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.....

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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!!