living room furniture came in contact with a duster. “We shall complete the job before the help-lady comes so that she clears all the accumulation in one go,” she clarified.

We started the operation right earnest. Moments later Aunty got the jolt of her life. Her hitherto challenge to all and the sundry that no one can spot a single cockroach in her home was shattered. A medium size cockroach surfaced and played around merrily to give Aunty a real hide and seek discomfiture.

“I say, where are you?” she shouted. I was momentarily out of her sight, which I should never be during such joint ventures. I rushed. By then she had gathered one broom in her hand and another ready to hand me. She briefed me on her plan of action. She would deploy all available means at her disposal to provoke the cockroach to re-emerge and I, at my end, should stay ready with a raised hand with broom to perform in no uncertain terms the executioner's job. But it looked that this particular breed was made of a different stuff.  It chose to remain in hibernation. With nothing in sight after a twenty-minute non-stop operation including turning the showcase topsy-turvy, the never-say-die Aunty changed her strategy. “Now I will empty the show-case of all its contents from the drawers, and see where it seeks asylum.”

She spotted two egg capsules in the process. A student of science having done several dissections in the college lab, she began to explain to an unwilling economist how each of these could convert itself into nearly 30 cockroaches, i.e., 60, to speak of the minimum with the stock identified.

The doorbell rang signalling, much to my relief, the arrival of the maid. That brought the operation to an abrupt halt with the Cockroach & Co getting a respite. Till the next battle, that is.

On the brighter side of this abortive attempt was that while emptying the showcase, I found my long-lost collection of CDs which I thought I had handed over lock, stock and barrel to my friend in Hebbal before moving to SFV. Thankfully I had retained these select few – Anthony Ventura, Paul Mauriat, Kenny G, ABBA, BoneyM, Haridas Bhajans...

The maid got busy with her job, I enjoyed Anthony Ventura in my laptop as I attempted this write-up. Aunty played Haridas bhajan in the living room as she condescended to make coffee, simultaneously branding me an NPA in the cockroach-hunt that, to me, transformed itself into a musical bonanza. I can now hear these CDs by turn as I used to in the 1980s when I attempted writing some pieces for Hindustan Times or Times of India.