Who will watch the watchman?

We called the building watchman in Mumbai, “bhaiyya ji”. He was indeed a big brother for everyone. It would be more accurate had we called him “grandfather ji”. The building itself was decades old, and bhaiyya ji was older by several more. His tasks were many- managing the water-pump, washing cars, dealing with electricians and plumbers, and yes, providing security cover.

At his age, he couldn’t hurt a fly, much less, be a match for potential robbers. From time to time, there was talk to get a “younger” watchman. But then, can you hire a younger grandfather, just because yours is too old?

The stillness of the night was punctured with the sounds of a rhythmic tapping. It was bhaiyya ji- he used a staff, more to support himself, and to incidentally announce to thieves and robbers, he was awake and alive, up and about. The tapping was loud and clear, till it slowly receded, and all was quiet. Soon, the tapping resurfaced. He had completed one lap around the building. Along with the tapping, at times, he hurled loud abuses. No one knew with whom the watchman had an altercation- may be, with ghosts and spirits. As a child, it was scary. You pulled the blanket over the head and hoped the night would pass quickly.

Despite the watchman’s rounds, one morning, all the clothes were missing from the balcony. The watchman was summoned. He looked around curiously, joining others in the investigation. “You see these footprints on the grill? The thief stood here. You see this? Look! The dust has come off from this spot! That’s how he dragged the clothes through the grill!” He had cracked the puzzle, with the effortlessness of a Sherlock Holmes, and was pleased as punch. Only, the thief was missing. That was a minor detail. No one had the guts to ask him, “Bhaiyya ji! By the way, may we ask you a basic question, may we? What were you doing sir ji, if we may ask, when this entire operation was in progress?”

Stolen clothes were just the appetizer. The main course came later. One morning, father and I came downstairs, to find the car was gone! An entire Fiat car had vanished into thin air, much like a PC Sorcar magic show.

You could not fault the watchman. He was simply a “watchman”. He watched. His job description did not entail any “doing”.  He was like the sun, a “saakshi”, watching all goings on- the good, the bad, the ugly, in an aloof and distant manner.

After this episode, a question arose- may be, we need another watchman to watch over our watchman. It was a philosophical problem. Who will watch the watchman? The first watchman required a second watchman, to watch the second, you need a third, leading to an infinite regress conundrum. The topic was parked once the stolen car found its way back.

The watchman had no family that we knew of. The entire building was his family. Once, every few years, he announced, “I am going back to my hometown, my “mulluck”. I may stay back for good.” The threats were empty. We had heard it much too often. Sure enough, one night, we heard the rhythmic tapping and the familiar insults. He was back!

Mumbai has no space. Its residents are packed tight, like groundnut “chikki”, and boast of “mansions”- spanning 500 sq ft and a maximum of 700 sq ft. When space is such a premium, how much space does the watchman get?

Bhaiyya ji’s home was the landing beneath the stairs. Under the slope of the stairs, his possessions were minimal- a coir-strung bed, a stove, and a cooking utensil. The wall was packed with tiny boxes with wires sticking out- electric meters for each flat.

It was here, bhaiyya ji spent his days, weeks, months, years, decades, half a century, a century, perhaps more. By the turn of the millennium, my parents moved out of Mumbai. There was no opportunity to go back.

Who knows? Bhaiyya ji may still be tapping the ground with his staff. He was indeed a guardian angel in this big, bad world.

 

Hosts and guests!

Today’s children are forthright. When they visit someone’s house, and the host asks, “Would you like some juice?”, they immediately reply- “Yes!” The prompt response is easy for everyone- no dilly-dallying, no shuffling of feet, no confusion whatsoever.

Back then, the rules of social conduct were different. Parents drilled into their wards, “If someone asks if you would like to eat something, just say no! Don’t be a greedy pig and ogle at the food as though you’ve never eaten for days!” For the child, the messaging was confusing. On one hand, he felt like eating, but he was constrained to say no.

Accompanied by parents, there was always some relative’s house, you visited from time to time. The host asked, “Would you like to eat something? Some rasgulla? And orange sherbet to go with it?” The offer was too tempting. The child’s eyes lit up. The tongue was already salivating! But the existing social mores demanded you couldn’t say yes. You cast a side-glance at your mother, pleading in silence to agree quickly. Much to the child’s dismay, mother answered for the child, “No! We just had lunch! He will be much too full to eat anything!”

Contrary to the prepared syllabus, the child blurted out, “No! I am not full! I will eat!” The host smiled. For the mother, it was a loss of face and a terrible embarrassment. She glared at the child, her eyes bulging, while the host went inside to fetch the rasgulla! The child had won a mini battle. He dug into the rasgulla with relish and in no time, he had gobbled up a couple and asked for some more!

Some children were raised meek and timid. They didn’t deviate from the prepared script. But the host knew better. She overruled mother’s response with- “You do not have to look at your mother. You can directly tell me!”  and offered the bowl to the child.  2 moon-like rasgullas floated in a lake of sweet syrup! Delight was written on the child’s face!

The problem was with hosts who played by the rulebook. They took mother’s response at face-value and snatched the rasgulla bowl from the child’s hands. For the child, it was a big letdown- it was a case of being so close and yet so far. The face was filled with gloom, and thereafter, it grudgingly mumbled in monosyllables to further questions at the guest’s place. Once back home, the child attacked mother, “I wanted to eat the rasgulla! Why did you say no?” Mother tried her best to pacify the child, “We have sweet at home. Shall I give you?” The child was angry- “I don’t want this silly sweet! You eat it! You eat it! I want that rasgulla and that orange sherbet!”

Some hosts used a “proactive” formula and never asked questions. Before you knew, they thrusted a full cup of Horlicks right into the child’s hands. There was no time to say- “I hate Horlicks!” The cup of Horlicks had fundamental issues- firstly, it was lukewarm and insipid. Secondly, there was hardly any Horlicks, just a faint hint, the rest was plain milk. Thirdly, the milk was not clear, but pocked with ugly lumps of cream- a total no-no. One sip and the child stuck its tongue out in disgust. Mother insisted, “Don’t waste! Finish the cup!” For the child, it was like serving a life-sentence. With a couple of more sips, the child’s face changed color and the mouth was pouted dangerously, as though on the verge of throwing up! That’s when sanity set in. The Horlicks was taken away before greater chaos unfolded.

As we grow up, this sticky situation presents itself in a different format. Faced with the question, “Would you like some tea?”, the mind wants to say yes, but the mouth forces you to say no. But with age, you learn to answer diplomatically- “If you are also having tea, I will join you!” Now, the ball is in the host’s court, and thankfully, he obliges!

We are glad this questionable behavioral pattern is a thing of the past. Today’s children may seem a tad frontal and direct in their response. It is easier that way- than beating around the bush and running around in circles!

 

The house fly!

The English call it “house fly”. May be, English flies are domesticated and stay only inside the house. Indian flies are enterprising highflyers and travel everywhere.

Flies are as old as the rivers and the mountains. Even back in Lord Rama’s time, they were notorious pests. Evidently, yugas have rolled away, but flies haven’t mended their ways. In a bid to dissuade Seeta from coming to the forest, Rama says, “Seeta, in the forest, there are flies (damshah) and they will constantly annoy you! (keetaah damshaashcha nityam baadhantey!)”  If Rama himself found flies annoying, what to talk about the rest of us?

We do not know whether a recent census was conducted for the number of flies in India. For certain, for each human being, there are at least 100 flies. No wonder, it is such an unequal contest. You are as though Abhimanyu stuck in the chakra-vyuha, surrounded by flies, that assail you from all sides. By the time you deal with the fly in front, another has landed on the back of your neck, rendering you totally helpless.

In school, especially in the monsoon months, flies are at their worst behavior.  During the lunchbreak, the moment you open the tiffin box, flies in hundreds make a landing from nowhere. You cannot eat those 10 minutes in peace. While one hand picks up the food, the other hand moves in a broad sweep, to keep the flies away! Unfortunately, human hands are not coordinated to do different tasks simultaneously. In the moment’s gap, between one sweep and the next, flies like today’s drones, seize the moment. They land on the food, pick up a morsel and fly away!  

You get angry and move the hand in more violent sweeps. In the process, the hand accidentally strikes the tiffin-box. The box takes the aerial route.  Curd-rice flies to all corners, scattered on the walls and some landing as an unintended “curd-rice abhisheka” on the unwary student seated in the opposite row. The result is total mayhem. The fly has achieved its purpose- to provoke and irritate you, to the hilt.

Flies have a great fascination for the human nose. It is their Heli-Pad. They invariably land on the tip of the nose. You shoo them away, but they are back at the same spot. You are filled with a masochistic feeling and strike your nose with all your might. By then, the mischievous fellow has made a quick getaway. This is called “a double whammy”. The nose is in pain, and the fly is still around! The expression “don’t cut off your nose to spite your face” was coined for this predicament.

At times, you take an opposite stance. Anger and striking back do not help. You decide to "live and let live".  Self help books talk about adopting the attitude of “saakshi bhaava”- an approach where you simply observe and allow things to happen, without reaction. The fly sits on the nose. You observe. He walks around. You observe. Even the fly is surprised. You continue to observe. The fly gets more curious. He starts exploring your nostrils. You observe. Soon, he is trying to tunnel his way inside. How can you stay passive anymore? Saakshi bhaava is cast to the winds. You are up and about, to get after the fly, with a greater vengeance.

They say, pets like dogs get attached to the person. It is likely flies also fall in this category No wonder, wherever you go, he is already there to welcome you. You feel it is a different fly. It is not. He has traveled with you in the office cab. The moment you start work in the office, he is also back in action, toying with you.

End of the day, we learn a lot of life lessons from the house fly. Many of us are “aarambha shuuras”- we start an activity, like daily exercise, in great earnest. Soon, laziness sets in, and we discontinue midway. Let’s take a leaf out of the fly’s book. Resilience, tenacity, persistence, and the motto to “try and try till you succeed”- the fly is imbued with this and a lot more.

Let’s vote for the house fly as India’s national insect!

Belted days and belt-less days!

Weekday mornings are rushed mornings. The office-cab arrives as early as 7:06 am. You don’t have a choice. It’s the only solution to overcome the incurable traffic woes in our bustling metros. Needless to say, you are spinning like a top at home- to get ready, and bolt out of home at 6:59, allowing you exactly 7-minutes to run to the cab.

When time is at such a premium, it is irksome, to put it mildly, when you cannot locate your pant-belt. Where did it go? Where can it go? Like a man whose hair is on fire, you run helter-skelter, opening a cupboard here, a shelf there, rummaging through piles of clothes, in a frantic bid to find the belt.

Eventually, you do find the belt- coiled up and quietly hiding in a corner. It is 6:58. But a belt has absolutely no time-sense or urgency. You can never wear it in a hurry. It needs patience- enormous patience to thread it through each pant-loop. Why does a pant need so many loops in the first place? And that too, a loop right at the back- which, unless you did an “Exorcist act”, you can never see it, much less, thread the belt through. You get angry, and deliberately, skip a few loops, just enough to wrap the belt around, buckle up, and run.  

Agonizingly, you discover that you’ve strung the belt upside down, and now, it cannot be buckled. It must be retracted and redone from scratch.

On some days, try as you may, you cannot find the belt. The shelves and drawers are all pulled out, and still, there is no belt in sight. The clock shows 7 am. You take a chance, and dash out of home, without the belt. After all, you weren’t born with a black belt. You can very well stay a day at office, without the belt. A terrible decision- which you realize, only as the day unfolds.

The basic problem is that no one wears tailored pants anymore. It is all ready-made, which essentially means, the pant is at least two sizes larger than the waist.  Without a belt, you are on tenterhooks.

Each time it slides down, you must consciously pull it up. It requires repeated tinkering, and your entire attention is on the trouser for the rest of the day! If you tuck the shirt in, it gives a greater girth to your waist. Now you have more control, but it accentuates the awkwardness each time you pull up the pant. If you leave the shirt loose over the trouser, it is a different problem- whatever extra layer the shirt provided, is lost, and the trouser shows a greater propensity to slide down.

It begs a fundamental question- why should the belt be an extra appurtenance at all? Can’t we design pants with an inbuilt belt, like they did in yesteryears? 2 loops came from the pant that could be stretched over the shoulders, the kind worn by Laurel and Hardy. It would solve the problem completely- no more hunting for belts. More importantly, the design was intuitive and purposeful. The shoulders are meant for this- to prop up the pant, nice and snug. A waist-belt, on the other hand, works differently- it compresses and squeezes the belly, just to keep the trouser in place. In the long run, it is surely a health hazard.

Waist-belts have other practical problems. With each passing year, prosperity is evident on the waist. You need to find the next hole to buckle up. Soon, you run out of holes, and new ones must be drilled. Sometimes, you reach lands-end- the end of the rope and can go no further.  At the other end of the spectrum, is the narrow waisted specimen. You buckle the belt to the first hole. The rest of the belt stretches out like a king’s dagger, that could rub the unwary passerby the wrong way!  

On the way home from the belt-less day, some firm decisions had to be taken. I bought a dozen belts at the mall, one for each pant, and threaded them to the pants in advance. That way, any pant I pick up, it would come with its belt. Eventually, the mystery of the missing belt, the leather-hunt, was solved. Guess what? I had loaded the belt along with the unwashed pant in the washing machine! It had endured the entire washing process, still staying threaded to the pant, and now lay strung on the clothesline, squeaking clean and shiny!