A Date with the Dead

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

19 May 2015

The US Citizenship Journey

The US Citizenship Journey

It was a September morning in 2007. Yet another day in our retired life in Bangalore (India) until we got a call from our younger son in California to joyfully announce that he was to become a father soon.

Earlier, thanks to USA's open-arms policy to admit foreign students and offer scholarship or assistantship where possible, both our sons were able to pursue Masters in the US in their chosen fields of engineering, and be gainfully employed with multinational companies. Since then the both have become US citizens.

Thanks again to the US Government's deep commitment to the 'family bond' concept, parents of US citizens could apply for green card without any restrictive annual visa quota. Backed by this, in the next few days of the call, we held frantic to and fro telephone conversations with both sons and their families. A clearer picture emerged: that we would seek permanent residence in the US. Everything has a price. Documentation for this included birth certificates, marriage certificate, police clearance, and pre-emptive affidavits from elders in the families, on the lines of the childhood poem: Solomon Grundy, Born on Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday...

Six months later, armed with all possible documentation, if not a little more, we boarded a flight to San Francisco with all our earthly belongings, now rolled into two suitcases each, 50 pounds apiece. The flight took off from Bangalore two hours later. Consequently we missed the connecting flight from the hub, and were bundled into a long detour flight that skipped just Alaska to land in San Francisco eight hours later. That didn't bother us so much as the make-do lunch we were served - bananas, cookies and yoghurts for an Asian vegetarian meal. Understandably, they needed 48 or 72 hours notice to arrange for such special meals. However at the airport, on seeing a radiant daughter in law with all features of motherhood, we forgot all about the ordeal, and headed home.

We got the green card even without the customary interview - thanks probably to the thorough documentation - and in a much shorter time than it took in those days.

Time flies faster than you think. More so when you have two cities to alternate for your stay, and three spirited grandsons to give you company, initially - and to stay away from, later. Now it was time to apply for citizenship, or Naturalization. Here too, the more the care and truthfulness with which you fill the form, sure to be able to defend whatever you declare therein, the more it helps the interviewing officer to gauge your eligibility. Another great characteristic of the country is: it operates on TRUST. When you go through the mill successfully, he/she hands you a 'congratulations' letter on the spot that you have passed the interview and test, and asks you to wait for the Oath Ceremony letter. This is the most difficult period - so near yet so far. We received it, for 4 October 2013.  There were 72 citizens-to-be from, guess, 32 countries! If this is less, then what is more? Doesn't it speak volumes for the country as the world's best democracy or a land of opportunities, if not reflect a true miniature world?

Among those who spoke after being bestowed citizenship, some ladies literally broke down. They regained composure and felt happy their children could now hope for the best education, as for a good life. An elderly lady who could speak little or no English walked with difficulty up to the podium to speak. But she couldn't. Seeing her plight the Adjudication Officer who learnt she was from Iran,  suggested her: "Say 'Thank you' in Iranian [Persian]". She promptly said: thank you in Iranian. Everyone took the fiasco in an all in the family spirit, and gave the 79-year old lady, now a fellow American, a thunderous applause.

V.V. Sundaram

17 March 2014

Navaratri - Lady's Day Out

NAVARATRI – LADY’S DAY OUT

Perhaps being in India for Navaratri after a long gap permits me to share my experience.

Yes, these nine days of Navaratri - Dusshera, Dassara, Durga Puja, Nav Raaten, or whatever you call it - belong exclusively to ladies. It is theirs. Out and out. To be resplendent with the best sarees that all the year were suffocating under the spell of naphthalene balls and pining to see the light of the day – Kancheepuram-, Benaras-, Patola-, Venkatagiri-, Bengal-, or Kashmir-silk - not to exclude the designer Lehengas, Anarkali (not in vogue?) or other dresses that some prefer to don.

And what are supposed to be the householder’s rituals during this time? Without daring to generalize, you are just a Spouse-in-Waiting - ready to hand the lady the black comb, not the brown one; quickly iron just the border of the saree before she completes her face-wash; give her a fresh towel and not the one dried after bath; simultaneously make sure that the milk being boiled doesn’t spill over (as on the other day – a clarification that is a must).

You are asked to convey Mrs…on intercom that the lady of the house (LOH) would join Mami at the count of fifteen (with no indication of how many fifteens); to request the maid from the number stored in Madam’s mobile (a totally different format from your basic version) to come for work either before 5 or after 7.30 pm; tell the young couple downstairs not to count on us for the music concert in Malleswaram, but will confirm later (still unwilling to let go of the reins).

LOH interrupts her own monologue to announce that the high-end French perfume that you bought for her birthday a couple of years ago has lost its fragrance, and hints you should buy her another – and a better one this time. “Certainly… on your next birthday,” you reassure her. “No. Next birthday is too far off; now itself,” she asserts, too familiar with your procrastinating game plan.

In between, just to keep up your spirits, she recounts the comical scenes in Barfi and English Vinglish movies that we saw recently. “Actually, we should see more of them, shouldn’t we,” she asks, unfolding her real agenda, hoping you would commit off-guard with a ‘yes’.

The outdoor assignment for the festival included escorting her to Ulsoor to Domlur to Basanvangudi to Bannerghata to Banasankari to Vijaya Nagar to Rajarajeswari Nagar to Indira Nagar to JP Nagar to Yelahanka to... By Vijayadasami, the final day, the Lanes, Mains, Crosses, and Circles in Bangalore are as much in your fingertips as that of a double-shift auto driver.

 

At each place, on arrival, the hostess pre-empts your question with such remarks as: “My husband is on tour,” or, “…is stuck in office with a deadline to meet,” as she escorts the lady to her Golu-display room. “You can read today’s newspaper over there,” she adds as a solace. “That is what I have been doing at all these places,” you are about to utter, but restrain and respond, “Thank you.”

Left with no other option, you join the kids in their pranks as their mothers update each other in the Golu room. You try to impress the kids with ancient tricks and games. They shoot back, “These are too old, Thatha”. 

On way back, your shoulder bag is heavier by half a dozen coconuts, bananas that lay smashed since, and prasadams having lost their individual identity. “In the least, you could have separated the sweet prasadams from the salted ones,” points the lady on opening the bag back home. “Anyway, I am full and too tired to prepare dinner.  Can you make-do with this assortment and wash it down with a cup of milk that I shall heat for you (a compromise gesture)? In any case you have been wanting to lose weight; this could be a modest beginning,” she scores once again.

V.V. Sundaram

Bangalore

22 October 2012

Your Take On These, Please

The membership of our like-minded assorted Yahoogroups (US Brahmins, Iyer-123, Thatha Patty, etc.) totals 10 000 – inflated no doubt because most of us are members in almost all of them. Anyway, out of that we get to hear from a meagre 30 or 40 (of course quite welcomingly) - some with systematic regularity of one post a day, some in twos and threes a day, a few in pairs invariably, not to exclude the dated and out-of-place pieces from the likes of me occasionally.

I wonder if the following questions are interesting enough to stimulate the hitherto dormant members to respond - in addition, of course, to the active contributors. Answering one or max two questions in each post will overcome space constraints.

1. Whom would you rate the best PM India has had so far? Nehru, Morarji, Shastri, Indira Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi, Narasimha Rao, Atal Bihari Bajpai, or Manmohan Singh? Give reasons.

2.  Who has better PM material: Pranab Mukherjee, Rahul Gandhi, Narendra Modi, Jayalalithaa, Nitish Kumar, Mulayam Singh Yadav -- or someone else? Explain why.

3. “If I have maintained Brahmacharya all through and have uttered nothing but the truth, please let this Sudarshana Chakram protect the ….from the mantra-packed arrow,” said Lord Krishna, and it was protected. Despite having 16 100 wives and known not to be telling the truth always, what He claimed himself to be was correct. How? And what was it that he saved?

4. How do religious experts justify Rama’s Agni Pariksha on his beloved wife Sita? Also of his killing Vali under cover?

Now two riddles for children of all ages – or to keep Alzheimer’s at bay.

5. Two students identify a timepiece priced at Rs 50. They give their tea-boy Rs 25 each, and send him to buy that particular piece. The boy bargains with the shopkeeper and buys it for Rs 45/, and saves Rs 5. He tells the students that he bargained it for Rs 48/ i.e., Rs 24 each; returns one rupee to each, and pockets Rs 3/-. That makes a total Rs 51/-( Rs 48 + 3)? How come?

6.  Four youngsters undergo a long-term sentence. The jailor says he would let them off if they solve a riddle. He has two white and two black caps. He would place a cap on their heads, each standing one behind the other facing the East. Thus each can see only what the other/s in front is/are wearing but not his own. If anyone answers the colour of his own cap correct, he would free all four. Each cell can accommodate only three. So one of the four is in the cell in front, with a brick wall partition. The boy in the middle of the second cell answers it correct, and all are freed. How?

V.V. Sundaram

www.vvsundaram.blogspot.com

03 May 2012

Life List and Bucket List

Shri TNC Rangarajan shares with us links to a specimen of an ambitious Life List (goals you are fully committed to accomplishing before a specific date), and his own Bucket List (things you would like to do during your lifetime).

The individual’s Life List includes: learn to fly a plane, participate in a talk show, live in wilderness for some time, save a human life, star in a commercial, etc. The aspirant fixes a deadline, 25 May 2017.

Some of Rangarajan-ji’s goals are: love and be loved; see family happy, healthy and prosperous; have one healthy meal a day (a tall order for me though); have one good belly laugh a day, etc.

Thanks TNC. With this wake-up call, I now switch my allegiance from ‘Mind is the Worst Enemy of Man’ to ‘Mind is the Master of the Universe’, and set my own interim targets:

Going to bed half an hour late shall no longer constitute a valid reason to skip next morning Kriya or walk for the lady of the house (LOH) and me. Our morning walks, known to start on a happy note with mundane matters, shall not hereafter gradually warm up into arguments, and end in a silent march back home.

A full month in advance of our five-day family vacation to beaches in Florida, we had suspended our regular visit to Santa Clara Senior Centre for gym, swim, and spa. We will now resume it, and I will teach LOH what I had learnt from my village pond – how to swim.  Doesn’t matter, it will lack technical finesse. As we head for Phoenix next month, she will be fully prepared to demonstrate to our elder son her prowess, in the swimming pool of his newly acquired house.  An occasion she is looking forward to.

A long stay in the US necessitates repeated visits to my bank while in Bangalore. Hereafter, the fresh arrival of mouth-watering sweets at Adayar Anand Bhavan, next door, shall not alter my resolve not to sneak in. And in US, visits to Santa Clara Library shall not be designed to check out a little before 3.30 pm, when Stan’s Donut shop, in front, closes for the day.

With our innate ‘weakness’ for visiting temples, I shall persuade LOH to cover new temples, and not repeat the same temples. Badrinath, Kedarnath, Vaishno Devi, Puri Jagannath, Dwaraka, Srisailam, are temples we look forward to having darshan at. That reminds me. Chanting of Vishnu Sahasranamam while still in the bathroom to save time will stop forthwith. I will respect LOH that everything has a place, and a place for everything.

Adaptability thy name, they say. Before dialing any 1-800 number, I shall rehearse my date of birth, residential address, telephone numbers, or Social Security number, so that he/she no longer holds the line as I rush upstairs to hunt from various locations. Also I shall memorize the new equivalents: A for Albert, B for Bob, C for Charlie, instead of: A for Anoop, B for Batra, and C for Chaturvedi.

V.V. Sundaram

www.vvsundaram.blogspot.com

17 March 2012

Mahabharata Over Dinner

It is not a fight of Mahabharata proportions over property or assets and liabilities. Just that the great epic emerged in the warm-up conversation among an invited group last evening. The trigger?  The Upanishad Ganga being aired from 11 March.

By way of anticipatory bail, I must add that the finer aspects of the epic are not my forte, in anything. I just have a superficial knowledge. What I essay here is just the gist of what transpired – nothing more, nothing less.

Most of the invitees were in 30s and 40s, had their upbringing in India and moved to the US for a living. Only my wife and I belonged to the senior category.

Any discussion attracts opposing views. Yes, these do add colour and life. Precisely this is what one youngster did, and with aplomb.  He maintained that Dhritarashtra was the King, and Pandu was just a caretaker, annexing adjoining territories to the kingdom.  Upon Pandu’s demise, therefore, if Dhritarashtra harboured Duryodhana to take over the reins after him and part with nothing to Pandavas, he was well within his rights.

Second, during the entire 13years of Pandava’s exile when Duryodhana ruled de facto Hastinapur and Indraprastha, there had not been a single complaint from his subjects. That should, the youngster felt, speak volumes of his acumen as a king-to-be.

Third, more kings of the adjoining kingdoms rallied behind Duryodhana in the battlefield than Pandavas could muster. This would not have been possible, he maintained, if they were disgusted and disenchanted with him.

He unfolded a few more, before the topic gradually drifted to Indian heritage, the Indus Valley Civilization, the meticulous town planning that the Mohanjo-daro and Harappa excavations revealed, the engineering marvel of the Brihadeswara temple at Tanjore, the iron steel pillar at Qutab Minar not getting rusted despite centuries of exposure to all kinds of weather, and the dating of Mahabharata epic. It is said river Saraswathy had sworn to Brahma (?) that if the two groups did wage a war, she would go dry in protest. The dating of the river going dry, he said, has since been established, and it matches with other evidences of the date of Mahabharata battle.

Delving as we were deep in these, a young mother reminded us that the kids had exhausted their stock of plays and games and were getting restive, and directed us to the dining table. We drove back home with our belly and brain both well nourished.

I know some of you in my Yahoogroups fraternity will be gunning for a rejoinder on these viewpoints. Please do so by all means, but pack it more with content than contempt; make it substantive rather than nitpicking. Thanks.

V.V. Sundaram

11 March 2012

www.vvsundaram.blogspot.com

The Misfiring Knack

RELAXING at home on a Sunday morning. I felt a strong smell emanating from the kitchen. I asked my wife: " I say, is some rat dead; or you have opened an antique pickle jar from the attic - or, are you trying some new dish?"

The last delivery was a bouncer and she turned in on me like a wounded tigress. "It is all because of your wonderful prediction - yet another instance of your misfiring ability."

"Yes, it was a bright sunny morning a few days before this. I had suggested her that I expected the next few days to be very hot; she could make the rice paste for Karu Vadaam (a pappad variety-Phul wari in Hindi), and get the preparation dried up in the sun before the dust-storm season set in. She promptly prepared the paste the next day. That was all. Since then there had been nothing but rain, Rain and RAIN. (Remember our Madam Prime Minister even announced that she was going to get foreign experts' opinion on the sudden change in the weather pattern? Exactly those very days.) My wife had fondly been hoping for the sun to show up, but meanwhile the paste was well past its expiry date and had begun to permeate its pungent smell all over the house, and perhaps our neighbourhood too.

Okay, I take the blame for this mishap. But what did she mean by her sweeping remark; "Yet another instance of your misfiring ability?" It did not take her long to unleash; she has such things at her finger-tips.

We were once shopping from a South Indian store. The young Tamil salesgirl quoted the price of an item at Rs 80. I spoke to my wife in Bengali and in code words  (my wife is well versed in Bengali, and I know a bit of it). We conveyed our offer, but the girl flatly refused. And we bought the piece without any reduction. As we were leaving the girl thanked us in chaste Bengali: " I would have agreed to reduce the price by the age of  your elder son as you were suggesting to each other, but in the end you were also telling that even if the price was not reduced it would still be a good buy. So I thought I might as well charge you the full price." Later she confided that she was a child of Tamil-Bengali couple.

Way back in my childhood, I had wanted to participate in a village drama. The director told me that he would have gladly given me a role if only my nose were a little less long. I belonged to an affluent family then, so influence was brought to bear at parental level, and I was included - as a king. In consideration, my father agreed to provide all the stage lighting with connection from our house (only a very few houses had electric connections those days). In my role I was to react sharply to a suggestion of my wicked lieutenant and say "huuhh" steaming forcefully through my nose. In the force of the air released, the moustache that was clipped into my nostrils fell off. The alert light-boy (working in our household) switched off the light to enable me to pick it up and re-fix it. This done, the light was switched on. But there was a second uproar of laughter. Yes, in the spadework done all too soon in darkness, the kingly moustache that was majestically looking upwards, was bowing most humbly downwards.

This incident relates to a scheme offered by a bank [Bank of Madura?]. You deposit Rs 500 for ten years and get entitled to participate in their monthly draw of lots for Rs 1 lakh and downwards. I went to buy one certificate. Being a believer in numerology and reckoning  my place in the queue, I realized that from the standpoint of numerology the certificate number that I would get might not bring me luck, but the one next would. So I allowed the man behind me to buy the certificate telling him that I was still undecided. And, as soon as he bought it, I got mine too. I checked results later. Yes, I just missed the first prize by one number. That chap to whom I surrendered my place had bagged it.

Anyway, as a never-say-die, I still tell myself, if winter comes, can summer be far behind? I might strike it rich one day, in another form, if only my misfiring knack doesn’t deny it.

(Published first in Hindustan Times June 17 1983)

V.V. Sundaram

www.vvsundaram.blogspot.com

28 February 2012

Sporting Moderator's Cap

In his piece, ‘About us and our Groups’, Sri Sivasubramanian Perinkulam, pities the ‘hapless moderator’ of having to sort daily “20 to 30 mails on various subjects, some abusive, arrogant, and others substandard or with spelling mistakes...” He sums up he will go mad in ten days as a moderator. Ten days is a long period. Siva-ji. I bet I will achieve it in two days, given a re-look at what is in store.

A pertinent suggestion was made to detach the incoming mail while posting comments. We are still inundated with mails incorporating everything from the beginning. (Truth be told, I have my share, having still to master response sans the incoming mail.) If as a moderator I were to enforce this suggestion I will have a tough time blocking all such mail or in deleting redundant portions by myself – after first mastering the technique, that is.

Must read, Watch this link, Worth Forwarding, Read till the end, are the patterns many of the messages are capped with, leaving recipients clueless on the possible contents. It will thus be my job to coin a heading on what each piece is about, to alert reader if it is his cup of tea or not.

I will have to be equal to the occasion to delete one piece when someone posts all his messages in duplicate. Right now probably the readers undertake this task to reduce the incoming mail to two-thirds before unloading them.

Be it so that the thought-for-the-day message is tapped from a solitary source, but gets presented by more than one. To delete one’s name will be to the discomfiture of the other. To retain both will be taxing the reader. To attribute authorship by turn will keep the Moderator on his toes.

Then there are persons, like Parasuram with a raised axe, ready to deliver fatal blows to any unsuspecting piece that comes their way. Am I supposed to prevail upon them to present their piece not with an archrival mindset, but to pack with content rather than contempt? To tone down myself such responses would be a horrendous task. And I am not supposed to do that either. But then can I let go such devastating attack unchecked?

To pre-empt such bombardment, one member has made a clever move. He ends his piece with a rider: “Not for debates or discussions, please.” Hopefully some respite for the Moderator.

If I am still left with time, I will take a chunk of it to block forwards that are already tired of several rounds.

Some in the garb of educating members on health, wealth or happiness, use the forum to promote their professional interests. I will get my terms of reference clear whether it will fall within my purview to discourage such publicity.

One member, unable to produce anything afresh, digs out decades-old pieces and makes a flamboyant display of his mediocre ability (Guessed who?). In such a case if the moderator and the contributor happens to be the same person, it will be difficult to decide whether to let him bask in his ‘past glory’.

Siva-ji, aren’t these sufficient to drive me mad in two days as a moderator?

V.V. Sundaram

www.vvsundaram.blogspot.com

25 January 2012

Mistaken Identity

Dear MS Srinivasan ji,

Delighted to read your mail and the outpour of gratitude - doesn’t matter mistaking me for 'Cleveland' Sundaram. I am not Cleveland V.V. Sundaram. In fact I am yet to visit Cleveland in life. I am just V.V. Sundaram - with no prefix or suffix. And if you insist I might at best be hailed Vadakkanthara Sundaram. Even when on phone with bank or airlines, to help them get my initials correct I avoid the customary prompting, V for Victory, again V for Victory, lest it mistakenly boosts my ego that it has been victory all the way. 

This is not the first occasion that I have been mistaken for Cleveland V.V. Sundaram. When I was looking for a bride for my second son, I got a call during my post-retirement stint in Geneva, and the girl's father spoke to me somewhat like intimate friends - just short of vaada, poda. I just couldn't figure out. I even wondered if any of my friends were playing pranks with me. Sensing a lack of enthusiasm in my response, he ultimately enquired if he was not speaking to Cleveland Sundaram. I told him I was WHO Sundaram. I hesitated even this prefix, because I ran the risk of  being mistaken for a popular and Geneva-born-and-raised Sundaram in WHO.

On the brighter side, and in strict confidence, naming myself as WHO Sundaram did pay dividends. When my wife was looking for a job to last my temporary assignment in Geneva, she got a call from another UN agency. The Personnel Officer interviewed her along with a host of others, and offered her the job at a higher grade than advertised. I was very sure he had mistaken my wife, Lalitha Sundaram, for someone from the other Sundaram family. Yes, life does offer favours occasionally, mistakenly though.

The other occasion when I benefitted by mistaken identify was when I was constructing my house in Delhi. It was numbered 8/13, in a co-operative house building society. The Society president's daughter's house was numbered 13/8 - just the reverse. The President, it would seem, had kept all the housing department officials in good humour, and in return got all the favours for his relatives. So when I went to get Certificate for having completed the job up to the door level, the official saw the house number, got up from his seat, and ordered tea for me. He asked his assistant to issue the certificate on the spot telling him that he had already inspected the site the previous day. And I walked out with the certificate, feeling on top of the world.

But every dog has it day. He realized his mistake, though it was late. So, when I went for the Completion Certificate - the final contact with them. he ripped me off pointing out mistakes after mistakes at every nook and corner of my house. I was in a fix. Fortunately, one of the resourceful house owners came to my rescue. He knew of a house with similar deviations having been given the completion certificate. "You just quote it, and see how they refuse it." So did I, and got the certificate in a week's time. 

Sorry for this divergence, MS ji. Nice hearing from you thanks to Cleveland Sundaram. Just to refresh your memory, I am the same Sundaram who spoke to you a couple of years ago when you were in Chicago, all set to take off for Pune the next day.  Rings a bell?

Best regards.

V.V. Sundaram

http://vvsundaram.blogspot.com

03 January 2012

2011 - In Retrospect

Stocktaking, evaluation, post-mortem, peep, or looking back - call it by any name - is desirable in any venture. Here is an aerial view of the 2011 activities of this group, as well as a few other allied ones, written in a lighter vein, bearing malice to none. I am clubbing deliberately the events of all groups as I find many of us are members in most of the groups.

Many have earned the distinction of being hailed by their abbreviation – MS (or, globe trotter if you insist), GV (G. Viswanath for those who are averse to exerting themselves and want everything on a platter), Siva (don’t ask me to elaborate his name, unless you spare only a cursory glance to the incoming mail), AVMV (sorry, he has recently rechristened himself as VVR), MGK (yes, the one who fires entertaining salvos from Trivandrum launch pad), Gopa (or, Mr Know All if you want to rename him), and not to leave out Hyderabad Cheenu, in whose case the word ‘abbreviation’ doesn’t fit in when compared with his earlier connotation: Cheenu-Cbe. Well the list is endless.

MS continued unabated with daily dose of religious messages. Hyderabad Cheenu released sterling thoughts for the day. Raman covered almost everything – 2012 calendar, old-age quotes, Mullaperiyar dam, key to Indian Railways’ grievance redressal, etc.

GV waged a single-handed battle for more original contributions. Those opposed felt that beg, borrow, or steal, the name of the game should be infotainment. If I say that a particular member’s forwards took the cake, then a host of others will revolt against me, and justifiably. Simply put, everybody gave something, and nobody everything. Siva was in a world of his own with his Amalu, airhostess, and Hyderabad connection - whenever he was not on his spiritual trip, that is.

VVR, aside his unique ability to target generation-next, had an uncanny knack to make inroads into Siva’s observations and give additional dimensions. Cris’s language was worthy of emulation, if at all possible. Gopa had the courage of conviction to cover anything under the sun, but not all of them without attracting comments for amendments. That only showed that he was being read - he could argue, and rightly so.

Vanakkam Subbu served best those who were still entangled in tax liabilities, or were looking for benefits accruing to senior citizens. Sai Baba, an ex banker, covered a variety of relevant subjects. Then there were others who had a knack of taking the opposite view of everything written about. That should be construed as the other side of the coin.

The subject, ‘Are Brahmin girls less keen to marry Brahmin boys’ attracted maximum hoo-ha. With what findings? I am still groping. Anna Hazare’s uproar on Lokpal, Subramaniam Swamy’s crusade to bring to book the corrupt, were close second and third.

Against this backdrop of activities with gay abandon, there remained a solitary septuagenarian writer of a sort who struggled through the year to hammer out a piece of substance.

V.V. Sundaram

01 January 2012

PHOENIX SENIORS' DAY OUT

When I got a call from the IACRF (Indo American Cultural and Religious Foundation) for me and my wife to join them at a Seniors’ Get Together, I was as exuberant as my grandson at the prospect of a day out - only a shade less expressive.

But everything has a price. And the price I pay for my indecision whether to settle down in America or India is that my mind is less receptive to learn the routes to far off places, muster courage to drive at 65 miles along the highway, or use the GPS to find my way. Consequently I write off ventures that involve more than 15 minutes drive. More often thus it is my d-i-l or son who goads me to accept such invitations, offering to be the chauffeur.

We felt glad we made it yesterday. It was delight to meet about 70 persons in their mid-60s to the late-80s under one roof and exchange pleasantries. We met many for the first time. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason it appeared as though after ages we were meeting our long lost relative, friend or a class fellow – or a Ram-Bharat milap.

Nothing works on an empty stomach, more so after a 40-minute drive. So, on arrival we were served appetizer – Upma, palak pakodas, and bhujia, to be washed down with hot masala chai. I still can’t figure out how they call it an appetizer, and not breakfast.

Tracing the history of the cultural centre, we were told it was constructed in 1989 on a sprawling area mobilizing donations from the Indian community. On an average, two functions take place every month. Also the hall is rented out at subsidized rates for various functions. After enjoying a brief respite on completion, the organizers embarked on their magnum opus project – Ekta Mandir – which was completed in 2007 at double the area of the cultural centre. Exquisite finish is the word for Ekta Mandir. At the present day real estate downslide one estimates the cost of these two complexes at USD 5 million. Full compliments to those who were behind the mammoth effort. Their names should be inscribed in gold.

The floor was then given to the only special-invitee youngster for a few warm-up songs to set the stage for a musical extravaganza by the seniors. Yes, their hands shaking while holding the mike, but their spirit remained undaunted, rendering some Pankaj Mullick and K.L Sehgal numbers – a fitting reminder that it is Seniors day out and their favourite numbers will reverberate the hall. At no time did any singer fail to synchronize with Karoke.

Hearing such songs as Tere Mere Sapne Ab Ek Rang Hai; Phoolon Ke Rang Se Dil Ki Kalam Se, and Baar Baar Dekho Hazar Bar Dekho, one wondered if this gathering was to pay tributes to the two recently departed legendaries - Dev Anand and Shammi Kapoor.

A senior lady regaled the audience with jokes at the end of each song. Unfortunately she couldn’t continue for long because she had just recovered from an asthmatic attack and did not want to subject herself to a relapse. See the spirit again.  The audience enjoyed the few that she shared. 

We learn that the city accounts for about 4500 seniors of Indian origin, and if the organizers could get some of them together and offer them an opportunity to pray at Ekta Mandir prior to the programme, an unadulterated entertainment from 10.30 am to 2 pm, and a sumptuous lunch sponsored by a lady, one can only say kudos to the organizers.

V.V. Sundaram

23 December 2011

CATCH'EM YOUNG ON HINDUISM

The Indian community in America deserves full compliments for the way they preserve the India’s cultural, social, spiritual and religious heritage. For two months a year, my friend’s house in Phoenix is an open house for musicians and artists visiting from India. A retired official in New Jersey has just completed a weekly discourse on Bhagawatham, through the teleconference network at a fairly convenient time from the East coast to the West. On public demand, he is giving a discourse on Narayaneeyam. In Cupertino, my niece and her husband are fully committed to carrying forward the Art of Living activities, outside their official commitments.

We have a senior scientist, Mr Krishnamurthy, (Krish to his friends) who wears many caps. A Tamil by birth, he is neck-deep into Kannadiga Sangha activities in Phoenix. He conducts a weekly Kannada class in the ‘Udupi’ temple. Instead of looking for some relaxing moments on Sunday mornings, he channels them to teach children of 4 to 8 years the basic tenets of Hinduism, and helps them recite and understand the meanings of several slokas.

He holds annually a ‘jeopardy’ dividing at random his students into two groups. He allows them to select a team leader as well as a name to the team. I had the pleasure of attending it today. I understand it is conducted on the lines of the popular Jeopardy programme in the American channels. I am yet to view one though. But I was more than happy watching Krish conduct one. It was both gripping and engrossing. Twenty-five questions spread across five categories, each carrying five questions, fetching scores of 100, 200, 300, 400 and 500. On one’s turn the team selects a question from the different score category. If that team is not able to answer the question it is passed on to the other team.

Now a peep into a few questions for the 4 to 8 age group. What is the Sanskrit word for Ant Hill. It starts with the letter V. The team answered it Valmiki, but Krish clarified that it was Valmika, and the person who got covered with ant-hill during his long penance and got named thus is Valmiki. So he gave them 250 marks instead of 300. What is another name for Parvati, which starts with the letter ‘A’. The answer: Agaja. What is the word in Sanskrit starting with ‘A’ for face or head? Anana. What are the words, both starting with the letter ‘A’ for No Disease, and No Infection. This was the solitary question that neither of the teams could answer (nor could I, truth be told). The answers were: Arogatam, and Ajadhyam. In the Avataar category, he asked what is Man-Lion starting with the letter ‘N’ – Narasimha. Whose tool is Axe – Parasurama. What is the Sanskrit word for fingertips – Karagraha, and who occupies the centre of one’s palm – Saraswathy. Well it went on and on, with the difference in score narrowing down just to 100 marks. With all the questions answered, there was the final question fetching 1000 marks. What is the real name of our Hindu religion. It reads: S…………D………… The team leaders were given 30 seconds to write the answer. The team that answered within the allotted time wrote Sanatha Dharma. So they were granted 750 marks, reducing 250 marks since the answer was incomplete. The other team that managed to do it during the extra time, wrote it fully, Sanathana Dharma, and marched ahead of the other team by a slender margin of 50 marks - 4300 and 4250. It was all fun and frolic, everyone enjoying. At no time during the jeopardy could anyone say with certainty which team would make it. So intense was the competition. The parents simultaneously were busy taking snaps and videos of their children in action.

As a gesture, the parents presented Krish with Kindle Fire tablet, e-book reader. He said he was planning to buy one himself, and thanked them. A group photo, and a delicious lunch by Girija Krish followed. We understand she politely declined the potluck offer made by children’s parents. She wanted to have the pleasure all for herself, for hosting the lunch.

The parents with a full belly and more inclined for a reclining pose, were treated at a piano recital by Krish’s son, Sharad, in his twenties. Starting with Christmas carols befitting the season around, he went on to play Hindi, Tamil, Kannada, and English songs, with a finale Bhagyatha Lakshmi Bharamma.

No doubt everyone left his home on a happy note. If only there was one Krish in each city of US for an orientation on Hinduism, the spiritual moorings of Indian-American children are sure to be firmly rooted.

V.V. Sundaram

18 December 2011

HAND IN HAND WITH GHOSTS

Hand in Hand with Ghosts

The usual cheerful look on our ‘park’ friends (an Indian couple in their early sixties) was missing as they wore a gloomy look that evening. Reason? During the weekend they had accompanied their daughter and s-i-l to buy a home. Most of the houses were fabulous, as were their prices. Seeing their raised eyebrows at the mention of the price, the agent took them to one that was being offered at a throwaway price - with high-end furniture, drapery and chandeliers. Why did he not show them this in the first instance, they insisted which, on hindsight, they regretted. “Well, there was a suicide in the house, and buyers dread it ghost-haunted,” the agent replied. That was enough for them to take to their heels, broad daylight though.

Now they face a different problem. Instead of the ghost, the dirt-cheap price seems to haunt them. “Sundaramji, should we just buy the house, do a purification puja and move in?” they asked, totally confused. I made a clean breast that I was the least competent, more so with my own brush with a ghost as an adolescent.

My Encounter with a ghost

(Hindustan Times, 24 February 1983)

I lived in a haunted village. The late 20th century scientific brain may revolt at any suggestion of the existence of ghosts but I encountered one at the age of fourteen.

A landlord in the outlying area of our village once discovered his spouse in an unacceptable position with one of his friends. He strangled her the same night and threw the body in a nearby well. Her spirit started haunting the house to take revenge on the killer. People heard muffled sobs proceeding from the house to the well where the corpse lay rotting. In the dead of night, a sound of descending steps was heard in the house. In the hushed silence, when people stretched their ears to discern more of the mysterious noise, they would hear a pathetic wailing sound as though bemoaning the loss of some beloved. The landlord fled in terror and the haunt became notorious in the vicinity.

A few years after this gruesome incident, two beggars adopted the haunted house. Of course they were cautioned about the ominous symptoms, but they ignored the warnings. The second night neighbours heard loud agonized, piercing shrieks coming from the house, but none dared to approach the scene. Death had snapped the life-thread of one while the other fled, leaving his meager belongings, never to come back.

Persons coming late at night to the village sometimes chanced upon a lady immaculately dressed in white moving sadly along the farther bank of the canal. Some even were hailed by their names but thought that to respond was too dangerous.

It was gradually established that moving out of doors at night was a risk that only the desperate would undertake. I was a young, dashing lad, cock of the village boys’ flock. The house that was the terror for others was our rendeavous in the afternoons. We would ape our elders in narrating the mysterious occurrences.

One particularly gloomy dusk, when it had been raining torrents and lightning was flashing with incredible frequency, the condition of my aged grandmother, who had been ailing for quite some time, worsened rapidly. We waited for the village apothecary’s routine visit, but the weather probably deterred him from venturing out. We wanted to call in medical assistance, but no one voiced his willingness dreading the ghost. It was 11.30 pm. Finally, seeing how much my grandmother was suffering I volunteered to fetch the apothecary and despite the dissuasion of all, rushed out of the house. The young spirit cannot easily be dominated. It was time to act, ghost or no ghost.

The rain had stopped and the clouds had dispersed. In the chilly December night, I was striding along, surrounded by utter silence and frightening darkness. Stories about the ghost converged upon my mind. The hushed silence was suddenly disturbed by something falling with a thud. My heart palpitated. It was some bird. I mustered courage and kept moving. God knows what elemental force was hidden in the dense, dark mysterious jungle. My spirit seemed frozen. Fear, for the first time, gripped my mind. The hooting of an owl froze me to the marrow. Some unknown bird abruptly flapped past me swiftly, leaving me dazed. I found myself trembling with fear, when, with my own eyes, I saw somebody clad in white slowly moving towards me.

There was no doubt now about the ghost. “Make the most of your time”, the thought rose up from within. I turned back and started running home. The ghost recognized me and called me by name, Sundaram, Sundaram. “Oh God, I am done for”, I said to myself. I was sure to be trapped. Terrified, I dashed home at top speed, knocked at the door and fell in, unconscious. The ghost pursued me right up to the doorstep, and actually knocked.

Later, I was told the ghost I had dreaded was my cousin on his way home for Christmas vacation.

Sundaram Uncle, B-703

14 August 2011

Materializing Documents for Green Card

India Currents

December 2008

Everything has a price. The effort entailed in materializing supporting documents for a Green Card is no exception. The US Administration’s policy per se to include US citizens’ parents to be eligible for green card, sans the restrictive visa-quota, is simply matchless. Many countries do offer permanent-residence facilities covering spouse and children, but how many extend this privilege to parents as well? It is this deep commitment to the family-bond concept that makes the country head and shoulders above the rest.

It is equally sensitive to the nostalgia of such parents who have spent the best part of their lives in the country of their origin – the universal home sweet home, wherever that is. All that it expects therefore is to stay in US for six months in a 365-day time frame, and feel free to live in a country of one's choice for the same length of time. A fifty-fifty deal or, the best of both worlds, for the asking.

However, the uphill task of these sexagenarians or septuagenarians in compiling the requisite documents to establish their credentials can sometimes hold them back, if our own experience is anything to go by.

Birth certificate. In the days of yore, many births went unregistered. Of the few that got recorded most did not bear the name. It is reserved for the Nama Karanam ceremony. The pattern, inscribed on stone for our tribe, starts with name of your village, father's name and that of one of the grandparents, the last one becoming your name. A foolproof method to stay tuned to one’s roots. I can’t guess why the nearest railway station, platform number or bus stop got omitted.

Once birth is registered, one never bothers to add the baptized name, let alone collect the certificate for posterity. Word of mouth, not proof, rules the roost thereafter.

Now, nearly seventy years later, I visit the office of the Registrar of Births and Deaths, Palghat, now Palakkad, to verify if the birth has been registered and, if so, to hand me a certificate. “Did you say birth?” the clerk re-ascertains.

For a nominal processing fee, they give you a date depending on the era in which you were born - post-Independence, British, Moghul or pre-historic - to enable them excavate records. My birth stays recorded, but without the name. To overcome that your paternal and maternal relatives affirm, in an affidavit, their relationship with you, personal knowledge of your place, date, month and year of birth, and the fact that you have been named thus at a ceremony.

We travel to Varkala, for my wife’s certificate. Unfortunately, hers had not been registered. We are directed to another desk. “To register birth, at 60?” the assistant asks in disbelief. Apart from legal declarations and undertakings, he insists on us to furnish a personal authentication from an elderly person known to us in the locality. Fortunately, a relative of hers still resides there. He is 89 and kicking. (Longevity runs in both our families and they can give the Japanese, record holders in lifespan, a run for their lives). He stands testimony, though speaking a little more than needed. “That is the problem when octogenarians get a listener,” mumbles the Registrar, probably taking it out on at someone at home.

The verification report in hand, we are directed to the District Magistrate in Trivandrum. After scrutiny, the latter authorizes the Registrar of Births and Deaths to record my wife's birth, 60 years later. I ask the assistant how come they are so much procedure-bound. “That is a good question,’ he says, which means he knows the answer well. “Sir, I don’t mean you (I bet he did), but just assume that an applicant comes to us in the guise of a green card seeker. But in reality he has a court case pending against him where if only he proves this town as his birthplace, the verdict will turn in his favor. He will walk away with the benefits of the judgment, and I will take his place in the witness box for the rest of my life,” he concludes and hands over the birth certificate with my wife’s name appearing on it. “One up on mine,” I hasten, before my wife does that for the rest of the day.

Marriage Certificate. We move on to that task. Nowadays one can obtain it from any city and not necessarily from the place of marriage. We return to our residence in Bangalore. Armed with proofs such as the Wedding invitation, our marriage album (moths having made a sumptuous meal of most parts of our body, leaving a final assault on our face for a later occasion) and helping to climb stairs the two family friends we managed to hunt, who attended our marriage nearly forty years ago, we walk into the office of the Registrar of Marriages. He goes through the papers and the album, and says, “You look the same, sir.” “Either I am not supposed to, or that I manage to look this old that long back?” I conclude. But on all such occasions, an artificial smile, more than countering bureaucrats' observations, makes matters move. I precisely do that.

He signs the papers, not before raising a query. “But, why do you require this certificate, sir? Must be writing your will?” “Not exactly,” I clarify, “we need proof that my wife and I were married before our son was born. He is now a US citizen and is sponsoring our permanent residence there.” “You mean l e a v i n g India?” he asks, reopening the topic we just managed to get over.

Police clearance. This is required from all those places where you stayed continuously for six months in the last five years. We needed one from Bangalore and another from a European city. On remittance of about $100 to the latter authorities, we got the certificate, 'no crime recorded' - $33 per word. For the Indian report, the constable from the Police Station visits our home when we are not around, makes discreet inquiries from a cross section of residents in the apartment complex. Fortunately, we are still projecting the best of ourselves, being new to the place. He leaves a word for us to appear before him at the Police Station, which we do. Standing behind us is a dozen ruffians rounded up during the day and, in front, the police officer himself - a very tall and hefty guy with more hairs on his eyebrows, handlebar moustache and chest than on his head. He surveys us from head to feet. “I have been here for years, but I don’t particularly seem to have spotted you any time,’ he says giving the impression of making a field day of us. “Sir, we try to keep away from three people: the police, an advocate and a doctor, in that order,’ I am about to say, but check myself. Instead I say, “Sir, we shifted to this city recently.” “Ah, so I am right,’ he says triumphantly. “You see, we police officials have an elephant’s memory and a snake’s photosensitive eyes,” he corroborates his case further, as though he expects me to appraise him for his next promotion. I keep mum. “You people seem nice. Your neighbors gave a very good report, which is a rare feat these days,’ he says as he signs our papers in the file. “Next,” he calls, as though we were part of the lot behind.

Meanwhile, we collect yet another report, this one called, Police Verification Report, from the Passport Control Office that their own enquiries of our antecedents have failed to elicit anything incriminating against us. I must say escape route begins with police force.

“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” To me, this piling up of documents represents the tough exterior of the green card exercise. Once we pieced them together, filled up applications and submitted them to CIS, the tender interior begins to unfold itself. In three months on the dot we receive letters conveying CIS’ approval and welcoming us to US as permanent residents.

V.V. Sundaram, retired from publishing services in a UN organization, is based in Bay Area – vvsundaram40@gmail.com

(Posted: 29 October 2010)

Alternatives All the Way

The downtown in Los Angeles has a unique way of dealing with the growing problem of grass and weeds sprouting upon overgrown vacant plots, reported ABC News, in one of its recent webcasts. Instead of using gas-powered machines and mow it down, the city officials are using more natural and cheaper solutions.

It was a delight to view a herd of 100 goats grazing on a hill against the backdrop of skyscraper glass towers and the neighborhood of Hollywood celebrities. The city’s re-development agency says that it costs them $3000 as against $ 7500 to deploy weed whackers. This step also provides the friendly animals breakfast, lunch and dinner for days at a stretch.

That indeed is a novel way of tackling a problem, and a viable alternative to manpower and machinery. Yes, from time immemorial it has been alternatives all the way, be it to bring about economy, efficiency, or effectiveness.

Alternative energy by far is probably the most talked about. To the conventional hydroelectric energy, we now have thermal, wind, solar, or nuclear fuel to provide alternatives or to supplement it.

It is in pursuit of nuclear power as a viable alternative to India’s much-needed energy that a confidence motion had to be passed at the Parliament before signing an agreement with the US government. As a consequence, the main constituent of the coalition, the Congress party, had to end its marriage of convenience with the Communist party and had to work for an alternative - an understanding with another party.

In the wake of shooting gas prices recently, the automobile sector is all set to provide an alternative – introduce an electrically operated car. General Motors is working on a proto type, and the final version is likely to roll out in 2010.

In India, Tata Motors are all set to come with an Indian alternative. In a couple of years they plan to produce an electric car for city use, with French collaboration. But we shall keep our fingers crossed on this, given the fate of their much publicized Nano car, at Rs 100 000 (say, $2200). Due for launch in October 2008, the project lies a hapless victim of political overtones.

In any case, should the electrically run automobiles take the world by storm, the oil-rich countries, the Middle East in essence, may have to look for alternatives to generate income, if their already accumulated huge wealth should stay untouched. Maybe, they could focus on promoting tourism what with Dubai boasting of the tallest skyscraper in the world, or its unparalleled housing complex where every house steps out straight to the seashore. Alternatively, these countries could gear themselves more to manufacturing, following the outstanding example of China. The other day it was reported that UAE was keen to buy out the SUV, Hummer, and shift the plant to that country, with several US automobile giants planning closure of their SUV segments one after the other.

‘Alternative medicine’ is one expression where the word ‘alternative’ irrevocably got prefixed to it. The origins of many of these systems – Ayurveda, Unani, or Siddha – can be traced to the BC era, and the modern medicine (also referred to as English medicine in India) made its foray much later. But it is an anomaly that the ones surfacing earlier have been reduced to the ‘alternative’ status.

While on a duty travel to a developed country during active service, some expressions that I added to my vocabulary included, ‘alternative settlement areas’, ‘alternative population market’, etc.

As I pen these lines, I received a video clipping from my doctor-friend, a nephrologist, featuring his interview in an important Asian channel. The subject was kidney transplant. At one stage, the interviewer asked a question to one of the panel members, “So, would you call it a ‘donation’, or ‘sale’ when one gives his kidney to the other for a consideration?” The doctor said, “Alternatively, I would call it reimbursement.”

That reminds me of my British friend. He is by profession an editor, and as a hobby an interviewer and radio-jockey for a breakfast show in Europe. If ever he has to say that he hates a particular person, which is seldom the case, he would avail himself of the alternative, “He is not one of the persons whom I like the best.”

Back home (USA, I mean), the House of Representative having voted against President Bush’s $ 700 billion bailout plan, George Bush and his advisers gave it an alternative name, ‘buy out’, for consideration by the Senate. And the Congressional leaders bought it.

Of the dozens of email messages that get forwarded to me, one is about a millionaire with a severe eye pain. He consults hundreds of doctors, but with no improvement. Finally a monk suggests him to see things only in green. The millionaire buys tons of paint and colors in green whatever he was likely to see around. After a few months the monks visits him. The millionaire’s assistants hurry and pour buckets of green paint on the monk so that the millionaire sees him only in green. Upon this, the monk laughs and says, “Alternatively, if only he had put on a pair of specs in green, he could have solved all this labor.”

(V.V. Sundaram, retired from publishing services in a UN organization, is based in Bay Area – vvsundaram40@gmail.com)

Posted on 29 October 2010

Odds all the way

(SEARO NEWS, 31 March 1992)

For some it is touch and go, the sailing is smooth in anything they undertake. For me, however, it is battling odds all the time, including at the recent trip to Trichy for a publications display. Here is the account.

After half a dozen rehearsals, I completed the packing for the early next morning flight, and switched on the television for some well-earned relaxed moments. The newscaster dropped the bombshell that the pilots had threatened a lightning strike from that midnight. This was enough to put me on night duty, ascertaining from the airlines office if the strike was being averted. Equal to the occasion, they asked me to check every hour.

Unaccumstomed to taking risks, I reported at the airport early morning. Meanwhile, a settlement had been arrived at, at last, and the Madras flight was announced. We were about to report for 'security' check when the Calcutta-bound passengers sprung into action and waylaid us. They claimed that they had been waiting for over twelve hours and as senior stranded passengers, they should be seen off first. Some more delay.

"All is well that ends well", I heaved on board to my neighbour, a foreigner, more to start a conversation. "Oh, end?...Madras", he replied, mistaking my statement for ascertaining his destination. "India good country", he complimented. "Yours too", I repaid, though still unsure of his nationality. "Pleasure trip?" I quipped. "Business", he replied, rather emphatically. He might have meant "None of your business", but, given to taking the brighter side of life, I assumed that he was here to explore business prospects. I attempted further dialogue in gestures, but switched back to monosyllables when I felt I was being watched by rest of the passengers.

Veg. or non-veg?" asked the airhostess. He looked at me as though he would have me instead. With no vegetable or animal around, I felt unarmed to explain to him what these two terms meant. "I think I will serve him non-vegetarian', decided the airhostess, meanwhile, and moved on. After lunch, she served us saunf (aniseeds). He asked me what it was. As usual, my memory failed me for the correct word, and I replied him, tentatively, that it was a digestive. He tried it and transferred the trayful on to his hand, saying it was good. Further conversation was rendered impossible as thereafter he was busy commuting between the front and rear toilets, whichever was vacant. Moral: "In different doses, saunf can be a digestive, laxative or even a purgative", I concluded, at his expense.

Next morning I was at Madras airport on the dot for my connecting flight to Trichy. Once again there was a strike, this time only on selected routes. Since things must go wrong for me, Madras-Trichy was one. So, instead of a 45-minute travel, I headed for an eight-hour ordeal by bus. In the initial stages I was busy masterminding possession of the common arm-rest with my neighbour in the bus. But, sizing up his Stalin-like personality with bushy eyebrows, I befriended him, instead. He was a senior police officer on his way back from a High Court hearing for a murder case. He whispered in my ears that some 'heavyweights' were involved in this and, despite threats of dire consequences, he was hell-bent on bringing them to book. "You don't mean you apprehend danger even now?" I asked, more to gauge any imminent risk to myself. "You never know, somebody could be chasing me in this very bus itself, Mr Sundaram', he confided. My name was the last thing I wished him to make public at this juncture. I excused myself saying that I was too tired and needed some rest. And, not to offend him either, I requested him to wake me up at Trichy. He made a few abortive attempts in between to unburden his murder mystery on me, but I remained firm on not opening my eyes.

At Trichy I hurried for a waiting taxi and named the hotel. After going through several lanes and bye-lanes, the driver dropped me at the hotel. While taking out my wallet, I turned back and observed by chance that the bus stand wherefrom I alighted was just behind. "How come?", I asked. He confessed that he had not had a single passenger since morning, even to pay rental to the owner. "But you could have told me that before", I said sympathetically and settled the account for five rupees less.

For my return journey from Madras to Delhi, the airlines systematically kept us in suspended animation by announcing a delay of an hour, every hour. Thus instead of 6 pm I reached home in the early hours of next morning. "Still, better than last time when they chose to drop me 24 hours later'. I consoled myself.