Cellotape!

With cellotape, you are always on a sticky wicket! The pun is intended! The occasions are many- you need to wrap a wedding-gift or need to cover the notebook for your ward.

You get the cellotape out of the drawer. Yes, cellotape does come with its “dispenser”, but somehow, that avatar has gone missing from the drawer. All that comes to hand is the basic ring-version, with no dispenser.

They talk about the Lord having “no beginning and no end”- “na adi…na anta”. The cello-tape-ring mirrors the Lord- he just does not have any beginning! You run your finger over the ring. You cannot catch the start of the trail. You dig your nail to spot that elusive perforation. There’s none! It seems like a monolith apparatus, smooth as a river-stone. Irritation wells up, “Why cannot someone keep the cellotape *along* with its dispenser, I say?”

Just when you are on the verge of flinging the cellotape, lock, stock and barrel… out of the window, the finger stumbles upon the first ray of hope- the beginning of the ribbon! Excitedly, you peel off the ribbon. Hurry makes a hash of most things, more so, when you are unraveling cellotape. You expect the ribbon to flow out nice and full, but it doesn’t. It tears off at an angle, a total no-no. You know what happens next. You have no choice but to peel off more…with the hope that somehow, it will straighten itself out.

It doesn’t! On the contrary, it’s like peeling an onion. By now, you have pulled out miles and miles of cellotape- all twisted and crumpled, and completely unusable! In the process, your fist is sticky and gooey, and like the proverbial silkworm, you are about to get cello-tape cocooned!

At this point, you give up. You need help. You need to delegate the job. You need an attendant.

There is an unwritten law-the moment you delegate a job, you forget its complexity. The delegator assumes absolute command- “his lordship” orders his attendant about. Let it be amply clear- there is no job as unforgiving as being a “cellotape attendant”. Whatever he may do, he will be faulted, pilloried, and crucified.

“Why did you lose the beginning of the ribbon again? I gave it to you just now…didn’t I? This is too much!” his lordship fumes! If the attendant hands over a big piece of cellotape, his lordship wants a smaller one. If it’s a small piece, he complains it is too small and unusable. “Don’t give me the cellotape by holding the sticky side with your finger. By the time you transfer it to me, it loses all its glue! How will it ever stick?”

Cutting a cellotape precisely is no mean task. If you use a pair of scissors, there are too many things to handle. Two hands just cannot accomplish the job. The scissor is held in the right hand, the cellotape is clasped in the left. What happens to the piece that you have just cut out? Something must give way, and it does. The cut-out piece sticks to your finger, which is good. But in the melee, the cellotape ring rolls off to the ground. The beginning of the trail is erased…and you must start all over again! It is like Bhageeratha, you need infinite patience to get this Ganga to the earth!

You take a firm decision- “No more scissors and the associated tangle. I will use my bare hands, much like Bheema…to snap off the piece!”  For a few tries, this method works fine. The exultation is premature. The next piece just does not snap. On the contrary, it leads you astray, and now, you have inadvertently pulled out many more miles of tape…and still cannot get it to snap!

The cellotape has now reached lands-end! Yes, it’s over…all over!  Only the skeletal shell remains, round and smooth, as you run your finger over it.

“Where did all the cellotape go? Did you eat it? We still have half the gift to be wrapped! What will we do now?” his lordship is evidently…very livid and very angry!

 

Happy New Year!

My earliest recollection of a New Year celebration goes back to the time...when “Hangama-82” was the title for the new year program on Doordarshan. (No prizes for guessing the year!) The title was confusing because at around that time, Sri Lanka had a budding cricketer called “Ahangama”. I presumed the title should be pronounced as “Ahangama-82”. Sister snapped, “Stop saying Ahangama! It is hangama!” “What does Hangama mean?” I asked. Sister replied, “Hangama means fun, frolic and associated commotion!” “Then, what does Ahangama mean?” was my natural question. “How do I know? You go and ask him, whoever he is!” was the blunt response. New year '82 had to be ushered in, with the profound doubt still lingering on hangama versus ahangama!

You just couldn't wait to hit the new year! Midway through the TV program, Hangama-82 announced that the new year had already reached Japan and Australia! The new year felt like an unstoppable ocean wave- on its course to lap the shores of India. “Why is the new year taking so much time to reach India? Why can’t the new year come to India first?” I asked. Sister did not answer. May be, the international dateline and the associated discourse on Geography was too complicated a topic. But I bet she did not know the answer either!

As a kid, you expect some dramatic denouement. After all, staying up till midnight and the eventual countdown 10-9-8-7 must amount to something significant, isn’t it?  Amar Chitra Katha spoilt us with those riveting illustrations.  When Sudama (Kuchela) reached his home after meeting Krishna, in an instant, his entire world had changed. His dilapidated hut was replaced by a huge, golden mansion. His wife and children, no more wore rags, they were dressed in silken finery. You expected the stroke of the new year to bring about such a melodramatic change. “5-4-3-2-1…Happy New year! Happy new year!” the chorus echoed on TV. There was no transformation like Sudama's home! “What? New year has already come? Really? Where is it? Where is it? Nothing has changed at all!” The anti-climax was total!

New year meant breaking old habits. For some time, you continued to write the previous year in the school notebook. “Still in the previous year? Wake up, dear! Wake up! It is 82!” the teacher gently corrected. For some time, the new year looked “odd” on paper. The date just didn’t seem right, as though the numbering lacked a certain grace and symmetry. You got used to it, much like acquired taste, as the days went by!

It was also the time, when you had to recite from memory, Tennyson’s poem centered on the new year. The poem "Ring out, wild bells" was littered with the phrases “ring out” and “ring in” in various contexts. It led to comical situations in class. The teacher had to intervene repeatedly, “It is not “ring in” the grief that saps the mind, it is “ring out” the grief! It is not “ring out” the thousand years of peace. It is ring in!” There were just too many "ring outs" and "ring ins" in the poem!  How we wished...Tennyson could have written his new year poem a little simpler for memorizing!

One particular year, I was in Delhi at the time of Christmas and new year. Each city has some peculiar English pronunciation, that is unique to its soil. Delhi has one too, I discovered. “Merry” was pronounced with a slight elongation on the vowel-sound “e”, so that it sounded more like “a”. “Merry” was pronounced more like “marry”. “Marry Christmas yaar! Heppy new year! Marry Christmas yaar!” was the consistent instruction, across the city! For sure, the matrimonial equation was overly complicated in Delhi, with so many contenders for Christmas!

Wild celebration for the new year is now a part and parcel of mainstream culture. It existed, to an extent, back in the Hangama-82 days too. The partying folks parodied the "passing year"...as though, dressed like an old man, heckled him and drove him out! The enthusiasm was infectious. But at home, the revelry was tempered with grandparents, who sometimes watched the new year TV program, sitting alongside. “You see those fellows celebrating the new year…jumping like monkeys on a tree?  In all that jumping, they forget…that with each passing day, Kaala is cutting the base of the very tree on which they are jumping! What are they celebrating, I say?” grandma made a point. “Who is cutting? Who is slicing the tree?” I asked, wondering how the monkeys will cope with a wobbly tree. “Kaala! Kaala! Don’t you know? Yama…is sawing the trunk of the tree, day by day! What is the celebration about?” grandma clarified. It was sobering thought, but there is one counterpoint- the monkeys could definitely jump to another tree, in the worst case, isn't it?

Hangama, Ahangama, Tennyson, the monkeys-and-tree imagery…all vie with each other to complete my new year picture! Happy New Year!

 

 

 

Tomorrow's question paper...I am going to tell you now!

This is a real incident going back to 8^th standard. Mrs. Kher, our Hindi teacher, entered the classroom. “Class! I want you to pay full attention. No fidgeting, no talking to your partner, no looking out of the window and no daydreaming! Tomorrow is your Hindi exam, right? I am going to tell you what’s going to come! Kaan khol kar sun lo!”

The boys could hardly believe their ears. “M’am! Tomorrow’s question paper! You are going to tell us…what’s going to come…now?”  “That’s correct! Every duffer and every donkey should pass this time!” Mrs. Kher explained, overflowing with the milk of human kindness.

Did we hear her right, did we? Since when did Mrs. Kher become so overly generous? There was absolute disbelief. Maybe, a different spirit was indwelling her frame, that made her talk like this?

But this was not the time to ponder over possibilities. Hindi exam was a tough nut to crack. Before Mrs. Kher changed her mind, we had to extract the question paper and copy it down to the letter!

Dinesh, the class monitor, immediately shut the windows and drew the curtains. You do not want secrets leaked carelessly. The class normally resembled a fish-market. It was now steeped in pin-drop silence- just the whirr of the fan and the occasional clearing of the throat.  

The notebook was on the desk and the pen was held aloft. We waited with bated breath. Mrs. Kher began in a hushed tone, as though the map to a hidden treasure was about to be revealed.  “Class! Write down, carefully. This is very important. There will be 2 sections. We start with Section-A. Prose (gadya) questions- 20 marks. Poem (padya) questions- 10 marks. Fill-in-the-blanks- 10 marks. Match-the-columns- 10 marks. That makes it a total of 50 marks. Correct?”

“We now come to Section-B.  Grammar (vyaakaran)- 10 marks. Use-the-right-idiom (muhaavara)- 10 marks. Comprehension- 10 marks. Essay (nibandh)-20 marks. This will be your paper tomorrow!” Mrs. Kher smiled, pleased as punch.

There was a stunned silence. It was a confusing silence. David, whose “whole body was brain”, could not contain himself, “M’am! You have revealed the entire paper! The entire paper! How can we ever thank you…m’am? How can we?” Once David set the ball rolling, others followed the template. More and more students were convinced they needn’t even study for the exam.

The class ended for the day. The students rushed out…like tearaway horses let loose. “We know the Hindi paper! We know what’s going to come tomorrow!”- collective screams rent the air, as the boys ran down the corridor.

By now, students from the adjoining classes mobbed us. “You know what’s going to come tomorrow? Please rey!  Share with us! Please rey!” Dinesh acted pricey, “Here’s the deal- you buy 2 stickers and 2 “gola” ice-candies at Jaadiya’s (hawker outside the school) and I will tell you the entire paper! Simple!” Business acumen was sharpened on those school corridors.

Amid all this excitement, only Sridhar wore a grumpy look. “What are you happy about? M’am did not reveal a thing. She just stated the obvious! Fill-in-the-blanks- 10 marks or 20 marks. How are you any wiser…man…now that you know?”  Sridhar was outshouted for being a spoilsport.

There is a reason why I remembered Sridhar. Earlier this week, one of the former legends of Cricket, wrote an article titled- “How Indian batters can go past 400” in the Test Match against Australia. The headline caught my attention. Surely, the article is going to share some pearls of wisdom, some rare insight, some subtle analysis.

The article went as follows. Reproducing verbatim- “India's batters will need to fire on all cylinders. India will need a good opening partnership. One of the top three batters will have to score a 'daddy hundred' (Note: “daddy hundred” means a score in excess of 150). Keep smart targets. The first 10 to 15 runs will be hard to get but once the batters are settled, they should make the most of the opportunity. If India keep this in mind, they can go past 400!”

This legend’s revelation was exactly like the Hindi question paper “leak”. Sridhar was angry with Mrs. Kher on that day. He spoke his mind, “Appun kya Alibag se aayaalai…kya? (Do you think I am a bumpkin from Alibag (a rural beach-town close to erstwhile Bombay), that you can take me for a ride…so easily?”

This Cricket article deserves Sridhar’s response- “Appun kya Alibag se aaya hai…kya?”

 

Owning a road-roller!

Let’s face it. Most of our cities have bad roads. The reasons are many- may be, it is the volume of traffic, may be, it is the unseasonable rains. You may own the fanciest car, but life is a great leveler. Your fancy car must negotiate a mud-road here and a ditch there, a pothole here and a crater there!  In the process, it gets all bruised and battered, and soon, it is reduced to a shadow of its former, pristine self.

Earlier this week, I saw a road-roller, parked by the roadside. It was a Eureka moment. It instantly flashed- why not sell the car and buy this road-roller instead? The more I thought about it, more overwhelming were the benefits…and mind you, not one…negative point. I couldn’t help patting myself, for stumbling upon this brilliant idea.

Owning a road-roller is like taking matters into your own hands, taking the bull by its horns, as they say. You feel totally empowered. Bad roads? No problem at all! The road-roller will level the bad road to submission. You pave your own path…literally! And once you’ve leveled the road, think about the rest of humanity. They can simply follow you, your road-roller’s footprint, rather. This is exactly what the poet meant when he wrote, “Footprints that perhaps another, sailing over life’s solemn main, a forlorn and ship-wrecked brother, seeing, shall take heart again!” What better social service than this, I say?

Many of us have an intrinsic desire to own a posh car- a Ferrari, a Porshe, a BMW or a Benz. Why do we want a fancy car? Why? Introspection will reveal- we do not want the car per se, we want that “attention”, to be a “head-turner”, a “cynosure of all eyes” as they say.  For this attention seeker, a road-roller is like manna from heaven. After all, the biggest head-turner on the road is the road-roller. It’s like riding atop an elephant! Who will not notice you, looking regal and majestic, as you hurtle down the road, on your road-roller?

Most of our cars are too delicate. Just one touch from a neighboring car, and it crumples like paper. Think about the number of times the fender has got dented, or the sides scratched? “Sir, we need to replace that entire side-plate. We cannot make any pointed fix!” the car mechanic tells you. Each time, you must pay through your nose. A road-roller will have none of these problems- no dents, no scratches, nothing! It is built like a beast, like a bison, like a Patton tank!

Any innovation will face initial resistance. Imagine…you are about to turn your road-roller into a mall. The security man rushes at you, all bewildered. “This is not allowed! Allowed nahi hai!” he may protest. You will have to combat him, “What do you mean this is not allowed? What do you mean? This is my vehicle! Arey bhai! Haan! Road-roller hi mera car hai! Samajh rahen naa aap?” He will likely keep you waiting, to get permission from his superiors. And meanwhile, the other cars in line, will curse you, for delaying them too…with this monstrosity ahead of them. Such episodes are possible.

Getting permission from the home department will not be easy. “I am planning to sell off our Honda!” Wife will ask excitedly, “What a sudden decision! What car should we buy? I heard “Duster” is a good vehicle. Or an “Innova”…” You will have to summarily interrupt her. “No! I am thinking...out of the box, this time. I am planning to buy a road-roller!” “A what?” “A road-roller! A road-roller! Don’t you get it?” Yes, it will take some convincing at home, for sure.

The apartment-complex folks will protest. After all, apartment parking lots are compact. It is possible that the front of the animal will stick out, inconveniencing other vehicles. You will have to counter the objection stoutly- “Show me! Where is it written in the rulebook, where is it written…that you cannot own a road-roller? Show me!” One thing is for sure- once you have parked your road-roller, they can do nothing. They cannot tow your vehicle away, much less, puncture the tires!

When we weigh the pros and cons carefully, the advantages of a road-roller outweigh the negative points, hands down. I am waiting for the day to drive my road-roller down Bannerghatta Road.

Aye! Aye! Aye! Here cometh the road-roller! Here cometh the road-roller! Get out of the way!

When the slippers slip away!

Last month's Udupi trip was eventful. We had a soulful darshana of Udupi Shri Krishna in the evening. As darkness descended, we visited the “Ananteshwara” temple. I was certain I left my footwear close to the stone obelisk before entering the Shiva temple. Once back, they were gone!

The first reaction when you see your footwear missing…is confusion. May be, you left the footwear elsewhere. You are reminded of the proverbial story of the man who dropped his finger-ring in Kumbakonam's "mahaamaham" water-tank, but desperately searched for the ring in the adjoining pond because the mahaamaham tank was too crowded!

You look around the place, shuffling other footwear. May be, yours is playing hide-and-seek. A part of your mind is sure, “No! This is exactly where you left them!” Still, there is disbelief. “Where did the footwear go? Where did they walk away? Did someone steal them? Did someone mistake them as theirs and unknowingly wore them?”  

It is the entry to the Ananteshwara temple, but footwear is littered all over.  Some are neatly arranged; others have been evidently kicked off in a hurry. Some lie straight, some lie on their side, and still others lie prostrate, with the soles facing the sky. Chappals, sandals, hawaai slip-ons, shoes- some new, some old, some worn out, some bruised, some battered, it is an ocean of footwear!

From time to time, there are “false positives”. You jump with glee on spotting something that resembles yours, but a closer scrutiny confirms it is not. Soon, it is evident, they are gone, gone for good. Resignation sets in. My friend had a novel suggestion, albeit too late, “You should separate the footwear. And leave each one, at a different place! That way, no one can steal them!” 

The anger is now directed at God also. He made me buy these new chappals. He got me to the temple. He did nothing, did nothing…while they were being stolen!

A part of your mind tries to console you. “God has better things to do than being your personal footwear keeper! No! It’s not like that, dear! Think about Arjuna. Karna fired the “naagaastra” at Arjuna. The missile was directed at Arjuna’s head. At the nick of time, Krishna pressed the chariot with his foot. The chariot sunk into the earth by a few inches. And now, the missile that should have knocked off Arjuna’s head, could only take off his crown! Like that, may be, something grave was directed at your foot. God intervened and ensured that only the footwear was impacted! Who knows?”  

You get angry with the mind for bringing up oblique arguments like these. The mind brings up one more counterpoint, “Why don’t you think about the 3^rd anuvaaka from Shri Rudram? The answer lies there!” This was too much, like asked to crack a clue in a Treasure-Hunt game. Shri Rudram is that celebrated vedic hymn on Lord Shiva. The 3^rd section of the hymn is dedicated to an enumeration of all negative elements. It mentions the “occasional-cheat”, the “pathological-thief”, the “land-grabber”, the one who walks away with produce from a field, the forest-brigand, the murderer- the list goes on and on. The section finally ends by saying…all these dregs of human society, they too are “essentially” Shiva and non-separate from him!”  How do you answer the mind now? He wants me to condone my footwear thief on these lines!

To bring the episode to a close, just a street away, there was a footwear shop. I bought a simple pair of slippers. The topic was done and dusted. The trip should have no more…no more…any mention of the word “chappal”! Yes, the mind may be “chapala” and fickle, but I refuse to do any more chappal-dhyaana, I said to myself!

Back in the car, our driver, Murti saar noticed. “That’s why I told you to leave the footwear in the car itself! Weren’t they new chappals? How much did they cost? Whenever you go to a temple….” he trailed away.

Just when the embers are about to cool down, the flames flare up once more!

The cricket-nut and the anti-cricket-brigade!

Cricket has been in the news lately. The astronomical financial package awarded to some of our favorite cricketers grabbed the headlines. Someone got 10 crores, another got 20, running all the way to a whopping 27 crores!

What would take a person of moderate achievement several lifetimes, the cricketer pockets, by simply showing up in one edition of the annual T-20 circus!

Let’s face it, there are 2 types of people! On one hand, we have the cricket-madcap! He doesn’t follow the game- rather, he breathes the game, day-in and day-out. We will call him a “cricket nut” for easy reference. And then, we have the opposite breed, for whom, cricket is an anathema. This breed just cannot understand what the fuss is all about. We will call this person the “anti-cricket-brigade”.

Often, the cricket-nut and the anti-cricket-brigade live under the same roof.  It keeps the home lively! “27 crores! The franchise bought him for 27 crores just to play a game of Cricket! What madness is this? Our scientists sent a vehicle to the moon! To the moon, mind you! Did they get paid even a fraction of this 27? There must be some sense of proportion!” the anti-cricket-brigade is totally aghast!

“Leave the scientists. What about other sports? Let’s take hockey, kabaddi, kho-kho or aeroplane-paandi. Do those players get any recognition? It’s because of over-the-top cricket fans like you, that such filthy money is poured into one game!”

The cricket-nut takes the attack personally and sulks in a corner. Reference to “aeroplane paandi”, that silly game of hopscotch and comparing it with cricket is too much! For some time, the cricket-nut imagines an IPL organized for aeroplane-paandi- how the hopscotch squares will be drawn on the ground with a piece of chalk, how players from around the world will be invited to hop on one foot! And yes, you will now need stadium-full of fans, colored uniforms, cheerleaders, and expert commentators to seriously analyze the game of paandi! The cricket-nut couldn’t suppress a giggle, even in the imagination! Paandi just wouldn’t cut it, would it?

The other day, the cricket-nut came home terribly depressed. His face had a forlorn look, as though all was lost in life. With his eyes pressed tight, eyebrows knitted, fists clasped, he pleaded fervently, “Can you please pray?” The anti-cricket-brigade asked, “Pray? For whom? Is someone unwell?” “No! I want you to pray for India!” “For India? Why?” The cricket-nut explained, “India has lost 7 wickets for 30 runs, that too against New Zealand. Can you pray...so that they cross their lowest score of 36, to avoid more disgrace?” One look at the anti-cricket-brigade, and the cricket-nut knew, no prayer could be extracted! “Serves them right! Serves you right! And now, may I ask, how many of your heroes scored zeroes, absolute eggs, total “andas”, and still earned 27 crores?” The anti-cricket-brigade was being overly nasty.

“I am planning to grow a beard!” the cricket-nut began conversation at home, a week ago. “Virat has not scored a 100 for the last couple of years. Till he scores his next 100, I plan to grow a beard, as a resolve, as a “mannat”!” The brigade shot back, “Don’t you have anything better to do? Take care. Your beard will reach your toes, but Virat isn’t going to score any better!” The brigade was totally wrong! I had a stubble for just 2 days. Virat scored his 30^th century! The beard-mannat did the trick. Wish I had known this earlier.

The cricket-nut got home from office. He was jubilant. He flung the office-bag to one corner and kicked off his shoes. The brigade asked, “So happy! Did you get a promotion? Or a hefty bonus?” Scattering the roll of socks, the cricket-nut explained, “No! This is even bigger! Much, much, much bigger! You know what? India won the Perth Test! India won at Perth, the fastest wicket in the world! At Perth! Can you believe it? India pummeled Australia! Australia did not know what hit them! Bumrah and Virat, Jaiswal and….!” the cricket-nut reeled away, while the brigade blinked back, totally alarmed!

The tipping point!

“To tip or not to tip! That is the question!” Shakespeare may well be forced to rejig his Hamlet quote to suit today’s time and age.

The situations are many- you are on a road-trip. You step out of the car at the hotel. The “greeter” opens the car door for you, gives you a broad smile, and helps you with the luggage. Next, you order coffee to your room. In a trice, an attendant knocks at your door with a tray of steaming coffee. Later, you are about to finish up lunch at the restaurant. The waiter pauses that extra second just after you pay the bill. In these situations, to tip or not to tip? That is the Shakespearean question!

“Tipping is a feel-good response. It is my way of giving back in howsoever small a way. A 20-rupee note here, a 30-rupee there, costs me little. But it brings a smile to a waiter’s face!” I gave my opinion.

The non-tipper was brutally honest, “No! I never tip. It is a matter of principle. I pay the bill at the restaurant- down to the paise, and then…and then…I simply walk away!”

You question the non-tipper. “What if the waiter gives you a nasty glance for being so tight-fisted and miserly, like Silas Marner? He might even call you dirty names in the vernacular. He may abuse you with “Oye! Kanjoos-makkhi-choos!” or with “Poda! Kanja-pisinaari! Poda!” How will you deal with such a pointed taunt?”

The non-tipper shrugged his shoulders. “Let him! Let him! I don’t care! But, one thing, I never go to the same restaurant twice! That way, I don’t have to confront the disgruntled waiter again! And one more thing- I never make eye-contact once I pay the bill! I look away and slip away!”

The non-tipper continued, “These fellows make good money, you know! Look at that hotel greeter’s dress- so tip-top! More tip-top than you and me! Wearing such a top, you tell me, does he need a tip? Also, what all will you tip? The petrol-pump person asks, "Sir, shall I top-off the petrol? Top-off sir?" and wants a tip-off! The ice-cream vendor adds an extra topping and expects an extra tipping!"

This tip-and-top phrasing was going a little over the top now!

The non-tipper elucidated further, “Why should we tip…I say? Tipping is the tip of the iceberg. It sets in motion a vicious cycle of expectation! The waiter starts expecting a tip from everyone. Didn’t Krishna say, work without expectation, didn’t he? Karmani-eva-adhikaarah-tey…maa phaleshu kadaachana! Didn’t Krishna say that? And now, by tipping, you are encouraging expectation-based bad behavior- exactly what Krishna wanted to condemn!”

“Let’s say, you tip the waiter a hefty sum of 100 rupees.  He gets tipsy seeing such a heady tip. You IT fellows can afford it. Can everyone afford it? No! Will the waiter deliver the same level of service to everyone?  No! And now, who is responsible for artificially inflating the market? You! You, my friend! You!”

“You may ask…what is the way out now? Very simple! Nip it in the bud…right at the tip- don’t tip!”

The debate was getting too heated up. I switched on some music to soothe the non-tipper’s nerves and was about to tiptoe out of the room.  The non-tipper got angrier! “You selected this song on purpose, didn’t you?” I pleaded ignorance and lent my ears to the song that was playing. It was a famous Bollywood song from the 1990s.  It went- “tip-tip-tip-tip barsaa paani!”

It was as though, even the rain had to be tipped…to pour, so the song seemed to say! This was surely the tipping point!