This one's for you, Son

January 8: I go to bed early as I have to leave for Bombay, early next morning.

 

January 9-2 AM: I get a call. Sonny boy says cryptically, “I lack B.” What?” I ask as I am completely flummoxed. Groggy from sleep and slow on the uptake (not to forget the fact that I’m quite out of sync with Gen Y’s jargon) it takes a few moments for the penny to drop. Or, perhaps, sonny spelt it out for me- the events of the next few moments are not quite lucid. All I recall is I let out a yell of unconcealed delight even at that unearthly hour. He had cleared the formidable CAT and got calls from five IIMs-Indore, Lucknow, Ahmedabad, Calcutta and Kozhikode. Not from Bangalore (hence the I LACK B) I could scarce believe the enormity of his achievement. Sheer rapture enveloped us all. (And all of us kept wide awake till dawn-excitement having banished sleep quite effectively!)

 

The next two months passed in a frenzy of interviews. The poor fellow was perpetually donning his smart, black suit and pin-striped tie and-looking elegant and dashing-dashing off in different directions:

February 17-  Kozhikode- IMI, Qutb Industrial area

February 18-Indore-Indian Social Institute, Lodhi Road

March 5-Lucknow-IIM Lucknow Noida Campus

March 7-Ahmedabad- IIFT Qutb Industrial area

March10-XLRI (whose results had come in between) YWCA, CP

March 14-Calcutta-IMI, Qutb Industrial area

 

And finally the ordeal was over. Of always having to sport a clean-shaven look, keeping trimmed hair and above all, and especially with summer knocking on the door, still stoically wearing the afore-mentioned, black, woollen suit.

 

Then, a lull as we kept our fingers crossed. And how! Every minute of the day, hope and expectation loomed large on the heart’s horizon: surely. he would make it? Yet, sometimes, despite all the confidence in the youngster’s ability and élan, a nebulous apprehension would rear its ugly head. What if……? But faith would triumph.

 

March 26: “I made it to XLRI” came the thrilling message and I was euphoric.

 

But the best was yet to come.

 

April 9- I went to bed late as I had returned from a day’s trip to Bombay.

 

April 10-“Calcutta converted” his opening words on phone sounded like manna from heaven. He had cracked IIM Calcutta! I was ecstatic and barely listening to the rest-Lucknow, Indore, Kozhikode too-I was yelling and shouting and generally going crazy.

On cloud nine, eighteen, twenty seven…exponentially. What a memorable day!

 

Proud of you, my son: really, deeply, inexpressibly proud. Thank you, Saagar, and a big God Bless (and a bigger thank you to Him, for having made this possible)

P.S-Calcutta, I love you even more now.(Hadn't I said, around a month ago, that the umbilical cord with Cal had never been severed?!)

Laundry blues

The other day, driving in the vicinity of the railway station, I was transfixed by a once-familiar, now fast receding, visual image: rows and rows of laundry spread out to hang on fences, grassy patches, railway tracks and every other conceivable bit of space available. Those bales of clothes, flying wantonly in the midday sun, conjured up memories from the past…memories long forgotten, of those other days, those days that are no more. A sight at once familiar and alien….familiar because that’s a vista we’ve grown up with-endless stretches covered with whites and coloured clothes- in carefully segregated columns-a lot of times, and very inexplicably, along railway tracks (always made us speculate on the fundamental question of their being rendered cleaner or dirtier in the bargain!) and alien because we no longer encounter this sight in the city’s chic, urbane landscape. The vision reminded me of an almost disappeared species of professionals: the quintessential arbiter of the above-mentioned scene-the friendly neighbourhood dhobi who seems to have vanished off the face of the earth now!

Come Sundays and every home experienced this weekly routine of the arrival of the washer-man.-the familiar figure looming on the horizon, either on foot or on a rickety bike-depending on his economic status-a bundle of clothes on his head/carrier. No sooner had he been sighted than the housewife would scurry for her diary where she would have meticulously noted down the assortment of clothes that had been given the week before-for different purposes. There were those to be washed and ironed, some to be ironed alone (istri ke kapde) while others-typically the whites-to be dipped in indigo and starched before being ironed. Then again, there was that rough and tough variety of raiment-generally the towels, bed sheets, bed covers, thin rugs that had to be put into the bhhatti (the furnace no less!)-from which ordeal other, more delicate fabrics, had to be protected….such was the specialization involved in this careful art. The tallying of the clothes was the first step when the garments came home-done with utmost precision: shirts-4 trousers-5 saree-3 so on and so forth, till suddenly the peaceful scene would get transformed into an acrimonious one as the housewife detected a flaw in the perfect surroundings. Invariably, she would discover that the tattered rag through which she was beholding the world at large was part of the table linen she had been so proud of or the discoloured yellow dress on top of the pile was the sky-blue party frock she had bought (stretching her modest budget and incurring the spouse’s wrath in the process ) for dear daughter’s sixth birthday just a month before Sometimes, a saree would be missing or an old white shirt that had been sent for the innocuous purpose of istri cleverly substituted for a brand new one …………and all hell would break loose. The irate housewife would rave and rant, the intrepid dhobi would refuse to budge from his stance-yeh to aise hi condition mein tha/aapne saree galti se likh liya hai/ yeh to aapka hi shirt hai….depending on what the item under discussion was. But woe betide the fellow if, sometimes, his dhobun was caught red-handed, attired in the selfsame missing saree…then even he would have the grace to not show up for the next two Sundays. All in all-and the fracas notwithstanding-the fellow was indispensable and school-going kids like us when singled out as examples of wearing spotlessly clean uniforms knew who to thank for the impeccable look.

Well those days are long gone and buried-that breed has now disappeared. All we are left with are the synthetic replacement-the all too familiar iron wallah who resides in every society worth its name. These are people euphemistically called dhobis but they do not render the yeoman service that their forerunners did. All this modern version does is collect your clothes every morning and bring them back the same evening, duly ironed. No more. The luxury of a spotlessly white bed sheet, starched and ironed, or a crisp white dress-made of the finest cotton fabric-with liberal quantities of starch-shimmering-with-mica which would be the envy of every girl within hearing distance …are all things of the past. Now we dunk everything arbitrarily into the washing machine and have to make do with whatever it spews out after the pre-determined time interval. The starch and neel ceremony is almost obsolete…a luxury only a few have the time, inclination or the space for.

As I think of the dear old dhobi/dhoban, I’m also reminded of a few other tradesmen/specialized folks who’ve long since become conspicuous by their absence. For instance the khaki-clad, liveried postman-his cap tilted at a rakish angle- whose arrival always heralded joy because it meant a postcard or an inland letter (more outdated concepts) or even a greeting card from a dear one…… or the bearded fellow in a chequered lungi, his meshed wicker-basket precariously perched on his bike carrying a brood of hens-the murghi-seller- as he made his door-to-door rounds of families given to non-vegetarian delights. But what delighted and interested children the most was the arrival of the local egg-seller (yes, eggs actually came to your doorstep!) carrying fresh desi eggs, straight from their home-grown poultry outfit, with a flavour that was indescribably yummy. No subsequent farm eggs could ever match that taste. Children would scamper to the kitchen and come to the veranda carrying a pan of water. Then would follow a time-tested ritual, the litmus test to gauge the freshness of eggs: the water test. If the egg sank to the bottom of the pan, it was good to go; all the ones that floated to the surface had to be replaced. This was a fascinating exercise and in many homes, kids took turns to be allowed the privilege. The delicate constitution of eggs precluded the very young, much to their chagrin, and they had to bide their time.

Well, those days are definitely part of the long-forgotten past, but at times one does muse over that era and wonder: how much lost and how much gained?

Oh Calcutta!

Some trips are banal, some interesting, some plain dull. The trip I made recently was none of these-it was very special-it was a trip down memory lane.

A cousin’s wedding in a remote part of the country necessitated travel in that direction. Coming from a family with strong bonds as we do, all four of us, siblings, decided to attend, a bonus of the trip being we would drive through the place which was paradise for us: Maithon Dam, a tiny place nestling amidst hills and abundant greenery, the river Barakar meandering lazily through it and lending an indefinable air of serenity, a picturesque beauty, was situated strategically between two states-Bihar and Bengal and had a fine blend of both cultures, the latter predominating. The name came from a famous Durga temple-Mai Sthan, which gradually gave way to the more practical Maithon-but its claim to fame was that it housed Asia’s first underground hydel power station, apart from being home to the country’s first thermal power project-the DVC. Our father had been transferred there when the littlest sibling was a few months short of three and had stayed on for two decades; this had ensured that Maithon was synonym for home and signified all that was happy and idyllic. It was our heaven and our haven from the big, bad world-pristine in its beauty, untouched and unspoilt.

But I’m digressing. This post is not about Maithon at all, but about the intentions of going there-which remained just that: an intent. Finally, instead of all of us, just the older sibling and I managed this circuitous feat of attending the marriage and though we couldn’t visit Maithon, we did the next best thing: spent a morning of sheer nostalgia gallivanting on the roads of Calcutta.

Now, if Maithon was home, Calcutta was second home to us, as trips to Bengal's capital were fairly frequent, even in that era when traveling had not really caught up. For one, Papa kept going on tour and we would accompany him whenever possible, for another, almost all major exam centres were at Cal, so a couple of trips happened with this objective alone. And the umbilical cord with Calcutta never got severed because both the brothers worked there at one point of time or another-the younger one for years, literally. So we graduated from the guest house on Camac street to the one on Gurusaday road and then spent a fun-filled holiday at 3 B Little Russel street where Bhaiya’s fully furnished (chef-included) chummery was located. Oh those were the days-as we spent a lovely week, visiting all the fun places that were unknown quantities in good ole Maithon-video game and ice cream parlours, A.C markets, the Cookie Jar, Sub Zero and many other dearly loved haunts. Then came young Manoj’s turn and centrally located as his posh J.Thomas apartment was, we had a whale of a time, moving around the well-loved streets. Ballygunge market, Tolly Club, Chinese meals at Tangra, rides in the Metro, which had come by then, and generally chilling were the k constants of these visits.

And then the move to Delhi happened. For us as well as Manoj. (Bhaiya, in any case, had moved to amchi Mumbai years before) so Calcutta was forsaken. But only from the active mind. It occupied a very special place in some corner of the heart where memories lingered. And so it transpired one February morning, as Bhaiya, Bhabhi and I were in this city, we decided to put our time to best use. We made a recce of all the places we had frequented and tried eating all the delicacies that this gourmet’s paradise has provided through the decades.

We started with dropping in at Golden Spoon, somewhere on Middleton Row and passed Peter Cat en route. The former, legendary for its delicious rolls was just stirring to the demands of the new day and, very apologetically, its polite proprietor asked us to return after an hour. Our next stop was at Lowden street-the famed Cookie Jar which has justifiably- so as not to compromise on its sublime quality-restricted itself to just 4 branches, and bought an assorted variety of tarts and pastries. The ones to die for were the lemon tarts: oh the mouth-melting quality of those tarts, no words can do justice to them! Mutton patties and chicken rolls were picked up in a vain attempt to fill the void created by Golden Spoon’s missing rolls. Most of the stuff was packed with an eye on the journey later in the day, as lunch was slated to be taken at another favourite haunt. This time, the car wove its way through the lanes and by lanes-on the way stopping by at the aforementioned 3 B and actually looking at the Metal Box chummery, going to Kusum apartments and taking a look at the building that had housed the DVC guest house and finally finding our way in Ho Chi Minh sarani, till we zeroed in on Jyoti Vihar, a small joint that was famous for the excellent south-Indian food that it churned out. Nothing had changed-from the unassuming exterior (one could have missed it if one wasn’t so focused) to the superb menu. The idlis were as soft as ever, the butter paper masala dosas as crisp and the filling as tasty as before and the vadas and coffee that Bhaiya had did credit to the establishment, as in the days of yore. Apart from the gastronomical delights offered, there was ample food for thought (and the soul too) -the heartening realisation that some things have remained constant in this world of flux and change, was really reassuring.

The drive to the station meant a panoramic view of Eden gardens-India's biggest stadium that can seat about 7 lakh people- that every true Calcuttan swears by and the magnificent Victoria Memorial which can give the Taj a run for its money (have I over-done it this time?) Not to forget the two beautiful buildings almost opposite each other-the red grandeur of the Calcutta High court vying for attention with the impressive design of Government House on Netaji Subhash road. The GPO was another imposing structure we crossed, the style and colour definitely reminiscent of colonial-style architecture and further ahead, Writer’s building, another impressive monument in the City of joy. Grindlay's Bank, up ahead, caught Bhaiya's attention as he had done a summer internship there many summers earlier. (It had a different name but who cared? And what's in a name anyway??) Till finally, the Howrah bridge loomed majestically into sight and we knew we had reached destination point.

Just as the Metro is a reminder of how some changes have happened, despite the general feeling that Calcutta hasn’t developed quite as much as it should have (true largely in the conspicuous absence of industries) but there are still some positives seen when you’re driving in from the airport. Science city, Nicco Park, Nalban…all catch one's attention but what really strikes one is the impressive IT hub, with its modern, glass-finish buildings and their sprawling campuses. The South City mall or the one at Salt Lake also get noticed as one drives past, making a mark that Calcutta has changed: and not in name alone.

The 20 hour stay at Cal ended all too soon but not before providing me with sufficient ammo-memories to see me through a few more decades.  

Unanswered questions

My frequent trips in and out of Delhi have a typical pattern. Leaving home in the wee hours of the morning, legging it to the airport just in time for check in, not really ‘checking-in’ anything as-more often than not-these business trips see me back by the end of the day. At the airport, once the initial formality is over, I join the queue crawling for security check; bags, laptops, mobiles and sundry items being piled randomly on the conveyor belt and disappearing mysteriously into the waiting x-ray machine is a sight that never fails to fascinate me, despite the nth viewing. In fact, being a solitary traveler has its distinct advantages and gives me a certain edge over others. I become a keen observer, a part of the milieu yet not really a part of it-on the periphery, if you get the drift-looking at people with a measure of objectivity, my self-imposed, situation-driven silence lends a different perspective to everything. In my typically detached manner I scan the all-too-familiar surroundings: I notice an elderly gentleman being helped into the wheel chair by an attendant while his better half, her grey head bent in consternation, tries to balance the unwieldy hand baggage delicately on his knees, as she shuffles forward with difficulty or a naughty boy playing truant and eluding the clutches of his harried mother…sometimes my eyes linger for a moment on a cheerful crowd of youngsters as they wait for the boarding call, exchanging loud banter, laughter and on some rare occasions, even singing their way through their ennui. This sight often transports me to the times when we, as a family, had gone on similar trips and enjoyed life to the hilt……….. till the robotic announcement for boarding breaks my reverie and brings me back. I join the serpentine line in front of the designated gate, wondering, each time, why some folks try to edge in sideways just in order to be ahead of others. What strange psychology drives such behaviour? Where will getting into the waiting bus or the plane a minute earlier, get them? There’s enough space on the buses that ply to the aircraft, and inside it, the seats are assigned so what’s their hidden agenda? To date, I haven’t been able to figure this out.

These all-too-familiar sights of scurrying passengers, whizzing in and out of airports, the endless line of cabbies waiting on the tarmac outside, the zillions of placards being flashed before one’s eyes as one saunters out, have become a part of the psyche. These overwhelming masses of human beings have transformed our airports into veritable railway stations-if one is to go by sheer numbers alone-and this is a clear indicator of one thing; it fits in perfectly with catchy slogans like India shining or words to that effect. It has done wonders for our collective morale and added to a (false??) sense of well-being and prosperity that most of us harbour.

But the drive back home promptly and effectively dispels any such rosy illusions that I may have begun to labour under. At every traffic light, the car is surrounded by hordes of ill-clad, emaciated children-with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes-hunger and despair writ large in them. This vision completely belies the earlier sense of false comfort and pride and all those clichéd tall claims seem completely undone. Have we truly arrived? Are we where we should be? Can this marginal betterment of a minuscule section of society be dubbed true progress? These and similar disquieting thoughts plague me as I introspect on a myriad related questions. All the pale-faced women, infants perched precariously on their hips, creating a melee around vehicles parked at red lights-uttering strings of inane words learnt by rote-blessing entire generations of those who happen to be their benefactors-bring you back to harsh reality with a jolt. On the one hand we have women CEOs, economists, bureaucrats, diplomats, scientists, entrepreneurs-not to mention those running NGOs with their Bachpan bachao and Nari Sarakshan Kendras but even in the nation’s capital-and a state administered by a woman to boot-the plight of these women is lamentable! Where is the ‘shining’ attribute in this dark, dismal scenario, bang in the middle of the Delhi of the twenty first century? With 25 5 % of the country’s population-a staggering 236 million- still subsisting below the poverty line, can we afford to be complacent about our so-called ‘advancement’? How can the gap be bridged? Where should a beginning be made? What would be a step-albeit a small one- in the right direction?

As I mull over these vexing queries, the 45-minute drive is over and I reach home. No closer to any solution and none the wiser for all my pondering.

Tables Turned

Ever since I can remember, there's one sobriquet that has stuck to me; perhaps, not unjustifiably. And that is the ‘Springer of surprises’. I think right from those nascent days when half-baked wisdom dawned in some nebulous part of the brain, I loved surprising people. To me, life was defined in the number of surprises I could spring. On family, friends, dear ones et al...and as I grew older and tried to analyse the psychology, I arrived at the conclusion that this instinct unerringly stemmed from one single fact: I loved spreading happiness in my own little way. So whether it was getting Mummy's long-awaited Agatha Christie book finally issued from the Club library or buying the old Pankaj Mullick LP record Papa spoke so longingly of, to picking up my siblings' favourite games/clothes/books (pocket and  opportunity permitting; live as we did in a quaint, out-of-this-world place, where proper shopping complexes were unheard-of) or even after age and maturity had set in (and I had the good fortune of living in the same city where my parents settled down after retirement)- to not mentioning any sibling's travel plans and organising a surreptitious pick-up from the station/airport without telling the parents because that was the ultimate treat for them. And savouring the wonderful moment when their eyes would light up and their faces glow with sheer joy, on suddenly seeing a loved offspring in front of them: a completely unannounced, unplanned arrival. Once the excitement died down, Mummy would go into a tizzy wondering how she could rustle up a good meal at such short notice but this confusion would be short lived. Once she went into the kitchen to check what provisions were available, she would be suitably surprised to see that a good meal had been arranged and the old retainer was busy giving it the finishing touches. (Dessert included. And most of the time it would be a particular favourite of the visiting individual)

In short, Life trundled along pretty much full of surprises, most of them engineered by me (Most of my friends, when scribbling their tearful farewell messages in tomes euphemistically called ‘autograph’ books, made a reference to this penchant of mine. Some even went so far as to suggest that they would remember me only for being such a sucker for surprises!) By and by, though, many who came in contact with me acquired this habit, as they too saw it as a harmless way of ensuring good cheer and joy all around.

The only problem that folks close to me encountered was that-though I was the original lover of surprises- it was tough to surprise me. Always thinking ahead of different possibilities, I would get suspicious if I saw anyone lingering uncharacteristically over a job or taking longer than required over a task and promptly ferret out what was cooking. Over the years, another familiar tag stuck to me (largely self-generated I confess!): I couldn't be surprised-I would manage to sniff out every feeble attempt made by any hapless soul attempting to do this.

Till last Sunday, when every tall claim made by me, every smug assumption was shattered into a thousand smithereens (though very pleasantly for me). My son, home for the winter break, had been insisting that we go for this ‘wonderful tweed exhibition’ that he had visited the previous day and been extremely impressed by. Now, having invited my siblings and their families for dinner that evening, I was in no mood to go gallivanting off to some vague embassy fete, half way across the NCR, but Saagar is seldom as emphatic as he was that day. I kept hoping that the habitual late riser that he is, his enthusiasm would cool once he realised he had woken up too late to go out and return by early afternoon (my stern stipulation) but such hopes were dashed when he was up at the crack of dawn (read 10 am) reiterating the programme mooted the day before. This time I tried alternate strategy, pointing out that Srishti's exams were on and she shouldn't waste time, especially as she was bound to do that at dinner that evening and suggesting that she should refrain from accompanying us. This would, I hoped, weaken his resolve, as leaving poor li’l sis all alone on a Sunday would melt a heart of stone. But it didn't work: the lady in question declared, with touching confidence, that oh she had studied everything for the exam the night before and the young man endorsed the fact that he saw no problem in her accompanying us. The spouse, of course, was all game because visions of a smart tweed jacket floated before his eyes and nothing galvanizes him into action quite as fast as shopping for winter-wear in general and tweed in particular!

When it was quite clear that the programme could not be sabotaged (there were three formidable adversaries) I capitulated with good grace. Giving a hundred and one instructions to the maid to make preparations for the evening party (some headway had already been made the day before, careful planner that I am) I got ready, only to be mildly reproached by daughter dear, who felt my outfit was too casual for a formal fete (an oxymoron if ever there was one!) Adhering to her suggestion, I changed into something that seemed passable, to be told by sonny boy, half an hour later, that even diplomats were expected at these places so perhaps the chirpy red West side T shirt I had cheerfully donned wasn't quite appropriate. Wisely accepting that the kids were now grown up and knew a thing or two about social graces, I changed into a formal shirt-though, pitifully, the colour was not in tandem with the trousers. As this was getting to be more and more like a military exercise-we had to return home by 2.30 pm, thanks to someone having said that he would be visiting us at that appointed time-I kept urging the kids to hurry up and leave so that we would be back in good time. In my heart of hearts, I knew there was a better reason for the hurry to return-I wanted my afternoon rest before gearing up for a busy evening-with its share of some marathon cooking.

We left at 11.45 am and despite Srishti's repeated urging that he should drive slowly, Saagar kept the speed at a consistent 60 k mph. Once in a way, either the spouse or I would also remind him to go slow and he would release the accelerator but the general drift is that we made good speed. The Chanakyapuri area was where we had to go-he said he knew the place in his mind's eye though he didn't know the exact address. Well that didn't matter, reaching the place was all that was important and he enlightened us that he would manage to do that. En route, other than reminding him to go slower and inquiring every now and then how far away we were from destination point, Srishti pretty much kept her counsel, till suddenly, as Saagar slowed down and almost stopped at the gate of a place called Sikkim House, she piped in vehemently, “This is not the place!” Now you could have knocked me down with a feather; perhaps that statement needs a bit of explanation. The young lady in question is one who has no clue about directions and whose only claim to road sense is, perhaps, knowing the way from home to college and back. This, if nothing else before or subsequently, should have made me smell a rat, but I was completely oblivious to all the tell-tale signs that had been presenting themselves from the start of day. How or why on earth did Srishti have a say in the matter? What idea could she possibly have of where we were going? I did say as much and she commented that brother dear had described the place in great detail to her (why on earth, I didn't think) The long and the short of it was that though a trifle annoyed, Saagar honoured her outburst and didn't stop the car. In the process he took another wrong turn (earlier he had taken a U turn where it was not allowed) and we were speeding away on a track, untrodden heretofore. A lively argument ensued, each passing the buck and blaming the other for our pitiable state. I couldn't figure out how the lad, who had been there just a day before and who’s pretty clued-on about roads, could be so befuddled now but decided to go with the flow. On the second recci, we crossed the same building again and this time, with growing confidence, Saagar suddenly declared that that was the place. Well, this didn't seem like an embassy, I demurred but his stout rejoinder was,’ This is where I had parked my car yesterday”, and confidently turned into the gate of the deserted-looking building, which bore no signs of hosting a fete of any kind, let alone one as impressive as the type organised at embassies.

Trying my best to locate a fair of any kind now, I looked around and, to my immense surprise, perceived a human figure standing on the slope that led into the bhawan. Now, one sees human figures all the time, in all places, but what aroused my keen interest at that particular moment was because it happened to be that of my one and only sister and seeing her suddenly in the middle of nowhere-if you know what I mean-filled me with pleasurable surprise. I jumped out of the car even before he had finished parking it and expressed sentiments like fancy meeting her there or words to that general effect. She explained that she was there to meet a colleague and was now about to proceed to Vigyan bhawan to see her minister. Good, I said, that we had caught her in the nick of time, or another extra reconnoiter on Delhi roads and we would’ve missed her. Yes, she agreed, ostensibly heading towards a waiting white ambassador. Just then, I espied a sleek white Honda City driving into the humble gate and finding an uncanny resemblance, turned to my sister and said sotto voce “Omigod! The driver looks so much like Manoj!”(Our brother) She grinned inanely and before she could say anything, I noticed the man seated in the passenger seat of the car and almost did a double take: for it was my elder brother, from Bombay! What was happening? What was all this? By now, Manoj had stepped out of the car, family in tow, and had uttered the magic words “Happy Birthday!” 

The penny finally dropped! These chappies had got me to this place, on the flimsiest of pretexts, to celebrate my birthday which had been 4 days before. They had deliberately driven around killing time and Srishti’s desperate intervention had been made to delay our arrival (privy as she was to superior information coming every minute on her cell phone) and Saagar, smartly having caught on that she was trying to create perfect timing for the rendezvous, had chosen to take us on a prolonged drive. Once we made our way into the hall, we were met by my brother-in-law, who was absolutely sure that the surprise must have been revealed hours earlier. He was more than surprised to learn that I hadn’t guessed a thing right till the very last moment and even then, thought that it was a family lunch. But more pleasant surprises were to follow, as in two’s and three’s, many of my/the spouse’s dear cousins and their families began trickling in at regular intervals, resulting in more squeals of amazement and joyous laughter. Just when I would think the gathering was complete, in would walk another couple/family-oh the feeling was too rapturous to be put into words! The whole scene was reminiscent of the ‘aaj zamin pe utare itne sitare hain…’ if I may be allowed to be a little audacious in my comparison, as more and more folks sauntered in.

My cup of joy was brimming. Manoj singled me out and informed me how the kids had done the entire planning. He had tried suggesting that the party should be organised in his new home, but they had been adamant. No, the treat was on them, thanks a lot, but they would host it. So they had chosen a third place (had been ably assisted at every juncture by their Mausi) and, he went on to add with pride, they had saved for months to foot the bill. They had not taken their dad into confidence knowing his congenital inability to keep secrets and, confessed my brother a little sheepishly, he too hadn’t been calling me since a week earlier as he hadn’t trusted himself to not give away the closely guarded strategy. I felt a lump in my throat as I thought of all the meticulous planning the children must have done, the counting of funds, the lowered voices on phone, the extraction of phone numbers from my cell phone, the issuing of invitations (later I was told that the plan had been swung into motion weeks before and an excel sheet had been duly created to track progress) and all the time the sword of discovery-by their gimlet-eyed mom-looming over their heads. These kids, whom I was always reprimanding for being too laidback or lacking in organization, had pulled the rug from right under my feet. They had organised a terrific do, the kind I could never have imagined-a first for them-and done it in style-on slickly oiled wheels. Most importantly, they had made all these efforts to ensure a memorable day, a day of perfect bliss for their mother.

That was one of the happiest days of my life, rendered unforgettable by the almost magical quality it had and made immeasurably special by the thoughtfulness, the caring and the deep abiding love that went into the execution of the event.

My kiddos Bestest!!

(TW)

Hearty Hat trick

It was one of those weekends that have a special quality. Of course, any week-end when sonny is home from the hostel has enough reason to be that-but this one was more special. Saturday was an enjoyable day, and we managed to cover a lot of important ground (read visit the locker, enroll into a wayside library – both long pending tasks) and what’s more, watched the latest Bond movie with relish (without being an aficionado of either Bond or English flicks, in that order) But most important of all, one did some meaningful shopping. And yet, the good part was that one didn’t feel rushed or end up with a sense of fatigue or the feeling of having spent a hectic day.

The shopping, among other things, included purchasing the all-important formal shoes for the young man on the verge of facing placement interviews. This innocuous and rather mundane, as some of you might want to put it, exercise was fraught with its fair share of animated discussion (mandatory in our home before anything of import can happen) As soon as we were at the shoe-display section of Lifestyle, controversy reared its head and a lively debate ensued. While I insisted that he needed a pair of shoes with laces, the youngster was adamant that the stylish designs with Velcro and what-have you-thingummies would do as well for the formal category. Hasty parleys were made, as we connected with our respective generations (the spouse, the brother and yours truly voted unanimously for shoes with laces while his young pals rooted for the non-lace variety.) As always, hoary age triumphed over impetuous youth and the time-tested word experience, uttered sotto voce, did the trick. We emerged from an adjacent shop a few minutes later, a pair of smart, Red Tape black formal shoes, with laces, swinging in hand.


But the best was yet to come: the shopping spree having taken up quite a lot of time, had lent a palpable edge to one’s appetite. So we made our way to the all-time favourite joint: KFC. (A visit to KFC is always accompanied by a host of fond memories. Our first visit to its vaunted precincts, in the summer of 2001, had been a particularly memorable one, greenhorns that we were, untried to the ways of the KFC world. We had been completely bowled over by the crisply succulent (oxymoron??) chicken portions, which, we later discovered, were signature KFC. The over all ambience, the terrific victuals and the generosity of our patron-who had treated us a to a wonderful meal-all come rushing back each time I visit one of its branches) Once we made ourselves comfortable, the orders were placed and soon the kids returned with trays loaded with goodies. While I had settled for the boringly predictable KFC fare (aforementioned) they had been more imaginative and had gone for a burger, each, as well. (Of course, the unspoken family rule-that the one who doesn’t order a particular item is still offered a bite so s/he gets a taste of what s/he’s missed-was implemented. Never one to say ‘no’ to such offers, I promptly took a bite of the wholesome burger and then focused my undivided attention on gobbling the crunchy, crispy chicken pieces. The gourmet delight this delicacy offers is almost unparalleled but you later realize that in these days of specialization-where even English is taught for specific purposes (the fast getting-popular genre of ESP, for the uninitiated) almost every type of cuisine has evolved its own unique taste and flavour.

As the following day was to prove. Now, Sundays normally mean a relaxed sort of day for us: waking up late, languorously savouring the rays of bright sunshine peeping through the lacy curtains before setting foot on the cold floor and moving to the warm confines of the drawing room, with its promise of piping hot tea and the newspaper. The day generally unfolds itself unhurriedly and we allow ourselves to go with the flow, not hastening for any of the usual activities. Lunch means a non-vegetarian main dish and some veggies accompanied by the usual chapatti-rice-dal combo and then comes the much-looked- forward-to afternoon siesta.

But this Sunday was different as the young lad was about to launch into the exciting adventure of belling the CAT. Careful planning had gone into play and 8 a.m saw me and mine making our way to an almost unknown part of the city: the wild west Delhi region. Luckily, the one and a half hour drive we had resigned ourselves to, ended up being of just an hour’s duration, thanks to the Sunday factor. I shall gloss over the happenings of the next three hours-mine being too boring to merit mention, the youngster’s too mind-boggling (for poor ole me to absorb) and unknown a territory for me to try and talk about it.

As the ladddie was to leg it back to college right away, the next question on the agenda was, predictably and practically enough, food. And therefore it transpired that for the second consecutive day, we were in a restaurant ordering food at lunch time. Connoisseur that he is, it was a delicious meal-complete with golden toasted garlic bread dripping butter and done to a turn, great cheesy spaghetti in thick sauce, with a tantalizing flavour and topped by a delightful combination pizza: a perfect blend of the homely chicken supreme with the exotice Hawaiian pineapple-topping. Hunger being the best sauce-we needed no second invitation and attacked the food with gusto the moment it appeared on the table. Post the luncheon, I dropped the young man at the railway station and made my way home.

Saturday and Sunday spent at two different eateries, consuming different cuisine is fairly passé as most of us would think. But for a repeat performance to happen on a prosaic Monday was more than what I could’ve imagined. As it transpired, two colleagues and I had to go for a presentation to one of the many engineering cum management colleges that dot the periphery of the Ghaziabad-Meerut-Hapur belt. Now, this was a little more than a typical presentation as it was followed by a three-hour pilot session before a live audience of seventy management aspirants. What with their animated questions on the one hand and the more discerning queries of the management on the other, the session became longer than the stipulated time. So by the time we left, it was well past lunch time and being several miles away from the office cafeteria (which provides us with nice, hot lunch) we had no choice but to opt for eating somewhere. Being the only ‘local’ amongst the trio, I recommended one of my favourite joints in Noida-Asia Kitchen (also because it was, very conveniently, en route.) On the menu was Chinese -the best Chinese you can hope to get this side of the Yamuna. Superb hakka noodles, very fine and evenly stir-fried, garlic chicken with just enough gravy to add a tangible flavour and a bowl of fine quality rice-fried the Chinese way-to add to the combination. We did full justice to the meal-though we could still not finish the generous portions served and left the place an hour later, considerably sated. As always, the place had lived up to its reputation and I sure was relieved, having recommended it in no uncertain terms.

Three scrumptiously delicious, yet utterly diverse, meals in as many days-a record (hat trick??) of sorts! But a record one wouldn’t want to repeat, given the fact that a) one is perpetually trying to wage a losing battle against weight .and b) because at the end of the day, some niggling corner of the palate starts yearning for the homely daal-chaval in two days flat!!

But once in a way, one doesn’t mind such pleasantly and gastronomically enriching interludes.

Dawn of a new era?

April, T.S.Eliot had said, was the ‘cruelest month’-well September 2008 would easily wrest the title, having been an uncharacteristically brutal one. It brought several questions to mind about the proud slogan India shining as, time and again, we were forced to stop in this business called living and wonder whether those were hollow, meaningless words.

" Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed….. "

The lines by another poet (a Nobel laureate like Eliot) W.B.Yeats, penned almost a century ago, seemed to come true prophetically last month, in a potently dark and menacing manner. Grisly tales of bloodbaths filled the newspapers, of senseless killings, where people were victimized because of their faith. The CEO of a reputed company was lynched on the office premises and no one could save him. There were terrifying bomb blasts- tearing through the fragile human illusion of security-spun erroneously by man- that snuffed out the lives of the young and the innocent. And tragically, and in the ultimate travesty of justice, the futile sacrifice of those who uphold law and justice at the risk of their lives- the fearless inspector, M.C .Sharma and the very young Santosh didn’t have to die, but they did: on different days at different locations but due to the same reason. Felled brutally at the hands of the cruelest creature created by God: man.
" The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity………………" wrote on the prescient poet-foretelling the ironic supercession of innocence by malevolent, negative forces. Today, we don’t know where to look for guidance, for direction. We’re moving like headless chicken in a coop: rendered timid and impotent by our immediate surroundings-where no one knows what the next moment has in store. Even the young and innocent are not spared in this meaningless mass slaughter. Intolerance and violence have made insidious entries into our blood stream; we’re just not ready to give way. At the smallest of pretexts, guns are pulled out, lives lost. The newspapers recently carried a report how a shop-keeper was shot dead as a customer’s mobile didn’t reflect the hundred rupee recharge that had been made! And such bizarre stories are the rule, not the exception. On an average, the third page has similar, gory tales (only-and sadly enough- they are facts) every single day, making one wonder, afresh, whether the legendary wisdom and non-violence of the orient has been smothered in the crass materialism of the rest of the world. Where every dream of the great architects of the nation has been shattered, every cherished hope of the noble poets turned to dust:

Today the mind is always full of fear and the head often hangs with shame at what’s happening in the world around us. Thoughts of reason, wisdom and knowledge couldn’t be further from the mind when apprehension and uncertainty rule the roost. We avert our eyes if we see someone in distress and are afraid to stop by and help an accident victim-it could be staged, s/he could be faking it for dire criminal motives…….basic humanity and decency seem to be dying a slow death…….

But there’s hope yet-all is not lost, as the closing lines of the same poem suggest (hinting of better things to come) lifting the mind out of its pall of gloom as we feel that things cannot get any worse. They’ve reached the nadir, so now, they can only get uplifted. Some convoluted logic tells us that man cannot sink any lower, so he can only get better. Surely, some thing good is at hand and matters will improve-slowly but steadily?! Human values will be rescued from the oblivion they have disappeared into and the human spirit will triumph yet again.
It will be resuscitated and we’ll emerge out of this dark tunnel of despair, into bright, glorious sunlight. Surely?