Song in stone at Mamallapuram!

The “Five Rathas” monument at Mamallapuram is a great example of the syncretic nature of ancient Indian Art. Built over 1400 years ago, these stone edifices embody a composite architecture, distinctly unique and yet, integrating ideas from across the country and the world.

It is easy to gloss over the details if we take a casual stroll. The tourist guide unfolds the magic. Traditionally, temple architecture has 4 distinct forms: cave-excavations, bas-relief on rock, structures built from bottom-to-top and finally, a top-down approach to carving the entire structure. The "Rathas" at Mamallapuram belong to the fourth category. Each Ratha is chiseled out of a single rock. (Except one case, where 2 rathas are carved from a single rock and united at the base).

The structures are dedicated to Parvati, Shiva, Vishnu, Indra and Surya. In the case of Parvati, the figurine is distinctly visible. Vishnu’s reclining form is faint, a hint of the arm, but largely left incomplete. None of the other structures have complete images. Each structure is called a “Ratha” because it has an associated animal-“vaahana”, also sculpted separately. The lordly lion goes with Parvati, the majestic elephant is paired with Indra and the bull with Shiva.

It is evident that these structures were not completed. The “kalashas” are carved and kept separately. They are yet to be hoisted to the top of each Ratha. We do not know the reason. It is like a painter who has left some breezy strokes on his canvas but had no time to add the details. But those broad strokes are enough to gauge his lofty imagination. We allow our mind to fill in the missing details.

The insides of the Ratha, now hollow, create a unique sound-effect. Even a whisper in a low baritone reverberates many-fold like the Tibetan sound-bowl. The first Ratha, with its sloping roof, is in Bengal- “Naagari” style. The second and the fourth Rathas have a Dravidian stamp, with a tiered pyramid topped with a coconut-shell shaped dome. The Ratha dedicated to Vishnu is rectangular and resembles a Buddhist “Vihara”. Some pillars have a Graeco-Roman influence. The gargoyles perched atop the Ratha mirror the ones found in European edifices. The lion has a distinct Chinese influence. One figurine sports a pharaoh-like crown! The sculptor has literally left no stone unturned to create his masterpiece.

These monuments leave no doubt that ancient India was well connected with the rest of the country. In addition, it maintained close, maritime contact with a world that was far and beyond! A stone’s throw from the “Five Rathas” is the ocean. It is restless, with its waves singing in chorus. The lyrics are from a distant past- a past when the mighty Pallavas ruled this land and composed many a song in stone!

(Trip made on Dec 30, 2021) P.S: For someone who may not have the background: Maha-bali-puram is the same as Mamallapuram. It is pronounced as "Maa-malla-puram" because the Pallava King, Narasimha Varma I (630 AD) was a great wrestler...."mahaa-mallan" and hence "maa-mallan". The interested reader can google the rest!

A dream job!

We will continue to use these expressions. A strict disciplinarian will be called a “ringmaster”. A coalition Government surviving precariously will be described as a “circus act”. When we are strained to do something, we will call it “jumping through hoops”. These expressions will live on, but circus and its complete ramifications will be lost to the future generations.

Evidently, the Circus industry is on its last leg. It is tough to see it survive in the present hostile landscape- with a diminishing spectator base and the exorbitant costs involved. Back then, the epitome of entertainment was Circus. It brought multiple elements together, literally under one roof!

When seen through a child’s lens, it was a fascinating spectacle. There were lions that perched on stools like docile house-cats, elephants that played football, monkeys that rode bicycles and parrots that spoke. With an array of hoops set ablaze and the audience in a hush, tigers jumped through them effortlessly!

Once the animal act was over, a magician regaled the crowd with his tricks. And soon enough, a bunch of clowns provided comic relief! Dressed in multi-colored clothes, with a cherry-red nose and a ready smile, the clown endeared himself to each child.

And then, there were acts of dare-devilry- a motor-cyclist who raced inside a spherical glass-ball and a deafening cannon-shot that ejected a gymnast to the far end!

The grand finale was the trapeze act where acrobats swung from one end to the other with aplomb in a show of acrobatics that defied imagination!

It is mind-boggling to imagine the logistics involved to run this show. How did they move the animals from place to place? How did they feed them and train them?  Where did they find circus recruits and how did their lives pan out?

Other ideas may cloud our mind now on the ethical questions related to the use of animals for entertainment. That is a fair point, but it is equally unfair to use today’s yardstick to size-up events from a different time and age. Decades ago, it was the only entertainment. It worked because it was still a real world; a world yet to be taken over by cinema and yet to be held hostage by gadgets and virtual reality.

As an IT professional, a common interview question is this one- “What is your idea of a dream job?” Of course, we reply on conventional lines. Someday, I hope to look at the interviewer straight in the eye and with a dead-pan expression confess, “Yes! I had a dream job! It was to join the circus as a clown, with a powdered face and a cherry-red nose!” I wonder how the rest of the interview will go!

A game of Housie!

It is tough to come up with a fun activity to engage a community gathering. It is a motley crowd where the age, background, language and tastes differ. If there is one game that cuts across these barriers and keeps everyone interested, it is “Housie”! Perhaps, it is the innate human urge to gamble and ride entirely upon ones luck that makes this game so popular. 

The rules of the game are known to everyone. The fastest to the first five hits is the “jaldi-five” prize, followed by “any-line” and finally the “full-house”! Excitement bubbles up in the air as the game is about to begin. Each one fancies himself to be the chosen one- the winner of the jack-pot! 

The “Housie” conductor does not simply read out the numbers. He does it with a certain flair peculiar to the game. If it is a single digit number, he calls out, “all by itself, the number 3”! If it is 13, he prefaces it with- “unlucky for some, lucky for others, one-three, 13!” If it is 16, he qualifies it with “sweet 16”. For 50, he announces, “five-zero, fif-tie”! Children giggle, “He is saying fif-tie for fifty!” 

Competitors of all age-groups ranging from 8 to 80, tick the numbers off feverishly. Each time a number is called out, shouts of “Yes!” rent the air. Equal number of groans are from the disappointed ones. “He is not shuffling and picking the numbers! No wonder, it is not matching our ticket!” they complain. The ones who complain sink into deeper abyss. They try all means including a change of seat, but lady-luck continues to elude them. 

There are some who live in the past. They need clarification on numbers already called out. “Did he call out 67 already?” they pester their neighbors. In the process, they miss the present numbers too! 

Soon, we have a winner for jaldi-five! And before long, the “any-line” prizes are also gone. All that remains is the full-house! It is a nail-biting finish like the last over of a T-20 Cricket match. For some, only one number separates them from crowning glory! Each time a number is called out, they are all agog, their hearts pounding. 

From a corner, an elderly man raises his hand and unobtrusively makes his way to the podium. The conductor verifies the numbers and proclaims him as the winner! “Oohs and Ahs” fill the hall as all emotions play out. On his face is but a hint of a smile. He cannot understand what the fuss is about. He did not intend to play the game at all. He sat through it because he happened to be there. Such is life!

A yawning gap!

 Yawn is an onomatopoeic word. To say yawn, you almost have to yawn! Back in school, we were sure a yawn is contagious! It required only one boy to start it off! Soon, the bout of yawning consumed the entire class! There is nothing that dents a teacher’s ego more. Teachers reacted angrily, “Didn’t you sleep at night?” It was tough to admit, “It is not the lack of sleep; it is the soporific nature of the current proceedings!” Some teachers were more lenient. “Go and wash your face!” they ordered. Teachers learnt later that students faked a yawn, just to take a stroll outside!

No one has contributed to yawns more than chief guests at public functions! Once they get access to the microphone, they just won’t stop. As they ramble away in a monotone, clouds of yawn envelop the entire auditorium! The fog is so thick that the speaker cannot see the audience anymore, to even take a cue from them!

There is no easy way to control a yawn! You can try everything- clench your jaw and shut the mouth tight. But a yawn is a stubborn candidate. He manages to escape- the nostrils flare up, the eyes moisten and eventually, the mouth gives up and breaks into a yawn anyway!

Nothing irritates you more than someone yawning away, while you are frantically working to meet a deadline. You are certain that the world is unfair! As you work away, you can hear the yawn around you. The yawn is so monstrous that you can hear the click of the jaw! Any bigger and the jaw is sure to get locked! And when the yawn is ended with a series of incoherent sounds, you cannot take it anymore. Angrily, you shoot your mouth off, “If you are so sleepy, why don’t you go and sleep?” A yawning person is defenseless. He gapes back, blinks repeatedly, too sleepy to even respond!

There is a yawning gap in our understanding of the yawn. It is evident that you yawn when you are sleepy. But there are days when you have overslept and still wake up with a yawn! Self Help books spin yarns providing simplistic tips to take deep breaths and a glass of water!

You are all alert! The last over of the T-20 match is about to be bowled. It is well past your sleep time, but you do not yawn. A yawn or the lack of it, is ultimately the mind’s escape valve. It is a tell-tale barometer that the mind has shut shop, faced with a topic with which, it has no connect!

Welcome to the Holiday Season!

From Thanksgiving Day that falls towards the end of November, right up to the New Year is the most festive time in the Western World. In countries like the US, you feel the festivity in the air. “Welcome to the Holiday Season!” is the message everywhere! Malls and restaurants, bistros and cafes are packed with people. The pace at work slackens as people take their foot off the pedal. The first snowfall transforms the entire place to a fairytale world! In short, the joy of life or joie de vivre as it is termed, flows in abundance!

The euphoria is short lived. Once the New Year celebration is over, something snaps and everything goes into a nosedive. It starts with the weather. January and February are the bleakest months of winter when the sun is hardly seen. There is a distinct spike at the work-place to make up for the earlier loose schedule. It is like a ghost town everywhere and malls that thronged with people, now wear a deserted look. Christmas and New Year gave an incentive for people to enjoy. It will now be several months till the next celebration.

Contrast this with India. Once the New Year party is over, you feel no void. You gear up for the next festival- Pongal and Baisakhi. By the month end, you celebrate Republic Day. February is a short month and also the time when the weather is at its best. Now, you get ready for Holi. Before you know, school is over and summer vacation has begun. Children enjoy and their enthusiasm rubs off on the rest of us!

Once school starts, it is time for the monsoon to give that welcome break from the summer heat. And soon, it is time for the big festivals- Gokulashtami and Ganesh Chaturthi, Dasara and Deepavali! By the end of the year, you join hands with other communities to celebrate Christmas! As if this is not enough, urban India is embracing celebrations like “Halloween” that were unknown a few years ago! And once you throw in IPL’s annual Cricket circus, the fun never ends!

A person who has grown up in the West does not miss anything. The NRI’s case is different. He is like the tiger that has tasted human blood and thirsts for more! Having lived an earlier life in India, the NRI recalls festival time in India. He has to make a tough choice- should he choose the West and its ease of everyday life or should he embrace India and its convivial atmosphere. Meanwhile, India can also put out its slogan, “Welcome to the Holiday Season!” It can add a punchline- “The season extends throughout the year!”

 

 

The curd-rice craving!

Back in school, we were dubbed “The Curd-Rice Brigade” because the last layer of the tiffin-box was always filled with curd-rice! We wore the label like a badge of honor! Folks from other parts of the country wonder about this fixation for curd-rice among South Indians! The culinary preference is both cultural and influenced by South India’s geography. Most parts of the South are sweltering hot throughout the year. Only a person baked in an oven will know the solace found in a food that is cool and agreeable. It is here that curd-rice fits the bill like no other!

Curd-rice's appeal is its simplicity. All you need is rice and curd. That is enough for a complete meal that is filling, tasty and easy on the stomach. When it comes to add-ons with curd-rice, there is an entire platter. It can be as basic as a pinch of salt set aside on the plate. With each fistful of curd-rice, you dab a bit of salt, for that added relish!

Curd-rice with pickle is a South Indian’s comfort food! While some insist “lemon-pickle” goes best with curd-rice, others vote for “gongura”. And for some, they drool the moment they think of “Avakai”! How do you explain “vadu-maanga” to someone outside the country? May be, you can say, you marinate tiny raw-mangoes in a spicy syrup for months and what emerges is “vadu-maanga”! And when you take a bite of this raw-mango and top it with copious curd-rice, you will sport in seventh heaven!

Curd-rice is often dressed with a tempering of oil, mustard and slivers of chili. With a sprinkling of coriander, pomegranate and grapes, it is a sure shot success in any pot-luck event! When packed in lotus-leaf bowls, it gets an added aura and is called “Daddhyonnam”! You may have a gourmet meal in a 5-star restaurant. The South Indian’s meal is incomplete till he comes home and ends with his curd-rice!

The craving for curd-rice sometimes assumes extreme proportions. As students in the Western World, you struggled to find authentic curd-rice. The closest to curd was fruit-yogurt sold in tiny boxes in the college vending machine. On one occasion, I emptied a dozen yogurt boxes from the vending machine. Watching this spectacle, a lady could not contain her curiosity. “What are you trying to do?” she questioned, all puzzled! I mumbled, “This just happens to be my dinner!” and shot out of the place!

We have no doubt that curd-rice has its pride of place in world cuisine. It can hold its head high, compete and win many a culinary battle, pitted against the best delicacies of the world!

 

Everything is in the cloud!

Two IT professionals somehow manage to hold a conversation. But of late, conversation between an IT professional and a non-IT person has become impossible! It is as if, one is from Venus and the other from Mars. The IT industry has always had its unique jargon. That is understandable, but today, they are taking over words of everyday use and giving it an IT spin and thereby, completely confusing the rest of us. The most bandied about word in IT circles is “Cloud”.

Never make the mistake of asking an IT professional about the job he does. His typical reply is- “I am a Cloud Architect!” His response leaves you dumb-founded. You wonder if he builds castles in the air! A meteorologist appears the closest fit and you beat around the bush. You get more clouded when he says he works entirely from home. You try to steer the conversation to familiar terrain like Cricket and Bollywood. It is unsuccessful. Within a few sentences, he says, “These days, movies are also streamed from the cloud."

Seeing the conversation going nowhere, you finally pop the question, “What is cloud?” He stares at you incredulously as if asked to clarify the concept of addition in Arithmetic. He is at a total loss of words. He fumbles, “Well, cloud is cloud! All the data was co-located earlier isn’t it? It is all moving to the Cloud. These days, everything is in the cloud!”

You feel like telling him, “My dear friend, I have no clue what “data” is, leave alone it being co-located! The only cloud I know is the one in the sky. And presently, I am just as lost as Wordsworth, when he wrote, “I wandered lonely as a cloud!”

Unwittingly, you have now given your friend a free hand. “There is no technology company that can survive without a cloud story!” he says with an air of finality. You have half a mind to unleash your grandmother at him to continue this conversation! She is sure to grill him, “When we had cloud stories like "Meghaduta" written a 1000 years ago, what better cloud story are you going to write now?”

Wryly you joke, “Looks like we can solve world hunger with cloud. It is the solution for everything!” The friend is on cloud nine! “Exactly! How did you know?” In his excitement, he might even hug you! The writing is on the wall- IT and non-IT are as apart as East and West. And it is rightly said, East is East and West is West and the two shall never meet. Or maybe, they will meet! You guessed it right, in the cloud!

 

A box of marbles!

We see children playing many games, but there is one notable absentee- the game of marbles. Back then, it was the first game you grew up with. Cricket as a serious pursuit came later. What set marbles apart from other games was its simplicity. All you needed was a blue sky, a patch of green and a pocketful of marbles. Somewhere, in the last few decades, we lost this game completely.  

A game of marbles sharpened a variety of basic skills. Like Billiards and Carom, it took a combination of concentration and finger-skill to master it. The champion marble player could strike a tiny marble in the far distance with unerring accuracy. The rest of us were not so dexterous and stumbled to strike a target even a few inches away!

Regardless of your proficiency in the game, you maintained a marble collection. A marble was a collector’s delight. Each marble was exquisitely crafted- shiny and glassy. When viewed against the sun, a kaleidoscope of colors filled its interior!  Like a crystal ball, the more you gazed, more secrets it revealed! A second variety of marbles was the opposite. These marbles were stone-like- in a grey monotone. When you dug your hands into a boxful of marbles, its tinkling sound lit up a smile! Hawkers set up shop outside the school gate and enticed students with an attractive marble display.

The box of marbles came handy when the class got too monotonous. No one knew who was the bigger prankster- the boys or the marbles! From time to time, the box jumped out of the school bag and came crashing to the floor! Marbles scattered and bounced in all directions! Right under the glare of the irate teacher, there was a complete riot! Students ran helter-skelter in pursuit of the marbles which were equally mischievous and evaded attempts to catch them! It was just the distraction you needed to liven up the day.

Marbles was not just a game. It was a means to bonding between friends- much like Golf for today’s elite. When you spoke about a particular celebrity as though you knew him very well, someone cut you with this oft-quoted phrase, “Did you play marbles with him?” Such was the camaraderie shared between marble pals!

Back then, children stayed outside and played marbles the entire day. Parents complained that they do not spend enough time at home. Ironically now, children are at home the whole day- busy with their virtual games and gadgets with no time to go outside! What can we say?  We can only borrow the poet’s words- “A poor life this, if full of care, on mobiles alone, we have time to stare!”

The cool generation!

These days, the most trending word is “cool”. It is used in a variety of situations with different nuances. To be in step with the current generation, your language must be peppered with a liberal sprinkling of the word “cool”. True, we used “cool” in the earlier days too. Erstwhile Bangalore’s weather was described as “cool” or you used cool in sentences like “He lost his cool”. Dark glasses were “cooling” glasses. Cold drinks in South India were called “cool drinks”! But the context was limited.

English language is currently undergoing a massive course correction thanks to social media. Brevity is of essence. It is here that a word like “cool” makes an impact. In social media chats, “cool” is used as an acknowledgement- an enthusiastic substitute for the somber “ok”. A typical chat goes as follows: “To come to my place, get to MG Road”. Pat comes the reply- “cool”. Then, take the left turn onto Brigade Road. The response is the same- “cool”!

Another usage of “cool” is to make a style statement. “This skirt looks cool on you! You look cool in this T-shirt”. Something original is also termed “cool”. Budding entrepreneurs make a pitch for their start-up companies, with this opening sentence- “We are currently working on this cool idea...” You have half a mind to interject that the idea can only be as cool as a cucumber, but such a riposte would be uncool!

Another shade to “cool” is to denote a modern outlook. You would say, “He has cool parents! He dropped out of school and told them he wants to pursue Wildlife Photography. They were very cool about it!” When “cool” is repeated twice in quick succession, it conveys a mood of conciliation. After an argument, you are filled with remorse and hesitantly ask your wife, “Hope you are not still upset!” If you get the answer “Cool! Cool!” it means all is well and you can heave a sigh of relief! In degrees of coolness, the superlative degree to cool is “chill”. You ask your friend on his way to Goa- “What are you planning to do there?” His answer is brief- “Just chill!”

Dictionaries in the future will look different- all adjectives will be expunged as archaic words. They will be replaced with “cool”. The irony is, every generation thinks itself as cool, and the previous one as uncool! With this rate of increasing coolness, future generations will resemble frigid ice sculptures! Finally, “cool” can be used as an exclamation. I plan to tell my daughter, “I wrote this cool essay on “cool” and guess what, it actually got published in the newspaper!” I am certain how my daughter will respond. Eyes filled with disbelief, she will exclaim, “Cool...Appa!”

Day Express at Kumbakonam

Though it is hard to imagine today, in the past, India had an extensive “meter-gauge” railway network. Meter-gauge trains with their narrower carriages and pronounced lateral movement, gave the illusion as though they moved at a faster speed than they actually did! Prestigious trains like “The Boat Mail” were part of this network, but the train that stole the show was “The Day Express”. It was called “The Day Express” because it covered the entire stretch from erstwhile Madras Egmore to Trichy in one day.

Going back in time by four decades, summer vacation meant lounging at uncle’s home in Kumbakonam. And when it came to pastime, there was none fonder than meeting the Day Express midway through its journey at Kumbakonam. The days were filled with ample leisure. After father was done with his afternoon tiffin and degree-coffee, we set off to see the train each day.

 A short walk took you to the paddy fields. You balanced on the bund separating the fields till you reached the railway track. From that vantage point, the vision was expanded to cinemascope proportions. All you saw was the dome of the sky and the expanse of the paddy fields that stretched till eternity.

When the time was ripe, there was a sudden flurry of activity. The mood was expectant, like the burgeoning sounds of a jungle, announcing the imminent arrival of a major predator! The signal pole swung into action and went straight up! The telegraph wires beside the railway track rustled. Craning the neck you peered through the tracks into the distant horizon. You saw the nose of the engine- just a tiny dot. It was the Day Express!

Staying well away from the tracks, you waited with bated breath. Soon, you were overwhelmed with a deafening noise as the train hurtled past at a ferocious speed! The carriages were a blur and before you knew, it was all over.  All you could see was a puff of dust as the back of the last carriage melted into the distance! Once the train was gone, an indescribable calm spread over the evening landscape.

And then, there were days when you had other commitments and could not meet the train. The train kept its date nevertheless.  At eventide, from the precincts of home, the ears picked the reverberating rumble in the distance. Eyes filled with excitement, you dropped all activity at hand and exclaimed, “That’s the Day Express!”

The express went about its job each day with the same relentless urgency, like a man on a mission. It seemed to have time for just one sentence as it rushed past, “I have miles to go before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep!”

The clothesline conundrum!

You take your parents around the flat you are about to purchase. It does not matter how many rooms your home has or the view from the balcony. Their concern is of a practical nature- where will you have a clothesline? The triviality of the question hits you. But, it is a fundamental point that has eluded us since the dawn of urbanization. 

Your flat in the city is modest. You do not own an entire terrace to dry clothes in the open. The traditional clothesline was confined to the balcony ceiling. It took enormous skill to spread clothes over the line. The garment had to be heaved up to the ceiling with a stick. And once over the line, you eased out the crumple in the cloth. Tiny items like socks toyed with your patience. They just wouldn’t rest on the line- like a pole-vaulter, they went up only to be back on the floor! And in your effort to set one garment right, you disturbed another that came smack in your face! On windy days, it was an exercise in futility- either the clothes took a stroll outside the balcony or lay scattered on the ground. At the end of the day, you knew what the phrase “pain in the neck” meant. 

These days, the clothesline is modernized with a rope and pulley mechanism. You lower the clothesline to eye-level, spread out your clothes and hoist it up to the ceiling! As with any mechanized device, it is “lyrical in its ideal essence”. But reality is far from ideal. There are days the contraption throws tantrums like your two year old! You hoist it up, and find the rope has got entwined and the entire apparatus goes up at an angle. You try to troubleshoot only to complicate it more. Soon, patience runs out. You give one fatal tug with all your might. The next thing you know- you blink your eyes buried under a tent of wet clothes! You have successfully managed to snap the entire clothesline! 

Parents volunteer to spend 6 months with their children in the US. Their greatest culture shock is the absence of a clothesline! You may own a mansion in the US, still, drying clothes in the open is considered an eye-sore and against community rules! Parents are aghast that unwashed clothes are piled up in a heap and the washing machine and dryer runs once in 3 days! They grit their teeth through the 6 months and return to India with much relief. How much they took for granted- that unbridled freedom to dry clothes in the open! 

Eventually, all problems will be solved, including world hunger. But mankind will continue to wrestle with the clothesline conundrum!

Great-grand-mother and her ancestral home!

Childhood memories are strong. Though this essay goes back to the 1970s, the images have not faded one bit. It was a trip to see great-grand-mother in her village!

Mudikondan is a tiny hamlet, a dot in the Tamil Nadu map, not far from the Nagapatnam coast. So nondescript is the place, that as per accounts, it once had a railway station of its own, that was later dismantled because there was no traffic!

It was here that great-grand-mother lived by herself. If she was old, she stayed in a home that was older. Shrouded by the cobwebs of time, it went back a few centuries, perhaps more.

I recall the street where great-grand-mother lived. It was dusty, with houses on either side, like modern-day row-houses. The house was old-styled. Once inside, the main hall had a quadrangle that opened to the sky and lined with pillars. The quadrangle was spacious, with ample room for a full-blown tree. For my Mumbai, city-grown eyes, it was a novelty- to have a tree inside a house!

Photographs crammed the interior wall, leaving not an inch of space! Everyone was there- grand-fathers and mothers, grand-uncles and aunts, down to the latest generation. People in their earlier avatars, set in the 1930s and 40s looked young and fashionable! Each photograph was amusing- either the serious expression or the quaint dress.

The main hall had a swing that creaked as you foot-pedaled it. The door that led to the kitchen was shallow. Many an unwary person got a bump on the head, if he did not duck at the right time!

An old “almirah” was filled with artefacts including one giant, elephant-replica. I fussed about till the elephant was brought out from the closet. The elephant’s foot was known to have a hair-line fracture! My father had broken it when he was a child! Everything was preserved through the decades- the story as well as the elephant.

Great-grand-mother was bent with age. She was active and spritely on her feet. Her skin was crinkly and the elbows jutted out. Her eyes were alert as she peered through the spectacles. Her toothless laughter was infectious- it shook her entire frame! Soon, more relatives gathered. The house was filled with the hub-hub of conversation and the gurgle of laughter. We were in time for the annual village festival.

After great-grand-mother’s time, the house fell into disuse and was sold off. We never went back again. Time is relentless, much like the ocean’s waves. As the tide comes in, the wave sweeps over the elaborate sand-castle built with care. The people, their voices and stories become one with the ocean. Mudikondan remains a memory.

Corporate idioms!

In today’s corporate world, it has become common to work with teams spread across different geographies. With it, comes the challenge to communicate effectively. Workers in the US have a certain style of talking laced with figurative phrases. It creates comical situations as we relate to these idioms rooted in our own cultural moorings.

 A common American phrase is “let’s first knock off the low hanging fruits!” The intent is clear- when you have a large number of tasks to be completed, take care of the easier ones first. An Indian mind is wired differently. The moment you hear “low hanging fruits”, you immediately drift off. All sorts of fruits crowd the mind- juicy mangoes, tasty jack-fruits, tantalizing grapes and succulent guavas! You wonder which fruit this American team-leader has in mind. You feel like reminding him of a counterpoint- if the fruit is a coconut, the lowest fruit would be quite high! Wrapped in your world of fruits, the rest of the meeting is a blur.

 Another casually used American idiom is “you don’t have to boil the ocean” to do this task- there are simpler ways. The phrase yanks you away from reality. Mythical stories like the churning of the ocean gatecrash into the mind as you imagine the gigantic proportions of the burner and the vessel! “You do not want to reward diving catches alone” is a Baseball idiom. The corporate message is that an inconspicuous worker should be recognized as much as someone who steals the show. “Diving catches” is too tempting for a Cricket enthusiast. The mind takes you on a dream-ride of diving catches- from the days of Eknath Solkar to present-day Jadeja. Reality strikes when you are jolted from your reverie with a pointed question at the meeting, “Can you take that as your AI?”  

From the context, you understand some phrases. “You earn brownie points” when you volunteer to do some service that will help you at a later date. “The code is like spaghetti” is when the computer program is too confusing. “To pick someone’s brain” is to get an expert’s opinion. When something bothers you at work, you express it with the phrase “what gives me sleepless nights is...” To ensure something “does not fall through the cracks” is to pay attention to detail. And then, there are phrases you just cannot comprehend- “If push comes to shove, let’s do this!”

At the end of the meeting, the team-leader asks you in his cheery, accented voice, “Buddy! Just hang in there! You’re a happy camper?” You don’t know what he is saying and how to respond. The silence is awkward. You incoherently mumble, “I am happy”. Mercifully, the meeting comes to a close!

 

Tea and its many avatars!

Having a cup of tea at an upscale restaurant follows a protocol. You place the order and carry on with the conversation. One topic leads to another till you exhaust all topics. The tea is nowhere in sight. It is as if you are marooned on an island and forgotten. After an eternity, your tea arrives.

 The bearer is nattily dressed. His tray carries a porcelain tea-pot, a milk jug, slick cups and sachets of sugar. With finesse, he places each item on the table. After the cursory, “Do you need anything more sir?” he leaves you to make your cup of tea. With patience at tipping point, you take added care- lest you fumble and send the tea-pot crashing to the floor! The tea is now ready; you hold the cup with a certain poise and elan! A classy place requires a matching tea-etiquette! You like your tea piping-hot. This beverage is the opposite- damp and lukewarm. Half the cup and you give up. You pay for the tea and several times more for the ambience- with its mellow lighting and piped music.  

The highway tea-joint is in sharp contrast. It is a popular destination for all outstation buses. The place bustles with people. You observe tea served at the adjoining table. The crockery is basic- a utilitarian cup and a saucer to go with it. He deftly pours the tea into the saucer. Steam wafts off the saucer as he raises the saucer to the lips. Each audible slurp is followed by a clearing of the throat- it is evident the tea is strong and laced with ginger! As he laps the last bit off the saucer, satisfaction is writ large on the face!

There are others who cannot have tea in isolation. A packet of biscuit has to go with the tea. Before you bite the biscuit off, you get it to a soft consistency by dipping it in the hot tea! Alertness is of essence- for a little more in the tea and you are left with a biscuit stub! Rest of the time is spent fishing out the biscuit debris with a second biscuit. Soon, you have lost both- the fish and the fishing rod! In the end, you gulp the concoction in whole- a mix of tea, biscuit and a lot more!

“Matka-chai” is a delightful tea variant. The tiny clay-pot has no handle and is palmed in the hand. In addition to being bio-degradable, it has an earthy fragrance and taste. And with a dash of cardamom, matka-chai is in a league of its own!

Tea remaining the same, such variety in preparation, crockery, style, taste and ambience!  

Station names!

 Back then, there were no Self-Help books to tutor you on “speed-reading” techniques. You learnt to read quickly through a simpler method- by reading the names of stations as the train sped by! With elbows anchored on the train’s window-sill, forehead pressed to the window-bar, you had just a few seconds to read the station’s name. And if you had an elder sister on the adjoining window seat, it made for healthy and at times, ugly competition! 

The erstwhile Bombay to Madras rail route was filled with station names that were a mouthful! You grandly announced- “Yeraguntla” and “Tadipatri”, “Guntakal” and “Hadapsar” as the trains whizzed past them. Till the mid-1980s, the station boards had stayed unchanged for well over a century. You could faintly pick anglicized names like “Poona” and “Dhond” over which the new coat of paint had the revised spellings as “Pune” and “Daund”.

It was as if a mysterious world existed behind these stations you would never know. As you traveled through the Western Ghats, you wondered how “Monkey Hill” got its name! When it came to “Hotgi” and “Chiksugar”, it was as though they concealed a culinary past! 

Of particular interest was the station “Gooty”. You felt goofy to imagine that Gooty’s brother was perhaps Ooty! There were stations that had a special mention on their boards that announced- “Alight here to visit this ancient shrine”. You wondered if this advertisement had compelled a passenger to make a life changing decision to suddenly disembark from the train to explore these exotic places.

No station did you look forward to more than this one- “Venkatanarasimharajuvaripeta” in Andhra Pradesh. How could a station have such a big name? Imagination ran riot- how the sign-board artist had written half the name and fretted when he found no room to fit the rest! And how a tourist from outside India would stumble over the name, getting to “ven-kata” and thereafter, throwing his hands up in despair! 

A particularly delightful stretch was the one from Arakkonam to erstwhile Madras Central. On most occasions, the train was late by the time it hit this corridor. Like the proverbial hare-and-tortoise tale, the engine woke up from slumber and showed a sudden intent to make up for lost time. As the train raced away, it kicked up a cloud of dust over which you read the polysyllabic names- Tiruvallur and Villivakkam, Perambur and Ambattur. Just before Madras Central, came “Basin Bridge”- with its quaint English sounding name. 

They ask “What’s in a name?” But in the final analysis, we are left with just these names and through them connect to a distant past filled with fond memories!

Words from a bygone era!

Grandfather was a master story-teller! During summer holidays, we pestered him to talk about his school days. The trigger was enough and he spun a delightful tale centered on his childhood. Set in pre-Independent India, the stories were amusing. Though he narrated the stories in Tamil, his narration was peppered with English words that had crept into the local language. 

Recalling his stories now, the world has completely changed. Leave alone the backdrop of those bygone days, even the words have got erased. Grandfather’s school was so many “furlongs” from home. When he clarified “furlong”, grandpa did it in units like “yards” or “miles” that were equally uncommon! He was studying in “third form” when the most interesting school incident occurred. There was no “standard” or “class” back then! 

When grandpa studied at night, it was under the arc of a “hurricane light” or a "petromax". Occasionally, he got pocket money of a few “annas” from his father. The conversion from “anna” was in terms of so many “naya” paisa! With the pocket-money, grandpa bought “peppermint” (pronounced with Tamil overtones to the word!) or a glass of orange “crush” at the wayside shop. 

His days were spent in Thanjavur “jilla” that came under “Madras Presidency”. He was adept at playing “ball-badminton”. In those days, no one went to the hair-dresser to get a “crop” or a “crew cut”. Grandpa’s hair was combed back and knotted in a tuft! When he ran around the badminton court, it was in his white “veshti” that trailed till the ankles. There were no shorts; “nijaar” and “half-drawers” were rare. His ball-badminton opponent was a big “Emden”- he was huge like the battle-ship “Emden” in World War II. Unlike grandpa, his opponent wore a “Sandow Banian” during play. But grandpa used a mix of “twist-cut” and “touch-play” to win the game! 

If we wasted time during vacation, grandpa insisted we learn “typing” and “short hand”. That way, we could get a “stenographer’s” job at the “sub-registrar’s office”! An affluent person was either a “District Collector” or a “mirazdar”. A quarrelsome relative was someone with a “big prestige issue” who walked in a “right-royal” manner throwing all courtesy to the winds! Well after digital communication had taken over, grandpa asked if it was a “trunk-call” and made adjustments to his volume when he answered the phone call! 

Grandpa was a Cricket enthusiast. He spoke fondly of the 3 Ws of his time- “Weekes, Worrell and Walcott!” He was sure no modern cricketer could hold a candle to his heroes- “Mankad”, “Merchant” and “Manjrekar”! Those idyllic times are gone, never to come back. Not just the times, even an entire bouquet of words!

 

The whimsical vending machine!

Vending machines have been around for over forty years in India. The earliest recollection of a vending machine was the “weighing machine” found in railway stations. You inserted a 25 paisa coin and it popped out a card that showed your weight. When someone came back from a “foreign tour”, they spoke about machines that doled out a cup of coffee! We heard their tales with fascination and wondered how machines could be so sophisticated.

Our prayers were answered. Today, vending machines are found all over India in corporate cafeteria and restaurants, in cinema halls and railway stations. We now see these chameleons in their true colours.

Dealing with a vending machine is like feeding your one year old child. There are days when it is easy and then there are days when nothing works. You insert the rupee note into the vending machine and it instantly spits it out. You turn the side of the note. It rejects the note again. Perhaps, the note is too old and creased. You try a new note and the result is no different. By now, people in the queue get impatient. They break the queue and everyone gathers around the machine.

Out of the blue, one of the notes is accepted by the machine. But the eureka moment is short lived. The machine has digested your rupee, but does nothing more. At wits end, you try everything- insert your finger, give the machine a violent shake, but it stares back impassively. Now, someone wants to try his luck. Surprisingly, the machine is well behaved and issues the ticket. He casually struts away with his ticket. You cajole and coax the machine, but it stays adamant. Just as you give up and walk away, you hear a sudden clank! You rush back to see if it is your ticket. All you get back is one coin. It has ejected the pocket-change to reward you for the effort. In anger, you could manhandle the machine, but then, such boorish behaviour would not look decent in public!

We hear the future is going to be all about Artificial Intelligence and Machine Learning (AI and ML). We wonder what these machines are learning. We learn from the company we keep. And in human company, we fear machines are picking up our negative traits. They learn to laze around and ape our whimsical behaviour. At least with a human, you can appeal to his goodness. He may relent. With a machine, it is like hitting your head against a stone wall!

Remembering a Mathematics teacher!

Mathematics is not easy for everyone. Some take to it naturally, as a fish to water. And then, there are others who plough through it as though serving a life sentence! Father Vincent Vaz, our Mathematics teacher in High School, endeared himself to both groups. Going back in time by four decades to erstwhile Bombay, Fr. Vaz was a pioneer in High School Mathematics. His books on “Modern Maths” were hugely popular.

Back then, the 10th standard board exam was a student’s litmus test. His entire future hinged on that single exam. And no subject was a bigger stumbling block than Mathematics. Fr. Vaz worked with us for an entire year, in addition to a crash course designed just before the boards. Dressed in his immaculate white cloak, Fr. Vaz was a master magician. Such was his command over the subject and the effortless ease with which explained esoteric concepts in Mathematics, Algebra and Geometry.

His classes were peppered with humour. “No answer is complete without proper units!” he repeated ad nauseam. To hammer home the point, Fr. Vaz cracked his favourite joke pertaining to units. A student had to make a sentence with the word “centimetre”. He wrote- “My mother was at the station and I was centimetre!” In an instant, the class was filled with laughter!

If it was too quiet, he had a way to liven up the class. “Students! You are half-dead! In English, you can also say, you are half-alive! But in Mathematics, let’s see what happens to this equation!” With that, Fr. Vaz wrote on the black board in bold strokes- “half dead = half alive”. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he grandly announced, “You can cancel half on both sides of the equation, and what are you left with?” He paused for effect and proclaimed, “Yes, in Mathematics, dead is equal to alive!”

In addition to Mathematics, Fr. Vaz gave 5 minute pep-talks on topics like- “How to study” just before classes started each day. The tips are relevant even today. His note on “recapitulation” for instance- a new topic taught in class should be revised within 24 hours. It will then be firmly committed to memory. “If you lose that window,” Fr. Vaz would say sternly, “You have lost that entire topic for good!”

He gelled with students as his anecdotes were often borrowed from the world of sport. Someone asked Sir Garfield Sobers how he became one of the greatest Cricket players. Fr. Vaz was transformed into Sobers himself! He held the entire audience in suspense before revealing the cricketer's secret in monosyllables, “I made mistakes, but I never made the same mistake twice!”

About a decade ago, Fr. Vaz passed into the ages. Sometimes, I search on the internet and stumble upon an old photograph of his. The mind floats back to those days in school, sitting in that class, surrounded by those faces, elbows perched on the desk, palms cradling the face and eyes glued at Fr. Vaz!

As we used to say, “There never Vaz, is, or ever will be...someone quite like Fr. Vincent Vaz!”

Spare a thought...

An “ashtaavadhaani” has an amazing skill- he can juggle with 8 different tasks at the same time. He can simultaneously converse with multiple people on varied topics, solve complex mathematical puzzles and even track inane details like the number of times a bell is tolled. His multi-tasking ability is awe inspiring. However, we forget that in our own midst, there are caregivers whose daily job demands similar skills and a lot more. We take them for granted- one such person is the railway ticket collector, the TC!

The TC’s entire life is spent on the move- hopping from bogie to bogie, from train to train, often at odd hours of the day and night. Checking tickets is only a fraction of his daily job. He is the single point of contact for any problem on the train. And the problems are plenty.

The start of the journey itself is mired with issues. The compartment is locked, the passengers cannot get in, and the train’s departure is imminent. The passengers panic and accost the TC. Before he can solve the problem, he is hemmed in with a different issue- a bogie has no lights and it is pitch-dark. Soon, he is beset with a third complaint- the latest reservation-chart is not on display and the confirmation of seats is in question.

Now, the train chugs out of the station. The TC squeezes his way through the tiny compartment aisle. Over-sized luggage blocks the aisle, forcing him to go around and at times, over the baggage. As the train picks up speed, the lateral movement is pronounced. With the balance of an acrobat, he pirouettes at each coupe and checks tickets. While some are ready with their tickets, others in deep slumber have to be prodded, some gently and some with lot more force!

At each coupe, there are multiple requests. An elderly man has got the top berth and wants the lower one. A family is split with members spread over different bogies who need to be united. Two passengers are at each other’s throat, both claiming the same reserved seat. The TC examines their tickets and finds the root cause- one of them has boarded the train one day too early! The water in the toilet has run out and needs action. The glass window is jammed and the rain water is seeping in. A passenger’s water-jug has accidentally fallen on its side and the entire compartment is a water puddle! Midway through the journey, there are more frantic appeals. Someone stepped out of the train to fetch water at the last station and is now missing. The family is in complete distress. The TC has to calm the nerves and plan for the course of action at the next station.

Any direction he looks, the TC meets more eyes that hound him, with a fresh set of requests that he must immediately handle. It is as if he is pulled from every limb. This is the TC’s life- to wake up each day on a moving train and to end it in one. Think about doing this job for one day. Now, imagine, doing this for an entire lifetime! Spare a thought for these silent workers, who rise above the call of duty. The next time you meet a TC on the train, acknowledge his tireless effort- greet him with a smile and a few words of heart-felt appreciation.

An ode to a flower!

A few years ago, we got the graft of a “brahma-kamalam” plant and potted it. Also called the “Queen of the night”, it is a variety of lotus that blooms at night. Over the years, the plant has grown well in the balcony. The peculiarity of this flowering plant is that it blooms exactly once a year. The flower blooms in the late hours of the night and by day-break, it is withered. It glows like a fire-fly, that one sparkle and no more.

While in bloom, its beauty is matchless. Milky-white, with petals arranged in concentric circles and with a crown-like center filament, even a single flower stands out in the dark of the night, against its deep-green spiky leaves. The air is redolent with a subtle fragrance, pleasant but never overpowering. This year, we were lucky to get six flowers abloom a single night. But there is more to the flower than meets the eye. It has left an indelible imprint teaching us valuable lessons for life.

The flower has no expectation. It does not care for a passing look of approval. It blooms that one night because it must. The petals unfold quietly, no show and no advertisement whatsoever. Ironically, we pose for a photograph with the flower and post it on social-media, for the world to exclaim with “oohs!” and “ahs”! At a time when exhibitionism is a way of life, the flower maintains its stately silence. As the bard says, “To thine own self be true” and the flower lives up to this adage.

As they say, “which was born in the night, to perish in the night”. In the few hours it has, the flower is in full splendor and captivates us. So too, it does not matter how long the innings, a cameo innings is good enough, but let it be the best possible one. “Yesterday is a canceled check, tomorrow is a promissory note, but today is ready cash”. We resolve to make today count, as if it is the only day available to us.

The flower teaches us to “be our best version”. The flower simply “is” and through its very existence, it gives happiness to one and all. So too, it does not matter, whether we “do” things mighty and far-ranging. It is enough to simply “be” and be the best we can. As the poet says, “If you cannot be a sun, be a star. It is not by size that you win or you fail, be the best of whatever you are!”

Sometimes, we come to the balcony to find we missed the epochal event- the flower had bloomed the previous night, and we failed to notice it. We purse our lips in remorse and regret. How could we be so callous, caught up in daily chore, to the extent, that one moment could not be spared? Even in its withered state, the flower smiles back. It has made its point- so complete is its self-effacement that it is willing to live and perish unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

As the poet Kabir says, “jab hum paida huey jag hanse hum roye”. “When I was born, the world laughed while I cried”. “Aisi karni kar chalo, hum hanse jag roye”. Let my life be such that when I leave the stage, I laugh, while the world cries.

Life’s greatest lessons are sometimes taught by a simple flower!

The sounds of rain!

Rain as a “visual” spectacle is fascinating. It is equally enthralling to look at the “world of sound” associated with rain. As we focus on the aural aspect, more details emerge and we appreciate rain’s unique soundscape. 

You retire for the day, pull the curtains and lie down in bed. All is quiet. The silence of the night is punctured by a storm that is brewing outside. The whisper of the wind gives way to a stiff breeze. It picks up momentum- you hear the wail of the wind and the spooky rattle of the window. The trees sway, branches creak, leaves rustle and twigs snap and crackle. Streaks of lightning knife through the curtain. There is a rumble of thunder like the dribble of a drum and one deafening strike! And now, the rain comes down in a gentle pitter-patter. 

It is like an orchestra that starts with the strain of a single violin. More violins join, and then comes the Cello and Trumpet and finally the Clarinet and Bugle to complete the symphony. So too, rain builds up into a torrent now- it pounds the roof and lashes the window. From the edge of the roof-top, a wall of water gushes down. The entire neighborhood is a swirling river, the competing streams gurgle as they rush down the slushy slope. Sometimes, rain makes a sudden exit, as dramatic as its entry. You part the curtains and peer into the night. The trees shrug off the water droplets hanging on their leaf-tips! A new, noisy choir takes over- the chirp of the cricket, the croak of the frog and the flutter of night-flies. In the aftermath of the storm, the cracks in the ceiling make their presence felt. You place a bucket to avoid the floor puddle and now, in the gathering silence, the plop of each drop is so much more amplified! The swish of a distant car on the wet road completes the picture for the night. 

To travel through the Western Ghats in a night train, is a great opportunity to tune in to the sounds of rain. During the rainy season, this stretch comes alive. You lie down on the berth and prick up your ears. You listen to the reverberating boom as the train enters the tunnel and hear the clatter of water running down the rocky crevices. As the train emerges from the tunnel, the sounds of the rain-fed mountain-stream and waterfall mingle with the shower of rain against the window. And in unison with the train’s rhythmic rattle, it is a musical act, all its own. 

During the monsoon, a house on an ocean front is not for the faint-hearted! The wind, rain and ocean join hands to create a racket. You hear the chorus-the incessant downpour and the ocean’s increasing ferocity as the tidal waves crash against the embankment and threaten to reach the living-room! 

Artists attempt to capture the mystique of rain through ragas like “Amritavarshini” and “Miyan ki Malhar”. The phenomenon is beyond expression; still, we struggle to give it a contour, at least an abstract “sound-form”. The musician explores the nuances of the raga leisurely, building it up phrase by phrase. In his expert hands, the myriad feelings evoked by rain pour out- of separation and longing, of wonder and amazement, of happiness and exhilaration! Through art and through music, we pay our humble tribute to Mother Nature’s greatest gift- the magic of rain!

The magic show!

One day, the Master Magician came to school. The school auditorium was packed with excited children. There is nothing that elicits as much thrill and awe as a magic show! The Master was at his best- he materialized a rabbit out of a hat, a bouquet of flowers from an empty basket and spun an entire design suspended in mid-air with steel-hoops! When he asked for volunteers from the audience, students made a dash to the stage! Who wouldn’t want to be part of the show?

He finally selected my classmate but once the act began, we were glad we didn’t make it. Sridhar had to swallow an entire tennis-ball. In the audience, we were worried sick. Next, he pressed Sridhar’s tummy, and what popped out of Sridhar’s mouth was not the ball, but an endless stream of colored ribbon! Later in class, Sridhar was hemmed, and we carefully scrutinized the insides of his mouth for any ribbon remnants! There were none.

But the act that held center-stage was the one where the Master tore a newspaper to bits and stuffed it in a glass. He began his special incantation and asked the entire audience to repeat the magic words with him. At the end of it, the glass had turned to milk!

It was truly an age of innocence. I rushed home, threw the school bag away, tore up the newspaper and stuffed it in a glass. I recalled the magic words, down to the last syllable. It was such an expectant moment, but nothing happened! The disappointment was total. The next day, we cross-checked the magic words with the “class-brain”, who had a photographic memory. Despite some alterations made in the word-sequence, the secret-code failed to work. It was a letdown- as if we were so close, and yet so far. Life’s first lesson was learnt the hard way.

These days, we miss the roadside magician. His show was in the open- a busy thoroughfare or a market-square. His narration kept the audience captive for an entire hour, as he built up the suspense. When the crowd swelled to the optimum, he unveiled the trick. The audience gasped as his boy disappeared into thin air after entering a basket! Magic came in smaller packages too- those endless tricks with a pack of cards. The surprise was much the same that someone could guess the exact card that you selected! And the day you learnt a card trick, you couldn’t wait till you showed it to everyone, often stumbling in the act!

Magic tickles the curiosity and teases the intellect. There is a suspension of belief and an irresistible compulsion to solve the puzzle. Many years later, in the US, we watched a program on TV where some of the famous magic acts were decoded. It was dissected piece-meal, till we understood the angles used by the magician, the secret compartments in his equipment and his distraction techniques. We wished we had not seen the program. It was a total spoil-sport, as if someone announced the name of the killer, when you were half-way through your suspense novel.

Life would be pedestrian without magic, robbed of all wonder. For the eye that looks for it, there is magic everywhere. There is magic in the rain, in the twinkling stars of a night sky, in the flower that blooms and in the eyes of a newborn!

Those canvas shoes!

I saw someone jogging in a pair of canvas shoes. Sometimes, you need just a suggestion, to take a trip down memory lane. A kaleidoscope of images gatecrashed into the mind- of canvas shoes and school days, of fun and freedom and above all, that carefree, “bindass” attitude to life in general! 

Maintaining a pair of canvas shoes was not easy. It had to be a coated with a special polish and left to dry overnight. It required foresight and extreme diligence. As a school boy, you had none! Just before the PT class, students scrambled to rub the shoes with a stub of chalk. Often, they got away with this last-ditch cosmetic effort. But then, PT teachers were always one step ahead. The students were lined up and asked to jump up and down! If it was chalk-polish, it exuded an enormous puff of powder and the shoe was back to its dirty self! Boys came up with glib excuses all the time. They had polished the shoes at home, but the public transport bus was overcrowded and the shoes got into this shabby state!

 

During Mumbai’s famed monsoons, canvas shoes were a liability. The shoes turned to sponge- they were soaked with water and now squeaked with each step. The school corridor was a mess, pocked with footmarks. The floor was wet, the shoe had no grip and walking was a challenge, like skating on ice! Boys continued to be unmindful, and ran down the corridors like an unleashed cyclone during lunch-time. Accidents were many- as they skidded and collided with an unwary student finishing up his mid-day meal. The tiffin box with its contents took a few sommersaults before it settled face-down! The face-off during those occasions was ugly! 

Sports Day was an annual event and the Shoe Race was hugely popular. All the 50 students in class had to remove their canvas shoes and pile them up in one big heap. At the blow of the whistle, you had to run to the heap, search and wear your shoes, tie the lace and run back! At the end of the event, there were always disgruntled students. They were left with shoes, which weren’t theirs and to make it worse, of different sizes! It was impossible to trace your pair after the event, with each student insisting he was wearing his own! The rest of the year, you somehow managed, with an oversized shoe on one foot and the other foot squeezed into a shoe half your size! 

On one occasion, canvas shoes came handy as a tool to exact revenge. The class monitor was the teacher’s pet and that distanced him from the rest of the class. Students took pot shots at opportune moments. One day, the teacher called for the monitor. He tried to rush towards the teacher, but strangely could not. His legs were rooted to the spot and he shuffled like a mermaid! Some crafty student had stealthily tunneled his way under the desks, reached for the monitor’s shoes and tied the lace of one shoe to the other! The class was in splits. The teacher was angry and summoned the usual suspects. As was often the case, the offender left no trace and in the absence of evidence, the class was allowed to disperse after a strict warning! 

A virtual class is robbed of all this entertainment. We hope this period of virtual schooling ends and students can go back to school and create their own memories- memories that will last a lifetime!

Delhi is too far away!

The pre-internet days were characterized by a naiveté that fills us now with disbelief. Access to information was difficult. It is all too easy today, with everything- from booking tickets to ordering food, just a click of a button away. Back then, we gambled with the limited information at hand. Often, we blundered and bungled and none better illustrated than this episode dating back to the late 1970s.

School was coming to a close and the summer holidays were about to begin. One day, my father grandly announced we were going to Delhi for vacation. He had got tickets for us to travel by the Jammu Tawi Superfast Express. To us staying in erstwhile Bombay, Delhi was a distant planet. We presumed a journey to Delhi would take 2 days by train, perhaps a lot more. 15 days before the trip, it was a shocker to get a postcard from our uncle in Delhi. He asked if we had noted an important point- the train was to reach Delhi at 1:30 in the night! Needless to say, it threw the entire household in a tizzy. How could a train starting from Bombay in the morning, reach Delhi that very night? Wasn’t Delhi too far away? That’s when we rushed to borrow the railway time-table handbook from a neighbor.

It was too late to cancel and rebook the tickets. Given that it took a fortnight for postcards to travel back and forth by snail mail, there was time for just one way communication. My father wrote to my uncle that the plan stays unchanged. The rest was left to chance and a lot more to bravado. Elders worried if it was safe to reach Delhi at such an unearthly hour. The rest of us had better things on our mind- we could not wait to be on that train to Delhi!

I remember that train ride as if it were yesterday- forehead pressed to the window and eyes glued to the landscape that rushed past! With only the fabled Rajdhani Express for competition, Jammu Tawi was one of the fastest trains. It sped with the roar of a possessed spirit and had just 4 stops- Surat, Vadodara, Ratlam and Kota. In the dead of night, we pulled into New Delhi station. Did uncle receive that last postcard? Would he be at the station? What would we do if he went missing? Our fears were set to rest, Uncle was present. If he was flustered by our cowboy-like travel plans, he did not show it and quickly took us under his arm. As we drove through the hushed streets of Delhi, there was a feeling of total amazement! Just this morning, we were at home in Bombay, and now, here we are, in Delhi!

"Dilli abhi door hai", Delhi is far away, may have a proverbial connotation, but we actually believed so! In retrospect, we chuckle at those earlier versions of ourselves, as if they were distant characters enacting out life's drama on some prehistoric stage! With our cell-phones today, we can track the movement of trains and travelers. Travel plans can be nailed down to the minutest detail. But we miss a crucial point. It has actually come for a price. A wayfarer on the highway, will he ever know the joy of that unchartered trail in the woods, with a surprise at each step and a suspense at each corner?

Learning Sama hymns the virtual way!

These are clearly different times. Children have spent over a year in virtual classes. Working from home is the new normal. But the pandemic has also thrown up some unique possibilities. During these quarantined days, I signed up to learn the ancient “sama hymns” in a class taught virtually. What started as a casual pastime, soon became a compulsive obsession; the classes were so riveting.

The sama-hymns are among the world’s most ancient chants. Unlike other chants that are recited, these are set to music and sung. The music in these hymns defies geography- it is as if Indian, Middle-Eastern, Mediterranean, all sounds mingle into one harmonic whole. The gurgle of laughter has the same sound and meaning across the globe. So too, these chants have a universal feel, as if the yearning of a human heart and its appeal to a higher power has to be in this tune and no other. 

The chants are austere, but learning them virtually is complicated and provides its share of unintentional humour. Technology comes with its inevitable glitches. On certain days, the audio is fine, but the video is patchy. On other days, the video is fine, but the audio stutters. If both are fine, there is a sudden power-cut, the wifi goes phut and with that, the class blanks out! At times, the student attends these classes on a hand-held cell-phone, so shaky, that he appears in perpetual movement. Or his camera is off-center and all it can catch is the top of his scalp and the ceiling-fan! It is like tight-rope walking, but you learn to manage. 

A virtual class has several technology imposed rules- only one person can chant at a time, while the rest have to keep their microphones muted. When your turn comes, you unmute and chant. All this is easier said than done. The mind is so focused on the chant that impulse takes over. You can see the person chanting away, all animated, completely unaware that he cannot be heard. Others pounce on him with repeated cries of “unmute!”, “unmute!” till he finally realizes his mistake and grins sheepishly. At times, it is the other extreme- you forget to mute the microphone and blabber away unmindfully, till you are caught napping and curtly asked to mute. 

It has been several decades since you went to primary school. The virtual class transports you back in time. You giggle with impish delight when the teacher picks on a fellow-student and chides him for making repeated mistakes. Or questions the student why he missed the last class and hears novel excuses like “I did not get permission at home!” Or the teacher holds the entire class hostage, refusing to go any further, till a particular student gets it right! 

The virtual classes are as much about bonding in these trying times. With social interaction down to the bare-bones, this is your extended family. It is also about rediscovering the joy of learning, where the fun is in the very process, and not pinned to a future outcome. 

Above all, we admire the majesty of these mystic hymns. They have come down to us, in an unbroken tradition, from the dim and distant past. We also acknowledge the glory of modern technology that makes it so easy, that it is all accessible, from the cozy confines of our home. There is no doubt, we are doubly blessed!

American Indian teenager eats a South Indian meal!

The American-Indian teenager, born to NRI parents looks like any of us. It is only when he starts talking that his accent and body-language betray his nativity. It is not easy for him on this trip to India to attend a cousin’s wedding. Though he finds everything “awesome”, the culture-shock numbs him. His challenges are many; none greater than this one- navigating through a South Indian wedding lunch served on a banana leaf.

The food is now arrayed all over the banana leaf. It is a typical South Indian special- vegetables, colored-rice, vadai, pickle, avial, poli, jaangri and endless items that keep coming. Without his spoon, fork and cereal bowl, our teenager is all at sea! His neighbor eggs him- “See! It is easy, my boy! You pick up rice with your fingers and eat like this!” Words of encouragement all right, but not for the teenager. It is as if, he has been suddenly thrust into the cockpit of an airplane and told to fly it on his own! His NRI mother sits at the next leaf. She has coached him to a point, but not for this eventuality.

Gingerly, he uses his fingers to pick up one grain of rice at a time. At this rate, the next Ice Age will set in, his mother tells him! He reaches out for simpler items like “pappadam”. He grips the entire disk with both hands and takes one big bite. The crackling bits fly all over and some take a parabolic path right into the neighbor’s leaf three rows away! Couple of children, sparkling in their silk “pavadais” watch this spectacle from the opposite row and giggle!

He consults his mother and the best option appears to ask for a spoon. Word goes around quickly, and multiple people scramble to check for a spoon, but there is none. The closest to a spoon is the ladle used to serve sambar! The mother is quick to shoot down the idea. She feels it will look too silly, as if he was Ghatotkacha eating with a ladle! For the moment, he has to manage with his fingers.

Servers are in a tearing hurry. They have a job on their hands with hundreds of people at the lunch table. If there is no alert reaction from the person, they will pour a liter of hot sambar on the banana leaf before they move to the next one. It is here that the teenager’s skills are found wanting. The sambar swirls like the raging sea in a Tsunami; it engulfs the rice mounds and overflows right out of the banana-leaf, straight into the teenager’s lap! It all happens in a split second and there is no time to react. “Mom! What am I supposed to do? It is flowing all over!” Mom is now angry. “You cannot just sit doing nothing!” she screams.

Relatives are quick to comment, “This is exactly why you should come to India more often! How will he otherwise learn our customs?” If only Mom had brought his favorite peanut-butter sandwich, she could have saved herself from all this embarrassment. She mutters under her breath, “I am never coming to India again. Even if I come, I will come on my own. The kids can bond with their father back in the US and watch their Super-Bowl matches on TV!”

Where is the NRI father? The father was last spotted in the same wedding hall, in a totally different corner, unmindful of all this commotion. He was busy in a conversation on driverless cars in the US and how they would navigate through obstacles like cows on Indian roads! He is ignorant that the clouds in his horizon are darkening by the minute and knows not what awaits him once he reaches home! Till then, he can continue talking!

When the music maestro came home!

When Semmangudi had music concerts in Mumbai, he stayed in a flat in our building. He would make it a point to meet my father whom he knew from earlier years. I was too young to comprehend music, leave alone Carnatic music. Needless to say, Semmangudi’s standing in the musical firmament was completely lost on me.

He was just another “mama” who came home from time to time; someone who alerted my father from the ground floor and then, huffed and puffed his way up the flight of stairs. I recall running around the house like a howling cyclone, once coming dangerously close to knocking off the coffee tumbler in Semmangudi’s hand! He was forced to take evasive action and blurt out “Careful! Careful!” as he managed to keep out of harm’s way! With a name like “Semmangudi”, a pancha-kachcha dress, a tuft on the head and a walking stick, he had to be placed in a different category altogether! If I liked him, it was for a different reason- he called my sister by an archaic name. The rest of the day, I teased her repeatedly, while she seethed in anger! If he asked us questions, we found him funny and giggled. During this time, I recall attending a concert by Semmangudi. On coming home, I promptly mimicked his over-the-top mannerisms while singing. The music made no perceptible impact.

Classical Music’s calling came late in life. But when it came, it was irresistible and swept me off my feet. Suddenly, it opened the door to a new dimension in life, one of indescribable beauty. Ragas, whose existence was previously unknown, gatecrashed into my being and became companions for life. I listened to the recordings of all the masters, including Semmangudi. Now, I saw him in a totally different light and admired his expert treatment of ragas, his crisp presentation style, his alignment to musical tradition and above all, a lifetime’s commitment to music. The recollection of his animated mannerisms gave a different insight- he had effaced self-identification to the extent it did not matter to him how he presented himself. Once on stage, it was just him and his music, so total was the involvement. Ironically, other priorities led me away from Mumbai and with it, the opportunity to meet the maestro was lost.

Around this time, I met Hari, a classical music enthusiast to the core. To call him Semmangudi’s fan would be an understatement, he worshipped him. His shelf was stacked with the master’s recordings on gramophone records and cassettes. “Listen to his swara-jati in Bhairavi raga. Can anyone hold a candle to him? And to hear his elaboration of Kharaharapriya raga, in all its grandeur, in the pin-drop silence of the night, is such an experience! Semmangudi was the last of the Cadillacs. They do not make cars like this anymore!” announced Hari.

One day, I interrupted Hari with a childhood confession related to Semmangudi. “What do you mean Semmangudi came to your home?” Hari asked, totally aghast. After hearing my tale, there was a protracted period of silence. I was worried if Hari would punch my nose for treating his hero so callously! When he spoke, Hari’s face was creased with a gentle smile. “Life is all about timing, just like “taala”. When we are faced with the situation, the script is not ready. And by the time we get the script ready, the situation has slipped away! But you are lucky! Semmangudi gave us a lifetime of happiness through his music. We have seen him only from the distance of the concert hall. But you saw that master in your own home!”

When Big B came to school!

When we were in primary school, one day, there was a sudden commotion. The air was abuzz that a film shooting troupe had come to school! News traveled like wild fire - Amitabh Bachchan, Big B himself, was in the campus. The students were excited, and so were the teachers. Classes were suspended for the day. The school church was the location of the shooting. Students milled around the church, trying to get a glimpse of the star, only to be sent back. We could watch, but from a distance.

It was tough to catch the details through that enormous crowd. All sorts of equipment was lugged around- cameras, photo-reflectors and umbrellas. Faintly, we caught the outline of a man in a light blue safari suit who soon melted into the crowd. Someone said that was Amitabh Bachchan. From that distance, it could have been anyone. But everyone was sure- it was Big B and we had seen him! Later in the day, students made tall, unverifiable claims. Some insisted they shook hands with Big B himself. It was difficult to sift fact from fiction!

In a year’s time, the movie “Amar Akbar Anthony” was released. It was a blockbuster and one of Amitabh’s biggest hits. And sure enough, in a song sequence, our school church formed the backdrop. There was now no doubt. Big B had indeed come to school. Each time the song featured on TV, the joy could not be contained; it was where we hung around each day- the same steps, the same pulpit, the same stained-glass windows! “Yes, we all know it is your school!” my sister snapped, with palpable irritation.

Years later, I went to Roorkee to study. In those pre-internet days, Roorkee was as though in a cocoon- an educational town, far away from the big, bad world. To those simple folks who manned the college mess and the canteen, it was a novelty that someone should come from distant Bombay. “Have you seen film stars in Bombay?” Guptaji, the canteen owner asked one day. A negative reply would have quashed the hopeful look in his eyes. “Yes, we keep seeing them! You may recall the movie Amar Akbar Anthony.” Guptaji’s eyes lit up. “Of course! Who does not know that film?” Nonchalantly, I continued, “To shoot that film, Amitabh had come to my school!” By then, Guptaji had alerted his attendants. “Did you hear that? Amitji had come to his school!” One thing led to another and soon, it was as if, I was close enough to play a game of marbles with Amitji!

From then on, the four years in Roorkee were easy for me. Guptaji hung on my lips. I was the conduit between him and Amitji. And for retelling the same tale about my school and Amar Akbar Anthony, there was ample compensation- multiple servings of gulab-jamun and plates of hot samosas! Who can complain now?

Someday, if I meet Big B, I owe him a big thanks. His larger than life image has such an arresting appeal on the masses that some of that star dust rubs off on the likes of us too! Such is tinsel-town’s fascination! And as far as primary school is concerned, who can forget those days? Even now, when someone asks, “What is your name?” the second-grader in me surfaces! There is an irresistible urge to rise to my full height, change my voice to a gruff baritone, and reply in song, like Big B in that iconic film- “My name is Anthony Gonsalves!”

The master in the making!

Mumbai’s School Cricket tournaments date back to the days of the Raj. We do not know who Messrs. Giles and Harris were, but the tournaments instituted in their name continue to this day. For every Cricket player in High School, the Giles Shield for Under-15 and the Harris Shield for Under-17 are coveted tournaments. Despite our urge to weed out pre-Independence names, Giles and Harris have surprisingly survived.

The competition was fierce and the top schools vied for the title. These tournaments served Mumbai’s cause well. From the days of Gavaskar to today’s Prithvi Shaw, Mumbai has produced run-making machines in every generation. Their skills were honed in these school matches, where kids as young as 10 years lugged heavy kits and played hard, competitive Cricket. Mumbai’s Azad Maidan and Cross Maidan- these sprawling grounds have nurtured many a school Cricketer, who went on to play for Mumbai and India. The erstwhile Bombay brand of batting was plain and simple. Play like a disgruntled miser, “khadoos khelneka”, never give your wicket away and bat till you wear the opposition down. It was in school cricket that these basics were instilled.

School Cricket was a bubble in itself. Information traveled quickly by word of mouth. Everyone kept a keen eye for the next big star to dazzle the Cricket horizon. Umpires officiated in these matches for a pittance, with even one elderly English umpire. His passion for the school games was so intense, that he had missed the vital point that it was now Independent India and continued to stay on! Journalists covered these matches prominently. If you scored 30 runs, you saw your name in the next day’s newspaper. If you scored a 50 or a 100, you earned the headlines- so and so “shines”. If you took 5 wickets, the headlines screamed so and so “deadly!” Needless to say, this was a school kid’s instant claim to fame. You felt on top of the world!

I was fortunate to be part of this Cricket circuit through the years in school. Regardless of my performance in Cricket or the lack of it, it has surely supplied ample text for conversation! And there is no Cricket narrative that is a bigger hit with young fans than this one. “You mean, you played Cricket with the Master himself?” It is a question bordering on disbelief that I am often faced after each narration. “Not with, against!” I would gently correct them. This is how the tale goes.

It was a Giles Shield match at Shivaji Park where our school faced Shardashram Vidyamandir. We were quite well placed in the match. After the fall of a wicket, a sixth grader with curly hair came in to bat. He played strokes that belied his age, especially the way he pulled the short ball to the boundary. There was something special about that boy- he was a pocket-sized dynamite. His innings made the difference and we lost the match.

A few years later, a certain curly haired boy made his debut for India. The similarity was too close to be casually brushed aside. I could not contain my curiosity any more. One evening, I went to school and requested the old scorebooks to be pulled out. I flipped through the pages and finally rested on the page I had in mind. My finger hurriedly scanned the list of batsmen from Shardashram’s scorecard and sure enough, he was there. You guessed it right. It was Sachin Tendulkar, the Master Blaster!

Many a night, I have suddenly woken up and rewound the mind's tape to that day. I can feel the sea breeze at Shivaji Park, the sun-swept ground and the Cricket pitch closest to the statue of Maharaj. I chuckle at the thought- who knows, maybe, it was our bowling that gave that sixth-grader the self-belief that he belonged to Cricket. And go on to be the phenomenon he was, for a quarter of a century! Back then, he was not a finished product yet. I was lucky. I could watch glimpses of greatness at such close quarters. “Yes, I saw the master...while he was still in the making!”

Nadaswaram and weddings!

Nadaswaram is a “mangala vaadya”, an instrument that ushers an auspicious atmosphere. South Indian weddings and nadaswaram go hand in hand. To think of a South Indian wedding without the nadaswaram is like celebrating Deepavali without lights or Holi without colors! So intimately, the sounds of the instrument are woven into the occasion.

Even before the wedding gets underway, the nadaswaram troupe is at the hall, in the wee hours of the morning. The troupe consists of the main musician, his deputy, a drummer (thavil vidvan) and occasionally, a cymbals player. The main nadaswaram artiste has a regal appearance- draped in a spotless silk “jibba” and “veshti”. His torso is decked with multiple gold-chains and medals. He displays them with pride- like an army officer wears the badge of honour. The deputy artiste literally plays the second fiddle. His task is important- he has to maintain the pitch unswervingly, while the main artiste improvises the music over this drone. The drummer’s fingers are taped in white-bandage, or so it looks to the onlooker. It is as if, he needs that protection as he pounds his drum!

Having settled down in a corner of the wedding hall, it takes just the clatter of the drum and the first few notes of the nadaswaram to transform the place. The hall and the entire neighborhood is charged with festivity. Such is the nadaswaram’s magical effect.

The nadaswaram’s role in a wedding is like the background score in a film. The background score fills every frame of the film, but strangely, its presence goes unnoticed. So too, all the wedding’s proceedings are conducted against the backdrop of the nadaswaram. The groom and the bride occupy center-stage, the priests maintain a rhythmic chant and family members welcome the guests. Ladies sashay in colorful silk saris, children run around, there is laughter and conversation, everything plays out over the hubhub of the music. The nadaswaram artiste is like a zen-monk- unmindful of the overwhelming commotion. He maintains a line-of-sight communication with the main priest. At opportune moments in the wedding, the priest waves his hand like a music-conductor. The cue is for the musician to change the tempo and raise the pitch to a crescendo. That is only attention that comes the nadaswaram’s way through the function.

In the same hall, sits an elderly gentleman in the far corner. Family members are unsure which side of the family he comes from. They leave him alone. For him, the wedding has receded in the background. His attention is entirely on the music. His head sways, he blurts out “shabhash” and he keeps track of the beat when the drummer gets into action. The only time this gentleman gets up from his seat is to bless the couple with a shower of rice-grains, that too because someone thrust the grains into his palm!

By midday, the wedding comes to a close. Everyone makes a beeline to congratulate the couple and head for the sumptuous lunch. Our gentleman walks in a different direction, to the corner where the artiste has just packed away his instrument. “Your Todi raga was grand! And the percussion round was A-class!” The nadaswaram artiste’s eyes light up. He touches his heart with a gentle bow as he gracefully accepts the words of appreciation. “It is all my guru’s blessings!” he trails away.

A tailor-made relationship!

These days, you hear a lot about the “growth-chart”. The doctor measures the height and weight and tracks the Body Mass Index through the growing years. Going back in time, by about four decades, growth charts were non-existent. However, someone did track your growth spurts. It was your tailor!

Each family had its extended circle- a family doctor, a family priest and even a family tailor. You built the relationship with these caregivers over a period of time. It made the service personal.

The tailor greeted you with a big smile the moment you entered the shop. The shop was compact- shelves stacked with clothing material and filled with the aroma of fresh cloth. He had an amiable disposition with a pencil perched on his ear and a measuring tape hanging around the shoulder. The drill was familiar. Asking you to stand straight and tall, he measured you from top to toe. He made you extend your arms and part your feet. It tickled you to get so much attention and made you feel special. At the end of it, he peered into the notebook and gave a frank assessment- “You have become taller by 3 cm. You have also become a little fatter- by 2 cm!” He promised to have the dress ready very soon.

Personalized stitching took its own sweet time- 3 weeks to a month. From the sheepish grin with which the tailor greeted you, you knew the dress was not ready. Disappointment was inbuilt in the journey and made the final outcome fonder. He managed to wriggle away with a convoluted excuse each time, with the assurance that the next time, it would be ready! The excitement was in the wait, in the anticipation of the eventual fruition.

In the absence of social media, your window to the world and its sartorial tastes was limited. The tailor was the fashion-guru. Sometimes, he insisted on a “Bush shirt” and bell-bottom trousers. The following visit, the style had changed. “It is all pleated pants nowadays!” he announced with certainty. By Diwali, he had a different suggestion. “You go for a safari suit!” You blindly followed his instructions and seldom regretted.

Contrast this with today’s popular culture. You have lost track of the number of malls in the neighbourhood. Every mall is littered with branded, ready-made clothes of bewildering variety. When you emerge from the mall, you carry multiple bags with new shirts and trousers. Ready-made wear is like saying –“One size fits all”. You can flaunt the brand name on the shirt pocket, but cannot avoid the inevitable fitting problems. You quickly pick the new shirt from the aisle and pay at the counter. It is instant. Sometimes, waiting is worthwhile. It is like getting hundreds of “forwards” on social media today, but not one letter specially written for you. You miss your tailor and the bond that you shared with him.

Back then, there was no need for self-help books and counsellors to boost your self-image. The tailor donned that role effortlessly. As you emerged from the trial room in a brand new safari suit, the tailor’s eyes lit up. He was effusive, “You look like a hero! Amitabh Bachchan will have to find a new job!” and put his hand affectionately around the shoulder. You felt on top of the world!

Summer vacation and Chess!

I hope Vishwanathan Anand does not read this article. He is likely to get sleepless nights that his favorite game was treated with such irreverence. But this essay goes back to a time when Anand was yet to hit world stage. Back then, only two individuals were playing the game on the entire planet- Karpov and Kasparov. At least, the Chess ignoramus that I was, no third name came to mind.

The Chess board gathered dust in the cupboard. Once a year, during summer vacation, it was brought out with great fanfare when all other entertainment was blocked. It was too hot to go out, there was no TV, no comics to read and the children in the neighborhood had gone to their native places. That left my sister and me to battle it out at home. And what can be better than a cerebral game like Chess for an engaging afternoon?

Chess is an acquired taste, much like Mathematics. There are people who take to it like a fish to water. And then, there are others who tolerate it. It entirely depends on how you are wired. But like the basics of Arithmetic, you know how the pieces move. That is enough to play the game. My sister was a shade better than me, which is not saying much, but it made for an even contest.

In the absence of formal tutoring, a Chess upstart devices his own strategy. One of them is to play “black” and exactly follow the opponent move for move. If the white pawn is moved, you move the same pawn on your side. If the Bishop is moved 3 spaces, you do the same. It makes the opponent nervous as though you are stalking them. My sister was clearly irked. “You copy cat! Don’t you have your own mind?” The trick is to silently endure the barbs, make the opponent so ill at ease, that they forfeit the game.

Sound effects add an element of suspense to the move. Or you use it to irritate the opponent. Each time you move the Knight, you imitate clip-clop of the horse, and when it comes to a standstill, let out a full throated neigh! If you move the Queen, you mouth an evil punchline from the latest Bollywood thriller. If you cut a piece, you strike it with such force, that it goes tumbling and takes it with, a few adjoining pieces! The mind games help- the opponent becomes tentative, makes an obvious mistake and the game is yours.

When none of the strategies work, you simply delay the game, pondering for an eternity before every move. It gives the impression that each move is calculated and precise. After a point, the opponent loses patience. “Why do you take so much time just to move a pawn? What are you thinking?” “I was thinking about the ice-cream we are going to have in the evening!” “Enough! Stop day-dreaming and play the game!” It is easy to end a game of Chess when it is not going your way. All it requires is a little nudge to the board, as if you have clumsily upset it. No one recalls the position of the pieces and you need to start afresh.

Playing Chess with the neighborhood champion is a different ball game. He is too good for you. In a few moves, he has called out “Check”. As you dither to save the King, for every potential move, his fingers twirl on his Queen and he calls out a louder “Check”. Like a trapped deer, you prance around this way and that, till he ends the agony and calls out a final “Check-mate”.

But the best of them can be cornered on a given day. You start off with a completely unconventional move. May be, you move the Bishop all the way. It is like sending the pinch-hitter in Cricket. The surprise element rattles the opponent. He expects you to be a champion player, over thinks and succumbs. That day, you feel on top of the world- you are India’s answer to Anatoly Karpov!