Go take a walk

Walk: never will any word hit the raw nerves as hard as this one. The dictionary gives a very accurate description of the word-walk-a saunter meant to promote health or words to that effect. A theory I subscribed to wholeheartedly till about a week ago. Or 8 days 4 hours and 25 minutes ago, to be more precise. A healthy constitutional, a must for all-irrespective of caste, colour, age or sex- panacea to all troubles, the biggest refresher in Life’s journey...........…pretty much on the lines of the Immortal Bard’s paean on Sleep (as the discerning might have caught on) I could go on unendingly. At least half an hour’s brisk walk every day, I was often found sermonizing, is all it takes to keep the doctor away or at bay. And as a classic example of the same, religiously went for a walk, the shenanigans of the day notwithstanding.

Of late, the horrid cold winds had suitably dampened the enthusiasm and one was found wishing wistfully for some divine intervention (rain/storm/an unexpected guest) that would prevent one’s morose perambulations on the well-trodden path. No such thing happened and that niggling thing (drat it!) that spoilsport called conscience invariably threw the spanner in the works. A walk is not just beneficial it is invigorating too, helps one shed all those extra kilos, makes one fit in body and mind and the good habit, once cultivated, should be strictly adhered to. These and similar misconceptions egg one on. And thus it becomes a regular routine in the lives of most people, yours truly included.

All quite good and admirable, except for the fact that this particular walk lead to a whole lot of 'unhealthy' results. As I was doing the zippy round on the beaten track, not talking on the cell-as some bright sparks erroneously surmised-very innocently drinking in the cool air and exulting that the last of the six rounds was on and very soon, one would be in the warm surroundings of one’s drawing room, when Wicked Events decided to intervene. There was a break in the road, a mere twist of ankle, the hint of pain and before one realized it, one was doing the flying act. Levitating several inches above the ground, one came crashing down to and on hard reality the very next minute-the ankle in a rotten twist. More embarrassed than hurt, I somehow I managed to get up, and dragged the injured foot behind me. The short walk back and the trudge up one flight of stairs seemed a fairly uphill task. But I made it, unaided. What is a mere sprain, I rationalized; it would be ok in a day or two.

All customary measures were taken: from submerging the injured foot in half a bucket of cold water, to spraying Volini and calling up our orthopaedic friend to gauge the extent of damage……to finally keeping one’s fingers crossed and waiting for the next day to dawn. For only then, one would know how bad the sprain was or if it was a ligament tear or even a fracture. Hoping that it would be a minor sprain, one called it a day.

The next day dawned bright and sunny-but that was far from what I was feeling. The left foot seemed to be weighing a ton and I just couldn’t lift it off the floor!! Walking was an ordeal, synchronizing foot movement impossible. The writing on the wall seemed clear-all we needed was confirmation. The agony of negotiating one flight of stairs, getting into the car, the wheel chair and finally into the X-ray room had better be left unsaid. The solemn verdict was ‘hairline fracture’ the outcome an hour’s ice pack, the painful tetvac shot and the almost-up to-the knee-cast.

So here I am, four weeks taken care of, the cumbersome plaster hampering each move and wondering, for the nth time, is a walk really salubrious????

Maid of Honour

For the first time in two years, I missed an important deadline. I clean forgot the all-important ritual: the new post-that has been churned out for my blog, month after month, with unfailing regularity. The reason is not far to seek. November (and not Eliot's April) was the cruelest month for us: the dear, efficient maid, who had promised to return after a month's well-earned annual leave, was nowhere in sight. No word, no update...total, inexplicable silence and continued agony-mingled suspense. Will she, won't she was the question that taunted us day in, day out.

And all the time, the chores kept mounting. Despite the part-timer (in a perpetual, fast-forward mode) who did the rounds and took off the major load, mundane stuff, the daily grind kept increasing by the day. First, it was just making the beds and operating the machine; then folding and arranging more and more clothes into neat piles became a daily event as woolens became a part of life. Next, blankets got added to the general scene, augmenting one's pain that much more while making the beds ...so on ad infinitum. Therefore, it is perhaps understandable why I missed my promised rendezvous with the virtual world.

But came Delightful December, and all was set right. The expanse of suspense ended, the magic call from the remote corner of Bengal was received amidst rapture; the car was duly dispatched-what if it had to wait at the station for 6 long hours??-and finally, the old faithful was back. Drum roll and red carpet.

God is in His Heaven and all is right with the world.

A decade without you.

It’s ten years to the day, today, when we lost you, Papa. Ten years when we’ve learned to live without you, have picked up the pieces and taught ourselves to walk on the path shown by you. You, with your quiet presence, your high principles, your infinite sagacity-and ably complemented by Mummy- were always there for us, making our childhood and adolescence idyllic.Verbosity was never your style; you were a man of few words but those words were weighty and spoke volumes. The fundamentals of life, the values-the non-negotiable standards of integrity and quality-that you laid down before us didn’t need words. Actions spoke much louder. Having scaled heights of professional excellence and reached the pinnacle in your chosen field, you never let it show: your unassuming, simple lifestyle remained unchanged to the end.....

.

If only we could emulate even a fraction of your highly organized way of life, our lives would be that much more systematic. But then, that’s almost like asking for the impossible-the method that was your hallmark, the clock-work precision with which you handled your daily schedule-even after retirement-were exemplary. Added to that, the keen sense of responsibility-rising admirably to discharge your duties, being the eldest of nine brothers and seeing the family through financial hardships years on end, without casting a single thought for yourself-the passion for your work and the extreme simplicity of your nature made you a person nonpareil.

Your unseen presence is always felt by us; your words of wisdom still reverberate in our hearts and guide us through trying times. Papa, we know that the blessings of our parents are always with us: and this is our solace and mainstay.

And the award goes to....

Market survey was in full swing. For a car. Six years after having bought-technically speaking-my first car, there were enough tell-tale signs that the dear Indica VLS needed to be bade a fond farewell. Difficult though the decision was, it had to be taken, as there were frequent irritants, in the form of the self giving trouble, or the battery getting discharged, or some other part giving way…and one by one, I had to get them replaced. Slowly but steadily, my mind was reaching a conclusion-I had to start looking around for a new car.

I hadn’t quite envisaged how tough this would be-this ‘looking around.’ Not half as simple a process as walking into a showroom and buying the car of your choice. ‘Cos that is where the major hurdle came in-the word choice. The market is now flooded with cars in the small segment (the segment I was looking at) and there was a surfeit of choice. What should one look at? Fuel efficiency or sleek looks or plush interiors/accessories or simply the brand name? For me, there was a fifth dimension: I wanted a new model automobile and not a run-of-the-mill car that has got added by the thousands in recent years. Plus of course, there was a stringent budget.

As far as brand name went, Maruti seemed to win hands down and I had all but set my heart on A-Star, a fairly recent addition. The after-sales and service of Maruti, its tried and tested credentials plus the stylish look of the car had helped me cast my vote in its favour. Neck to neck in the race was another new, equally stylish product-Chevrolet’s shining Beat with smart carriers! Two trips to the latter’s show room and I emerged disillusioned about Beat-its inside space seemed too small.

A Maruti showroom was my next destination: the K 10 and the Estilo were among the cars examined before I headed towards the waiting A-Star. The moment I heard the magic words ‘music system’ as being part of the accessories, my mind was all but made up. Looks, price, brand name, value for money, within the budget…all criteria were being admirably met. Visions of driving this sophisticated car, swaying gently to the music wafting from its system floated before the rapturous eyes. But that’s when sonny boy, who had accompanied me on the jaunt to facilitate the process of decision-making, threw the proverbial spanner in the works. He opened the boot of the car, took one look and exclaimed that it was too small by half. Why, it wouldn’t even accommodate his luggage on a week’s trip home and that was saying something!! (The fellow goes off on international trips of 2-3 months’ duration, carrying a rucksack, a bag and his laptop!! And to think that I have always taken pride in being a light traveler-he beats me hollow!!) Oh we’d manage by putting stuff on the back seat, I demurred but he wouldn’t budge from his stance. I suggested that I'd measure the suitcase at home and return to measure the boot, to take a well-informed decision, but the usually mild fellow stood his ground firmly. This space wouldn’t do and neither would the car. I could see my dream go out the window……but some small voice within me kept telling me he was right.

The next couple of days were uneventful-as the young man was busy catching up with sleep, and how! So market survey sort of took a backseat. Till Janmashtami, a holiday, saw me at the Hyundai show room, the spouse and son in tow. It was actually on the better half’s insistence-and a result of his scandalized question as to how one could even contemplate buying a car without looking at the best option?-that we were there. I had to admit that the i10 met practically every point on my checklist, except that its interior had a plastic-ish finish and it was pretty much the most common car to have hit the roads in recent times. Perhaps a testimony to its quality, but not motivation enough for me. What about Ritz, he quipped- had we looked at that car? Admitting that we hadn’t, we retraced our steps to the Maruti showroom, this time to scrutinize Ritz. The spouse gave it an immediate green signal-this was it and I was trying to swallow the steep price when the chirpy lad again showed veto power. It looked kind of funny, he said: a sort of battered posterior, as if an unfriendly truck had bashed it with a vengeance. Once that note of niggling uncertainty had been struck, even I began feeling that it wasn’t so great to look at. Not for the price we would have to cough up. We wound our way to another showroom down the same road for greater choice but it was closed.

So back we were to square 1, the old car showing no signs of getting sold, the new one no nearer to being zeroed-in on. I kept commuting to and from office on the old faithful, mentally promising to check out that one last model in the show room that had been shut or sealing the deal with i10 or Ritz. Because I had set a target for myself and time was slipping by. I wanted my new car to be driven home by young Saagar and his ticket to more exotic climes-albeit with educational objectives- were booked for barely a week later. Finally, on a Monday, the impossible feat was accomplished and sonny boy and I found ourselves in the Ford show room. Unlike any of the other places, we were immediately shown to a table and a uniformed executive promptly came to our assistance. “Very courteous and professional”, I murmured sotto voce to the laddie, as we began our inspection of the one car that had eluded our examination in the past few weeks. A super sleek look, impressive, spacious interiors with a black and steel finish, a very spacious boot with remote buttons, apart from the usual features (remote & central locking, power steering, automatic front windows) and hold your breath! a built-in music system. Look no further said a voice inside me and I expressed my feelings out loud-much to the amusement of my son (who insisted, quite mistakenly, that the music system had swung the deal in its favour)

The rest, as they say, is history. Everything seemed to fall into place in a jiffy after that. The colour we were emphatic about getting-and which we were told wasn’t available then-became available: just one car or we’d have had to wait a fortnight. We found a customer for the old car, which otherwise would’ve gone into dis-use, and to cut a long story short, my dream of driving home, Sonny at the wheels (as opposed to the spouse last time) as he skillfully maneuvered the gleaming new car to its new home, was realised on Thursday.

So, with the blessings of the Almighty, our sea-grey Figo - a car launched barely 6 months ago - now stands proudly in the parking lot downstairs.

Nothing Magnetic About It

The last few days have been agony! Something I've learnt to be friends with, have accepted as a part of life-viz my back-ache-seemed to worsen by the day. And there was no respite from work. To make matters worse, a sudden trip to Chandigarh was planned, which necessitated my presence and though I tried to beg out of it-the chronic back pain was playing havoc this time-there was no mercy. Naturally, a train trip to and fro-the comfortable seats of the Shatabdi notwithstanding-contributed its mite and I returned from the trip ten shades worse. To cut a long story short, a Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI to the uninitiated) test seemed to become inevitable......

Now, this again has a history. More than six years ago, my worried mother had taken me to an orthopedic, a veteran in his field, in the reputed Fortis hospital but I had never gone back, as his prescription had read the formidable term MRI and despite all the persuasion from Mummy, I had outright refused. No way-I wasn't getting into that scary contraption that would swallow me up for God knows how long, I'd rather put up with the pain, thank you. As I said, all her entreaties fell on deaf ears and I carried on merrily, putting up a brave front each time the problem reared its ugly head. But pretty much acted like the proverbial ostrich in every other respect.

Well, so things went on till it became absolutely unavoidable this last week. Beggars can't be choosers; and Sunday morning found me shivering in my shoes at the very thought of getting into that avoided-for-half-a-decade evil machine! Sonny boy's comforting presence was a great help and young Manoj's timely call sharing his own experience soothed my frayed nerves no end.

But having emerged none the worse for the experience, I can proudly announce to the world at large that the whole exercise is a cake walk, nothing to be feared at all!The axiom there's nothing to fear than fear itself has been brought home to me in a rather telling manner!!

Teri pyaari pyaari Surat ko........

The whole programme was sudden. To think that just a day before I had been longing to meet my little one and-on getting the slightest hint that she was willing to travel home if the other option (read my going) wasn't working out-had checked all incoming flights to Delhi. But when I told her about the best schedule, she demurred. Despite the homesickness, practical wisdom prevailed. Missing many more classes (having missed plenty due to a bout of viral fever) wasn't such a smart idea after all, she said. I couldn't help admiring the sagacity in one so young, aware as I was how keen she was to come home...but that put paid to all her plans. Now, how could we close the gap separating us, this east is east kind of situation and make the twain meet? Nothing seemed to be happening on the official front either. In fact, a visit impending since the beginning of July had prevented me from making any personal plans, something I would have done ages before if it hadn't been for this uncertainty, this 'a training will happen next week' kind of see-saw predicament. Like I said, nothing seemed to be working out on the Ahmedabad front-that particular client was closed like an oyster!

Now, after this latest conversation, when her acute homesickness surfaced again, I was feeling well-nigh desperate. If only, Icarus-like, I had a pair of wings, I would fly off-pari like-to my chosen destination...if only...........

Suddenly, around eleven o'clock on Tuesday, I was informed that a training programme scheduled for Aug 2 & 3 had been advanced and the client wanted it on July 29 & 30 instead. In a God-forsaken tribal area, 80 km east of Surat. This had pretty much been on the anvil and my colleague was already scheduled to travel there the following week but the whole programme had been advanced very unexpectedly. All it meant was that now she would have to go there earlier. However, there was a catch-she couldn't get away the week before due to some urgent family commitment and requested me earnestly if I would please bail her out. Going off to this unheard-of place-without any prior information and that too for 3 long days came as a bolt out of the blue but there seemed no option. What had to be done had to be done. As always, I tried to turn a disadvantage into an advantage; see the silver lining etc. How could I make the most of this? There was no return flight from Surat on Saturday, why didn't I just go off to Ahmedabad and catch a flight from there? Traversing the distance of 300 odd km was a bit galling, but on second, thoughts, I said to myself-what's a mere 4 1/2 hours' drive when sheer joy awaited me at the end of it?

The die was cast-I would go, conduct training, then off to Ahmedabad to meet darling daughter.

So here I am...two days of unadulterated bliss...sheer delight.. are mine.

The Vacuum

I kind of envisaged it would feel like this but was still not prepared for the emptiness that faced us this Monday evening. Two days ago, when we returned from office to a vacant home, with the little one also having flown the nest, I suddenly realised that this was it. Back to square one and hoping fervently that one/two years down the line, the kids will get posted back to the national capital region.

Action replay and the mind goes back to that incredibly exciting day when the MICA results were out and Srishti's name featured bold and clear on the selected candidates' list. What euphoria was ours, what sheer, unadulterated joy!! I actually took time off, drove home from work, to impart the news in person rather than call her up, privy as I had become to the results which were declared two days ahead of time (and hence two days before students could begin their frantic net searching) Too impatient to stop by for sweets, I rushed home and walked into her room, beaming widely at her enquiring look and question on how/why I was home. Relishing every syllable I conveyed the terrific news to her and watched her break into a delighted squeal.

The ensuing weeks went by ordinarily enough. There was a bit of planning, lists meticulously drawn up, a teeny weeny bit of shopping. Try as I would, Srishti resisted all my attempts to get her to shop for clothes and finally we ended up doing just one round. Some activity, then lazy days, again some sporadic work-like getting the suitcase out, the bags rounded up-and back to more relaxed times. Till, on June 21, we felt enough was enough and actual packing was begun by the young lady. Well, that again was a study in perfection, as things went into the bags, in a highly organised manner.

The trip to Ahmedabad and Bopal, to the beautiful MICA campus need another, dedicated write-up, for now suffice it to say that everything was executed on oiled wheels. Great administrative planning (except the mobile connection and that made up for all earlier efficiency!) amazing hospitality, where all parents partook of the lavish spread at lunch and munched on well-made sandwiches at tea, very good, airy, well-lit rooms with all the required furnishing, a lush green campus, benches made all across the sprawling acres, cheerful youngsters moving around in groups...all in all, a great place.

We returned home, happy and satisfied. The kid had found her vocation and, temporarily, her home.

But what does one do with the haunting sense of loneliness that seems to dog one's footsteps?

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P.S-The answer to my query came barely two days later-in the form of my ever-thoughtful sonny boy who suddenly walked in on our first week-end alone, brightening our lives and suffusing it with sunshine and laughter in immeasurable quantities.

The Loan Battle

(Note: For all those-if at all any-who venture to read this, let me warn you that this is a sequel to the previous post. To be forewarned is to be forearmed!)

Well, if I thought making a loan application was tough and involved a lot of paperwork, which was a one-time effort, I was wrong and how! That apparently was just the tip of the iceberg. Application filed, papers submitted, end of the story, I had naively thought. Now the moolah would come sprinting into my bank account and facilitate payment etc etc went on the happy refrain in my mind, but was I mistaken? It couldn’t have been further from the truth. Miles and miles away, come to think of it seriously. For about ten days down the line, on a subtle reminder from me (having found the coffers still piteously wanting) when I called the chappies at the bank, I was rewarded with a terse email. To the effect that my loan was held up due to deficient paper work, if you please! After I had sweated it out hunted high and low and coughed up every relevant document, not only had the fellows remained mum for days on end but now, when the monster was stirred so to say, had come up with this strategy of counter offence. No, they weren’t slow, my paperwork was incomplete; a fresh set of about five different kinds of papers were now demanded and the additional one-liner went on to add that the property I had applied for hadn’t been approved by them so this would take time. Could I please come to that site and submit the remaining documents for them to consider my application? This time I saw red. A clear, sparkling, mocking red, the kind used by matadors in friendly Spanish bull fights, I suspect. Not only was my project fully approved and hence the initial acceptance by the said bank-but I had never heard of this new project-the unapproved one-let alone have any idea of where their blighted site was. As folks close to me will vouch, when I see red, I see it well and proper-a shade too strong. The colour pretty much blinds the short-sight. Promptly, I called up the fellow dealing with this and made no bones about the way I felt. What did he mean by saying my application was found wanting? Where had all these new lists come from? Why wasn’t I given the list at one go? And why, if at all they were needed, had they waited for my reminder? Why hadn’t it come automatically? And, I thundered, warming to the theme as fresh details of the offending mail hurt the sensibilities yet again, what did he mean by saying now that my project wasn’t approved? I hadn’t even heard of this ABC project mentioned in his mail, mine was project XYZ. I then went on to add that I was not going to any site-ABC or XYZ-to hand over any documents. If they didn’t want to give the loan to me, they should just come out and say so and that would be it. There were other banks in the world. As I paused to take a breath, the long suffering fellow managed to get a word in, sideways. Profusely apologetic, he said the mail had been sent to me by mistake; it was meant for another lady who had applied for another loan for another property. Too many anothers, it seemed to me, except that this other lady-and the bumbling executive- had literally created havoc. Anyway, that did seem to get sorted out and I agreed to submit the additional 2 or 3 documents, by way of acceptance of the apology and ultimate display of magnanimity.

Then again, there was complete silence for days. Probably, these chaps work in fits or need constant reminders, I haven’t quite figured out which-but when I next called to politely enquire if my loan had been sanctioned (a considerable period having elapsed) I was shocked to hear that a lot of paperwork was needed before that happy day could dawn. In all the gibberish that ensued, words like non-judicial stamped paper, pre mortgage agreement, sanction letter trickled into the cerebrum but it was only when I visited their hallowed precincts did I realize that there was loads of stuff still to be signed and counter signed. When this was done, I was told only about half the work was done. Now armed with all the papers I would have to leg it to the builders’ office to get a third round of signatures, something called a TPT agreement, and 2 more vital documents from them, then return to the bank for the final ok. Only after this major song-and-dance act would I finally be eligible to get the cheque, whose date of payment was Monday May 31!! This was not all-before this could happen, the bank would first give me the loan sanction letter, which (here I could blithely have socked them) they could not issue that day, so would I please come the following day, collect it and only then proceed to the builders? Amazing, the amount of red tape that still exists, even in the private sector, and, in this world fast moving towards a paper-less existence where soft copies are the norm, why are we bogging ourselves down with these eminently avoidable hard copies, this fruitless paperwork?

A good point to ponder on, perhaps, but I'm no nearer a concrete solution........ Only the morrow will tell whether by pitching in personally, I will succeed in making a timely payment and not have to pay a penalty for late payment because the bank I went to couldn’t get its act together in time.

Whoever said Life was fair?? Or who knows, I might be eating my words tomorrow…..

The morrow: proved to be more hectic than I had envisaged: eleven AM saw me dutifully stationed at the bank, in front of the designated desk to collect the all-important sanction letter. Only, there was a twist in the tale. It seems there was this minor process of filling in a form, submitting it at the reception and then twiddling one’s thumbs till the powers-that-be (read the curt young lady at the counter) deigned to call your name. And what made the entire wait more killing was that i) one was aware that precious time was slipping by, the builders’ office where this sanction letter-among other papers-had to be deposited-functioned only half day on Saturdays ii) one could see that in between the numbered slips that she had-slips that she went through painfully slowly-there were hundreds of verbal queries that were being addressed out of queue. So while legitimate customers (reminded me of a rather off-key Hindi PJ which defined a customer as someone jo kasht se mar jaaye) stood around in the sweltering heat, biding their time, people kept popping in midway, gave their reference numbers and had their queries addressed with gay abandon. Anyway, every dog has his day, and finally yours truly managed to get her papers after a (im) patient wait. Eleven forty five, said the watch on my wrist as I raced out of the building. Twelve sharp saw me at the builders’ and here-contrary to expectations and earlier experiences-my work got done in a jiffy. The No objection certificate, the TPT agreement signed and stamped and the permission letter on a 100 rupee non-J stamped paper were all in my custody within twenty minutes or so. After duly signing at half a dozen odd places, I raced back again, on my way to the self-same bank, my third visit in two days.

More familiar with its ways, I zeroed in on the reception counter this time, asked for a form and filled in my ‘case’. Deposit of documents was the column I sagaciously ticked and without losing my patience or my cool, stood around quietly. Now, there was no hurry, no threatening timelines to be met. Let the lethargic system take its time. Of course, the need for the cheque to be made out by Monday was still there, but that was better than the half day closure deadline. Anyway, a good forty minutes later, I was summoned to the same desk as before and the three documents provided by the builders, the bank’s application form, copies of earlier installment receipts, the original allotment letter and a few others were all asked for. All that done, I was told that it would take at least Wednesday for the cheque to be ready. This meant way beyond the payment date, as I feared, but all my requests if this date could be advanced met with futility/shrugged shoulders. Finally, giving it up and giving in to the fact that things would take their course, at least I had the satisfaction that I had done the best I could, I wound my tired way towards the waiting car.

As I said before, Life isn’t fair. Though I'm still prepared to eat my words!

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Addendum, May 31: Just had dinner-ate my words!! And Life does seem to be fair, after all. :)

Home Loan

Well, nothing historic but a first of sorts and therefore merits mention on these hallowed pages; a veritable-and here, let me borrow ‘generously’ from sonny boy’s very apt description-chronicle of our times. For who knows, posterity might someday trace one’s lineage through these very pages…any way, that is not the point. The point I am trying to make is that the wheel that was set rolling on November 18, 2009 (which reminds me that that was already a historic day in our lives, the birthday as it is of the oldest kid of the next generation, on my side of the family) reached the logical next step today.

I applied for my first loan, a housing loan as it happens. And the tonnes of paper work that I had to wade through, the number of times I had to run up and down two floors to get more photocopies and signatures/stamps-and still end up missing on a couple of documents (which the guy hadn’t mentioned, can be said in my defence) makes sure this is also the last. Boy, do they dig up your history, geography, demography, lineage, future plans, finances, credit-worthiness and a lot of other stuff, all for the sake of doling out a little moolah?? No wonder, then, that once I had signed on the dotted line on page one and two and three-not to forget the signature across my not-so-smiling visage on the form-and on about a fifty other photo-copied sheets (bowing to the strange mandate of self-attestation) I heaved a huge sigh of relief and promised myself-never again!

And the entire exercise having taken a toll on my frayed nerves, I’ve decided to make this post really short and unsweet.

Cheers.

P.S-Looking back, April has not been the ‘cruelest month’ at all; rather, it’s been one of the sweetest: li’l Srishti having sailed through triumphantly into MICA!!

Name Game

The hunt was on. For a name for our first-born. Nothing sounded good enough-from Utkarsh to Aakash to several others. Either the spouse or I would find something amiss. And the little fellow turned from one day to one week and then to two, almost three weeks old and still remained nameless. Of course, this didn’t prevent him from coming up with new antics every day (turned in the direction of the TV no matter where you placed him on the bed, could recognize me and would look in my direction as I deliberately did a half circle of the room when he was 18 days old) but what took the cake-among his characteristics-was his complete refusal to sleep even a wink during the day time. No infant, my almost-sixty mom would wail in despair, had ever been seen who could defy sleep post a nice bath and a bottle of milk. As the empty feeding bottle fell in one direction, the sated baby was always seen to topple off in the opposite! But not so my little boy. All fresh and content, he would grin chirpily (and call it a harried young mother’s imagination-a mite cheekily) back at the world in general and me in particular, as if to say, what next? It was only when the day was done and it was well past 9 pm that the kiddo would finally show signs of dozing off.

To come back to where I had left off before these fond perambulations got the better of me, all these signs of energy and enthusiasm had to be attributed to a nameless infant because, in our striving for perfection, we simply couldn’t decide on a name. The Bard’s historical/rhetorical question notwithstanding. And so the quest for an appropriate name went on. Folks close to us came up with many suggestions but I would dismiss them all as not sounding quite right; not striking a chord within. The ‘look no further’ kind of feeling didn’t envelope one, if you get the drift. Till one day, a cousin of mine-a doctor by profession-with wisdom well belying her comparative youth, asked me point blank what all the fuss was about. “What difference,” she quipped “will it make what you name the baby? Give him a lovely name or call him Ganesh, it will all sound the same-with the appendage Prasad attached to it! Ganesh Prasad or whatever!!”

Call this what you will: winning candour, healthy disdain; for me it was a timely eye-opener! I sat up straight and did some serious introspection. All my life, I had maintained that I didn’t like this surname one bit but finally-and in the days when girls, with touching naiveté, changed their surnames-had changed mine after marriage. I was suddenly determined that my son would not be called Prasad; after all, the family name was Sinha and it was only because the dear spouse, in a moment of misplaced admiration for his grandfather, had got his surname changed from Sinha to Prasad (again in that golden era when all this could be done at the drop of a hat) that I had had to adopt this surname. No daughter-in-law of mine would have to do this, I promised myself. And, as if like a logical conclusion to this decision, the name Saagar reverberated in my mind. Out of nowhere! Just like that and that was it. Twenty one days old, and the little one finally had a name; in letters I wrote to dear cousins (in those good old days when letters were exchanged regularly) I expressed the fervent hope that (here I quote) ‘we’ve finally named him: Saagar and I hope that he has the potential of the unbounded seas, the vast oceans….’ I could never live down that hyperbole-the ribbing I received on being thus carried away was endless……..

This line of thought came unbidden to my mind, suddenly, this afternoon. At the venue of a corporate client, assessing a new set of middle-management guys for determining their level of proficiency in the language and assigning batches to them, I was circulating the attendance sheet for them to sign on. There were eight names in my list but nine people in the room. When the paper was passed to the chap whose name wasn’t there, he added his name to the list and signed with a flourish-Ganesh Prasad.

The wheel had come full circle.

Life through the Metro

Fridays have become special of late. No, not because they mark the end of a grueling week; not even because they herald the start of the much-awaited week-end, but because, on Fridays, I’ve begun commuting to work on the Metro. Practical wisdom and logistic considerations were behind this apparent sagacity but this routine has given me a special insight into the world around me. It has also added a certain clockwork precision to our movements on this day, a sense of challenge as it were; so all in all, it’s very satisfying.

9.00 AM and the spouse and I are in the car, headed for Noida City Centre, our friendly, neighbourhood Metro station. Eight minutes down the line, we’re at the place and then onwards, it’s work divided. I alight from the car at the point where he turns it towards the parking lot and scale the steps to go to the ticket counter to purchase the tokens. One for him, for Rajiv Chowk in New Delhi (no less!) the other for the humbler Sector 15 within Noida which is my destination. On days that the tokens are in different colours (read light and dark blue), it’s simple distinguishing them, on those when they’re the identical dark blue, it’s a lot of strategy (always keeping his in the right hand, mine in the left) and concentration (J) that help me remember which one’s whose and avoid needless confusion.

The next five minutes are spent waiting for him to show up, simultaneously keeping an eye on the hands of the watch as they creep inexorably close to 9.17 and wondering, for the nth time, whether we’ll make it in time. And then the familiar figure ambles into view, the token quickly exchanges hands and we join our respective queues in a jiffy. A quick, customary frisking, the bags chucked into the x-ray machine, collected at the other end and we’re on the escalator in a trice, moments of suspense ensuing before the sight of the sleek train still standing at the platform, reassures us. Two minutes later, we’re in the cool welcoming interiors, and I marvel, yet again, at the huge numbers this mode of transport accommodates and renders lives convenient for and also, in the bargain, the enormous respite it provides to the bursting-at-the seams traffic of the capital’s roads………………....Darwazon se hut kar khade hon/please stand clear of the doors…….breaks my reverie and we’re off. At 9.17 sharp.

Noida through the Metro, looks quite different from what it does from the car. The aerial view of the vast expanse of the sprawling Golf Club is very impressive and a far cry from the cursory glimpse it normally gives the average commuter. Then, there’s a tantalizing view of the GIP (Great India Place for the uninitiated) as the tube rail swerves gracefully to the right, heading for the Botanical Garden stop. Next, it’s the bustling Sector 18 station and then we cross the educational hub of Noida-the area that houses the IMSes and the T.I.M.Es of the world-Sector 16-finally reaching my chosen destination. I collect my stuff and prepare to disembark, merging once again with the nameless crowd....................

Each time, this turns out to be a truly edifying experience that gives me ample food for thought. Right from the time I board the train, I become, at once, a part of the melee and yet, in a curious way, a dispassionate bystander. I watch folks grab seats and also those who don’t get them, stand by without rancour, never is there a confrontation or an argument. In this hurly-burly of Life, each individual seems engrossed in his/her own thoughts, the day’s plans surely unfolding before the eyes, absorbed, distracted, concentrating, focused depending on different mindsets/situations. But in the midst of it all, there’s still a connect with the people around and after every stop I observe this happening. Many a myth is exploded, as I notice youngsters offering their seats to older people and men voluntarily-albeit a trifle sheepishly-giving up the Ladies seat they were occupying when they behold a lady standing. Once, when I vacated my seat for an older lady, she thanked me profusely but insisted on making place-the person next to her shifted willingly-and managed to keep me-stranger on a train- seated till my stop came.

In an age where we dub youth callous, I see young folks happily giving up their seats to seniors; when stories of communal tension hit the headlines frequently, I’ve watched a middle-aged man get up and offer his seat to an older man-very obviously belonging to a minority community…all a part of daily life: of the average Indian-the middle-class Indian-who is the mainstay of the nation and who bears, on his fragile shoulders, the grave responsibility of steering the country forward with its set values and legendary solidarity intact.

There’s hope yet-despite all the anti-social activities: the road rage, the mindless violence, terrorism and the divisive policies of self-serving politicians, there’s hope yet

For, the wise cross section of India-its vast majority- is still where it should be. Its spirit overcomes all divisions; it prevails at all times because this majority still thinks right and believes in the oneness of this great nation.

Happy New Year

The metaphor for December seems to hold good for January as well. This month, except for the biting cold-but I shall dwell on that aspect a little later-turned out to be equally enjoyable if not a shade livelier. To mark the beginning of the year, there was a hurried brunch-meet at a dear cousin’s, where one caught up with a couple of more long-lost siblings of hers and generally had a rollicking time. It was a morning of inane banter, marked mostly by peals of laughter, as our minds meandered into myriad memories…with very little of coherent conversation.

But the best was yet to come.

Slated for the January 24 was our elder brother (lovingly called Big B by us-since much before the slightly more famous personality came to be called by that name-when he’s not being referred to as Bhai Kumar) and Bhabhi were organizing a house-warming party, combined with the celebration for their silver wedding anniversary, which is a month down the line, and for the rest of us, siblings (read Manoj, Leena and yours truly) this was a much-awaited event. Undeterred by the chill of Delhi, its horrible, foggy environs, we were all set to brave the elements and wing our way to the commercial capital of the country-all the fog, smog and what-have-you notwithstanding. Getting a taste of warmer climes was an added attraction. While on the subject, I might as well linger, though briefly, on the cold, frosty weather that seemed to’ve settled on us with the advent of 2010. Now one could figure out where dear Keats was coming from when he moaned “Ah bitter chill it was …..!”Even the likes of us-normally disdainful of those who smother themselves with woolens, were guilty of sporting layers of the same stuff. A cardigan, a thick coat a shawl thrown around the shivering shoulders for good measure-not to forget the woolen socks and well-shod feet-at times, were piteously inadequate to ward off the biting cold. The room heater, the blower, the radiator all found pride of place in their respective rooms, and the time till dinner-when one had to, perforce, keep awake-was a bitter battle with the insidious cold. The evening meal became an ordeal even for those who are partial to food, as being snugly ensconced in the inviting warmth of the quilt seemed irresistible. Piping hot beverages and nourishing soups ran high on the list of favourites, all else paled into insignificance before the all-pervasive, ever-encompassing chill. I shuddered each time I thought of the poor and the homeless-how did they withstand the vagaries of the season? Or did they, being much more stoic, accept it all as part of life?

To come back to the Bombay do, it was a very special event, every detail planned meticulously, executed with oiled-wheel efficiency and enjoyable beyond imagination. On Saturday, we converged on Santa Cruz airport-six people from six different directions: sonny boy from the City of Joy, I managing to reach the airport at the precise moment that he stepped out of the terminal, thereby giving a new meaning to the term perfect timing. Little(?) Leena joined us moments later and within minutes of her arrival, another youngster, Rahul this time, zeroed in, coming directly from his summer internship. Big B-having been stuck in a royal traffic jam, sauntered in next, after having spent an unenviable two hours trying to cover the driving distance of twenty minutes. Last but definitely not least, Master Manoj, who landed a little later, after having spent four hours inside the aircraft in Delhi waiting for take-off!! A veritable (albeit partial) family reunion that would have given movies down south a run for their money!!

From then onwards, it was fun galore. Absolute, undiluted, unlimited happiness! The apartment was plush, the careful planning and eye for detail done so thoughtfully by Bhabhi-to make a brand new flat comfortable-was admirable. Sheer bliss was ours as the four of us chatted nineteen to the dozen, while the chirpy, bright lads of the next generation, Saagar and Rahul, added exponentially to the enjoyment quotient by providing interesting perspective to our endless chatter. The day just flew past, as we walked down Memory Lane, emerging in between from the nostalgia to take a literal walk through the impressive premises. The elegantly landscaped, lush green park was particularly beautiful and photos were clicked by and of everyone: mobiles having made our lives that much more convenient.

The evening was even more delightful as, by then, Bhabhi and Kunal had joined the merry group, after grueling schedules. It was one continuum-of happy moments. And true to the progression of the superlative following the comparative-a la good, better, best-the luncheon on Sunday took the cake, in terms of pure enjoyment. All the family that we have in Bombay was there-one or two ‘surprise’ entries included whose unexpected arrival was marked by delighted squeals and then the babble of voices completely took over. Folks fell into small groups, catching up with one another and voices reached such a decibel that Bhabhi, with insightful amusement, wondered how many sounds were actually distinguishable!! I nodded my head in bemused agreement, sweeping the room with an indulgent look. Then, sounds were in abeyance for a while, as delicious lunch took over, and the tempting fare saw us all attacking it with gusto. More chatter, reverberating guffaws, beautiful mementos given as leave-taking began and a few folks, including young Saagar, left.

The ones who remained suddenly realized that the signature event of most Sharan dos was conspicuous by its absence. No songs, no breaking into lyrical melodies! The situation was salvaged and the ball set rolling by-on popular demand-none other than Bhai Kumar. Despite the unplanned nature of the session, a series of very well-chosen numbers ensued; his famous dil aaj shayar hai to be followed by Bhabhi humming two lines of the splendidly apt hans ke bola karo bulaya karo, aapka ghar hai aaya jaaya karo, setting the mood for times to come. Leena followed suit with the melodious-and eminently appropriate-rendition of Jab koi baat bigad jaaye ……tum dena saath mera o humnawa. The older generation was admirably represented by our enthusiastic Chote Mama who soulfully sang the evergreen aaya hai mujhe phir yaad woh zalim, transporting us back a few decades. It was but inevitable that finally, the scanner should turn on Manoj and me but we dexterously succeeded in diverting it. However, on repeated urging, I reaslised that this was not the time for fussing and thinking of one’s ability/inability to sing; the occasion was too special for that. So I started with a song that’s almost a family anthem, aati rahengi baharein, to be very sweetly-and perhaps not so surprisingly after all-joined by Manoj from the other end of the room. All the time Kunal and Rahul, from their chosen vantage points, were busy recording the musical interlude.

An utterly refreshing, rejuvenating event that rendered January as marvellous, as special as dear December.