Multi-level parking!

Many moons ago, the one and only R.K. Laxman’s cartoon for the day, was a classic. It captured the scene of a person emerging from an array of parked cars. Relief was writ large on his face, as he announced to the “common man”, “Guess what! I solved the parking problem! You know how? I simply sold the car!”

Decades have passed, but the parking problem has stayed the same! R.K. Laxman will feel totally at home. Only, the style of the parking-lot has changed. These days, we see multi-level parking-lots, especially in the city malls.

Multi-level parking-lots come in 2 flavors- in one, the stories are constructed above the ground- you ascend floor by floor to find a parking spot. In the other model, you tunnel your way to the levels constructed below the earth. Indian mythology talks about “6 upper lokas”- “bhuvah, suvah, mahah, janah, tapah and satya”.  It also talks about “7 lower lokas” - “atala, vitala, sutala, talaatala, rasaatala, mahaatala and paataala”. The multi-level parking-lot borrows the same idea as these lokas.  You either ascend or descend, to find the right fit for yourself and your car!

If ever you wanted to send someone on a wild goose chase, banish him to one of these multi-level parking-lots. Like the proverbial “hamster on a wheel”, he will keep spinning for the rest of his life. Once you enter the parking-lot, it is amply clear that the entire humanity owns a car and has already found a spot. Invariably, you are a late entrant, with the need to scrounge for a free spot.

Parking-lots are dark, dingy and devoid of ventilation. You drive the car inch by inch to find that one free spot. Behind you, is a procession of other cars. Like you, they are also predators on the prowl, fighting for the same spot. Alertness is crucial.  Sometimes, there is one free spot, but you missed it by a fraction and edged ahead. There is no possibility of backing up. The fellow behind you is quick- in a reflex, he bolts for the empty slot and thumbs his nose at you! It is a cat-and-mouse game everywhere.

Suddenly, out of the blue, you find a free spot and thank your stars. The euphoria is premature. A closer observation reveals that the car beside is parked badly. It has encroached into this spot too, leaving you with no room, to squeeze your car in. What a let-down!

They say, “patience is a virtue”. If you require a testing ground, to measure your progress in patience, it is here. Now that there are no free spots on this level, you turn to the next level. Turns in parking-lots are notoriously narrow, providing maximum scope for driving errors. The pillar at the turn registers the paint-imprint of many a car, that miscalculated the turning radius.

Finally, you find a free spot. Quickly, you park the car and head off to the mall. It takes only an hour in the mall, before window-shopping-fatigue sets in. You want to go home badly.

Where did you park the car? Where did you park the car? It is a complete haze- you recall going up and down several times, but the outcome isn’t clear. Was it B2 or in B3? You head out to B2. Basement-2 (B2) is a sea of cars. What’s worse, even the car number is doubtful! Was it KA03 or KA91? Like Karna, at the most opportune moment, even memory deserts.

You imagine all possibilities. if you search car by car, for sure, the security person will get suspicious. He will grab you by the scruff of the neck, mistaking you for a car-burglar. How will you explain your predicament? “Yes, I am looking for my car. I parked it somewhere. I don’t know where. I don’t remember my car number. It is KA something. But yes, I remember my car is red in color, it is a Honda, and it has 4 tires. Can you help me?”  How long will this exercise take? Maybe, past midnight, when the mall empties out?   

The ruminations are cut short as I stare at the car in front. It looks strangely familiar. It is red, it is a Honda. It has 4 tires. Plus, when I click the key, it unlocks! Yes, it is my car!

Some horror films have a happy ending!

 

Butter fingers!

“Butter fingers” is a term used in Cricket. It refers to a terrible fielder. The ball has landed in his palm. It is a “dolly catch”- he must only cup his fingers around the ball. Still, he makes a mess of it and drops the ball. It’s as if his fingers are greased with butter- so slippery, that the ball goes in and out!

By no means are butterfingers restricted to Cricket. You find butterfingers everywhere. Invariably, the most interesting items in the refrigerator are placed farthest away from your orbit. It is Murphy’s law. The delicacy could be anything- maybe, delicious “paayasam” or a jar with raw-mango pickle. The moment you open the fridge, the urge is irresistible.  Impatiently, you extend your arm to reach out for the distant delicacy. “Butterfingers” strikes at that opportune moment! As your fingers grip the paayasam, the forearm grazes the milk-tumbler sitting in front. The result is total disaster. The tumbler tumbles and milk flows down the refrigerator trays like a cascading waterfall! In an impulse, you try to save the milk, and now, butterfingers strikes a second time. You topple the paayasam too! The Butterfinger has only one response, “Who placed this silly, glass of milk in the fridge? That too, day before yesterday’s milk! Now, look what has happened!”

Ghee has caused more havoc than any other kitchen commodity. The butter-finger human and the ghee-container are companions who are made for each other. Let’s face it, the ghee container is invariably sticky and slippery on the outside. Even the safest pair of hands can fumble. The Butterfinger has no hope. He yanks the container from the shelf, only to watch it slip and slide past the fingers helplessly. The aftermath cannot be spelt out in words. The floor stays sticky for days on end, with ghee’s aroma wafting in the air, despite several bouts of cleaning. It serves as a stark reminder to one and all- the extent of damage, the Butterfinger is capable of!

When you visit a south-indian home in the late afternoon, you are sure to be served hot, filter coffee. More traditional the home, more likely that the coffee will arrive in an ever-silver “tumbler” (with no handle), and a matching bowl. Looking at my butterfingers, the host gets nervous, “Can I get a mug for the coffee?” “No! No! I am used to drinking coffee like this! I drink coffee all the time!” I lie through my teeth. My fingers are normally steady. But when so many prying eyes are scrutinizing my move, the pressure is intense. “Butterfinger” strikes. The tumbler is too hot to handle. In my attempt to pour the coffee into the saucer, it completely flies off the trajectory. And now, the trousers are stained and so is the gleaming, new sofa! The host is bubbling with anger, but blurts out a cosmetic, “No! No!  Don’t worry! It’s ok!” and rushes for the cleaning-cloth. The Butterfinger makes a hasty exit! His defence is genuine, “Does someone serve coffee right out of a furnace, I say? Thank God, I did not drink that coffee! It would have burnt my tongue, my throat, my esophagus and all else!”   

For the Butterfinger, “buffet meals” are a total no-no. The plate is filled to the brim- with butter-naan, paneer-dish, colored-rice, pachidi, puran-poli, gulab-jamun and of course curd-rice. All he needs is a spoon to start the proceedings. He cannot wait! The left hand holds the plate. The right hand reaches for the spoon arranged on the side-table. “Butterfinger” strikes. The left-hand with the plate tilts just that wee bit. The tremor is enough to trigger an entire avalanche. What can he do? The naan and paneer, the rice and sweet hurtle down, in one enormous sweep, and before he knows, the landslide has splattered food everywhere, including dousing curd-rice on the dress of the unwary guest, standing next in line. The Butterfinger makes a hasty exit, of course.

Surprisingly, butter-fingers follow you into the restroom too! Soaps are slippery fellows and for a butter-finger, even more so. Just when you are taking a bath, and have soaped half your way, the soap flies out of hand. You try to catch it once, twice, thrice. It toys with you each time, eludes your grasp, and manages to fall right into the toilet! It is a strange situation- you cannot fish it out, you cannot flush it down, you cannot ask for external help (given your delicate condition). This is "trishanku-avasthaa". The Butterfinger, peering through the soap, is naturally miffed, “Who designs these restrooms, with absolutely no thought, placing the bathing zone and the toilet, co-located, I say?”

The last I heard, Butterfingers was practicing with a new soap in the restroom- to take soap catches, like Suryakumar Yadav, even when the soap flies right over the boundary line!

 

Those chain letters!

The postman delivered a strange postcard. It was neither addressed to anybody, nor was it signed by someone. It had just the content scrawled in an unknown handwriting. As a 10-year-old, I read the postcard haltingly.

It said- “You are lucky to have received this postcard. It brings you fame, fortune and a lot more. It has travelled around the world 18 times, and now, it is in your hands!” I could not believe the stroke of good luck. It was as though the entire cosmos had fortuitously chosen me as a special beneficiary. I ran to my elder sister, “Sister! Look! What postcard I got!” Together, we read the message. Many a horror film started on a pleasant note. It was only past intermission- the plot changed and left you quaking with fear.

This postcard was such. The moment you flipped the postcard to the other side, the tone changed completely. It read, “Do not take this message lightly. It must not be with you for more than 3 days. You must send this message to 14 others forthwith. Do not break this chain. Failure to do so, will be at your peril. The choice is yours.”

The messaging was confusing. “What does ‘peril’ mean, sister?” “It means danger, silly!” sister answered. “What danger will come, sister?” I tried to clarify. “It can be anything!” sister gave an open-ended answer, lending full scope for my imagination to run wild, thinking of all kinds of macabre possibilities!

“Anyway, you found the postcard. It is your headache!” sister tried to wash her hands off. “But, but…we read the postcard together, didn’t we? Now, that you have also read it, it is your problem too!” I reasoned.

Opinions were divided at home. Parental advice was direct- “We have seen many such letters. Just tear it to bits and cast it in the wastepaper basket!” For a 10-year-old, it was not so simple, especially the word ‘peril’. There was a sinister ring to it, that sent you on a ruminating trail. Who could have sent this postcard?  Why did he write? How did he know you? How did he decipher that the postcard had traveled around the world 18 times? Did he travel with the postcard? Or did the postcard come back to him, after touching everyone on this planet? You imagined how this postcard would proliferate. The sender sends to 14 people. Each of those 14, send to 14 others, and those 14 send to 14 more and so on. The compounding effect was simply bewildering.

Eventually, you took the decision. This message should not be taken lightly. You must now write 14 postcards. Much to her displeasure, sister would write 7 and I will write the other 7. A blue-color stained, carbon-copy paper was dug out from the shelf. That way, 2 postcards could be written out in one shot.

Now came the million-dollar question- Who will be those 14 targets? All people came to mind in one sweep- grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, extended family relatives and friends. In each case, you imagined how their face would turn pale and worried, when they read your postcard. It was such a nasty thing to do.  I had a bright idea, “Sister! Let’s send it to all your friends- Prabha, Padmini, Sunita and “baby Lakshmi”! I am certain you have more than 14 friends!” Sister was not at all pleased. “Why my friends only? Why not your friends?” she asked.  “But I don’t have any! I had Sridhar, but he is not my friend anymore! We fought day before yesterday!”  I resisted.

It was tough to find those 14 guinea-pigs. If you selected sister’s friends, one problem was certain- each of them will send this postcard back to sister (of course, without knowing, she sent it). And now, you will have a clutch of postcards at home, and stuck in an eternal loop- writing and rewriting this content over and over again, for the rest of life. Also, the next time, you met Prabha or Sunita, you will certainly sport a sly grin on the face. You wouldn’t be able to resist that curious question, “Did you, did you…get…that…that…postcard?” That will expose your identity and you risked the possibility of getting beaten up.

Eventually, sister had a brilliant idea. She took out the telephone directory, “Just search for some random 14 names, along with their addresses and send the postcards off!”  That was a clincher. I hunted down all kinds of people- Mr. Wadekar, Mr. Bhatavdekar, Mr. Desai, Mr. Sardesai, Mr. Pandey and Mr. Deshpande- in far-flung places, one at Charni Road, another at Chinchpokli and yet another at Tardeo. Yes, I owe all these poor souls, a round of apology, for this evil deed committed over 40 years ago.

I made sure to post the letters not from the local Koliwada post-office, but from the distant post-office at Sion Circle. That way, the postmark will not reveal my neighborhood, and none will track me down. My hands were totally clean.

 

 

 

Cricket and superstition

It is a relief that India won the Cricket World Cup. Had India lost, the die-hard Cricket fan would have lost all meaning in life. How many times in the past, has he come so close to winning the cup, only to see it slip away? It would have been difficult to stomach another loss.  Like Guru Dutt in the movies of yore, he would have wrapped a black shawl around himself, and leaving hearth and home, like a vagabond, wandered about aimlessly, with tousled hair, grimy face, and an ugly stubble. Disillusioned and dejected, his theme song would have likely been- “Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaaye…to kya hai…even if this whole world is gained…so what?”

Thankfully, such a predicament did not arise, and India won the World Cup. There is now a newfound spring in the steps and a peppy song on the lips! Such is the Cricket crazy fan- for him, India should win at all costs- even if it means following superstitions, that too, to the extreme.

A noteworthy superstitious Cricket fan is like Bheeshma- he takes a solemn vow not to watch the match! He sincerely believes- every time he watches the game, India loses! And to let India win, he will inflict self-pain and self-mortification, and deny himself the pleasure of watching the game, he loves most. Others reinforce the superstition. After India lost the ODI World Cup final last year, I got a sudden call from my friend. He had a pointed question, “Did you, by any chance, watch the finals?” Unwittingly, I said “yes”. Immediately, he flared up. “Who asked you to watch the match? Now, I know…why India lost!” My friend was so sure, that a particular individual watching the game, could influence the result, albeit negatively, overriding the prayers of 1.4 billion people in this cricket crazy nation!

Cricket and superstition go hand in hand. One type of superstition is called a “commentator’s curse”. The commentator has just praised the batsman to the skies. “A wonderful 50 from Virat! He is now batting ‘in the zone’; leave alone scoring a 100, this time, even a double hundred, is well within his sight!” Before he can complete the sentence, the next ball, Virat hits the ball in the air, and is out unceremoniously! The commentator is lucky not to be anywhere close to the cricket fan. He would have likely wrung his neck.

When a rival cricketing nation’s commentator praises our team, the cricket fan gets all suspicious and protective. The rival nation’s commentator is effusive in his praise, “Rohit is simply toying with the bowling here. India is coasting to a win!” The Indian fan is not at all pleased. He clicks his fists on the sides of his head and applies a black collyrium mark on the TV screen, to ward off the evil-eye! “I know this commentator very well. In his heart of hearts, he wants only his country to win. Never believe him! He is as though…praising India. It is with malicious intent, just to spook us, and snatch the victory from us. Never believe him! Never!”

In the days of yore, we watched cricket matches on the old vacuum tube TV. As the match progressed, the TV visuals had a bad habit of “shaking” from time to time. Someone at home was roped in, to slap the TV-top. Each time, you slapped the top of the TV, the shaking stopped. To our delight, two things happened in unison with the slap- the visuals were restored and to top it, the rival team lost a wicket. It was a perfect case of “kaaka-taaliyan nyaaya”- a crow sitting on a palm-tree and a fruit falling off at that exact instant! From then on, till the rival innings progressed, the slapper had only one job at hand. He must induce a wicket by pounding the TV from time to time, even if it meant breaking the TV, all with noble intent, of course!

Back then, grandma had to sit in the balcony for the entire day. Each time she stepped into the drawing-room, India lost a wicket. There was little choice, but to banish grandma. When Gavaskar was batting, you had to maintain the same pose sitting at the edge of the sofa. You denied yourself a restroom/bio-break too. You were certain, even if you, as much as stood up, Gavaskar would get out, and leave you totally high and dry.

Way back in the 1980s, I watched the “The Tied Test Match” on TV- India versus Australia, at Chepauk, Chennai, seated next to my grandfather. India should have won the game handsomely.  Suddenly, India lost wickets in a heap. India clawed back and the scores were now level. India needed just one run to win. Australia needed one wicket for a tie. Maninder Singh was the batsman. Will Maninder score that one run? I was sitting at the edge of the sofa. My grandfather, an earnest follower of the game, had a bad habit of calling cricketers with his own, unique, original pronunciation. "Manjrekar" became “manchurikaar” and "Maninder" became “Manendar”. “This Manendar fellow, I tell you, he will always score a blub (zero)!” grandfather commented. Lo and behold, the next ball, Maninder was out LBW. Australia rejoiced that they tied the match. For India, the tie looked like a heavy loss-it was a game India should have won.

I was angry with grandfather for a long time. I couldn’t tell him in so many words. India lost because of grandpa. If only, if only, he could have corrected his pronunciation. “It is Maninder Singh grandpa…Maninder Singh. Not Manendar...not Manender! Why did you have to say, Maninder will get out for a blub, grandpa?”