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.

Delightful December

I’ve always loved the winter season; and December-for more reasons than one-has been my favourite month. The air is so fresh and invigorating, the choicest of vegetables flood the market, there’s a surfeit of choice for fruits, one can munch away on goodies and still have room for more-even oily, spicy food is easily digested…..but my ramblings are becoming too food-oriented. Those are not the only reasons that make winter special. As school and college students, the long winter holidays were ideally utilised. This was a time for unending badminton matches played right through the evenings on proper hard courts, friendly tournaments with not-so-friendly-results.The days were equally well-spent; playing cricket in the benign sun where kids ranging from age 8 to 19 participated with gusto, not to forget the endless picnics, both planned and unplanned that dotted the season with unfailing regularity. The first kind was the highly orchestrated, annual event organized by the Club, where regular subscriptions were taken, funds collected, menus drawn up-the organizing committee agonizing over every, minute detail, till a good plan evolved and finally the great day (generally Jan 1, in those good ole days when the concept of revelry on December 31 had not caught on) full of unbounded enjoyment. Tambola and tug of war among other games, formed an integral part, most of the cooking was actually done outdoors! Crisp, hot pakoras dripping with green dhania chutney did the rounds as did piping hot tea-in customary earthenware cups-with the quintessential earthy flavour. Simultaneously, the biggest vessels that we had ever laid eyes on were obtained and kilos of mutton chucked in and some veteran uncles jumped into the fray providing admirable support to the retinue of cooks. This was started fairly early in the day, as it was a well-known fact that mutton takes a long time to cook and, in the absence of giant-size pressure cookers, allowing it to stew in its own broth-in a manner of speaking-was the only option. Of course, this technique gave the final product the kind of yummy quality that made it incomparable. The wafting aroma was quite another story and by the time lunch was ready we were all but counting the minutes. These were high points in our lives and there was a sense of emptiness for days after this annual event got over, days utilized though, in talking about it and reliving some of the fun.

Picnics of the other variety-the impromptu ones- kept dotting our personal landscape all the time. A gentle breeze, a warm sunny day, the river flowing peacefully by the dam…all observed by experienced, young eyes and the split-second decision would be taken. It would be deemed just the perfect kind of day-for a picnic. Then the minor detail of food would enter the periphery of our existence and inroads would be made into Mummy’s kitchen and that wonderful place called store room (another outdated concept) to check out the stuff available. Completely undeterred by the staple fare-read parantha-subzi, namkeen, some odd fruits-no cold drinks (unheard-of luxury) so plain water (tap water!!) filled in bottles would suffice. Some coffee/tea would be made hastily and poured into large thermos flasks; any other snacks that happened to be there, thanks to our ever-enterprising mother, would be packed in for good measure. Playing cards and the ubiquitous Ludo would go in next and Leena, never too interested in matters of the tummy, would focus on her area of expertise: carrying either her portable transistor or the National Panasonic tape recorder we were inordinately proud of-and a good selection of cassettes. Providing quality music to the experience was her responsibility and she did that with élan. It was work well-divided, come to think of it. Me concentrating on the grub, Mummy in helping me pack, Manoj on the games and other logistics (rugs, water, a morha for Mummy etc), Leena on music and Bhaiya-if his winter break was on and he was home-in being the efficient general manager (displaying all the qualities of his future vocation!). Papa, naturally, would be away at office, working hard and making all these fun moments possible for us...... And then, off we would go to our chosen destination, just across the road and down the slopy trail to the river bank and then wind our way downwards till we arrived at a grassy patch in a shaded haunt, the wind gently wafting through our hair and lifting it, the sun shining gloriously and joining us in our moments of undiluted bliss.

And so the good years went fleeting by and Life generally ambled along, a lot of changes coming in between. The one thing that remained unchanged was my love of the month and my patient wait for it, for eleven long months to pass before this magical month arrived. But well worth the wait, I always told myself.

And now, having moved to the NCR almost a decade ago, I feel my love for this time of the year has strengthened, if anything. The reason is not far to seek. A new dimension has got added to the list of reasons (though picnics had got relegated to the past, long years ago) for the popularity of the season. And that is: this is the period that sees the influx of dear family members-uncles, aunts, cousins-and a host of friends visiting their country and what better route than good old Delhi? Well, that's where the best part lies because then, many an evening is spent catching up with them and when that happens, more often than not over a well-prepared meal and tonnes of nostalgic laughter, it turns out to be an evening of bliss nonpareil. So winter in general and December in particular has come to be identified with this lovely pastime, a treat for bon vivants. And the waiting period, which culminates in such wonderfully energizing get-togethers, has an excitement all its own, an emotion very few can match or compete with.

The spirit of an all-pervasive cheer and bonhomie, the peace and serenity of Christmas permeates right through the month and the exciting anticipation of the New Year all contribute to making this month almost perfect.

Vive, December!

I've got a Ticket to Ride

The Metro has come into our backyard!! Well, perhaps not literally, but metaphorically at least. The Noida City Centre station is barely two kilometers from our home; how’s that for progress? This was a long-awaited event and one that seemed forever in coming. But at last-on the already historic day in India’s calendar: November 14-the sleek, shining Metro made its inaugural foray into Delhi’s privileged and neighbouring city.From the next day, it was open to the public.

Looking back, I feel that I’ve always had a soft corner for the Metro, right from my first encounter with it, way back in the nineties. I loved the few times I had the opportunity (more sought and planned than incidental) of taking joy rides in Calcutta: from Tollygunge or Rabindra Sadan to Dum Dum, enjoying the trips immensely, each time, So it was but natural that I welcomed the Metro once it arrived in the national capital, with gusto; but again, the chance to board it had to be painstakingly contrived, as it did not cross even remotely close to all my favourite haunts.

My patience was rewarded at last and I felt inexplicable elation-almost a sense of personal achievement!-when the Metro finally wove its way into our verdant surroundings. Any and everyone who happened to call that day was reminded that s/he should congratulate me and when the poor dear enquired why, s/he was regally enlightened that the tube’s arrival into our city, as well as vicinity, made us deserving recipients of their congratulatory messages. I don’t know how many saw the point but most were courteous enough to comply.

The logical question that played itself out in my mind, next, was how/when would I board this brand new section of the Metro? Having caught glimpses of it circuitously snaking its way parallel to my car, enthralled me, but somehow, try as I might, my plans of personally inaugurating the Noida segment, within the month of its starting, just didn’t seem to be materializing. Not one to give up easily, I kept trying and finally, my efforts bore fruit this morning.

Returning from an early morning drive to Greater Noida, and en route to work, I suddenly had this brainwave that opportunities didn’t always knock on one’s door: one had to create them many times. Instructing the driver to stop at the Sector 18 station, I stepped out of the car and asked him to keep it waiting for me at destination point-the sector 15 Metro station. (Earlier, I had been planning that I would take a ride one day, on my way back from office but the envisioned rush at that crazy hour had made even my stout heart quail.) So this seemed like the perfect time-no crowds, no hassles: seize the moment hissed some inner voice with urgency. Walking up the stairs from the sector 18 market side, I looked at the shops around me as they stood bathed in the early morning, winter mist and after purchasing the ticket for the princely sum of ten rupees, waited on platform number 2. Within a couple of minutes, the familiar train arrived and getting in, I seated myself. It was a thrilling experience, seeing all the familiar landmarks through the unfamiliar mode of transport and before I could say E. Sreeedharan, the Sab Mall and Max hospital appeared, then disappeared from view, giving way to the sector 16 station, where the train stopped. A motley few got in-a smaller number got out-and the train was off again. A slight bend was negotiated next as the Metro dexterously curved inwards, passed Rajnigandha chowk, the familiar T.I.M.E hoarding and chugged along Savoy Suites, then Nirula’s, each vanishing in a trice. So absorbed was I in looking at all these sights, it’s small wonder that I managed to alight at my designated halt and didn't get so carried away as to get over-carried! A short walk across the road, into the waiting car, and off I was to office. Considerably invigorated and, this time, with a real sense of achievement.

I had met my self-imposed deadline of having the Noida Metro experience in November and what's more, the sudden, impulsive nature of the jaunt had made every one of those five, magical minutes truly enjoyable!!