Bye Memphis, and Martin Luther King

Dark clouds and rains reigned supreme in the last ten days. The sun relented at last and showed up yesterday. A restless, guilt-ridden Arvind, walked back and forth the living room murmuring: “Too bad. Today is their last day in Memphis, and I have not taken Chittappa and Chitti (Chacha, Chachi) on any pleasure ride except to the Christmas parade. The other few drives have been for the essentials – Pharmacy, Indian Store, or Whole Foods.” 

Thus, at the prospect of a shiny day yesterday Arvind jumped up and said: “Chitti, Chittappa, if you both get ready in another fifteen minutes, I can drive you to Dr Martin Luther King’s memorial. And we did.

“That’s Martin Luther King’s memorial,” pointed Arvind from afar.  “But Arvind, the sign-board reads Lorraine Motel,” I said. “Yes Chittappa, but it was in this motel he stayed last to address the Memphis black sanitary workers’ gathering. 

I had just a superficial idea of Martin Luther King’s contribution in the 1960s to the Civil Rights Movement. But my blood began to boil when I read some of the inscriptions or documents on display  – copy of a sale deed where an eight-month old baby was being sold to be groomed for slavery; or the grueling voyage of the slaves from Africa across the Atlantic where 20% of them died en route - some refused to eat, others jumped overboard preferring to die rather than face continued horrors.  

West Africa was the victim for slavery. By the time of the Civil War, America had nearly four million slaves. When the founding fathers signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776, 539,000 people – 20% of the new nation – were held in bondage. The document’s author, Thomas Jefferson, himself owned more than 600 slaves during his lifetime…

The museum also displayed Mahatma Gandhi’s bust at a vantage point alongside his oft-repeated quotation: “Be the change that you want to see in the world.” Elsewhere his principle of Nonviolence to achieve national goals was highlighted. Yes, Gandhi ji had a lasting influence on Martin Luther King. 

The designed route finally took us to the room Martin Luther King had last stayed and the balcony in front. It seems he reached out to the balcony chatting with his friends, when the assassin waiting in the hotel diagonally opposite Lorraine Motel ready with the gun to shoot Martin Luther King, made no mistake.

The killer, James Earl Ray, was a prison-escapee. He had checked into the hotel earlier with an assumed name and selected a room that suited him best for the evil act. He fled the country but was captured in London, extradited, tried, and sentenced to 99 years imprisonment. He died when he was 70.

There was total silence in the car when we drove home as though we had just attended Martin Luther’s funeral ceremony itself.  Yes, there is a reason. Unlike many museums, this museum was in the very place where he was shot dead. Also, the animation and display compelled you to live the situation. There was an incident when a black lady deliberately occupied a seat meant for the Whites. When the driver ordered her to vacate, she refused and was arrested. The same bus is on display with a dummy lady and driver. When I boarded the bus and walked past the lady-statue, suddenly I heard the driver roar, ordering to vacate or face arrest. For a moment I thought that on alighting I might be arrested. Yet another bus that was partially set on fire and damaged in an agitation was on display… Precisely why we were still living the moments.

But I broke the ice with the Mahabharata words: “Yada yada hi dharmasya glanir bhavati bharata, abhyutthanam adharmasya, tadatmanam srjamy aham” - whenever evil (adharma) becomes dominant in the society, the God will himself come to this earth to restore dharma.” In this case probably God sent his deputies, Abraham Lincoln, Mahatma Gandhi (his South Africa days), Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King, and they eradicated slavery, apartheid, and racial discrimination, to perfection. Moral: Nothing is permanent; only change is.

Jab jab jo jo hona hai, tab tab so so hota hai

Everything is pre-ordained in life. Things will happen the way they should and at the time they should – immutable. Yes, that is what I piece together from the intermittent chats I had with Arvind between his Work from Home calls and meetings. 

In my last article, Holiday Within Holiday…, I shared with you how Aunty and I lend a helping hand to Arvind and Sreelatha in Memphis as Sreelatha braves the aftermath of her brain-tumour surgery.  

Nine years ago, Arvind was posted to Memphis in USA for an IT project with FedEx. He completed that long ago but stayed back in Memphis and oversaw his company’s other operations from this small city, more because both his boys are in good school and he didn’t want to disturb that. 

A final decision taken, the next step was to plan things on a long-term basis. First, it was time to change the car. They bought a new one in May. They had a re-look at their SUV; it was bought just two years ago and needed no replacement. 

Next, to look for a bigger house. Enough of this apartment home, rented mainly because it was close to FedEx. That is of no consequence now. They did a thorough search and identified one by an accredited builder - a vast 4500 sft independent house, 3-car garage, huge front- and backyards, six bedrooms and 4-1/2 bathrooms (the fifth one has no bathtub, hence termed ½). They booked it in the first week of June. Everything on the dot. So far so good. 

Two weeks later Sreelatha gets a seizure necessitating a host of medical tests. They drove straight to the builder and explained to him the situation. “I fully understand your predicament. For me, it’s a model house at a vantage point and it will sell like hot cakes. No issue,” he reassured, and asked them to request in writing so that he could initiate refund formalities. A beaming Arvind and Sreelatha walked out of his site-office, “Chalo, ek mota kaam to nipat liya. Now we will concentrate fully on treatment.”

The house they had selected was next to the site-office. So, before getting into the car to return home, the duo said, “Let’s have a look at what progress they have made since we saw it last.” Saying so they walked into the house. They were awe-struck at the marvel of the house, its get-up and what they would miss really. They changed their mind once again and dropped the cancellation idea. They paid the requisite money and completed registration. A few days later they moved much of their household belongings.

Now come the medical test results. First, a surgery to remove the tumour. Then a biopsy. The result of that will decide the further course of action. Biopsy showed malignancy, and here is Sreelatha now on chemo-, radio-, and rehab-therapies, and blood transfusions at regular intervals. 

Again, change of mind. Friends of nine years in the gated community will take care of children when Arvind and Sreelatha go for tests and treatment, will drop and pick up from the bus stop, will keep them in their house till Arvind and Sreelatha return, etc. In the new place, they know none. What if there is some emergency. Thoughts began to hover over Arvind’s mind. On top of that the elder son in his adolescence has his own friends circle here. He is firm he won’t move out of this community. “I can solve one problem at a time,” Arvind told himself and started with the easiest - brought back the moved household goods and put up the new house for sale.

Now it is nearly five months after the surgery and Sreelatha is still on therapies. On the brighter side, she goes out for a walk on her own, packs breakfast for the two boys (she knows what they like - or don’t like) and is all set to enter her next phase of life – getting back to normal. As a first indication, starting from 19th it will be Christmas vacation for the kids. We go back to Phoenix on the 18th, and the next day Arvind, Sreelatha and the two kids fly off to Arvind’s elder brother’s place in Virginia returning in the New Year – a fresh and rejuvenated Sreelatha. Probably such a situation will trigger Arvind and Sreelatha to have yet another, and hopefully a final, rethinking to move to the new home in the New Year. 

Umeed par duniya kayam. 

Holiday within Holiday - Sone pe Suhaga

To be in US with sons and grandchildren is itself a home away from home - from the already retired and relaxed life in Bangalore. If we get to be with my brother’s son and children in another city in US, it becomes a holiday within holiday. And to top it, if that visit is business-cum-pleasure, it is sone pe suhaga. 

Yes, we are now here in Memphis, Tennessee State – a three-hour flight from Phoenix -  to spend some days with my elder brother’s son Arvind, his wife Sreelatha and their two sweet children.  Just ‘sweet’ will be one-sided; add ‘naughty’, and it will present their picture in full. But then what is childhood without being naughty.

Business trip - on retirement? You might wonder. Yes, getting up one morning as usual, Sreelatha found her hands shivering. After a host of medical tests and examinations, she underwent a blood-clot surgery at the head. She is now convalescing. We are therefore here in Memphis to help the family in whatever way possible – Aunty taking over kitchen, and me trying to keep the kids in good humour, playing cards and board games and getting defeated, sometimes deliberately. Consequently, the children no longer want to play with me. “Thatha does not know how to play.” So, in comes Paatti with her professionalism in whatever she does. And they get defeated too often. They don’t want that situation either. We are working a via media. 

This might be our Nth visit to US. But we have never heard of Memphis. Only on coming here and being taken around places we realize it is the birthplace of Martin Luther King, the champion of civil rights movement in the 1960s. It is also the land of the famous singer Elvis Presley. “On the flip side,” continued Arvind, as he drove us past along a plain, vast well-laid road with forest-like trees on both sides, “Memphis is third in US in crime rate, ranging from just pick-pocket to….” No sooner he uttered this than my hand stayed stuck involuntarily in the pocket where the wallet is.

While a visit to Martin Luther King’s museum is on the cards, we are yet to take a call on Elvis Presley’s. Meanwhile we have already covered the Christmas parade. It was a treat to the eyes watching children of various schools marching past playing different bands, the Fire Department (a star attraction all over US for some reason), decorated vehicles representing hospitals, paramedics, equipment manufacturers, fitness centres, NGOs, and what have you. Gay and merriment was the name of the game.

For some inexplicable reason, a visit to the local Gurudwara Sahib has become a must during our visits to US. We have gone to the beautiful abode in the hillock in San Jose, and the vast one in Phoenix, and now to the medium size, but meticulously maintained Gurudwara Sahib over here. For a Sunday, much against one’s wishes inclement weather prevailed throughout, but it did not deter us from venturing the thirty-minute drive. Sreelatha placed a much larger amount than usual, probably a mannat, and prayed a little longer, to get fit sooner than later. The langar was simple but tasty. Yes, it always is – be it the Golden temple in Amritsar, or any of these shrines in US. 

It is also our practice (for Aunty or me, or both), whether in Phoenix, San Jose, or in Memphis, to join when someone from home takes the car out – to Costco, Indian Store, Wallgreens, or for a doctor appointment, or to drop children at the school bus stop, or the school itself when missed the bus. Here it is accompanying Arvind only. Alas, Sreelatha has been advised not to drive for some time.

This morning while watching Arvind and Sreelatha get the children ready for school, Aunty and I re-lived the experience of the tantrum children throw, reminding us of the age-old saying ghar ghar ki kahani, and asserting that no one can escape it.

Just two days of our stay, and it was nice of Sreelatha to share with us a whisper talk her younger son had with her yesterday: “Amma, will Thatha and Paatti go back or will stay here?” “What do you want them? Go back? If so, I will ask them,” Srilatha quipped.  “No, no, I want them to stay here.” That was nice of him to feel so, although he is yet to establish a full-fledged rapport with us, as is the case with the elder one

The Making and Viewing of Ponniyin Selvan (PS1) - A holistic view

We had planned to watch the movie on first day, not first show, but the evening or late-night show. Circumstances conspired to deny us that privilege. Son had to be away on duty travel, d-i-law to India to accompany her mother on personal work, and Aunty was busy accepting and extending invitations for Haldi-Kum Kum during Navaratri. That just leaves me in the ever-ready category. Nonetheless, we managed to watch it just a day before it was to be off the city theatres. Man proposes God disposes. But better late than never.

The Making

A Mani Ratnam-AR Rahman movie. Yes, that is how the publicity goes these days. Good for Rahman bhai. Mani gave him the break 30 years ago, and Rahman stood with him like a solid rock. In fact, things have reached a stage where people watch a particular movie more for Rahman’s musical score. And rightly for Mani’s magnum opus PS-1, he elevated Rahman’s status by tagging Rahman’s name alongside his own. But then it is accepted that Rahman gives his best music to Mani and the rest to other producers.

Marketing hype has been the mainstay of this movie. I don’t particularly remember having browsed through or watched so much of promotional material as for PS-1. Sriram, a Historian, shares the background information of the story. Back in the 1950s the historic novel, which he calls ‘faction’ (fact and fiction combined) was serialized in Kalki, a weekly Tamil magazine. Thanks to that the circulation soared from mere 12 000 copies to 73 000 copies, and every household waited for the next issue. As I shared on an earlier occasion, my mother used to send me, then about 10, to Pushkala Mami’s house to fetch Kalki (with incentives on unwilling occasions), in their magazine-exchange programme. Such was their keenness on the story. The author, who hailed himself Kalki Krishnamurthy, was inspired by the history of the Choza kingdom, and wove into it his own fiction to make it interesting week after week. Also, as an ardent admirer of the French writer Alexandre Dumas, he transplanted some of the characters of Three Musketeers into this story… 

As for the title of the story, the famous king Raja Raja Chozan got drowned in the river Cauvery and was saved at the nick of time. The farming community hailed river Cauvery as Ponni, the giver or gold Tanjore was the rice-belt of South India). Thus the name, Ponniyin Selvan, the son of Ponni or Cauvery. 

Another hype was the grand completion-felicitation ceremony where Jairam, one of the characters in the movie, did a laugh-a-minute mimicry. Then there was an also-ran category artist who gave an interesting interview highlighting the nuances of Mani’s directions (with examples) that can easily be part of a syllabus. 

Determined to reach a wider audience, Mani Ratnam met the exhibitors in Mumbai and persuaded them to reduce the gate money from Rs 500 or so to Rs 100. And they agreed. And it did pay dividends, as can be seen from the reported cash collections. The movie is doing very well.

The Viewing

The movie per se is interesting and a visual treat. There are numerous characters, and consequently a host of top-grade artists are in place. The first half was devoted to introducing the characters to the audience. Hence a little slow moving. Understandable. The second half compensated for it with fast paced narration.  Rahman’s music was as usual very good (3.5). Mani Ratnam’s direction makes the story move as swiftly as possible (3.5). Ravi Varman’s cinematography is outstanding, if not breathtaking (4.00) – the way he has captured various scenes in the canvas. He will go a long way. The settings, courtesy art director Thotta Tharani, is excellent (4.00). Thus the average works out to 3.5 – a rating that most professionals have accorded it. With several leading Tamil actors on board, Mani involuntarily introduced an element of competition among them to outperform the other – a healthy competition. 

Overall, all the four of us – me, Aunty, d-i-l, and the younger grandson who, till we literally entered Gate 2 theatre, was making a hard bargain with his mother to let him watch, instead, an English movie in Gate 3, was glad he watched PS1 despite his having to rely largely on sub-titles.  

Podcast on Partition - The topic that brought alive my unpublished novel

 “This time Amma you select the Podcast topic,” said my son as he handed his cell phone to her and took charge of our twenty-five-minute drive to the Farmers Market to buy weekly quota of fruit and vegetables. Fair minded, she read aloud the topics for all of us to select from: The Untold Tales of India; Echoes of India, India Explained, The Partition… I stopped her at that and suggested if everyone agreed we would play Partition. They agreed. It was by a Pakistani writer, narrator… whose family migrated to the US during partition when she was just eight months old. 

The session brought me back to my incomplete, dust-laden, half-baked attempt at writing a fiction novel a decade ago, The Last Passenger. 

Back home, I retrieved my Master copy and went through some chapters. I thought I might share just two chapters with you: one of the earlier chapters now, and a later one afterwards - if prima facie readers express interest, that is.

* * * * * 

The Last Passenger

THE YEAR, 1947. An August morning - not ‘yet another morning’ - in Lahore, now designated to be part of Pakistan. 

The British Empire was completing formalities to accord independence to India, but to be split into two: India and Pakistan. The border lines would be drawn based on religious majority in an area. Pakistan would emerge as a new nation on 14 August 1947 and India the next day. 

A top official from the British Empire in London was appointed to work on the demarcation of the boundaries that would separate one country from the other. Meticulously he worked out the population in each city, town, and village to decide primarily which religious community enjoyed majority, along with a host of other factors, to draw the dividing line. Tension was mounting in the small villages and towns where the population count of both the communities was near equal or, the margin was slender. So, to gain majority each community engaged itself in subhuman attempts to do away with members of the other community and have the territory included within the border of their choice. 

The situation was anything but under control. The Viceroy of India, Lord Mountbatten, had already proclaimed that details of the demarcation would be announced only after the countries officially became two independent nations. 

Meanwhile Hindus and Muslims, spread across the Indian subcontinent, were given a one-time option to shift residence to either side of the border. Special trains would ply, for a few days, from each side of the border to transport the migrant population to the other side of the border. The only silver lining was that both communities felt elated at the prospect of liberation from the two centuries old colonial subjugation. 

The safe exodus, of approximately fifteen million people belonging to both religions, to either side of the borders, was easier said than done, and could be anything but peaceful.

The ink demarcating the countries had hardly dried when the age-old feeling of brotherhood and amity between the two communities took a U-turn for mutual mistrust and hostility. Suddenly the atmosphere was charged with tension. Fear engulfed the minds of everyone - caste, creed, regardless. None dared to venture out of their houses. Civil unrest, arson, loot, and killings took charge of the subcontinent. It raised the hoods of communal fervor, causing untold misery to both the communities. 

The very last special train from Lahore, stacked with evacuees from Pakistan in shapes beyond recognition, came to a grinding halt at Amritsar, the Indian border. In the cascade of humanity that gushed out of the compartment to the platform more by the stampede than on one’s own volition, was a lad of 10, in torn clothes with no belongings to go with. He was Chaman Lal.  

The previous morning in Lahore, a long-bearded Muslim Mullah, in his eighties, had walked back and forth in his small living room restlessly, stroking his beard.  Occasionally he pulled the curtain barely enough to get a first-hand account of the mob frenzy in the main street right in front.

Simultaneously, he switched on the radio, despite poor quality of transmission, to hear more of the situations in the rest of the subcontinent. Yes, total civil unrest, chaos, on the other side of the border as well, with no less intensity on the East Bengal borders. The community in majority in any given area called the shots. 

The name of the game was arson, loot, and merciless killing of people. What was planned to be a peaceful migration of the communities to their chosen destinations, turned into a run-for-life situation for both, not to speak of miscreants on both sides all eager to grab such opportunities to occupy the abandoned houses with belongings the original occupants could not carry when fleeing. 

A piercing scream of a child arrested the attention of the Mullah, already restless. In the middle of the road he saw a boy crying helplessly sitting by the side of slain bodies. Yes, the bodies of his parents lay three yards from one other. The lady had been stabbed in the stomach and throat slit. Her hands had been cut because, after the killing, the miscreants could not remove her gold bangles. The man had multiple wounds at different places. Apparently, he had put up a brave fight before succumbing; the tattoo in his forearm bearing his name, Gridhari Lal. The bundles they hoped to carry to India lay strewn, thoroughly searched for valuables. 

The Samaritan, the Mullah, could not contain the boy’s plight any longer. Risk or no risk, save the boy before a similar fate befalls him, he said to himself and charged to the spot, to the best of his poor ability. He carried the boy on the back of his 80-year old frail body and limped home, still gasping from the strain of the gallop to save the boy, before it was too late. He stopped for a while, put his cap on the boy’s head to mislead his fellow religionists, running berserk on the streets, that he was carrying a fellow injured Muslim to safety. Half way he changed his mind, headed instead towards the railway station. As he got close to the railway station, in a flash of presence of mind the Mullah removed the very cap that he had earlier put on the boy’s head to mislead his fellow religionists. He did not now want the Hindus who were a majority at the station heading for India to mistake the child with an embroidered cap for a Muslim.  With the towel that hung on his shoulder-back he covered his own bearded face to protect himself. Shifting the boy to each of his shoulders by turn so that his brittle shoulder bones didn’t give way to the weight of the boy, and his worn-out chappals not too cooperative, he barely ran up with the train already in motion, and just managed to squeeze the boy, the last passenger, into the last compartment of the last train to India. 

Staying Tuned to Technology

My morning walks are mostly with Aunty, and occasionally with my son when his work-home schedule permits. With Aunty the chats are interspersed with basics of spirituality. She switches to fitness only when she observes me behind in pace.  Her tips are of a high order, one of which is to have to wake up before Brahma Muhurtam (4 am). I lend my ears, nonetheless. 

The walk with my son can be classified into three. One, dog-walk where he is less concerned with Max getting friendly with other pets than on preventing him from turning hostile. Two, when he attends a meeting with his headphone on. Marked by total silence, a passerby could easily mistake it for a two-man silent protest-march, with only a black armband or a red flag missing. Three, no specific engagement - and is free to chat. 

“So, Appa, what are you busy with these days?” he asks on one such occasion. “I borrowed three large-print books from Library.” “Authors?” he quips, a stickler for complete information. “Jeffrey Archer, David Baldacci, and Mary Higgins Clark,” I reply. 

“Did you finish any, by chance,” he persists, knowing his Dad too well.  “No, not exactly. Primarily because I made the mistake of picking hard-bound versions. Too heavy to hold.”  

Back home he briefs me on the ‘audiobook’ concept. Very convenient. Just mobile in pocket and air-pod in my ears. This had its flip side too. You walk around home listening attentively to the professional reader modulating his/her voice suiting the scene. Other members feel forced to have to give advance notice when they want to talk to me so that I unplug the air pod.  More often they give up, with a never mind. This deprives me the best of both the worlds.

To overcome this, my son unearths one of the three Kindle tablets from among the debris in the five rooms; removes the label, ‘Shankar” from its back, summons the kitchen labelling machine used for ‘Sambar Powder,’ ‘Rasam Powder,’ etc., prints ‘Appa’ instead, and requests his sons to locate the cover. 

“Which one,” asks the younger one from upstairs. “Mine,” he clarifies. “You mean the oversized one you picked from Walmart just because it was on sale?” makes sure, unwittingly. ”Just get me that; forget its antecedents,” he commands, his voice raised.   And here I am, having shifted from physical-, to audio-, to e-books. 

While on my honeymoon with audiobooks he asked me one day: “so, still on fiction-novels or upgraded? Have you listened to any podcasts?”  No, not yet, I said. “They are very interesting. I heard this one last evening.”

It was on Tony Fadell, a BS in Computer Engineering. He worked for Apple and is hailed “the father of IPod”. He left Apple, started his own company, Nest Learning Thermostat – a device that saved electricity consumption. Rather than concentrate on consumers to buy his product, he convinced Power supply companies of its energy-saving feature. They in turn offered financial incentive to consumers who installed Nest Thermostat. The Power companies used the saved energies for wider coverage. Google bought this for a hefty sum, and Tony Fadell joined them… and pursued several interests. As of now, with a net worth of $ 800 million, he is advising 200+ aspirants of start-up companies. 

“Quite interesting,” I said as we stepped inside home. Sunita (d-i-l) heard the last part, and gave her own input. “Appa, I usually check the kind of books celebrities read. I picked two from Bill Gates’ selection, ‘The Choice – Embrace the Possible,’ and ‘Killers of the Flower Moon – the Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI.’ 

The first is a memoir of the lady-author who managed to escape holocaust, and her trials and tribulations before becoming what she is now. The second book, if I got the gist right, is how in yesteryears the less privileged section of the society was rehabilitated in God forsaken lands, and in one instance, in Oklahoma, how it proved a blessing in disguise. Oklahoma is oil-rich. Overnight, as owners, they became filthy rich and began employing whites for domestic help… and how in the end the system manipulated to reinstate status quo ante... 

“Thank God,” I said to myself, “I have not booked my return ticket yet.” It could wait. “Miles to go...,” the line from Robert Frost’s poem that Nehru had kept by his bedside, flashed past my mind. 

Watching A Game I Don't Know

But why…? Because my youngest grandson is in it – as simple as that.

That morning particularly Rohan got ready for school at 6.30 sharp. Any other day one witnesses at this time a near war when the parents take up positions to wake him up. He ran down the stairs putting on his heavily padded gladiator-like American-football uniform. It raised his shoulder level and enhanced his body circumference by three inches. Now this 5’3” frail body looked somewhat fit to challenge the kinds of WWF 6’1s and 6’2s later in the battlefield.

How come Rohan you are wearing the play-uniform now; the game starts at 6 in the evening isn’t it? I asked him, worried if I got the play-time wrong by chance. I too was to watch it. “My coach wants it that way,” he said nonchalantly. 

Admission to this Public (read Government) Higher Secondary school started in January, and Rohan enrolled himself only in May. Thus these 9th graders have very little exposure to the game. And here they are in the arena for the 9th graders’ inter-school state tournament. Each school takes up a specific game to develop at the State and possibly at national level. This school specializes in American football – different from the football the rest of the world knows. They call that soccer.

Those who enroll for the game necessarily practice five days a week, sit together to do the homework in the school itself before being allowed to go home at 6 pm. And if because of their pre-occupation in games they don’t measure up to the academic standards, they are removed from the game-session forthwith. So, it’s play and studies together. No mistakes.

 “Thatha, do you know what this game is all about, and how it is played,” Rohan asked me. “Not exactly, but don’t worry. At the stadium Patti and I will just follow your parents – whenever they applaud, we will do so, and whenever they shout,” Oh my God..,” we will repeat that seconds later, I assured him. “My Dad will brief you on the game during the day,” he said, as he rushed into the car to be dropped.

The 50 odd boys picked up for the three-hour play in four half-hour sessions, were earlier divided into three groups – the best, the next best, and a little less. Rohan was on the top of the second list. It was thus a 50:50 chance. Earlier the coach had called him aside and told him, “Rohan it is highly probable you might be inducted into the main team to play.” It became all the more important for the grandparents, least exposed, to cheer him just in case he makes it. One had to buy entry tickets, regardless. 

The referee blew the whistle; the game started. Our eyes were focused on Rohan, 84, whose number we were intently watching amongst the host of other aspirants waiting on the wings. “No luck in the first quarter,” said my son somewhat disappointed. 

He explained to me the nuances of the game, and I transmitted it to Aunty to the best of my poor ability – I was seated in the middle. As it progressed, he began explaining the intricacies of the game, asking me in between, “you understand? “I understand,” I lied. 

The second quarter started. Again no 84 in sight in the arena. Restlessness marked my son’s face. Luckily by the end of the second quarter the team had established their supremacy over the Tucson team with a wide margin. 

Patti’s prayers seldom go unanswered, Rohan always believed. His coach called out Rohan to the ground in the third quarter. And he played with gusto for a while before someone else was given the chance. In the fourth quarter too he was called, and this time for a little longer. He did his best here too.

On our drive back home my son patted Rohan, ‘good take off Rohan’.  ‘Count your blessings, don’t get worried not being in the 1st and 2nd quarters.’ pacified his mother. “We enjoyed watching the game,’ said grandma. And, before I could formulate my words into a sentence, my son took an unscheduled left turn. Yes, he spotted ‘Dairy Queen Drive-in Ice Cream” shop. “Let’s celebrate the occasion with ice cream,” he proposed. “Sure,” I seconded. Ek ne kahi, duje ne maani, Nanak kahen dono gyani. 

 

Senior's Day

Today, 21 August, is Senior Citizen’s Day. These days the Calendar is replete with several such days - Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Women’s Day, Children’s Day, Friendship Day… or, in terms of health, World Aids Day, World TB Day…

As seniors in our apartment complex in Bangalore, there are ways more than one for us to be together and make a day of it. We have the Vedic Group where we spend ten days in a month spending one hour a day reciting and brush up our memory on vedic chants – nine of them so far – Rudram, Chamakam, Purusha Sooktam, Sree Sooktam, Durga Sooktam, etc. In the evenings we meet in the gated community park for about an hour and a half for a chat. Sometimes the laughter that unwittingly emerges from the group arrests the attention of the nearby other  groups -  the ladies group, the IT group, or the college group - to turn towards us and wonder what the old guard have so much in store to make them their lungs laugh out.  

Once or twice a year we engage an 18- or more seater vehicle for a day long trip. Our trusted restaurant owner takes special care to pack for us garam garam Idli, Vada, Sambar and thick chutney in individual packets for the morning, and separately lunch and evening snacks packets. Some of the enterprising ladies prepare their special savoury items and distribute in small packets to munch in between. Then follows Antaakshari, tid bits, or anecdotes, a pro tem dose- off in sync with the tilt of the bus. A fifteen-minute stop to freshen up, sip a cup of coffee or tea from the wayside stall. He is happy he made his two hours’ earnings in ten minutes. Then, back to bus, but everyone by design changes seats so that each is able to interact with as many as possible. An hour or two later it is time for lunch. Here again, apart from the restaurant-packets, the ladies distribute their home-made sweets for dessert. Then follows a darshan at the temple on the way after dipping one’s feet at the sparkling water flowing in the river. You cool off your face with sprinkling it liberally and almost get to gargle, but the fear of diseases of all kinds desists you. Plucked fresh from their fields at the back, the small-time farmers display their products putting up temporary jute-cloth top to protect both them and their products from sun. There is a now or never rush from the group members. Yes, they know a little too well how much the Department Store in their complex charges for each of these.

The places of interest to be seen now takes a back seat. The victorious feeling on the veg and fruits front is at the helm. Before the last fortress, dam or the boat-ride comes about, the group is already in the home-bound mode. The return journey commences, with yet another round of tea from a roadside stall. It is now that you get a taste of how fast the driver can drive his vehicle for the return journey. Yes he too wants to reach home quick, probably to hit the bed early and have sufficient sleep before he takes up his next morning trip.

Alas, we are now in USA, and such a seniors’ day out would just be a wishful thinking. Around this time Sunita, our d-in-l, gets a call from her friend, Sumathy. “Arey Sunita, it is about two months since my parents are here from India. How about you drop your parents-in-law for a while for a chat with them.” Sunita dropped us.

In the two hours we spent there, each of us knew if our blood pressure or sugar level was better or worse than theirs, whether we were a shade better than them in spending a little more time in our morning walks,  or if we should adopt their food regimen…and ever so many things. There was a knock at the door. It was Sunita to pick us up. On way back home, we confided to Sunita that we had mutually agreed that the two families, five of them, and five of us, would book for the first day first show of Mani Ratnam’s Ponniyan Selvan when the movie releases in the local theatre on 30 September. 

Coming of Age

Mary Had a Little Lamb…; Old Macdonald Had a Farm…; Twinkle Twinkle Little Star… were some of the nursery rhymes that filled the air in the nursing home room. The moment the volume is lowered to welcome a visitor, the baby would cry to express his displeasure.  Yes, this was the scene we recollect when we flew all the way to the US to welcome the arrival of our first grandchild, Ashwin. That was nearly eighteen years ago. 

Now he is a tall, rustic 6’2”, late-latif, having his breakfast in a blink so as not to miss his first practical Ambulance duty for the day from 8 am to 6 pm. It’s part of the Emergency Medical Technician short-term course that he has chosen to strengthen his bio data for his long-term goal of getting into medicine.

With his newly acquired stethoscope resting around his neck and driving his Dad’s car for ‘duty’, he did look a doctor-in the making – or is it just any grandpa’s wish?  We grandparents stood at the doorstep all eager, and his parents a little behind trying to look normal, as Ashwin drove past his vehicle faster than what his parents would have wished him.

We played as usual the card games post lunch, but without the usual vigour and enthusiasm. Our minds were preoccupied on guessing what kind of emergencies would be in store for him. We waited for his return in the evening to get a first-hand account.

His class was in session. There were no signs of emergency for nearly an hour. Suddenly he was asked to report for duty. The ambulance rushed to a pharmacy where a man in his early twenties lay in the pharmacy bathroom nearly unconscious, high on opioid. Ashwin did his part of the job to bring him back to consciousness, only to be scolded by the affected. “Oh, you have brought me down from the high that I was enjoying.”

They were then directed to a Department Store to attend to an accident case. It seems while reversing her car back from shopping, a lady hit a man walking from behind. The accident per se was not serious, but the man went into a near trauma. He was cooled down in a while.

The next was allergic reaction. God knows what medicine the lady had taken. Her body was getting red with patches of swelling. They gave her an antidote, waited for a while, and when they saw signs of decline in the allergic reaction, they left for their next assignment.

There wasn’t any. And they returned to their base hospital, only to be directed to attend to a heart-attack case. This was a man past his middle age. Ashwin feared the patient’s chances were 50:50. He played absolutely safe doing exactly like what was prescribed in the textbook - and heaved a sigh of relief when the patient responded.

“That’s the end,” he said to himself, as it was already 4.30 pm, and he has just an hour and a half to go. But that was not to be. They got another call – this time a case of alcohol poisoning. “Oh! Poisoning?” his worst fears came true. He didn’t want to be part of anything that could be fatal, that too on day one of his tryst with Medicine. He wished if only it had happened after 6 pm, after his duty, that is. But, starting from a week before, Aunty had begun to recite some special slokas (something like Dur Swapne Smara Govindam…etc) for a happy ending of her grandson’s first day of practical session. And her prayers didn’t go unanswered. Here too the patient responded to the treatment.

Next morning, he exchanged notes with his classmate who too was on a different Ambulance duty. His cases included Drunken truck accident; Heart attack; Gun shot; Stabbing; and Difficulty in breathing. Ashwin felt cheated that he did not get such exciting assignments. But his friend confided all were fake scenes. “An ounce of practical experience is worth a pound of theory,” Ashwin patted himself as they both headed to the classroom.

First Morning Walk with Airpod Pro

Yes, everything has a first time. And my date with ‘Airpod Pro’ is no exception. For the uninitiated (if there is any, that is), the device is one of IPhone’s high end wireless listening pleasures that my son bought for me. He presented one already to Aunt. Until now,  in the morning walks she would pass an occasional  side glance at me to convey her one-up feeling. Not any longer. Today I inaugurated mine.

One begins such things with something auspicious. What can be better than Lalitha Sahasranamam. The advantage is two-fold. One, starting on a good note. Two, if I listen to it every morning, I will no longer be a back bencher in the Vedic Chant group back in Bangalore. For most it is just brushing up. For me it is starting from scratch. Who knows when I render it at 120 words per minute on return in six months, my peers would not look at me with open-mouth awe – Sundaram, of all the people!

It being day one with Airpod, I didn’t confine myself to one item all through the morning walk. I meddled with podcasts as well. I clicked The Stories of Mahabharata, by Sudipta Bhawmik. His narration was good; dramatization could have been on a lower scale. Shanthanu, the great king is walking along the riverbank, is floored by the beauty of Ganga who appears from nowhere; proposes to her, she lays down pre-conditions one of which was no questions asked on her actions, if violated she would disappear, he agrees, she bears him seven children but drowns each of them in the river; unable to take it any longer when the eighth was born, he asks her why, and she disappears… Years later on the same riverbank he meets Satyavati, daughter of a fishermen’s tribe king, is attracted to her and proposes. This time her father lays down conditions….

More later perhaps, I said, as I switched to another. This time it was Ponniyin Selvan (son of Ponni) – a 70-year old all-time great Tamil fiction - the story of the early days of Arulmozivarman who later became the great Chola emperor Raja Raja Chola. The Brihadeswara (Shiva) temple in Tanjore should stand permanent testimony to his love for art and architecture. The geologists, archeologists, or whosoever is competent to talk about the grandeur of this and other monuments (the Shiva temple that was carved on a single rock starting from the top in Ellora, in another era, yet another example), have often wondered if those who selected the Seven Wonders of the World missed these for their architecture marvel and the monumental task involved in erecting them. 

Anyway, back to Ponniyin Selvan. The story appeared in series in the Tamil magazine Kalki from 1950 to 1954, authored by “Kalki” Krishnamurthy.  Kalki was a popular weekly of yesteryears. The story was woven so well that week after week the housewives of the villages would wait for the next edition. Alas, there were other magazines too, known for something or the other. And the poor ladies could not afford to buy all the magazines. So, one would buy Ananda Vikatan, the other Kumudam, yet another Kalki and so on, and they would exchange with one another. My own role in this as a lad of 10 was to act as an errand boy - pick one magazine from one Mami and give it to the other. Occasionally they would hand me to eat something that they had freshly prepared, I didn’t time my visit though.

Many leading film personalities of South – from the yesteryear Sivaji Ganesan and MGR to the present day Kamala Haasan - had seriously contemplated making Ponniyin Selvan into a movie. But the sheer magnitude of the project kept them away. Now Mani Ratnam is all set to release his magnum opus in two parts - Part 1 in September. Our two cents to his investment would be that Aunty and I will watch it in theatre, and not wait for it to descend to OTT platform.

“Oh God…, here I am - I have reached home.” Till yesterday the pronouncement was, “only a few more yards, and I will be home,” at each of the six turns. “Thank you, AirPod Pro,” I whispered as I placed it carefully onto its case. “After all, it has cost half of what I paid for my first flat in Delhi in the 1970s,” I told myself, but not loud enough, because I have strict instructions from my son not to convert everything into rupees. “You will then go back to India empty handed,” he would remind me often. 

Adapt Thyself

That is what I remind myself when I leave my home for a long stay. But not before I overcome the inherent hiccups of a travel from India to USA. First, the jeglag. In the first few days you swing around the house in unsteady, drunken steps like Motilal in Jagte Raho with only the song, Zindagi khwab hai, khwab mein… missing.

Second, you wake up at midnight as though you were in India and had an afternoon nap, and head towards kitchen for a bite or coffee. “This is US man - and past midnight. Get some more sleep if you can,” pats an inner voice as you walk back to bed somewhat cheated.  Third. Your body takes time to switch from the Indian routine to the American mode so that your bathroom visits no longer wait for the American evenings. Fourth…

Once through these, it is time to move on. While in India, we earmark certain projects for the next US visit – mostly those that gel well with the US lifestyle: weight reduction, go slow on sweets and salt, stricter exercise regimen, recapture the reading habit…. So, on arrival one of the first things I requested my d-i-l was to shift the weighing scale from their first-floor room to ground floor. She promptly complied with it. If this machine too doesn’t cooperate like the last one, I shall have it replaced with one that is user friendly.

For breakfast, it’s no more the customary Idli, dosa, upma or paratha stuffed with subzi of the previous evening. it is now carrot and its allies, or sugar-free cereals in a bowl with cut apples sprinkled sparsely. This is Aunty’s initiative fully backed by her son and d-i-l. Sometimes it is just cut fruits, as though I am on an indefinite fast for a public cause. 

We will visit Library any time now. Earlier, we would collect six to eight books in one visit making the onlookers wonder if Jeffrey Archer or James Patterson is walking out with reference material for his next publication. And, after all the permitted extensions, we drop the books back consoling ourselves, “Thank God, we could finish at least one book amidst our hectic activities”. An undiluted self-cheating remark - we had all the time in the world. “It will no longer be so,” is the promise with which we plan to re-enter the Library. 

Before boarding the plane from Bangalore, we also swore to ourselves that this time we would spend still more time with our grandchildren - playing Racko, Apples to Apples, Uno, Sequence. Alas, we were ready, but they have outgrown the company of grandparents. Yes, now I have to look up to see the face of the elder one with his 6 ft 2 inches figure. He is on a farewell spree as he and his friends, studying together in school, move out to different universities. There was a time when, as a child, he would narrate to me stories like the Charlotte’s Web which Initially I would pretend to be listening, only to find myself really engrossed later. The younger one is now on a week-long visit to the Emerald Bay in California with his Scouts team. (He has just returned. So nice of him, he has bought me a gift – a cap with my old time favourite, John Wayne’s photo embossed. Very thoughtful – not one with Spiderman, Batman, or Harry Potter characters, the current rage.

And to sum up? Well, our son and daughter in law are busy in their work-home desks upstairs. They join us for coffee, lunch and tea. Though it is summer vacation, children are seldom at home. They have their priorities. And we? Yes, we browse through Netflix, Prime Video, and other platforms to see if we have missed out any movies – language regardless. The only difference is that we now watch it in the four walls of US instead of Bangalore. 

The silver lining?  After dinner each night, all of us sit together for board or card games, to solve a crossword puzzle, or for a chat. And it is this one hour or an hour and a half of quality time we spent together leisurely that I shall cherish and carry back home.

US Travel - All Is Well That Ends Well

 “Appa, this time you two are NOT travelling alone; we are coming to Bangalore. On return we all fly together to US,” conveyed my elder son in a tone that had traces of a directive. Yes, nowadays it is bottom-up command - their turn to bat. He is fully justified. In the recent past I was hospitalized twice – once for Covid and later for severe Vertigo. But as fate would have it, at the last minute their trip had to be cancelled, and the just two of us, Aunty and I, travelled as usual. 

“Have a safe flight,” said the staff at the counter as he handed the boarding pass to us. In passing he mentioned the reporting time at the gate which sounded much later than originally scheduled. “Yes, the flight is delayed sir. Not to worry, you require just 30 minutes at the next point to catch your connecting flight to US.” 

The thoughtful travel agent lady who earlier booked our tickets had opted for the wheel-chair facility for us so that we got transported in the buggy to the connecting flight without any hindrance. The only problem we encountered was, Business class or Economy, the buggy operators at the European airport waited to pick up similar wheel-chair passengers from different flights landing around that time and drove them all together – to save on their labour. The net result? We missed the connecting flight. 

We were rebooked via Washington Dulles. No problem. The only snag was we got different responses on our checked in-baggage. One said it would go direct to San Francisco as originally tagged, regardless of re-booking. Another said that for security reasons, these days the checked-in baggage would travel with the passenger.  At the Washington airport the staff on duty checked computer and said that the baggage was still stuck at the European airport and we should file a baggage claim on arrival at our destination. 

Like the multi-car rear-end collisions in a road accident, we would miss our final connecting flight too, from San Francisco to Phoenix. We would thus be stuck in San Francisco from 9 pm till early next morning. Our younger son in San Francisco, closely following our movements, rushed to the airport along with his son armed with Aloo and Paneer parathas from the best restaurant in town and light blankets for the few hours of halt at the airport. A blessing in disguise – we spent time together catching up with grandson’s recently acquired Kung Fu black-belt status, Kamala Haasan’s Vikram, Drishyam famous Jeetu Joseph’s  12th Man and other movies that swarm the new-found OTT world, the rain-affected fifth and final T-20 series between SA and India and so on.

Finally, we reached Phoenix on a Wednesday morning instead of the previous evening. Alas, without the baggage. Love’s labour’s lost. Aunty had hand-picked items for the grandchildren, daughter in law and son, and was hoping to open the suitcases right at the doorstep and hand them over along with the bundle of select Indian sweets and snacks.

The baggage arrived three days later; luckily everything was intact. “All is well that ends well,” I said, quashing my earlier decision to claim damages from the airlines for the inconvenience caused. Better sense prevailed that the fine print of the airlines’ terms and conditions would more than amply cover such and still complicated contingencies, and I would only be waging a losing battle. Discretion is the best part of valour, I said to myself as I put the incident on the back burner, and here we are, all set to make the most of our visit.

Man's Best Friend

“Make new friends, but keep the old; one is gold, the other is silver,” or something similar, is what I recollect having jotted down on the back cover of my Matriculation English textbook. Decades later here I am reminded of that when I met Max, the new addition to our son’s family in US – the first ever in our expanded family. 

Max’s arrival into the family was not planned. It was an impulsive decision on the part of Sunita, our daughter in law. One fine morning her colleague brought from home half a dozen puppies to office by prior arrangement and distributed one each to pre-determined colleagues. One was still left, God alone knows for what reason. And Sunita happened to be the lone staff not holding one. And he was handed to her. For her it was a blessing in disguise. As a child, while walking along the road in Delhi, she had often pleaded with her Dad if she could pick…”that brown puppy’, the street dog,  and nurture him at home, only to be ridiculed by him. Now here is her ’dream come true’ day.  “But,” she said to herself, “will the other members of the family welcome him, or will I be in again for another ridicule?” Regardless, she carried him home, stopping on the way at an animal shop to buy half a dozen items for his day-to-day care. Bravo.

On seeing a new member, the younger son was overjoyed. Even during visits to stores for shopping, he would detach himself and be with the pets of other owners. He immediately held the puppy on to him. And the puppy was only too eager to join the younger playful age group. 

The older brother was a bit skeptical. His main worry was if in the midst of preparation for the Board Exam he would be assigned the dog-walk duty at least once a day. More importantly, at adolescence a dog was the last companion he wanted to be seen with. 

The head of the family - my son, that is - welcomed the guest with an ‘all in the game’ equanimity. 

The following Friday evening at a post-dinner meet lasting an hour and a half, the family christened him Max. Other names that figured in included Tiger, Johnny, Caesar, Jimmy…  But the unanimous verdict was the name should be monosyllabic. 

  *    *     *     *     *

My nature is such that caution takes precedence over anything else. So, the day I booked our tickets to US, I had a face-time chat with my son to ask him to keep Max, now fully grown, on leash when we were about to reach home from airport. From what we see of him during our video chats he appears ferocious. “If someone can take him for a walk coinciding with our arrival, that is the best we could ask for,” I reiterated.

Two miles before arriving home from the airport, I saw my son ring up Sunita and tell her that we would be home in ten minutes. I wondered if they were planning a Mangala Aarati in our honour at the doorstep. No, it was a hint for her to take Max out for a walk. And she did.

Now it is a week. Max is as close to both of us as we feel towards him. Anything else is secondary. We get up early, and he rushes from upstairs to be by our side wagging his tail, to watch us do our morning exercises. And when we go for a walk he follows us up to the door.  He knows he is not allowed to join us. He wears a concerned look at us as though wanting to reassure us, “I will behave well Thatha, why don’t you take me along.” 

There can’t be a better truth in the saying that dog is man’s best friend.