Dolphin show off the Goa coast

Dolphin search  

"Saab, I promise to show you the dolphins. If you don't see the dolphins this evening, I will take you again tomorrow morning at no extra cost. Pukka!" the boatman assured us.
"Look, we don't want to see just one dolphin. You have to show us many of them! I hope you don't have one of your friends dressed up as a dolphin and simply bobbing his head up and down in the water!" I added, trying hard to cut a joke.
"Saab, you take the ride and see. Pay me only if you like it," the boatman pleaded.

So here we were, 16 of us, 8 adults and 8 children... all aboard this motor boat. I have never seen a more ordinary boat, minimalistic to the core- just a few wooden planks for sitting and no other frills-  not even a few tyres hanging off the sides or a tarpaulin sheet for cover!

The life-jackets were fastened. For some, the buckles didn't exactly click and the straps had to be taken around the waist and knotted by hand. "I hope we don't have to use it!" someone commented as the boatman yanked the lever to jumpstart the boat. After a few false starts, like an autorickshaw... it suddenly sprung to life!

The sun was just over the horizon... a good one-hour to sunset. The boat sliced through the water and headed for the sun. Soon, we were well and truly in the middle of the sea- buffeted by the waves. Rajbagh beach, the Lalit, the coconut groves, the hills.... were miniature images pasted against a distant horizon.

"Look there!" the boatman pointed a hundred metres away where a few birds skimmed the surface of the water. "Where? Where?" people shouted. It was tough to discern anything peculiar amidst the waves. "Don't stand up now and topple the boat in your excitement! Even if you don't see this blessed dolphin, it will be perfectly fine!" a paranoid adult commented. "I don't see anything at all!" a child complained and was reprimanded for being impatient.

All of a sudden, just like a feature on the Discovery Channel, a dolphin leapt out of the water completely, followed this exquisite arc and swooped back into the waves! Truly stunning! "Saab, even I have never it so clearly" the boatman's attendant confided.
"I couldn't see anything. Can I sit on the other side?" my daughter was distraught. "Don't keep complaining. You're not looking in the right direction! Even I can't see anything more than you! Be patient!" was my irritated response.

The boatman switched the motor off. Silence....except the sound of the waves lashing against the boat and rocking it precariously. Soon, many dolphins were seen, swimming in twos, fighting in groups...they were suddenly everywhere...or the eyes learnt to spot them. A fin here, a snout there, a bit of the tail..everyone caught a part of them and extrapolated the rest.
It would now supply enough text for later conversation; the experience magnified several times with each narration!


Dolphin ... or is it the Loch Ness Monster!?



The children were elated, the adults satisfied... the boatman relieved! Paisa vasool! 

A most beautiful sunset brought the day to a climactic close!



Rajbagh Beach, The Lalit, Goa

Sitting on the ocean front in Goa (Rajbagh beach), behind the Lalit- as I write these lines. 11:00 am in the morning. A spotless blue sky, deep blue ocean- shimmering in the sun and the waves crashing away- noisy and relentless.

Rajbagh Beach

The sand is hot, scorching hot- for the sun is now high up in the sky; you scamper for the nearest shelter as you try to walk without footwear. But the kids don't feel the heat. They're busy building a sand-castle here, a moat there and a rather elaborate canal.

There is an animated conversation how the tide will bring in water which will be channeled through these makeshift canals to irrigate a totally different part of the beach. Probably, the Rajasthan Canal Project also had such humble beginnings!

A speed boat cuts across the seascape with a whirr which competes with the roar of the waves and leaves behind a trail of white foam.

The ocean is rimmed with a gentle roll of hills on three sides- hazy bluish-green in the distance and a bright splash of green coconut groves provides a distinct contrast in the foreground.

Spent an enjoyable session in the water in the morning- it was high tide and the waves got increasingly bigger and inched closer and closer to the orange flags fluttering in the sands. Children had a blast- standing like Tarzan and taking the wave head-on and at times, allowing the wave to exhaust itself and limply hug their ankles!
The sand is clean-spotlessly clean and quite unlike the Indian beaches we are used to. A group of ladies, all well dressed and equipped with baskets meticulously pick up scrap- bottle caps, twigs and other debris washed up by the ocean. There are as many foreign tourists as Indians on this beach. Everyone seems to be having a good time.

Devu is a masseur- keeping his client busy in the adjoining recliner in the sands. He strokes a foot here, vigorously rubs a thigh there and gently rotates an ankle till it finally clicks.. "Awaaz aaya? (did you hear that sound?)" he questions.
His hands are deft and swift. His client is evidently in the seventh heaven and one can't help but overhear interesting bits of conversation. "Ayurvedic oil hai," when his client questions what concoction he uses. "Massage ka solid item hai usme! Dard-bhird... sab kuch khalaas! (All pain will vanish)" he announces with an air of finality! "How old do you think I am?" he asks. Without waiting for an answer, he reveals- "45 years, but I don't look it! You know why? Exercise hai puraa mera! Life mein tension-vension kuch nahi!"

It is difficult to pin an age to Devu- a full head of hair, a cap and dark glasses now pulled over the head. His face registers age, but not his arms- they are rugged and muscular.
Moving his hand in circles over the tummy, he surmises that his client doesn't smoke or drink and has no gas problems! If it's so evident to Devu, why can't our doctors take a leaf from his book and spare us the tedium of answering these questions? It is clear that he makes good money and lives a good life.
He takes his time- 45 minutes to an hour and charges 500 rupees. "Discount hai maloom! Phoren log ke liye 1000 (1000 for foreign tourists)". Another interested client feels that it is pricy.
"If you don't like it, you don't have to pay!" he trails away and gets down to pinch the sole with one hand and tug each toe with the other, applying just the right pressure. "You have a lot of tension here!" he diagnoses and clicks his tongue in disapproval. Watching him in action is therapeutic, relaxing and totally entertaining.

Like Zakir on the tabla, he ends the session with a series of delicate strokes on the head- complete with sound effects!
He hands over a fresh tender-coconut juice to his client. Next, he whips out his business card with his mobile number and says with a flourish, "Call me tomorrow. I can do it for 400 this time. There was a big man staying at the Lalit. He left yesterday. He got this massage done four times," he beams and moves on to the next client.

I took the trouble to get Devu's number. Do let me know if you're interested!

Palolem, Goa

Our quest for exclusively vegetarian eat-outs took us to "Palolem". There are none. Vegetarianism will soon be just as extinct as the animals people feed on! We settled down for pizzas at a shack leading to the beach- at least one meal can be paid in Indian rupees and not in Euros... as at the Lalit!
Doubts assail the vegetarian at every step. The owner was truly dumbfounded with some of our questions- "Do you use the same oil to fry fish and finger chips?" He vaguely nodded his head one way and midway changed the direction. It appeared prudent not to try anything extravagant. Pizza was good enough. If we are still hungry, we can always dig into a Baskin Robbins ice-cream across the street.

We've never heard of Palolem. But word of mouth has made this place famous- especially in UK and USSR, we're told. Tourists have taken over the place. Shops sell curios of every kind: T-shirts -with "om" and "I love Goa" across them, jute bags with garish images of Buddha and Ganesha, Indian wear and other trinkets.
I asked for a book on Goa with Mario Miranda's illustrations and never found one. It would have made perfect business sense to sell Mario's works now (Mario passed away two weeks ago and was best known for his cartoons on Goa).

We like to observe foreign tourists- we wonder what brings them to India, how they manage in places which are not tourist friendly and above all, how they put up with the lack of restrooms! Here we are, having used the restroom for the last time at home in Bangalore; we plan to hold it all..packed nicely... till we get home in a few days time! Just kiddin'..but you get the drift. You obviously need a different strategy if you are coming from say.. the UK, especially if it's a long holiday and you are going to be on the move constantly.

One such tourist sat at the next table. He fished out two things from his backpack- A Lonely Planet book on India and this huge plastic bag.. filled with about 30-40 garlic bulbs! Curiously, he proceeded to remove one full garlic bulb, placed it in another plastic bag and pounded it patiently. Once the food was on his table, he took the garlic slivers, spread it on the side-dish and was soon lost in the meal and the book.
Garlic is known to keep ghosts away all right, but with so much of garlic, he's sure to scare the daylights out of most living people!

We did go to Baskin Robbins and had a tough time picking the right flavours for 8 kids now. If you're wondering how the count increased, we were joined by a fourth family at the Lalit. We ordered litchi, changed it to black currant, corrected it to pista and changed our mind back to litchi.
A foreign tourist arrived with a child strapped to his back. He unstrapped the child, placed it on the chair and got her a cup of ice-cream. To our horror, the child-probably about 2 years- had no clothes at all. Can I try this stunt at Disneyland Paris? I agree that this is India and enough and more people go without clothes. But that's not by choice. Next time you go to Baskin Robbins, not only do you need to sanitize your hand, but be sure to squeeze a blob of the sanitizer on the seat as well!!

Foreign tourists drive around Goa in two-wheelers, with no helmets. They are at ease, blissfully at home....driving on both sides of the road, cutting lanes (they are imaginary of course!) and snaking through traffic snarls.

This is not a rant against foreign tourists in Goa. We are curious about them and we like them. I'm sure there are enough and more foreign tourists who follow rules by the letter and are an object example for the rest of us in matters of hygiene and courtesy!
In a narrative such as this, we look for oddities to make it an interesting read. You have to look at the above citation in that context!
More later...!

The Lalit at Canacona, Goa

Karwar to Canacona (South Goa) is an hour by bus (about 26 km). Any bus to Madgaon should take you to Canacona. Like other places in Goa, Canacona is spelt and pronounced in different ways- as Kankona or even Kankon. It all depends on how anglicized.. sorry how Portuguese you want to sound.... or have a Konkani ring to your language. I wouldn't be surprised if Cancun, that favoured destination on the South Mexican coast is also of Konkani origin... and now twisted out of shape in Spanish!

A rather uneventful bus-ride except for the motley crowd around us. The language changed over the bus and more people now spoke Konkani and Marathi and less of Kannada. We stacked the luggage on the last seat and settled down.
A little chirping from time to time at close quarters pricked our ears up- initially, it looked a novel ring-tone for a cell-phone. To our surprise, we figured that the person on the next seat carried a cloth-bag  actually stuffed with live birds!

A lady was curious which "gaon" (village!) we were from. To say that our city pride was hurt and wounded would be an understatement! More questions came my way- why were we in Goa, how long do we plan to stay, where would we stay and when would we go back to our gaon! It appeared the round of questioning would never end and I had a sudden impulse to nip it in the bud and come clean- My name is Khan and I am not a terrorist! But when you are in good humour, as you normally are..when on vacation, you don't fire salvos back! "Get down at Chawdi.. pudhe ahe, the second stop..! The place you want to go...should not be too far way!" she informed and got down from the bus.

The Lalit at Canacona is beautiful. "It's like the hotel at Disneyland!" exclaimed my daughter, rolling her eyes. The comparison is appropriate- the hotel is spread over several acres, the Portuguese style buildings are charming and the hedges and lawns manicured to perfection. The lobby has a Christmas tree with bells and whistles, an imposing staircase at one end, a memento shop at the other.....everything polished to a shine! A "buggy" (12 seater vehicle) takes you from the lobby to the main-gate or to the Rajbagh beach in case you are too lazy to walk.
The rooms are pretty and open out to lawns with a neat sit-out area. It is all tastefully set up, with the foreign tourist in mind. Little wonder, that droves of them flock to the Lalit and seem completely at home.

"There's even a window in the bathroom! Look! I can watch TV from the bathtub through this window!" my daughter squealed.
"Haven't you heard the Zen proverb- "When you walk, walk. When you eat, eat!"? 100 % attention has to be focused on the task at hand...that's Zen meditation for you! And you very well need to extend that proverb to other bodily functions too! Whoever designed that window in the bathroom? This is absurd...!" I stopped short when I found that I was talking to myself and the kids had drifted off to some other activity.

In a strange way, opulence and extreme courtesy in India makes us uncomfortable. We don't know how to deal with it- it constrains us and we feel restless. Coming from that Majali resort, we felt our hands tied up- now that we didn't have to carry that bucket around to get hot water anymore!

The food was pricy at the Lalit, but there was little choice- we couldn't find our Adigas and Udipi hotels for some wholesome vegetarian food nearby. Also, serving a cup of  strong, "degree", filter coffee isn't their cup of tea, neither is tea! We tried multiple times and eventually gave up.

The kids had a great time at the swimming pool. I tried floating, but unlike the sea at Karwar, the buoyancy to prop you up just wasn't there. I needed a float and found one. My reverie was broken with a rough voice- "Sir, that float cannot be used. It is only for emergency!"
"Dude! If I leave this float now.... trust me, we will have an emergency!!" I protested.

Winding up at Karwar

The evenings were invariably filled with group activity- Pictionary, Taboo and Dumb-charades. The games brought with them the inevitable clashes. Each team accused the other of cheating (and prospering)!

If it was Pictionary, the opponent got the answer only after the last grain of sand had drained. The accusation was always stoutly contested by the other side with the version that the grain was actually in transit! In the absence of the third umpire and UDRS, there was no one to pronounce a balanced judgement.

Taboo had other issues-  The contestant swore that he never uttered the "taboo word" though it was crystal clear to some that the first syllable was articulated.

Dumb-charades tied up folks in knots. To ensure that the opponent stumbled and never cracked the phrase, all sorts of obtuse movie titles were suggested. Whoever can mime “Albert Pinto ko gussa kyon aata hai” or mono-syllables like “Tashan” and “Aakrosh”?

The score-keeper was forever making calculation errors either accidently or with intent to declare his side the winner.

If couples were in the same side, they had a regional code and cracked all clues with ridiculous ease. If they were in opposite sides, they fought tooth and nail and used language which could make a sailor blush!

Some kids had evidently done a different kind of homework- they had actually memorized words on all the cards.... rendering it a no-contest!

The sessions were no doubt interesting despite the occasional flare-ups!

The cottages faced the ocean. The backyard had a sit-out area with cane chairs. It overlooked a little lake rimmed with trees supporting some hammocks and hills in the distance. Some more houses were being built on the far-side and workers went about their job with more than usual languor!

Spent some time kayaking in the lake. Initially, the kayak had a mind of its own and spun around or got caught in the weeds on one side of the lake.

Gradually, it became easy to coordinate the strokes of the oars and get some traction. Folks tried the pedal boat and seemed to enjoy it. Kayaking was supposedly not a heavy-duty water sport, but I still managed to get the clothes wet......

Which brings us to the last point... if you're on a beach-trip, you will run out of dry clothes. It's totally unintentional- all that you set out to do is to watch the sunset from the sands. But you can't resist wading into the water- initially, only to wet your toes. You fold up the trousers till the knees (hideous!) and allow the water to lap against the feet. Unobtrusively, the trousers slip down and the ends are now wet. Very soon, you've thrown caution to the winds and waded deeper into the water and completely ruined your last pair of dry trousers... with 3 more days to go!

From this point onwards, you're a social outcast....a walking sand sculpture.. a trail blazer.... with puffs of sand strewn around with every step.......!

Tomorrow, we leave for Goa. Ciao!

Rock climbing at Karwar

It was a relief that no one took the bait to spend a day at the rocky island seriously. I would have surely lost my money. By 4:00 pm in the evening, it was low tide. The water had receded all the way to the rocky island so that one could simply walk up to it and it ceased to be an island anymore! Quite unbelievable considering how it was hemmed by choppy waves just a few hours earlier.

Rocky "island" by high-tide

The plan for the evening was to scale the rocky peak. The wet sand leading to the rocks teemed with a variety of marine life- shells, conches, crabs, sea-weeds and even starfish. One particularly precocious boy in our group was forever chasing crabs, picking them by their tentacles, examining their intricate contours, leaving them in the water... till the crabs learnt to recognise him and would squirm and run for cover!

Kids got a mouthful for getting their clothes dirty and being a nuisance- their pockets bulged with stuffed shells and copious sand and they littered the room with all this trash with absolute unconcern! Grudgingly, they parted with some of the collected booty and wore a sullen face for the rest of the evening!

It took about an hour to the top of the peak and back. Some rocks were slippery, others jagged and loose. Shrubs were thorny in places and at times, infested with ants- the path had to be chosen with care. The guide from the resort navigated us well. Once at the top, we stood by the red flag and surveyed the territory like a monarch.... the ocean stretched to eternity on one side... and the resort itself appeared distant and toy-like.
A part of the mind was racked with anxiety to get back to the resort in time- before high tide set in....The last thing you want is to lose the plot and get marooned here with half a dozen kids.. the entire night! If there's a parallel, it's quite like the feeling when you loiter a few platforms away to get a water-bottle filled....and fear that the train will depart and leave you high and dry!

The sun took a bow...a visual spectacle as it always is.....the sky aglow and the water aflame as well. Dusk changes the complexion of the ocean instantly....the mood is sombre and it's time to head home.

A note about footwear- It's important to travel with beach slippers. I made the mistake of travelling with just a pair of sneakers... and a beach isn't a place for them. For one, the feet pick up a lot of wet sand which can never be dusted off the insides of the shoes. I borrowed a pair of sandals from my friend and was spared the discomfort. We joked that I had to take good care of his sandals...carry them on my head as Bharat did Lord Ram's!

Back from the beach and we needed a bath; the bathroom had no geyser.... Bucket by bucket, the hot water had to be fetched from a central location. The further you were in the queue, the more lukewarm the water got and consequently- less fulfilling the bath! You just had to beat your friends and be the first in line. Courtesy can very well wait!

The bath had to be measured and calibrated...right to the number of mugs!
Way too much effort for a vacation.... !

Majali Beach Resort at Karwar

Shortly before Rabindranath Tagore got married, at the age of 22, he visited Karwar. He has left behind his memoirs of Karwar- where he talks about the beaches and the boat-ride... up the Kali River. Rabindranath and other illustrious sons of Bengal feature prominently in Karwar- there is a Rabindranath Tagore beach, a Vivekanand school and even a bust of Netaji on one of the roundabouts in the town. And yes, the river which joins the Arabian Sea at Karwar is  aptly named "Kali".

An autorickshaw-ride from the bus-depot took us to the Majali Beach Resort. On the way, we spotted the War-ship Museum, with exactly one warship in the premises. We crossed the Kali River, Devbag island and Sadashivgadh (which houses the Shantadurga temple built by Shivaji).

The Majali Beach Resort-- the first impression was far from impressive. The beach was outside the resort premises which meant that it would not have the privacy or the clean setting which made our stay at the Sai Vishram Center at Baindur.... the previous year...simply memorable.

The cottages were ordinary. The rooms lacked basic amenities like flowing hot-water! There was no mirror for the washbasin in the rest room. To shave, I had to use the mirror in the hall- which made it clumsy. The shaving foam would trickle down the chin and threaten to plop onto the floor and required an immediate dash to the wash basin! At the wash-basin, everything was fine, but you ran the risk of shaving your eyebrows off if you weren't attentive!!

The mirror in the hall had a different problem altogether- whether weathered by time or by sea, we didn't know, but you just couldn't see anything with clarity. At best, you could barely discern the contours of your self. We were all sun-tanned all right, but not on the first day or to the extent that each person should be visible only as a silhouette!
Definitely not the kind of mirror or the right individual to ask- "Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all!?"

The staff was courteous, but laid back and a tad uninterested, which meant that they didn't exactly bond with us.
The food had a home-cooked feel to it but served in bowls so shallow that with one serving, you hit the bottom, requiring more orders, more refills and more wait.

And then, the mystery of the green gate which we never quite cracked! You entered the resort premises through this gate, manned by a guard who elaborately secured it with a padlock. Except that the gate stood as an entity in itself with no railings or walls or even barbed wires for support. Rodents, animals, human beings... and why.. even robbers could always enter the premises through the sides of the gate! The gate stood tall and imposing like the contraption manning railway stations to catch your proverbial terrorist when entire humanity has enough room to wriggle through the sides!
Yes, the vacation appeared all set to be a damp squib, but, thankfully, sorted itself out.

The beach was clean and pretty and made up for everything else. A rocky island, pyramidal in shape, with boulders thrown in a haphazard manner.... and with a lonely flag on top, greeted us... a few hundred yards from the water-front. Just the kind of lonely island to prick your friend's sense of bravado- "I would give a 1000 rupees if you can spend an entire night on that island, all by yourself! I bet you can't! "

From the sands, as you look to the right, you can spot the hills in the distance, neatly arrayed in layers and fringed by coconut trees. Pointing to the nearest one, someone commented- "That's Goa!" To the left, in the distance is Devbag- another well known island and resort.

The ocean-front is not straight; it curls elegantly, much like the Om beach in Gokarna. Like each day on this trip, the weather was perfect- sunny and warm. Just the right setting to don your beach-wear, strap on the life-jacket and simply lie down spread-eagled on the water, staring at the blue sky- and allow yourself to be bobbed up and down by the waves.

I even convinced my daughter that it was the perfect posture to recite the sacred- Aditya Hridayam mantra!! At that age, you don't question... and we got through quite a few verses till a wave got big on us.... and we ended up choking and coughing with salt water in our mouth and nose!! Whew!

Bangalore to Karwar

"One hour-aa.. One hour-aa," announced the bus attendant, his rasping voice jolting us out of sleep. It was baffling why we were being woken up when our destination- Karwar was still one hour away. I pulled the curtains and peered out of the window. The dawn was still dark and I curled up to get more sleep. It was much later that it dawned upon us that the announcement had in fact been for "Honnavara", a township on the Karnataka coast! From Honnavara, the bus travelled Northwards all along the coast to Karwar.

We boarded the bus- an SRS sleeper bus the previous evening at 6:30 pm from BTM, Bangalore. A sleeper bus journey was the first for us- once inside the bus, it looks a little like the coupe of a meter-gauge train. Berths, stacked in two-levels are on either side of the aisle. Unlike a train compartment, all the berths are parallel to the direction of travel.
From BTM, the bus motored its way to "Majestic", where we were joined by two other families. At the stroke of eight, we were on our way to Karwar.

Description of the bus journey through the night is going to be sketchy. Sleep, dream images and vignettes from actual locations compete with each other till it gets too confusing to form a linear narrative. The journey was roughly in the northwest direction, cutting diagonally across the state. At a point beyond Sagar, the bus should have veered Westwards to meet the sea at Honnavara.
Popping a tablet of Dormstal helped to keep nausea and motion sickness at bay. The journey was comfortable mostly, but bone-chilling cold in parts where we hit the ghat section. We donned our sweaters, shrunk into a foetus posture, pulled the blankets over our heads, jammed the windows shut and even tugged at our kids in the two-sleeper berths- anything to find some warmth!

Karnataka is shaped roughly like a trapezium, with the shorter parallel side aligned to the Arabian Sea. Mangalore is close to the Southernmost point on the coast and Karwar is the Northernmost point- a total coastline of 275 km for the state.
We've now seen quite a few places on the Karnataka coast, spread over multiple vacation trips and it's becoming increasingly familiar. Mangalore, Udipi, Kundapura, Baindur, Bhatkal, Murdeshwar, Gokarna, Honnavara, Ankola and Karwar- dot the coastline from South to North. Once you leave Karwar, you hit the state of Goa in a matter of minutes.

In fact, didn't get sleep after Honnavara. As the first rays of the sun streamed through the bus window, it lit up a landscape of undulating hills, bevy of coconut trees, lazy hamlets and the occasional glimpse of the ocean.

So here we are at Karwar at eight in the morning....  The "Majali Beach Resort" is 10 kms from the bus-stop aur Karwar mein "car-vaar" kuch bhi nahi hai!!

Sports Day- then and now

"You're not spending enough time with your children! You simply keep working and working! What's the point!?", my daughter complained. When a 7 year old questions your priorities or the lack of it with such a scathing attack, you have to mend your ways. I decided to skip work and show up for the Sports Day at her school.
I could see my daughter along with other children, neatly arrayed in rows, moving their arms up, down… and sideways in synchronization to the brisk chant of "one-two-three-four…" and "…four-three-next-change!" Like other parents, I waved to my daughter furiously from the stands till she had little choice but to notice me, grin and perhaps wonder- "He's such a clown! Does he expect me to wave back at him when I'm doing these exercises? Maybe, I should have just let him go to work!" My wife gently corrected me... "You are waving at someone else! Our daughter is standing in the fifth row... from the left!" As we sat in the shamiana, there was time to reminisce.  A lot had changed in Sports Days then and now. A lot was just the same....

"Biscuit Eating race” was conspicuous by its absence. So was sack-race which generated the most laughs- where children hopped, skipped, tumbled over, lost the plot mid-way, veered into the bushes and somehow managed to get back into the race! In a “biscuit-eating race”, the child had to gobble up a stack of "marie" biscuits and run to the finish line. Designated teachers scrutinized the child's mouth (and even the esophagus) to ensure that the biscuits didn't remain scrunched up in a corner. Some children were naturally relaxed and took their time- they munched the biscuits with interest and savoured the taste. They followed instructions from a different class to the letter- each morsel of food had to be masticated exactly 32 times before gulping it down...! Little wonder, they got a mouthful (or is it an earful?) from their furious parents after the race- "Have you never seen a biscuit in your life? Why couldn't you eat fast?" Dinesh was known to have done an Oliver Twist- After finishing his stack of marie biscuits, he asked- "Can I have one more…. and some water please to wash it down!?"
I missed my favourite- the "marble and spoon race"...with that marble precariously balancing on the spoon. Adhir had a problem with the hygiene. He felt delicate to grip the spoon by the mouth after the previous set of students had used it. "Can I bring my own spoon Miss?" he gingerly asked. "Sure you can Adhir! You can have your own spoon and your own marble and your own race... in your own home!" Ms Grace hollered.

Some things just hadn't changed- school "houses", the jingoism associated with it and the irresistible urge to brand other houses. "Blue house" students (and even the teachers associated with the house) cried themselves hoarse supporting their stars and heckled other houses. In our time, yellow house students were "cheaters" (preferred form to the more grammatically correct usage of 'cheat'), red house folks were "snooty" and the green house adherents were simply "losers"! The names of the houses may have changed- "Gandhi, Nehru, Tilak and Tagore" then  to "earth, fire, space and sun" now... but not the colours and what the affiliation meant to the students. It was tough being in Gandhi house in our time. We could have a  full head of hair- but would still invite cat-calls of "Aye taklu house!" or "Oye ganje!" (you baldy!)... well after school hours and in a totally different setting!

"Physical Education" now is definitely more structured. The variety in presentation cannot be missed either. The uniforms are smarter- white T-shirts, faded blue jeans and Nike shoes to boot. Students confounded us by contorting themselves in unbelievable “yoga asanas” making us wonder how they would finally extricate themselves from all this twisting. Aerobic exercises in Zumba style with feet tapping Latin American music made interesting viewing. There was never a dull moment throughout the programme- crisp and well rehearsed, with even an army band thrown in- complete with Scottish bagpipes and drums.

Unfurling the school flag, lighting the torch, the march-past, the guard of honour, the chief guest's "inspiring speech", the drill sessions, the running races, the hurdles, the potato races, the relays...the rituals were all intact.
Parents egged their wards.. with a half eaten samosa in one hand, pumping their fists, with shouts of "C'mon Aditya"... "faster.. faster..bhaag..faster"... and even tried to transfer their energy by sprinting in their own places!  There was still that lurking feeling of "betrayal and partiality" that so-and-so won because he ran in the innermost lane of the oval track and hence had to cover less ground!!
The relay race, as always, was the top draw. Some elements continued to tickle us- surprisingly, no one dropped the baton or continued to run with abandon  without passing the baton, so that his own comrade now played “catching-cook” with him! One weak link still pulled down the whole team; the gap between the weakest and the strongest team was so wide that the number of laps was forgotten and one suddenly got the feeling that the weakest team was in fact surging ahead! At the end of the race, the participants licked GlucoseD- cold, sweet and refreshing off their palms to give them “instant energy” for the next race! Nothing had changed.

The ceremony was "declared open" with the oath centred on the theme- "winning is not important"..... "what's important is fair play and the spirit of sportsmanship". It's only later in life that the child will grown up to be a sportsman with a new set of mantras- "go for the jugular", "show some agro man" and "develop a killer instinct"! Till then, the current messaging is just fine!

Book Abuse

Mehernosh's mother ensured that her son never read a school text book, at least never in full. At best, Mehernosh read every alternate page, the right-hand page- as you stare at a book. The page to the left could never be read as the last few letters of every sentence disappeared into the stitching. The mother's intentions were noble and unquestionable- she wanted the book to remain intact through the school-year and had all of Mehernosh's textbooks nicely bound. His books stood out- with a canvas binding, a thick, hard cover and never in tatters.
But every silver lining has a dark cloud- binding the book meant that it could never be laid down on the table and read normally. The moment you selected a page and laid down Mehernosh's book, it would protest, much like him and simply snap shut with a recoil-spring action! It required counterweights- either your left elbow or the compass-box had to nail down the left page so that you could read the right page. The left pages though, like the dark side of the moon always remained elusive. It's not as if Mehernosh made no effort- at times he held up the left page- at right-angles to the right, bent his head to one side as if he was peering through a pipe and tried hard to read. But it just wasn't easy and probably he gave up. Instead of complaining to Mrs Clare that her son was a "gaddha" (Parsi pronunciation for a donkey!) and couldn't read, his mom could have fixed the issue so easily. It's a case of child abuse to an extent, but more importantly, a case of book-abuse!

Book-abuse is too strong a word; we just want to "customize" the book at times and give it our personal touch. To that effect, the ink pen came handy. To amuse ourselves and break free from the grind of the History class especially after the lunch-break, we drew out our pens and drew... right on the textbook. Certain candidates in the text-book lent themselves to caricature- we picked a Lord Cornwallis here or a Lord Curzon there. Some characters were decorated with a Chaplinesque toothbrush moustache, others with a Chinese version- no moustache at the centre and a few stray whiskers trailing down each side. Figures suddenly grew large side-burns which extended to a copious beard or sported a bulbous Rajasthani turban over English wigs. Icons of the French Revolution resembled our own Panchapakesha Iyer and Varadachari- with prominent caste marks on their foreheads- complete with vibhuti and tilak! The urge was irresistible. The text-book ceased to be the staid, uninspiring tome that it once was. By the end of the year, it came alive- albeit with a new set of pictures- of pirates, bootleggers, drug-peddlers and beggars!

Hell broke loose when Mrs Fernandez forgot her textbook and had to borrow one of the student's books- no one wanted to share the textbook for obvious reasons. When she finally managed to get hold of Sridhar's textbook, she was aghast to see how far his fertile imagination carried him.
Evidently, Shah Jahan had been well provided for- instead of 3 wives, it now read 3000000 wives! "Please omit" was corrected to "please vomit"! "Moral Science" was selectively blackened to "oral Science"! Against the line "Garibaldi married Anita", a string of hearts and arrows decorated the margin.
That line tickled us to no end- Bang in the middle of the Italian Revolution with its grisly details, a line in the textbook apologetically read "Garibaldi married Anita" with no reference whatsoever on Anita's credentials- no lineage, no place of origin, no pompous titles, absolutely nothing. It looked as if Anita could well be a girl next-door or perhaps a maid-servant. In a way, we felt sorry for Anita. Couldn't Anita have found someone better? Why did she have to marry "Garibaldi" who was both "garib" ("poor" in Hindi) and a "baldy" to boot!?

Sridhar had a habit of underlining "key sentences" in the textbook. It perhaps helped him to focus on those lines before the exam. The problem with underlining lines in a textbook was that after a point, the distinction between important and unimportant details got completely blurred. Sridhar in his over-enthusiasm had taken a ruler and pen and scrawled a line below every sentence in the entire textbook! Mrs Fernandez, already turning a shade of red and purple as she leafed through the book with its grotesque figures, found it impossible to read the sentences. The strain was a bit too much for her.

Library books had a personality of their own. Someone would have a treasure-hunt organized to enthuse the reader and lift his sagging spirits. Page 7 would have the following line written in a flowing hand on the top margin- "Turn to page 18". Page 18 would promptly say, "Go to page 117". The trail had to be pursued and we turned the pages in feverish excitement. Page 117 sure had a message- "Go to page 100". Page 100 led to 256, 256 to 971, 971 to 301..... We leafed through the whole book to find the culmination... written in bold- "You idiot! Don't you have anything better to do!?"
A few enterprising blokes would complicate the contest by sending us on a wild goose chase- we were to be trapped in an eternal loop! Page 971 would say "Now, go to page 18". After an hour, we finally realized the futility of the exercise as the page numbers became increasingly familiar and repetitive!

A rookie had read the first chapter of a Wodehouse novel rather meticulously at the University of Roorkee library. He had taken the trouble to underline each word that he did not understand and had the meanings written at the top. It was laborious work. "chum"-> "friend", "capital"-> "mark of exclamation", "sow"-> "female pig"... It went on and on. Abruptly, it ended after the first chapter. Probably, the reader gave up or had improved his English to the extent that he didn't need the dictionary any more. A more advanced reader expressed his contempt for the novice at the end of the first chapter rather openly- "Moron! If you don't know the meanings of so many words, you bloody well shouldn't be reading this book!!"

The worst book-abuser surely was that scoundrel who borrowed books from the Abbas Library, Mumbai. With great interest, we followed Hercule Poirot as he systematically dissected the case. Just when he was about to reveal the assassin with his customary flair, the book came to a frustrating, abrupt end. The most important page was missing. In its place, was the handwritten message- "Serves you right!". Those were times when the best of us felt like wringing the rascal's neck!

"I don't want this book brought inside the house. Leave it in the passage and pick it up when you go to school tomorrow!" my mother screamed. The context was simple. I had casually mentioned that the teacher had used some saliva to turn the pages of my notebook as she corrected the homework!
That was simply not done. "Isn't the book Saraswati?" mother began, disgust writ on her face. "That you know and I know, but does the teacher know? Does Saraswati care?" I protested. Till a moment ago, everyone at home treated me and my notebook just fine. Suddenly, it became an object of revulsion- to be picked up gingerly, with outstretched arm, between the thumb and the forefinger with all the pages flailing over... as though a dead rat picked by its tail!! My sister felt that some pages were still moist and exuded an offensive smell  and had to be dried in the veranda! How could she be so sure? It's not as if someone slobbered the book! It appeared an easy way to torment my sis... I just had to stalk her from room to room, with the simple threat to touch her with the book!

Anyway, I had the final say- "Forget it! I am not going to take a head-bath to cleanse myself and in the process, come down with a bout of pneumonia now.....just for this notebook! And how do you think I am going to convey this point to my teacher- not to use a little lick to flick the pages of my book? Can I extend a piece of moistened sponge ...when she starts correcting my notebook!!? Be reasonable! This book is going to stay and that's it!"

Moral Science!

Don Bosco was a secular school. Christian students left the class for special "Catechism" lessons. The rest of us stayed behind for the class on "Moral Science and Community living".
"Ch" in English has multiple possibilities when it comes to pronunciation. It could be "ch" as in 'Chimpanzee' or "ch" as in 'character' or even with overtones of "sh" as in 'charade'. Needless to say, "Catechism" was a complicated word we stumbled over and made little headway. We chose to refer to it in our circles simply  as Christian studies (or "krish-chin studies" as we pronounced it).
Occasionally, the Catechism students came back and openly gloated over the stamps, key chains, postcards and other trinkets that Father Oscar donated with overflowing generosity. It appeared an interesting subject as well- the books were colourful and filled with references to quaint personalities like "Job", "Jeremiah", "Isaac" or Geography centred on distant lands like Jersusalem and Jordan. If we had had the choice, many of us would have surely opted for Catechism.

"Moral Science" on the contrary was dry, bone-dry-- an insipid, tasteless subject which made even Mathematics appear delightful! As it was meant for a "secular" audience, the "Moral Science" textbook could not teach morals through mythological stories we were familiar with... which would have had a far greater impact on children. It would have been easy to appreciate the value of "speaking the truth" through Raja Harishchandra's travails or the "spirit of sacrifice" through the stirring story of "Rantideva" or "the value of friendship" based on the story of Krishna and Sudama. Moral Science chose to teach these values with no illustrations whatsoever- it was didactic, preachy and simply tedious.
Sometimes, it borrowed contemporary American idioms which the students were unfamiliar with. The textbook had a picture of two boys with angry faces and a broken glass between them and on the other page, the same two boys.. all smiles this time and a full glass between them. The caption read-"break up and make up". It was much later in life that it dawned upon me that the picture was suppose to symbolize "break up in relationships" and "make up in relationships". For a seventh grader, the message was more straightforward- it just meant that the boys were angry that one of them broke the glass and were happy later on when the glass was repaired with some fevicol! The rest of the page had to be filled with 5 examples from our lives. Given our direct interpretation, it was rather simple. We just filled it with 5 other things which could be broken and mended- bottles, bats, chairs, cups and saucers!

In a way, we made up for the ugly textbook by having the most colourful notebook for Moral Science. The students had to choose the picture of a God, a saint, a visionary or some other religious symbol for the cover. A thin strip of cotton was stuck all around the picture and the entire notebook was then wrapped in colourful, translucent, "gelatin" paper. The book had a distinct aura- Vivekananda with all the cotton around him appeared as if he was standing behind the clouds and fixing his gaze on us... his eyes now.. even more mysterious when seen through the coloured blue paper!!

Students preferred their present day heroes though regardless of their moral standing. Mrs Clare was aghast when she caught Mehernosh in the act! He had a little slit on the cover through which he secretly inserted pictures of Kapil Dev and divas like Dimple Kapadia and Zeenat Aman to study how they would look through the gelatin paper!! Of course, Mehernosh had to kneel down outside the class for the rest of the period!

The notebook was meant to write down "good deeds" on a daily basis. The deeds were evaluated every week and "houses" were given points based on the impact of the act. It allowed the students to exercise the full range of their imagination more than any other faculty. Adhir was forever helping old people to cross from this side of the road to the other. Since the position for this job was already taken, Sridhar had to make a slight modification. He helped old people to cross from the other side of the road to this side! It appeared as if old people would finally flop down- dizzy from all this ferrying across the road, regardless of whether they actually wanted to cross it in the first place!
Going through the Moral Science notebook, the world appeared a really needy place- it was overflowing with challenged people, both physically and mentally, all of whom required a Moral Science student to either fold clothes or to run errands or to help a sibling's homework or to clean the room!

If I ever write the Story of My Experiments with Truth, I can boldly confess that I have copied in an examination just once. The irony is that it was for a Moral Science examination! Father Romel conducted the mid-term Moral Science examination for the tenth grade. You didn't prepare for Moral Science. By tenth grade, we were past masters in writing eloquent answers on "sharing is caring" or on "helping our less fortunate brethren". However, Father Romel added a sudden twist which completely caught us off-guard. He wanted us to quote from memory a particular poem in the textbook. He stepped out of the examination hall, convinced that by now, each of us, were living embodiments of values and morals that he had taught over the years.

The number of the marks against that question was not trivial. It did not seem prudent to skip the question and answer the rest of the paper. Morals could wait another day. The moment was opportune. We dashed across the hall, hurriedly pulled out the textbook, copied the lines of the poem out feverishly and put the books back just in the nick of time!

Moral Science was the last examination and we travelled by train to Chennai that night.
Like Gandhiji who was anguished by the bleat of the goat after he had furtively consumed meat, it was tough to ignore the pangs of conscience. Why did I have to copy? Was copying necessary? Couldn't I have forsaken 10 marks? After all, Pragnyat did not copy.
It gnawed my insides and kept me awake as the train made its way through Lonavla, Pune and Daund. The first rays of dawn streamed through the window as the train ground to a halt at Solapur. "Garmaa-garam tea.. tea...chai-chai... chaiye...chaiye"...the hawker was doing brisk business for sure. I looked out of the window.....

A peddler.. with this most beatific toothless smile... looked me in the eye and announced... "garmaa garam...." and followed it up with "copy-copy-copy... fine copy-copy... fine... copy!" It was like "ashariri-vaak"(divination/heavenly-voice).....with an overt beverage advertisement for some... but with a hidden message especially for me....Don't be too hard on yourself.. It's fine to copy this time!!

Copy-cats!

God created Man in his own image. He had a reference... Himself. It  begs the question, "What about women?" By elimination, we are left with little choice but to consider women as His "original" work. Needless to say, it is left to each person's interpretation whether this original work turned out to be a masterpiece, a caricature or simply a disaster!
That He used Himself as a model and copied it is a given.... and in doing so, He set the trend for copy-cats in his creation as well.

Lord Shiva must be particularly relieved that copy-cats exist. In a moment of indiscretion, He had granted the demon Bhasmasura the boon to reduce to ashes, whosoever's head, the asura touched. Matters came to a head when Bhasmasura wanted to test the efficacy of the boon by touching Lord Shiva's head! Shiva was on the run. It required the guiles of Mohini,Vishnu's enchanting form to extricate Shiva from the crisis.
Taking a cue from Bollywood, Mohini engaged Bhasmasura in some mindless dance sequences. Bhasmasura was a copy-cat and smitten by Mohini's form, aped every pose and step. At one point, Mohini touched her head; so did the asura who had fallen head over heels. In doing so, much to Shiva's relief, he brought about his own doom.

Cats have reason to be miffed that humans have sullied their name when it comes to copying. Nothing can be farther from truth, the cats mew. After all, cats are curious and curiosity even killed one cat. Isn't curiosity the seed of originality, of invention? The curious never copy. In fact, it is the humans who strut around on cat-walks and copy each other in dress and step.

We're told that there are 64 art forms. Surely, "copying" has to be the Queen of Fine Arts. Students devised ingenious methods when it came to copying- always a step ahead of the invigilators in this perennial cat and mouse game!

The formulae would be scrawled in the smallest possible font on the "examination pad"- with a picture of Lord Hanuman to cover the crime.
Sometimes, they wrote out lengthy answers on reams of paper and neatly tucked the papers underneath their full-sleeve cuff. Once the invigilator was out of sight, the paper would be pulled out, perused and placed back ever so deftly!

At times, the notes would be stuffed into the socks or even the shoes. The modus operandi was simple, yet effective. Drop the compass box below the desk- get down to pick up the scattered contents, refer to the notes, rise up.. to write more. Some students were forever dropping something or the other- at times the pencil or the pen or the eraser and simply taking too long to pick up the contents!

Another common method was to slowly creep very close to the partner so that the two soon sat like siamese twins..... or surreptitiously glance at the paper ahead of you. Teachers did their best. They warned students- "Sridhar! Your eyes are shifty!" or they made students of different classes sit next to each other or in adjoining rows; but never quite matched the originality of the students.

The little devils timed their toilet visits with their pals. Once in the loo, they would discuss the answers and get back to their seats as saintly as ever. Suspicions were aroused when students suddenly wanted to go to the loo more often, at the stroke of the hour and always in pairs. Soon, the toilets required a sentry as well, but by then, the students moved onto other ideas, leaving the sentinel marooned in the smelly toilets!

Multiple choice question papers offered greatest scope for copying. All that was required was an oral recitation- 1-A, 2-B, 3-D etc. The method was error prone though. B and D sounded alike when whispered. Also, several such recitations went around the examination hall, rendering it difficult to latch on to the correct frequency. Some students got the entire paper wrong. They had carefully recorded their benefactors answers, only got the sections completely wrong! It was tough for them.

"Got you! Trying to be over smart, kyoon? Come to the Principal.. At once! Out!" thundered "Pandey sir" as he caught Valentino red-handed with the sheets of handwritten notes right in the examination hall. We felt sorry for Valentino as he was pulled by his ears and roughly marched to the Principal's office- a proverbial lamb for slaughter.  The remainder of the story was filled in by Valentino himself much later, to a delighted audience!
Apparently, Pandey sir was exultant that he had finally nabbed the culprit with undeniable evidence to boot. "Father (Principal), this boy was shamelessly copying! Father, here are the papers where he has all the answers written down!" To his horror, Mr Pandey found that the papers were missing. Valentino had the papers just a moment ago, Mr Pandey swore, now they were gone- clean as a whistle! We were told Valentino was strip searched, but the papers were never recovered. Pandey sir shook Valentino violently and many times peered down his throat and even other orifices, but the case of the missing notes was never solved. Valentino had apparently gulped down five full-scapes of paper in a matter of seconds! The Principal now doubted Pandey sir's sanity and detained him in the room. Valentino was back in the examination hall... cool as a cucumber!

Abacus and the 8 minute competition

"Why do you sign up for exams like these? Can't you spend your time like we did.. when we were kids... plucking guavas from guava trees?" I complained to my daughter. "That's because there are no guava trees in Bangalore!" pat came the answer.
If you grow up on Ruskin Bond's novels, you get a feeling that childhood is well spent only if you steal and eat "litchis" on the sly, walk the forests of the Shivalik foot-hills following a leopard's footprints, have oodles of time on your hands to stalk a solitary ant or follow the trail of a raindrop trickling down your window! At least, you should stand in the blinding rain (with no one questioning your mental balance) and sing- "yeh kaagaz ki kashti, yeh baarish ka paani" (Jagjit Singh's famous ghazal on childhood- 'this paper boat... this rain water')!
Anything less- and you have been robbed of the innocence of childhood! Unfortunately, I didn't do any of these when I was a child and neither will my daughter. But I turned out just fine (I hope!), that's the only consolation.

We had just emerged from the Abacus competition and I couldn't resist a comparison between my daughter and many of Mr Bond's protagonists. This is not the first time that I've seen this competition, neither will it be the last. But the experience is always mind-numbing each time. It's a little like a trip to Tirupati. After each trip, you swear that if God exists everywhere, you don't need to risk a potential stampede to see Him for those 10 seconds. Still, you're back the next year and the next- such is the mind's resilience or its innate amnesia.

For the uninitiated, abacus is by far the most effective method to do calculations mentally. Children are roped in as early as kindergarten and by the time they are in fifth grade, they can navigate through arithmetic with the ease of a Shakuntala Devi! In fact, we are not even competent to verify their answers!
Initially, they use  the abacus- a primitive device with beads strung to it to add and subtract. Soon, they can visualize the beads and their movement mentally and don't need the contraption any more. The method is proven and works like a charm.

If there is a flip side (or is the flop side?), it is the path- if the path to education is bitter, the path to "abacus fiefdom" seems worse- karela, neem and castor oil rolled together! The child has to spend two hours of a Sunday in class and a few more hours during the week to complete the homework. If the child can sit still and not complain, you are set. If the child is a free spirit, abacus can be a sentence in solitary confinement- he will revolt and rightfully so, till you finally free him from his shackles!

Abacus exams are not for the faint-hearted. That there are many who are heart-wise strong, headstrong or simply heartless is evident from the far flung places they come from! For the competition in Bangalore, folks troop in from Gulbarga, Raichur, Hubli, Shimoga and Sagar to name a few. For the competition in Chennai (the nationals), wards and parents come from Rajasthan and Jharkhand. All for a "8 minute" competition! You heard it right- 8 minutes for the higher levels of abacus and exactly 5 minutes for the lower levels!! A little like your hundred meter dash- you run like crazy and hope you'll win.

All you see at the venue is a sea of wards- in yellow color T-shirts and double the number of over-anxious parents. After all, this is India- staggering numbers and the anxiety to outdo the other.... go hand in hand. One parent has to wait in the make shift shamianas at the venue. The other (typically the father) accompanies his ward to the examination hall.
The hall is enormous- row upon row of desks and chairs into which children are stuffed like sardines. A barricade all around the hall separates the children from their parents. Parents click away using their cell phone cameras at anything and everything. Trying to spot your child is an impossibility. She is hopefully somewhere there- one grain in that sackful! If you do catch your ward, the parent has the most enlightening last minute comment screamed from the side-lines - "Don't forget to write your hall-ticket number"!
Children- in first grade and second grade blink at complicated instructions blaring over the microphone in English and Kannada alternately- "Z- category students: if you don't use the abacus, you will be disqualified". Parents run helter-skelter trying to verify which category their ward falls under. Invigilators have a tough time reining in the parents.

The question papers are distributed and placed before the child face-down. Parents are told to switch off their cell phones. The competition is about to begin and the organizers want silence. A child who is really late has to be accommodated. "Children... are you ready? Take deep-breaths!"- is the instruction. Children hold on to the end of the question paper... to flip it over.... exactly at the whistle! A nervous excitement takes over everyone. A huge electronic clock shows the 8 minute stop-watch ready to count down!

And then.... a shrill whistle punctures the silence sending shivers down your spine. Like a Mexican wave, on the dot, the question papers are flipped over by your seven year olds and ten year olds and they start solving the questions like mad. They are truly possessed by some spirit... definitely not human! Some of them punch the air with their fingers and fists with one hand, others with both. At the end of the pantomime, they scribble something on the question paper and get back to more action. Some cannot sit down and write; they stand up, write, and again break into a percussionist's tremble with an imaginary ghatam! A grimace is seen on one child's face, a scowl on the other, an involuntary jaw movement and a sudden gnash of the teeth in the third. All our eyes are on the electronic display... like sand trickling down an hour glass, it drains away.
Eight minutes are over in a trice, the whistle rings, the pencils are down and the papers are snatched away! Parents use all kinds of sign language if they spot their child- how many did you solve? 60, 100, 120? The answers and reactions are varied.
For a parent who has not followed his child closely, it is all too bewildering to say the least.

At the end of it, I had a one simple agenda- be sure to pick a child..... my child and head home.
I leave it to you to decide- what would you do?... pluck guavas or add-subtract-multiply-divide in eight minute competitions? Don't vote for the guavas... it will give you a stomach-ache!!

Practical exams

"Examination is a great botheration to the population of this nation. Hence, the only solution is the abolition of this abomination!
yours truly,
Adi seshan!"
We don't know who Adi Seshan was or when he lived. Like the savant Adi Shankara, Adi Seshan's precise position in the annals of human history is yet to be determined. But, we need little confirmation that he was a tormented spirit and examinations in particular contributed to his pained state of mind, which he vocalized so eloquently!

Examinations in India are not new. Though we would like to lay the blame at the feet of Lord Macaulay, examinations existed in ancient times. We hear that Kanchipuram had many centres of learning called ghatikas (or ghatikaa-sthaanaas). A lot of research has gone into the origin of the term- ghatika, which has ghata or pot as its root. Was it an institute which specialized in pot-making or perhaps teaching the ghatam (clay-pot used as percussion instrument) or did it churn out the Harry Potters of those days? We can take pot shots all right, but we're told that the term had a lot to do with the style of examinations conducted. To keep the examinations fair and square, all the questions were written on chits of paper and dropped into a pot. The student picked up one such chit from the pot (ghata) and answered it. Probably, the term pot-luck originated from this system. Hence, the word ghatika for these centres of learning.

Examinations come in different flavours- written, viva-voce, open book, multiple-choice, quiz, "surprise-test" and "practical" exams. Some examinations are etched in our memory; they hang on like the proverbial monitor-lizard and refuse to leave us- this one was a practical exam in the Electronics Laboratory.

The details have been thankfully blurred by unforgiving time- it involved setting up an elaborate circuit on a "bread board" and have the output displayed using an "oscilloscope". Some of us were challenged in this activity. To us, the resistors with their red-green bands, the quaint-looking capacitors and silvery transistors were but colourful toy-pegs to be inserted in various slots on the board, connnected or soldered to wires and have that entire tangled mass finally hooked to the oscilloscope. 

The three of us were particularly pleased with our progress this time. For once, the oscilloscope answered our ardent prayers and displayed the most delightful waveform! Professor Sinha surveyed our creation with childlike curiosity. Nattily dressed in a tweed overcoat, corduroy trousers with suspenders, he twirled his pipe around his mouth. "Indeed! Most interesting!" he remarked, while we were cocksure and beamed with more than usual pride.

He carefully removed one of the resistors and commented, "Aapka output ab bhi aa raha hai!" (the oscilloscope still shows the same output). It was difficult to react to that comment- a little unsure whether it would be correct to say, "Sir, that's expected" or "Sir, we can't believe it either!". Thankfully, he didn't wait for an answer. Next, he stepped back a bit, knitted his brows, surveyed the bread-board like a chess player... and with precision, selected a capacitor for a change and kept it away. "Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!" he casually mentioned and got back to more work.

One by one, many resistors were removed; several transistors lay prostrate outside the board and the bread board looked sparse and particularly uncomplicated. "Dhyaan deejiye! Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!"- ("May you please note- the output still hasn't changed!") Clearly, something was amiss and we sensed it. Our creative invention elicited attention from all the adjoining benches and soon, quite a crowd gathered. We shuffled our feet, cleared our throat, wiped the sweat from our brows, but clearly, there was no escape. Professor Sinha was still his meticulous self.

Suddenly, Sinha was transformed into a fiend and seized with a fit of rage, dug his nails into the bread-board and in one brutal sweep- uprooted the entire remaining contents and flung it away. The oscilloscope still wouldn't budge and mocked us further by displaying the same pattern. Looking at us straight in the eye, he thundered- "Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!"
He shook his head in disbelief. Our expertise or the lack of it rendered him incapable of finding appropriate words. He stormed out of the hall and asked his apprentice to take over!

"It happens; don't take it too seriously!" Krishna tried to console us. There were several theories on what went wrong- Kamlesh felt that we had "shorted the two wires of the oscilloscope" so that the oscilloscope was cocooned in its own world and hence displayed the regular sinusoidal waveform that was its trademark signature!

Some practical exams leave us practically dumb in speech and numb in mind!

A predator in the post-office premises!

Tha catterpillar wriggled and crawled its way under his collar. The postmaster gave his shirt a little scratch and twitched his shoulders. Something obviously irritated him."Where is the pincode on this letter? You please fill it. No! No! We can't find the pincode for any Dhamtari district here. Where is it ? Chhatisgarh ? I have no idea. You please fill it and come back. Next person please....." His attention was on the next customer. My attention though was on him and the catterpillar. Beads of perspiration drenched the postmaster and his ebony skin gleamed like a well-oiled granite idol in a temple. The catterpillar made more headway and gnawed at him with greater vengeance! The postmaster glanced at his shirt pocket, half squinting his eyes. But the catterpillar was within the "least distance of distinct vision" and eluded him. He rotated the left shoulder blade clockwise a couple of times and again anti-clockwise, rubbed his collar too but didn't find relief.

I was still a few heads away from him. It was time to act. "Hello!" I began and watched all heads turn to me. I pointed a finger at him and shouted "Insect! Keeda! Poochi!" in three different languages. In a mock imitation, I pretended to scratch my chest with both my arms. To my horror, the postmaster took offence and didn't pay attention to the words "under your collar" which somehow didn't have the same volume. He was under the impression that I was calling him a "keeda" (creep!) with monkey-like mannerisms to boot! It was already resembling the spat between Symonds and Harbhajan Singh with a distinct possibility of snow-balling into a brawl. He briefly stood up, removed his spectacles and postured aggressively- "Saar! I hope you are educated! I can't do any faster. You have to wait for your turn."
Nasty stares met my eyes and silence appeared a preferable option in the circumstances. I left the postmaster to his fate and surveyed my surroundings.

Like most post-offices in this part of the globe, it hadn't seen a broom for at least a quarter of a century. Over us was a false ceiling made up of frayed thermocol sheets supported by a grill and home to many generations of spiders. One of the sheets was missing and made way for a low-hanging ceiling fan which whirred away lazily, more ornamental than utilitarian. Shelves were filled with envelopes, parcels, magazines and several files with oversized paper sticking out of them and yellowed with age. Hopefully, these were not undelivered correspondence! A picture of Gandhiji was stacked over one such bunch with the words 'customer is my God' scrawled on it. Evidently, no one had found the time to nail the picture to the wall.

On one side was a table, the top of which looked like a collage- inlaid with a million  tiny paper strips, perforated corners of stamps, some badly torn stamps and copious glue stains which gave the table-top a nice, shiny facade. A conical, blue bottle of gum stood on one side. The cap was missing and so was the swab to apply the glue! In its place was a makeshift twig to serve the purpose.
It takes a lot of dexterity to use the glue. One gentleman struggled with the twig, gave-up and made the fatal mistake of tilting the gum bottle in full over his envelope. An oversized blob of gum plopped on his envelope and completely disfigured the address that he had so carefully written. We heard a swear and a hasty retreat and the man was not to be seen thereafter.
The episode convinced another to use saliva. It appeared a safer alternative, though a trifle disgusting for an onlooker especially when a dozen stamps have to be stuck this way! The after-taste must have been particularly awkward judging by the way the chap continued to hang his tongue out!
Someone made the mistake of having excessive adhesive on his hands. He stuck the stamp onto the envelope and slammed it with his fist a few times to double-check that it was stuck nice and well. At the end of the pounding, to his dismay, the stamp had latched onto his fist like a leech and refused to travel with the envelope!

Another youngster carelessly leaned against the table laden with glue so that when he extricated himself, he found that the table had pinched away a part of his pant at the back and had probably drilled into his underwear as well!
On the other side of the table lay a pen chained to a peg to ensure that no one walked away with it. The effort seemed quite unnecessary for it was a relic from another era- no nib and incapable of writing using normal methods. At best, it could possibly be used to etch letters on palm leaves.

"Your turn saar"- announced the post-master, twisting his torso, still in discomfort. "Sir! There is an insect under your collar. That is all I wanted to convey!" I said calmly.
"Where? Where?" jumped the post master, skipping animatedly, jerking his shirt off and ruffling his trousers as well! An attendant ran for cover as if a snake was in the premises! A few others in the queue backed away in the ensuing commotion. "There sir, right below your chin!" The postmaster soon spotted the predator and flicked it away with his thumb and forefinger to finally free the hapless creature from his person.

"Why couldn't you tell me earlier?" he began. "I tried sir," I protested, only to be cut short curtly. His tone irritated me and I silently wished it had been a scorpion instead!

My postman

"Don't worry! Your result will come tomorrow. Pukka! (definite)" reassured the postman surveying the disappointment writ on our innocent faces. Every year, during the first week of May, we stalked the postman as he did his rounds.. once in the morning and again in the afternoon. We waited with bated breath for the 'self addressed envelopes' containing our High School final results. The postman ceased to be just a messenger and suddenly assumed greater importance than anyone else in life- as if he handcrafted the results personally for each of us!  "My result is coming tomorrow. The postman said so!" we would run and announce at home!
The next day was just as futile. No results.
"All the boys in Jain Society have already got their results. Kumar Majithia got it last week itself. Why are you not giving it to us?" It hurt the postman when we accused him thus squarely. On those days, he simply passed the buck and sent us on a wild goose chase.  "Check with Godambe (pronounced goad (like goat)-aambay) at the Sion Central Post Office. He knows everything!"
The next few afternoons were busy. We hung around at the Sion Central Post Office, a behemoth of a complex with multiple floors, several cobwebbed, dusty rooms and teeming with posts and postmen. No one knew why we were there in the first place, sometimes asking for "our results" and at other times asking for "Godambe". Our presence irritated the officials and we ran the risk of being thrown out. No one had heard of any Godambe. We weren't even clear whether he was a postman or a postmaster. Someone had the temerity to chuckle that "ambes" (mangoes) were "god" (sweet in Marathi) this time of the year... especially Alphonso mangoes but sorry, there was no one by that name! The humour was lost on us; on the contrary, we found it laboured and dry.

When the envelope finally reached our trembling hands, the postman hung around in the side-lines. If someone let out a euphoric cry, "I passed! Yes! I actually passed!" the postman would be visibly pleased. "I told you that you will pass! Why were you so worried all these days?" He collected his "baksheesh", whistled a little tune and went about his job with cheer. He made it a point to come back to that house the next day to collect his box of sweets.
Chotu was not so lucky. Despite the postman's assurance that he will pass, Chotu failed and had to repeat a year in the same class. More importantly, our postman had to slink away that day and couldn't collect his "baksheesh".  You never shoot the messenger, but Chotu's mom gave the postman a earful for being a harbinger of bad-news and went to the extent of saying that she didn't want to see his "manhoos chehra" (ill-boding face) anymore!
The postman was more dejected with life than even Chotu. He needed counselling and had to be egged on with the philosophy that we can only do our bounden duty. The fruit is not in our hands. Sometimes, we get "baksheesh", sometimes "bakwas" and brickbats!
But we knew our postman and knew him well. He was dressed in khakhi and carried a bag overflowing with inland-letters, postcards, greeting cards, registered posts, money-orders and occasionally even magazines. Communication was open and transparent in those days. If the postman got bored, he simply flipped the back of a picture-postcard- read the intimate lines from a certain Mr X in London to a Miss Y in Mumbai and amused himself!

A recent article says that sparrows are on the brink of extinction due to the radiation from the cell-phone towers. We have no idea why cell-phones target sparrows in particular. While the veracity of this theory is yet to be confirmed, we are sure that cell-phones and email have driven the postmen to extinction. The days of handwritten letters delivered through postmen are passe.

If at all we remember postmen, it is only during the forbidding "antakshari" (film music) sessions in parties. "Da se?" (from the letter D?) asks a youngster. He immediately breaks into a thought provoking song of yesteryears -"Daakiya-daak laaya, daakiya-daak laaaya, daakiya daak laaya...." (the postman (daakiya) brings mail (daak), the postman brings mail...). He goes on and on, with little melody or variation and with no end in sight! Can someone stop this chap? Does this song even have a second line? Can the daakiya bring a duck for a change? Daakiya duck laaya, daakiya duck laaya! Daakiya duck laaya! We are sitting ducks all right.

The magic of Manohar's dramas

Manohar's dramas will never be replicated. His plays were adaptations from the classics- the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the Puranas and some from History. What set him apart was the unprecedented scale and the grandeur- the ability to package intricate plots with stunning visual effects on stage.
Manohar was the original anti-hero where he was always a Ravana, a Duryodhana or a Kamsa. He portrayed these characters convincingly and presented the familiar story as seen from the eyes of these dark characters. Good and bad got blurred in shades of grey and invariably, the anti-hero won our hearts and emerged taller than the heros we are traditionally used to. His plays generated debate and controversy; but never crossed the boundary to injure our sensibilities in any way.
As per hearsay, Manohar catapulted to fame with his portrayal of  Ravana in the play "Lankeshwaran" in the late fifties-sixties. It upset the traditional minded and the matter was placed before the sage "paramacharya". Paramacharya had no objection to this new outlook and indicated that such adaptations had been done in the past. With the controversy quelled, Manohar's rise was meteoric.

Indian Standard Time allows us the license to show up for a party an hour late and still find that we are the first for the event! Manohar though, was a stickler for punctuality. If the drama was to begin at 7:00 pm at Shanmukhananda Hall, Mumbai, the curtains rose exactly on time. It was common knowledge and the hall overflowed with people and extra seats on the aisles were taken well before the stipulated time.

The costumes were elaborate -dazzling golden crowns, falling locks of hair, glittering necklaces, angavastra twirled stylishly over the forearm, pleated trousers (pancha-style) laced with gold and foot-wear to match a king. If Ravana held a bow, it was ornate and regal, far removed from the apologetic hunter's bow that some mythological characters have to hold onto.. on TV shows these days!
The light effects enhanced the magic. All dark... with just an arc of light on the protagonist- now red, now green, now a sombre yellow...the anti-hero's sollioquys, in a low baritone found powerful expression in this atmosphere. We empathized with his highs, his lows, his pain, his angst and the machinations of destiny which had perpetuated the crisis that he found himself in....

The scene settings were a class act. One moment...a village scene with a temple tower in the distance, a flowing brook, a few trees and bushes thrown in.. and naive pastoral people in the foreground; lights-off for 20 sec and we were right in the middle of a durbar hall with pillars, thrones, chandeliers, kings, ministers, courtiers and all associated the regal trappings.
And then, there were the "trick scenes" - where the arrows flew across the stage, uprooted Jayadratha's head and dropped it on his father's lap...where the streaks of lightning lit up night skies amidst torrential rain, where Shukracharya turned into a beetle and plugged the spout of Mahabali's kamandalu (a vessel), where waves lapped the shores of Lanka while Ravana watched the vanaras from the ramparts of his fort.... They were crafted with breathtaking artistry and executed with a magician's finesse right in front of our eyes!

Duryodhana, bruised and battered, writhed in pain and questioned an ever-smiling Krishna whether Bheema's below-the-belt attack was justified. As the curtains came down, it was normal to feel a lump in the throat. A traditional "aarti"(mangalam) ended the performance where Duryodhana rose up once more and posed with folded hands with all the artistes of the troupe neatly arrayed on stage. We looked forward to the aarti and felt glad that everything was actually fine with the anti-hero and he was in fact great friends with Krishna!
Manohar's dramas were truly "manohara"....mind-blowing!


P.S. Manohar, a trail-blazer in his own right, was often compared to "nawab" T.S Rajamanickam Pillai.... As per word of mouth, "nawab" was the original master of the mythological drama genre. He was well before our times.


Manohar's prominent dramas: Ilangeswaran, maaveeran kamsan, duryodhanan, chanakya-sapatham--- as chanakya, with dark skin and grotesque appearance, shukracharya- with a bruised eye, shiva-thandavam, tirumalai-nayakan, kumbhakarnan, indrajit, narakasuran, soorapadman, poet ottakutan and kadaka mutharayan in which he has a quaint make-up... sporting a turban and a little beard.
Manohar's protege was "Heron" Ramaswamy who later had his own drama troupe and regaled us with his set of plays- Alexander, valmiki, shanishwaran, yamadharman, kaliyugam pirandhadhu, poiyyamozhi and mahakavi bharatiyaar.


Sometimes, Manohar appeared in "civilian clothes" on TV or spoke at a function. We hated it and wouldn't believe that this most ordinary looking stranger in shirt and pant was the one who twitched his eyebrows, reeled out dialogues punctuated with a sinister laugh, and who strode the stage like a veritable colossus. The images just wouldn't match and we preferred to switch the TV off!
The plays had a little intermission. Charu and I would use the opportunity to dig into some pop-corn at the Shanmukhananda Hall canteen and would top it off with "beeda"-  traditional paan with coconut filings also thrown in. We lugged a binocular as well and fought with each other to get a better view of the characters on stage!
In a way, Manohar's plays spoilt us. It rendered us incapable of watching "social dramas" which boasted of minimal props, common-place story line and everyday attire as costumes. Who wants to watch "theatre" which looks just like conversation at home!? Sadly, today, "social drama" is all that is left of "theatre":( We feel sorry for this generation.... They have truly missed something spectacular!

Feed the cold, starve the fever

Common-cold has never been uncommon. It existed in the times of Tenali Rama. We know that he had the audacity to ask Goddess Kali on what her predicament would be, should she catch a cold. With two hands servicing her 100 runny noses, it would have been quite a spectacle. It amused the Goddess and she bestowed Tenali Rama the sobriquet of vikata-kavi. More importantly, the Goddess was aware of common-cold and its inconvenience to see the inherent though irreverent humour.
Animals don't seem to break into a paroxysm of coughing or a bout of relentless sneezing. It is here that a human being feels singularly victimized. He can take succor from the fact that his condition is not so desperate as the Gods as Tenali Rama rightly pointed out. Lord Dattatreya with three faces, Brahma with four, Shiva with five, Kartikeya with six faces and the Virat purusha with thousand heads (sahasra-sheersha purusha!) surely have a far greater problem than us.

There is a spring in your steps; you sing like a lark (- to borrow Wodehouse's phrase) and feel on top of the world with a rainbow across your shoulders. The Gods conspire and the reverie is short-lived. Common-cold strikes you like a kick in the solar plexus and renders you completely incapacitated. The throat initially feels funny and scratchy; next a slight irritation which soon develops into an acute pain. The nose is clogged, the cheeks are puffed, the eyes smart, the ears are blocked, the voice is hoarse, the tongue feels tasteless, the head throbs, even the teeth fillings hurt! Shivers, fever and body-ache take over and in just one day, you are reduced to a pale shadow of your usual self - curled up like a foetus in bed! Even the mighty have nose of clay, leave alone their feet.

Managing a cold is not easy. If you take medicine, it will take seven days to recover. If you don't, it will take a week! There are more home remedies than even the varieties of virus causing the ailment! "Be sure to steam" is a popular theory these days to tackle a cold.
We always fight an element with its opposite- fire with water, the mouse with the cat and the serpent with the mongoose. It is here that steaming runs into rough waters. Common-cold is referred as "jala-dosham"- (don't confuse it with a special type of dosa!) It is an ailment caused due to water or a dosha which results in water- a watery nose at least. Steaming relies on vaporized water to fight water. That's where I have a problem. "Like cures like" in some controlled cases all right- like removing a thorn with a thorn, in homeopathy and as a principle in allopathic vaccination. I am unsure whether this can be liberally extended to common-cold management or whether it would simply aggravate the crisis.

"Feed the cold, starve the fever" is another adage which leads to confusing interpretation. One system of philosophy interprets this maha-vakya as follows: The moment you feel the nose sniffles and get your handkerchief out, be sure to call for a banquet and indulge in a gluttonous, eating binge! If you are lucky, the cold will vanish. However, if the cold develops into a fever, from the 100 mile-per-hour eating over-drive, the foodie has to instantly screech to a halt and now starve himself!
A second group uses this proverb as a Biblical call for social service- clothe the poor, help the needy, feed the cold- those who are starving and shivering in the cold, feed them! Blessed are these benefactors- they will keep fever away!
The third system of philosophy has yet another viewpoint- if you have a cold, eat well to starve- i.e. to keep the fever out. To put it plainly, the cold will not snowball into a fever if you eat well. We still don't have answers for cases where we have a fever but no cold, or both cold and fever!
We wish these proverbs could be simpler and direct so that they could actually be useful- just let us know whether it is ok to eat in simple English!

"High temperature can be reduced with a bath"- is another advice freely available especially in the US. We are tempted to ask whether the water should be hot or cold. Either way, it seems dangerous. When you are running a fever of 102, the body feels like a furnace anyway. It seems preposterous to add more heat to it with warm water. As far as cold water is concerned, the very thought is forbidding and sends shivers even when we are perfectly fine! This conundrum is yet to be cracked and informed readers can enlighten us.

Apples, oranges, amla, honey, tulsi, salt-water, green-tea- they all make tall claims to cure the common cold. Till then, we can use our hands to wipe the mucus off our nose and generously smear it on the street-lamp pole or the elevator button to ensnare the next unwary victim! The virus always has the last laugh!

P.S: I was on my way back from the railway station last week.  As I crossed the road, a brute of a human being spat from a speeding bus and the contents landed right on my shirt. The revulsion was so acute, the reaction so extreme, that I removed my shirt in full public view and threw it away (a la Saurav Ganguly at Lords). Thankfully, I still had my vest on when I boarded the Volvo. I shivered in the cold of the Volvo AC all the way back home and also endured the stares from  fellow passengers. And sure enough, I was down with a common cold.
The only saving grace is that he did not spit on my trousers! You never know- my reaction could have been most uncommon!

P.S: On the subject of Gods with multiple heads, we just don't have an example of an Indian God with two heads. Janus is the only Roman God with two heads-looking to the past and the future. But "Janus faced" is a derogatory term for a deceitful person.
The closest that we can get to a two faced Lord is Ardhanaareeshwara- Shiva and Parvati sharing half a face each and a more recent example: Aadi-anta-prabhu- Ganpati and Hanuman sharing half a face each.
Even Gods want to be multi-faceted, but not two-faced!