Do you recognize who I am?

South Indian weddings serve as a get-together for the extended family. If you attend one after a long time, you must endure a peculiar pattern of interrogation.

Out of the blue, someone holds you hostage with a tricky question. “Do you recognize who I am? Guess!” he asks with a broad smile. His over-enthusiasm unnerves you as he grabs you by the hand. You scrutinize his face and feel like responding, “I have not seen you from Adam!” Such an answer would be blunt. Risking a wrong answer could lead to more embarrassment. It would mean you do not know two people in the family! You settle with a safe- “You look familiar, but I am not able to place you!” And blame the pandemic for eating away the memory cells.

You hope he will end the suspense. However, he obscures his identity even more. You try to narrow down the problem- “Are you related to my paternal side?” He answers no and smiles! “Then, my maternal side?” He smiles even more and says no! He then makes an admission, “I am related to both your paternal and maternal side! Guess!”

A mild irritation sets in. You have half a mind to say, “Either tell me who you are, or leave me alone!” He now goes on the offensive. “This is the problem with you IT folks. You are stuck in your own cocoon. Only if you step out, you will know, who is who in the family! Your generation itself is clueless about uncles and aunts, cousins and nephews. The next generation is totally lost!”

He drifts off on a personal spiel. “In those days, your grandfather’s home had 10 children under the same roof! You have inherited the same nose as your grandfather! That’s how I could easily spot you!”

After a point, you give up. “I still cannot recognize you! Please tell me!” The opponent licks his lips. You wonder from where he is going to start. After all, any family tree is like a giant banyan tree, tangled all over! He announces confidently, “Your paternal grandfather Nagarajan and I are first cousins. And that is not all! The strange thing is- your maternal grandmother Avayamba and I are also second cousins!”

It is now my turn. “But my paternal grandfather is not Nagarajan. And my maternal grandmother was Lakshmi!”

The overflowing cheer on the opposite face is replaced with complete confusion. He leaves my hand he had tightly clasped till then. His voice fumbles, “You are Ajay, aren’t you?”

“No! I am Shankar!”

My opponent’s face changed several shades of color. Wonder why he sheepishly excused himself and left in such a tearing hurry!

Vishakha Hari at Music Academy, Chennai- Dec 28, 2022 "Ramayana through Pasurams"

 Just back from Vishakha Hari's concert at the Music Academy. The topic was Ramayana as seen through the Pasurams of the Alwars. Though the narration was based on the Pasurams, the songs were mainly Tyagaraja's kritis. I will try and recall from memory the various songs presented and the context in which it was sung.

The devas implore Lord Vishnu in Vaikuntha to descend on the earth for "dharma samsthaapana". The kriti chosen was "O Rangashayee" in Kambhoji raga. The connect between this song and the context is the line "bhuloka vaikuntham" in the song. It is as if "this place", i.e. Srirangam is Vaikuntha itself.

Rama is born and is lulled to sleep. The kriti presented was "Uyyaalalooga vaiyya" in the raga Neelambari.

Rama "walks" with Vishwamitra to help him out in his austerities and later to Mithila. The kriti presented was "Nannu Palimpa" in raga Mohanam. In the kriti, Rama is presented as "walking" (towards Tyagaraja). The occasion for the kriti was Tyagaraja's daughter's (called Seeta) wedding. It is here that Tyagaraja's disciple Walajapet Venkataramana Bhagavathar presented a painting of Rama to Tyagaraja. And as the disciple walked towards Tyagaraja with the painting, it was as if Rama was walking towards Tyagaraja. Tyagaraja sang "Nannu Palimpa" at this point. This kriti was used to present Rama walking with Vishwamitra.

Jagadaananda kaaraka in Nattai raga- was used to denote "maadhurya bhaava" where the phrase "praana naayaka" comes (as though Seeta would use it for Rama).

Rama leaves his ornaments behind before going to the forest. But his beauty was more enhanced that way. The kriti presented was "kanakana-ruchira" in raga Varaali.

The anguish felt by Dasharatha and Bharata in Rama's absence. It is as if..."what started as vinayaka, ended as a monkey". This example comes in the kriti "evarito ne" in the vivaadi raga Maanavati.  The comparison is used to show how the coronation planned for Rama ended in his going to the forest. Apparently, Tyagaraja has chosen vivaadi ragas whenever he wants to convey sadness. This is one such example. (Baagaayanayya in Chandrajyoti raga was sited as another example).

Tyagaraja lost Rama's idol when it was thrown into the river by his brother. The kritis he sang in "viraha" were "Ennalu" (Shuba Pantuvarali raga) and "nee daya raada" (Vasanta bhairavi raga). The sadness in these ragas mirror's Tyagaraja's state of mind (and Dasharatha's too).

Bharata approaches Rama and implores him to return to Ayodhya. Bharata leaves with Rama's padukas. The kriti presented was "sandehamunu" in "Raamapriya" raga, as though the name of the raga goes with the context of Bharata (whom Rama loves). 

Rama also has a teasing sense of humor, though normally, we associate it with Krishna. The part chosen was "samayaaniki" (Sadhinchene in Arabhi raga) where all the stanzas are on Krishna (and his sense of timing, in everything, including humor).  Tyagaraja moves from Krishna to Rama (in the last stanza) in "Sadhinchene" (as though samayaaniki could apply to Rama too). This part comes when Rama deflects Shurpanakha to Lakshmana with a teasing sense of humor.

Rama meeting Shabari and the moving episode associated with it- "entani ne varnintunu shabari" in Mukhari raga.

Rama meets Sugreeva and has to prove his valor that he can vanquish Vali. Rama sends one arrow that pierces through 7 trees (saala vriksha). The portion used was from "Jagadaananda kaaraka" in Naattai raga where the phrase "saala vidana" comes.

Hanuman meets Seeta and when he comes back, Hanuman sings "kanden seetai" in Bageshri raga to Rama. This song is by Arunachala kavi.

Vibhishana is given protection by Rama though he is Ravana's brother. The kriti rendered was "evvare raamaiyya" in the rare raga "Gangeyabhushani". The Vibhishana episode is described in this song.

Rama pattabhishekam- "Maamava pattabhirama"- Dikshitar's kriti in Manirangu raga.

With this, the concert came to a close. It was enjoyable and informative. Vishakha Hari with her music and narration kept the audience in a spell! 

She was ably supported by the violinist, the mridangam vidwan and the ghatam vidwan. 

There was so much liveliness, humor and spontaneity in the narration as well as music that was rendered with such bhaava! 

The above write-up does not do any justice. It is an attempt to recall as much as I can, after the performance!

Evening with Trichur Brothers- Parathasarathy Sabha, Chennai, Dec-27, 2022

Just back from the concert by Trichur Brothers at Parthasarathy Sabha, Chennai. At the end of the concert, there was a spontaneous standing ovation! Such was the impact!

The concert started with Ganesha stuti "vakratunda mahakaya" in Nattakurinji raga. This was followed by a brisk varnam in Nattakurinji. That set the stage for the rest of the concert- a concert where the same momentum was maintained right through and not one moment of boredom or distraction!

The next piece was "Ninne Bhajana" in Naattai raga, that was rendered with enthusiasm. 

Shuddha Dhanyasi raga was well developed. The moment the Dikshitar kriti "Subramanyena" was started, there was a buzz in the audience. Shuddha Dhanyasi has many sibling ragas and the audience required this well known piece to confirm their answer!

Shyama Sastri's masterpiece "Amba Kamakshi" was sung beautifully. This piece is a veritable "shabda-avatara" of Kamakshi, as though, She is in front of us, in sound-form. The kriti is structured like a gopuram, with each line starting in succeeding swaras. It is here that the Brothers excelled. They embelished the piece with one vocalist singing in the lower octave and the other in the higher. The result was sheer magic!

"Sabhapatikku vera daivam samaanam aagumaa" in Abhogi raga was soulful. The way this song implores us- "It is enough to say Shiva's name even once!" (oru daram shiva-chidambaram endru sonnaal podumey) was touching. We were reminded of Shiva's majesty as the recluse "a-bhogi" and as a maha-grhastha "aa-bhogi" with Parvati and children! It is as though, through the choice of the raga, both aspects of Shiva are conveyed.

The tempo was further enhanced with a quick piece "Garuda Gamana" in the rare raga Naagaswaraali.

The main piece was a ragam-thanam-pallavi in Shubha-Pantuvarali. The raga conveys many moods- of pathos, of  sadness, of anguish. All these feelings poured forth, as the Brothers elaborated the raga. Shades of Hindustani Music, where this raga is called "Todi" could be discerned. The way the lower "shadja" was touched, brought an instant applause from the audience.

The thanam was brisk. The Pallavi had the line "Tirupati Venkataramanaa....sankata haranaa!" This was followed by ragamalika swaras in Saama, Behag, Kaanada and Revati. 

The thani-avartanam was enjoyable. The mridangam artiste (father of the Brothers) and ghatam artiste enthralled the audience and not one person stirred- so rapt was the attention!

The penultimate piece was Vande Mataram rendered in Desh. They egged the audience to sing along with them. The final piece was the famous "English Note".

The violinist excelled in the Shuddha Dhanyasi alapana and in the Shubha-Pantuvarali piece. The Kaanada in the ragamalika section was the violinist's choice and later picked up by the Brothers.

What is written above is a factual account. But words are terribly poor. They cannot convey feeling. It has to be experienced. How can I write about what I "felt" throughout the concert? At times, it was a thrill, at times, it was undiluted happiness, at times, goosebumps ran down my forearms, at times there was an involuntary shake of the head and at times, a spontaneous shout of "baley" escaped from the lips! 

There were several places where the Brothers sang either in different octaves or created the Western music effect of "harmony", when their individual singing merged to form a composite whole. How do you write about this effect in words?

Recorded music cannot create this magic. Online concerts cannot create this magic. You have to be present "live" in a concert atmosphere to experience this. 

It was almost 3 hours of happiness- where the entire work-a-day world vanished and we were transported to some "gandharva nagari"! 

We owe a standing ovation and so much more to the Trichur Brothers!

 

Saving human extinction is right in your hands!

The dress code changes with time. A notable absentee nowadays is the handkerchief! Somehow, it has completely gone out of circulation! Back then, the handkerchief was your versatile Swiss-Army Knife- it served all purposes.

These days, after washing your hands, you can be in a real soup. Hands dripping with water, you look for a tissue paper and there is none! What do you do? You glance here and there and stealthily dry your palms by rubbing against your trousers! If you have a runny nose, the situation is worse. Lack of a handkerchief means using your fingers for relief and wiping the stain off on the lamppost! Despite such embarrassing situations, still, the handkerchief is not in vogue.

At school, the handkerchief came handy during the recess breaks. You divided the boys into two raucous groups to play the most engaging game of the “dog and the bone”. The handkerchief served as the bone. The spritely boy dodged his opponent, pocketed the bone, and ran off to safer shores!

There was a gender divide when it came to handkerchief designs. Girls carried kerchiefs that had floral patterns. Kerchiefs for boys were in plain color. If your kerchief was in the wash, you stoutly protested carrying a different kerchief, “I cannot carry my sister’s kerchief to school! I will be the laughingstock for everyone!”

A prominent Indian Cricketer stuffed a red handkerchief in his back pocket! It was his lucky charm, and he attributed the World-Cup victory to his kerchief! Roadside Romeos made better use of the kerchief. When Juliet was in tears, Romeo pacified her by offering his kerchief! It was the surest way into Juliet’s heart! And when it came to the street rowdy, you recognized him from a distance- the kerchief was tied around his neck.

Policemen had an easier time when it came to nabbing robbers. Invariably, these goons masked their face with a kerchief and the disguise was a giveaway!

If you had a bruise, the kerchief doubled up as a torniquet. If you ran a high temperature, ice-cubes wrapped in a kerchief kept the fever down! A steam engine driver looked smart- his head wrapped in a kerchief and knotted at the back! It kept the coal and the flying embers out of hair’s way!

How could the kerchief that served so many purposes disappear into oblivion? The domino effect is devastating. Saying no to handkerchiefs means saying yes to tissue paper. Saying yes to tissue paper means cutting down trees. Cutting down trees means rising temperatures. Rising temperatures means melting glaciers. Melting glaciers means rising ocean levels. Rising ocean levels means coastal cities getting submerged!

Please carry a handkerchief and save humankind from extinction!

Football with grandma!

 “What are you watching on TV so late in the night, sitting all by yourself?” grandma asked. “I am watching world-cup football grandma. Morocco is playing against Portugal!” I answered. Grandma was aghast. Knitting her eyebrows she asked, “If Portuguese people are playing, why are you wasting your time? When is India’s match?”

It was tough to explain to grandma. “India is not playing in the world-cup. They have not taken India!” Grandmother found it difficult to swallow. Rolling her eyes and peering through her spectacles, she questioned, “Why have they not taken India? How can they play a world-cup without India? Isn’t India part of the world?”

As far as grandmother was concerned, this was exactly like the matches in the neighborhood. Invariably, the big boys in the neighborhood were bullies who regularly outcast the most docile child! Many times, she had to step in and put a firm word, “Next time, you don’t include this poor child in your game, wait and watch what I do!”

She felt the same bullying tactics were meted out to India! We were just too nice for the world. I had to tell grandma the truth. “We do not run fast. You must run fast to play football!” Grandma was more confused, “Why cannot we run fast? Kapil Dev, Gavaskar and Tendulkar used to run, isn’t it?”

I was stumped by grandma’s question. There were two problems to tackle. One was the confusion regarding the sport. The second was a problem in chronology. The world had moved on, but Grandma’s players still belonged to a prehistoric time.

Grandma lived in a different universe. Clad in the traditional 9 yards sari since the age of 8, her days revolved around kitchen, prayer and temple visits. I took a shot at the answer, “Grandma, we run fast, but not so fast. Tendulkar played Cricket. But this is football. Here, we have to run and kick also!” Grandma had a different question now. “I know Portuguese. Who is this murukku? It sounds like our eatables- “murukku” and “seedai”!” “Grandma, it is not murukku! It is Morocco…Morocco. It is a country in Africa!”

By now, grandma had left the room. I could hear her trailing words- “Murukku can kick, Portuguese can kick, but India cannot? What adharma is this! It is Kaliyuga only!”

The above conversation never took place. It is entirely a figment of my imagination. Grandma passed away a few years ago. I am reminded of her child-like innocence and her probing questions. As memory, she lives on. One part of the mind becomes grandma, and the other part is me. The conversation continues, some hilarious, some absurd, much like earlier times!

 

Escalator escapades!

These days, you cannot miss the escalator. If you have nothing better to do, head off to the mall and choose a vantage point next to the escalator!  First-time users will provide you with ample entertainment.

 “Never get on or off a moving bus” is a mental conditioning you have grown up with. And now, faced with a moving escalator, the brain refuses to give marching orders to the foot. The foot stays upraised- frozen in the act.

But then, the escalator is a narrow space. If you wait for an eternity, you will block several others who are impatient to get going. They elbow their way around you, give you an ugly stare, making you feel helpless and marooned.

Sometimes, you have a companion to assist you. “Two is company”, but not when both members are equally tentative. They hold hands and get onto the escalator at the same time! It is now like a three-legged race, each one stumbling over the other, the probability of a fall increased many times over.

A good Samaritan shows how easy it is. “You just get on, like this!”- he eggs you. Gingerly, you raise your foot. This time, even the footwear gives up and slips off! You watch your slipper riding to the top on its own, leaving you hobbling on one foot at basecamp!

Eventually, many factors come together- some helping hands and a lot of bravado. You are now on the escalator. You want to hold onto something static. There is none. Even the side-rail is on the move.

If getting on the escalator is tough, getting off is equally complicated. It is like jumping off a bicycle at top speed. The step disappears below your feet and what’s worse, it takes with it, any loose garment ends! Free-flowing dresses like dhotis and saris are fraught with extreme danger! You may find yourself without them!

Some escalators appear static.  They move once you step on them. Sometimes, they continue to stay stubborn like a recalcitrant child. You understand the escalator is switched off. You climb the steep escalator steps the hard way. Midway through it, the escalator suddenly switches on! You lurch this way and that, somehow, balancing yourself like a ballerina!

You may not be so lucky. The escalator springs to action but starts moving the opposite way! You desperately flap your hands and feet, like the proverbial rat on the wheel, but it is useless! You are back to square one.

For a simple lift, you have an attendant. He sits inside the lift the entire day and presses the floor-button for you.

Why then, you beg to ask, is there no attendant for this blessed escalator?

 

Guntakal Junction !

Back then, Guntakal in Andhra Pradesh was no ordinary station. It was the “heart” of the southern railway network. Tracks crisscrossed the Indian peninsula like arteries, veins, and capillaries. But they had to pass through Guntakal Junction. It pumped fresh blood into the entire railway anatomy!

The Madras Mail from erstwhile Bombay ambled its way at eventide. The setting sun lit up a terrain pocked with grotesque and gigantic boulders. It had to be Guntakal!  As the train anchored, there was an electric buzz at the station.

Guntakal’s station vendors appeared to have been trained like classical musicians! Decades of “riyaz” in selling their wares had bestowed them a sonorous voice. The coffee vendor went- “coffee-coffee-coffee” in a deep baritone. The “vada” vendor’s voice crackled like a serial firecracker. He let loose a string of “vada-vada-vada-vada”, with incredible lungpower, not once pausing for breath!

A co-passenger lamented, “The train is late by 1 hour!” On this neighboring seat, Mr. Know-all comforted him, “Don’t worry! The train has enough “running time” at night! He will easily make it up!”

The adjoining platform bustled with activity as another train rolled in. Mr. Know-all gushed, “That is the train coming from Madras and going to Bombay!” In a month from now, the holidays will be over, and we will be on that train, on the way back. It was as if, that train was a mirror image of ours and if we looked closer, we would spot our reflected self, albeit a month older!

In the distance, a lonesome diesel engine passed by.  Mr. Know-all remarked, “That was our engine!” The engine looked battle-bruised and scarred. He had done his job and will now pass the baton to a new engine.

Immediately, father and I got down and hurried to the end of the train. Indeed, our train was decapitated- it had no engine. In the distance was a gleaming diesel engine. It backed up towards our train rumbling like a giant monster. The platform beneath our feet shook. The buffer of the engine softly kissed the buffer of the carriage. The rail attendant coupled the hooks of the engine and carriage with two strikes of the hammer.

The new engine bristled with enthusiasm. It sounded its booming horn to alert everyone. The engine driver was seated high up by the window. I waved at him. He smiled and waved back! A thrill ran down my spine. The world’s greatest celebrity had responded!

I asked my father excitedly, “Can I be an engine driver when I grow up?” Father said, “Of course!”  That was my dream- to drive a diesel engine from Guntakal, over hills and dales, all the way to distant Madras!

 

 

Chained by spectacles!

The first day I went to my workplace after the pandemic, I lost my spectacles! I recall using them at work, after which, everything was a blur. It was a perfect catch-22 situation- I needed my spectacles to find my spectacles! After searching high and low, I gave up.

Surprisingly, I could manage without the spectacles. Both distant and near vision were just fine! I later learnt that one eye was good for near vision and the other eye for distant vision, and they worked eye to eye with each other!

The explanation was an eye opener. Should I go for a “monocle” if only one eye had an issue? As seen in old English films- the protagonist had a monocle attached to a gold chain and neatly tucked to the coat pocket. It would a quite a spectacle to wear a monocle in this time and age! What happened to the monocle? How did it go out of sight and out of mind?

The spectacles are an integral part of a person’s anatomy. In Mumbai, if you wanted to get the attention of someone with spectacles, you simply shouted- “Hey chashmis! Hey double-battery!” Immediately, the person turned around! In Chennai, a person with thick glasses was branded a “soda”! These colloquial slangs may lack sensitivity, but they served the purpose- to pinpoint a particular person.

In the past, as people aged, they wore “bifocal” glasses. The glass had a semi-circular demarcation. Close vision demanded peering through that tiny arc. I spent my afternoons scrutinizing my grandfather’s expression as he read the newspaper! His bald head was held at a tilt and his glasses dangled midway down his nose! When he wasn’t around, I got a kick mimicking his posture, sitting on the same cane chair, with the same newspaper.

Ironically, I am now where my grandfather was! I need bifocals. The bifocal glass is not popular anymore. It is replaced with the “progressive lens”. Unlike the bifocals, the progressive lens has no visible divide in the glass. But the problem remains the same- for close vision, you still need to look down the nose. It is a cosmetic eyewash, and the “progress” is questionable!

I opted out from the progressive lens and bought 2 glasses- one for close vision and another for distant vision. With this, I have inherited a fresh problem. I am like a circus juggler, feverishly juggling from one glass to another depending on the task at hand! And with it, comes the greater risk of misplacing the spectacles. May be, I now need to chain both the spectacles around my neck!

For every spectacular solution, for sure, there sprouts a new problem!

Brushing up on toothbrushes!

TV advertisements on toothpaste followed a familiar visual narrative. It showed an overly cheerful child brushing his teeth. Once done, he bared his teeth, now shining like pearls, as he got ready for school. The visuals were evidently doctored. The reality was you woke up totally groggy, with the expression of a convict resigned to a life sentence. Being cheerful to go to school was out of question.

Someone dragged you to the washbasin. And with the toothbrush in mouth, you dozed off once more, this time standing and with the toothpaste trickling from the side of the mouth. Eventually, some elder brushed the teeth for you, holding you by the scruff of the neck!

The toothbrush’s appearance defined your personality. Some owners kept theirs new and sparkling. My toothbrush had a disheveled look, with the bristles scattered, much like tousled hair! My sister rebuked, "Look at your toothbrush! Why do you chew it out of shape?"

From time to time, you bought a new toothbrush. That's when the problem began. My sister pounced on me, "Why did you buy another blue toothbrush? Mine is already blue!"  It was an oversight and now, you were stuck. The two toothbrushes stood side-by-side, totally identical, like Vali and Sugreeva. Just as Rama made Sugreeva wear a garland as a mark of identification, you wrapped the handle of your toothbrush with a rubber-band.

Days later, the problem persisted. My sister caught me while brushing her teeth, "Are you by any chance using my toothbrush? The bristles are falling apart!” Confusion reigned supreme. “But I thought, the one with the rubber-band is mine!”  Evidently, the messaging was left vague and now, there were two contenders for the same toothbrush! Even with siblings, the epitome of disgust was toothbrush sharing! It was writ large on my sister’s face, her mouth ajar with the gathering foam of the toothpaste plus total revulsion!

You risked a discussion on toothbrushes with someone from pre-independent India. It followed a pattern of reminiscence- "In those days, we did not have fancy toothbrushes like you do. We had to use a neem-twig! That is why we have strong teeth!" It was difficult to respond to these observations. The intent was also perplexing. Did it question the progress made in toothbrush technology? Or perhaps the lack of gratitude for the riches enjoyed by the new generation?

“Back to the roots” is today’s mantra. There is growing chorus for anything “organic”.  In times to come, the “neem-twig” will be neatly packaged and sold as the most modern toothbrush! As you chew the neem-twig in the wee hours of the morning, the voices from the past will echo, “See! I told you so!”

 

 

 

TV newsreaders- then and now!

Over the decades, there is a sea change in all spheres- none more so than in the TV newsreaders. Newsreaders have got a complete makeover, unrecognizable, when compared to their predecessors. News has stayed much the same, whether it be the vagaries of politics, the weather or Cricket! It is the presentation that has changed.

Back in the good-old days, newsreaders were staid personalities. Nothing shook them, whether it be India winning the world cup or a devastating calamity. They read both with the same dead-pan expression. They were truly yogis who maintained that equanimity in all tumultuous situations!

Occasionally, house flies flew about the TV studio and settled on the newsreader’s nose. The fly did his best to provoke the newsreader, flitting from nostril to nostril. But not one twitch from the newsreader! Finally, it was the fly that gave up and flew away!

Newsreaders had a fan following. We admired their flair and poise, their voice and enunciation. The viewer observed subtle skills. In the absence of a tele-prompter, the newsreader could look the viewer in the eye and reel off sentence after sentence, not once glancing at his notes.  

TV news was an “also ran”- a quiet, 15-minute program that brought the day to a close.  The drone of the newsreader lulled you to a good night’s sleep! Those were simple days.

Contrast this with today’s hype and hoopla! The 15-minute news is now stretched to a channel of its own, that runs through the day and night, 24 x 7. The monotone voice will not work anymore. Today’s news anchors are complete showmen- theatrical and loud, dramatic, and opinionated! How else can you capture the viewer’s attention?

Factual news is now “interpreted”- with a melodramatic twist on each channel. There is breaking news and more breaking news! For any topic, the news anchor gathers bullies from opposing camps and pits them against each other in a verbal duel.  The result is total mayhem. It is a street brawl as the participants bay for each other’s blood- rolling up the sleeves, knotting up the lungi, slapping the thighs and spitting on the palms! The decibel levels shoot up, to outshout the other in the ensuing slugfest.

The saving grace is that the participants are all virtual. Had they been in the same studio, it would have come down to blows and fisticuffs. The viewer’s primitive instincts are stoked. Reclining on the sofa, he is like a Roman Emperor salivating over a gladiatorial fight to the finish.

Of course, you cannot blame the news anchors. They will swear that the public wants just this- a Dirty Picture, where entertainment, entertainment, entertainment rules the roost.

Meanwhile, what about news?

 

Asking for directions!

Gone are the days when you asked someone for directions. The cellphone is your navigator today. It directs you to your destination with uncanny accuracy.

Finding your way in the good, old days relied entirely on the human navigator. He was your Mariner’s compass. Perched on every parapet wall, his sole purpose of existence was to help the lost. You show the paper with the address- “Ambaji Niketan, East Chembur”.

“For Ambaji Niketan, you take the first left. You will see a circle. You take the third left. You will see a big tree. After the tree, you take the second right!” For confirmation, you repeat the directions. “Not the second right, it is the third left!” he corrected you. You repeat one more time and he corrected you once more. “Not before the tree, after it!” Finally, he got irritated, “You take the first left” and ask someone.

Your quest for Ambaji Niketan took you to the big tree. You asked the passerby. “But this is West Chembur and Ambaji Nagar, not Niketan. The address says East. Someone misled you.” On the way back, you spotted the first good Samaritan, now giving directions to another person. You carefully avoided eye-contact and stayed out of harm’s way.

Back to the main road and you showed the address slip at the shop. One look and he gave the paper back as though he had better things to do. You yelled “Ambaji Niketan” to anyone and everyone. Eventually, a passerby smiled as though he knew the answer.  You ask him one more time. He grinned even more! Finally, he blurted out, “I am also new to this place!”

Some navigators were great thinkers. “Ambaji Niketan?” and pondered over it repeating it over and over! He knitted his eyebrows, waiting for a divine revelation. You hung on. Eventually, he ended abruptly, “Sorry! I don’t know!”

If oral directions were tough to follow, hand-drawn directions were more so. You never gave a full paper to anyone. He started at the center of the paper and drew a line, “For Ambaji Niketan, you take this road. You keep going.” extending the line till it hit the top of the paper. For lack of room, he went to the next page, and continued the line. In some time, he had scribbled more lines and spirals till it resembled an enormous cobweb. “All clear?” he asked you. You felt like responding, “As clear as cow dung!”

Soon, there was distaste for the very words “Ambaji Niketan”. You cursed your uncle for sending you on this wild goose chase. You muttered, “At least uncle could have stayed at a more prominent place like the Gateway of India!”

 

 

 

 

Musical chair in a moving bus!

The pandemic has made us rusty. I realized it when I took the bus last week. I stood for the entire journey, incapable of finding a seat. It was like a lion that had lost its teeth and fretted, even as deer at arm’s length got away!

The public transport system bus is never empty. Once inside the packed bus, you need “controlled aggression” to find a seat. Too much aggression and you will be evicted from the bus! Too little of it, and you will keep standing.

The first step is to plan your strategy. You get to that vantage point on the aisle, that maximizes the probability to find a seat. Hanging around the last row is a good option. Unlike other rows, the last row is a full set of seats.

Next, you scrutinize the body language of the seated passengers. You move away from a row where someone is sleeping. He will wake up only at the last stop. You are better off edging closer to rows where students are seated. They are likely to be in the bus for the shortest ride.

It would be easy if you could ask each passenger where he is getting down. Unfortunately, it is considered discourteous. It is like questioning a person who has come home, on when he will exit! That leaves you with no choice but to play this game of musical chairs!

You have been standing for 45 minutes.  A person has just entered the bus and to his good luck, someone vacates, and he gets the seat! Several chances go begging. It is like being so close, and yet so far. Anger bubbles up!

Suddenly, a seated face looks agitated, peering this way and that. The expression is a giveaway. He is about to get up and you pounce at the opportunity. You bulldoze your way through the aisle, and are about to sit, only to be beaten by someone else! Worse, he gives you an ugly stare as you come this close to sitting on his lap! It is the survival of the quickest!

And finally, it rains like manna from heaven. Two seats free up at the same time. It is now a problem of plenty that requires a quick decision. You make your choice and sit down. The other seat is also taken.

The legs have never felt so tired. The relief is short-lived. At the next stop, an elderly lady gets into the bus. She points to the writing behind your seat. Swiveling back, you read the fine print- “for ladies only”!

Life is like a game of Snakes and Ladders. One false move and you are back to square one!

Companionship with ragas!

Companions come in various forms- as a spouse, a friend, or even a pet! I enjoy a unique companionship. It is a bond I share with the ragas of classical music! A raga is not just a musical scale with an abstract sound form. You can experience the raga as though it is a full-blown human, with a distinct persona. It speaks a language without words. It can coax and cajole and leave you with goosebumps!

A chance hearing of U Srinivas’s mandolin changed my life forever. I had stumbled upon a treasure-chest. Like Silas Marner, that incurable miser, who sifted through his gold coins day after day, I did the same with ragas. I was hooked to them, mesmerized by their guiles and charms.

“Hamsadhvani” was jovial and chatty. “Hindolam” was cheerful. “Bilahari” bubbled with energy. The day you felt sullen, you knew “Abheri” would pull you by the shoulder and take you for a brisk stroll. And then, there were ragas with a face so austere, you couldn’t help but gaze at them unblinkingly. The raga “Kambhoji” was such- with a personality that exuded majesty.

Some ragas chose to stay aloof. You hardly noticed them. Over time, they grew on you, revealing a new facet each time, till you were irresistibly drawn to them. Todi raga seemed an acquired taste until you fell head over heels!

It is easy to find a friend when the going is good. It is when the chips are down, that you need them most. Life throws you into situations where self-doubt and sadness stare at you in the face. Psychologists talk about “managing the emotion” through a catharsis of sorts. Shiva-ranjani raga falls in this category. You are moved by the raga’s palpable pathos. As tears roll down the face, the purgatory experience is total. At the end of it, you shake off the negativity and rise, all charged and refreshed.

An opposite approach works equally well- you deal with sadness using a counterweight- by cozying up to a raga that makes you instantly happy. Mohana Kalyani is happiness personified- spewing joy like a cascading waterfall. It sweeps you off your feet with its overflowing effervescence!

Carnatic classical music got a major boost through the composer Trinity of Tyagaraja, Shyama Sastry and Muthuswamy Dishitar. They were contemporaries who lived about 250 years ago composing kritis in Telugu and Sanskrit. The more you delve into their compositions, the more pearls you discover.

Tyagaraja’s masterpieces are many. In the kriti “chakkani raaja maarga”, set to the raga Kharaharapriya, through song, he has created an interesting imagery. Tyagaraja was a bhakta of Lord Rama. He wants to convey the superiority of Rama upasana to other forms of worship. In this kriti, he asks, “When we have a raaja-maarga, a royal path, like Rama upasana maarga, why do we need to use any other method?” To convey this point, Tyagaraja imbues the phrase chakkani-raaja-marga with the sound of a horse-chariot trotting on a paved highway. The “sangatis” of the raga Kharaharapriya create that illusion- as though the horse is trotting on the maarga- now slowly and now galloping at top speed!

To listen to the kriti “Amba Kamakshi” by the composer Shyama Sastry is an experience. Set to the raga Bhairavi, it is composed like a “gopuram”, a temple tower. Each line of the kriti begins with next ascending swara, as though you are climbing up the temple tower. And once you hit the line in the highest octave in Bhairavi, you are as though, at the top of the temple edifice. The song comes to a climactic finish. You can “see” and “feel” the Mother Goddess in all her finery. Such is the beauty in this composition and the grandeur of raga Bhairavi.

Muthuswamy Dikshitar’s “navaavarana” kritis have a unique construct. The “shri-chakra” is a diagram, a geometric representation of Devi, made up of triangles and circles. The “nava-aavarana kritis” -9 of them in 9 different ragas, take you progressively through the nine corridors till you reach the center of the geometric pattern called the “bindu”, where Devi is manifest. The lyrics and the ragas are captivating. As you listen to them with rapt attention, you are transported to that Divine presence.

These are but little examples to show how music can be used as “maanasa puja”- a form of meditation. You listen to the songs, travel with them, and experience both the feeling and the divine form that these composers wish to convey.

And the day, you just wanted to simply unwind with something “light”, you listened to “magudi” set to the raga Punnaaga-varaali. The raga is soaked with the mesmeric tune that the snake charmer uses to stoke the snake. You can feel the swerve and wave of the snake, in each phrase of “magudi”!

When the mind is assailed with worry, what therapy can be better than this? You submit yourself to music and allow its magic to work through you.

I am glad these ragas found me, walked with me, and we became companions for life!

 

 

The almirah

A standout feature in older homes was the almirah. It was gigantic, a veritable Empire State Building that loomed large and filled an entire wall. A behemoth, it was tough to imagine that it was transported into the room. It was as if the rooms were built around this monolith.

We do not know where it originated- but in South India, the almirah was better known as the “bureau”. The French pronunciation had to be altered in keeping with the local tongue as “beerow”. There was no South Indian home without its row of “beerows”.

The almirah had no place for ornamentation. It was a plain, rectangular block with a natural, rusty shade. Anything that was deemed important was stashed away in it. The almirah had a locker with a separate security lock. When there was a wedding in the family, out came jewelry handed down from a distant past. The action was always behind closed doors and away from prying eyes, as though an immense treasure lay within!

Secrecy was tough especially when the almirah made so much noise to open and close it. You shuffled with the bunch of keys, till you eventually found one that worked. The almirah creaked and protested as though woken from deep slumber. Once open, an aroma wafted from its interiors. Silk sarees, all perfumed with sandalwood dust, lay neatly stacked in one shelf. Another shelf was filled with silverware that gleamed like cut-diamonds. A third shelf was the odd man out. It was cluttered with files and papers dating back to time immemorial. Frayed at the edges and yellowed with age, the files had a prehistoric look. You could not throw a single paper away, for the fear that it may be the most important one you would need later.

Some almirahs were short and stout, and their tops doubled up as a shelf. An entire family grew over time- medicine strips well past their expiry, pen-stands with age-old stationery and assorted items that can be generalized as “trash”. No one knew what lay behind the almirahs. Like the dark side of the moon, it stayed unknown. When chased around, lizards and spiders disappeared behind the almirah. You were certain that the blackhole swallowed them whole!

Modern homes have no almirahs. Maligned now as an eyesore, almirahs are replaced with dainty wooden closets. Much like the present world, the new closets are pretty, but their utility is questionable! Almirahs were like “alamaras”, giant banyan trees. They stood as silent sentinels and oversaw generations that grew under their immense shade. The golden days of childhood were played out under their caring eyes. We wonder where those almirahs are now standing, if at all!

What should I read?

I have not read a book for decades! I made sincere attempts, but some obstacle made me drop it! Several books fell by the wayside- I barely got past the first chapter!

Opinions are varied when it comes to the choice of books. If I picked a book on fiction, someone commented, “Why would you read fiction? It is not even real! If you must read, read the classics! Have you read Shakespeare and Milton? When will you read them?” He said it with such urgency, as though I had wasted my entire life!  And now, like catching a runaway train, there was not one moment to lose!

I bought the complete works of the Master- a hardbound edition. But let’s face it. Archaic English is not easy- Thy and Thine holdeth thou hostage. Barely two pages into the book, I was yawning uncontrollably. It was no disrespect to the Master- rather, it was my incompetence, both in language and comprehension.

With the classics cast away, I turned to History. Comments were quick- “Objective History is an oxymoron! The same character from one viewpoint is a hero, and from another standpoint, supremely controversial! That you must read History so that it does not repeat, does not hold water! Our current times are ample proof!”

I moved on to Cosmology- a whole universe filled with wonder. All the galaxies out there, the blackholes and nebulae, the supernovas and what not. The problem with this genre is that there is no number less than a billion anywhere. Everything is in billions and trillions and lightyears! I was racked with enormous doubt- how did they even count all this?

Books on sports seemed a great choice. Who doesn’t like a Dravid versus Goliath story? Just when I got to the chapter on the World Cup finals, Mr. Dampener came along- “These sportsmen have some skill in the game. But how does it help you? Buddy, read something that will build your personality!”

Self-Help books are littered everywhere. As I was about to purchase, the man on the aisle commented wryly, “Don’t know if the book helped anyone! It helped the author! He made millions- and surely stopped worrying and started living, a king-sized life!”

I got the best advice from my dear friend. He asked me, “Aren’t you a writer? Then, you must never read! If you read, you will be influenced by other writers! How will you develop your style?” With his fist, he tapped my heart repeatedly- “What does it say? You write what it says! Then, the words will have life!”

I followed his sage advice and stayed unlettered, and free from all guilt!

The "moonlighting" controversy

Over the last few weeks, news channels are abuzz with the “moonlighting” controversy. Simply put, moonlighting is a consequence of the “work from home” culture in IT circles. Sitting at home, the techie signs up as an employee in multiple companies. It is as if, he has a dozen faces; to each company he presents one, as his only face! It raises ethical questions aplenty, but for now, our concern is different.

IT has a bad habit of stealing everyday words and giving it a new spin. In the process, it leaves the rest of us totally confused. “I cannot find the mouse. It was just here!” A part of us immediately jumps to catch the elusive rodent, only to realize the import was different. Biscuits and cookies are indelibly connected to childhood. Suddenly, there is an unwanted twist. The internet browser pops the question, “Enable automatic cookies?” We cannot resist but say yes! Another example is the abuse of the word “viral”. Every day, social media screams that something or the other has gone “viral”. It is like the boy who cried "wolf". Our repeated usage of the word gave life to the real virus, and we brought the pandemic upon ourselves!

Poets and lyrists were robbed of their livelihood when the term “cloud” was hijacked by IT. When Wordsworth wrote, “I wandered lonely as a cloud”, he had a particular imagery to transfer to the audience. But IT interfered and gave “cloud” a different connotation. IT has messed up the human mind with its technical concepts of “cloud” to the extent that the original “cloud” has lost relevance!

And now, IT has taken over “moonlighting” and given the word a sinister color. All the romantic ideas associated with the moon- from Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata to moonlit dinners have been struck down. Why doesn’t the IT world coin its own words instead of plagiarizing ours? Does moonlighting come from the notion that the techie does one job by sunlight, and another job by moonlight? Or like the proverbial “dark side of the moon”, does it refer to a techie who has an unknown, darker side?

The other day, one of the cooking utensils was washed badly. I confronted the housemaid. “You are moonlighting by working in multiple homes! No wonder you don’t pay attention to detail!” She shot back, “Sir! You can keep your moon and your moonlighting! For the peanuts that you pay, I must work in multiple homes to make ends meet! If that is moonlighting, from tomorrow, you can wash the vessels on your own!” I had to offer the olive branch and wave the flag of truce!

IT concepts obviously do not work elsewhere!

Being a cheetah in India !

(For the reader who is unfamiliar with the context, or is reading this article at a point in time when the context is lost, here is a little introduction. Indian cheetahs were declared extinct in 1952. Since then, there are no cheetahs in the wild in India. As we speak, 8 cheetahs were imported from Namibia and released in a forest in Madhya Pradesh. This event has become prime-time news. We know of no previous occasion when an animal got so much publicity!)

It is not easy to be a cheetah in India. You are literally on a catwalk with a billion eyes watching you! For the cheetahs who lived nondescript lives in Namibia, it is instant stardom! It must be unnerving when the expectations run so sky-high!

When you go to a foreign country, you are initially plagued with jet-lag issues. Spare a thought for these cheetahs. Their body clock is tuned to a different longitude. By the time they wake up, all groggy, it is already noon in India. The animals they feed on, have long left the waterhole, and are taking an afternoon snooze! In addition to time-related issues, the cheetahs are from the Southern hemisphere. When it is winter there, it is summer in India. Their circadian rhythms must be so messed up.

And then comes the added pressure to fit into their adopted homeland. When you go to the West, you do everything- even change your name to conform to the new place. “Neelakanthan” in India becomes “Neil”. Cheetahs must be going through a similar identity crisis. We are told the Cheetahs are named “Alton” and “Freddy”. Those names are not going to work here. They will have to adopt a poly-syllabic name of Indian origin!

Homesickness is the first thing that hits you when you go abroad. You long for the sights and sounds that are familiar. You have half a mind to reverse your decision and head back home. We hear stories of cows that walk several miles to return to their original cowshed even after they are sold to a new owner. Cheetahs must be going through that phase. They would have already made rough calculations- they are 8000 km away from home. A hop, skip and jump over the Khyber Pass, onto the Middle East and then to Egypt, followed by a run down the African continent! Who knows? The Cheetah is after all the fastest land animal!

For a non-Indian, Indian food is too spicy. Cheetahs may feed on deer, but the deer in turn has fed on homegrown, masala-laden aaloo-tikki! It takes time to adjust to the new cuisine.

The cheetahs have hogged the headlines so much that Indian animals are naturally disgruntled! The cheetah’s cousin- the leopard and Indian tiger sulk in a corner. As we say in Hindi, “ghar ki murgi daal baraabar”, we completely ignore the riches at home! Desi animals believe that the obsession with the cheetah is because of its skin-tone and India's post-colonial hangover! African elephants languishing in Indian zoos are equally miffed. They are still on visitor’s visa, whereas the cheetah got Indian citizenship so quickly!

Life is surely unfair!

(The article is over since we have reached 450 words. Like some films that are released with alternate endings, I had a different ending in mind initially. From the viewpoint of the cheetah, it does not get more scary. Imagine being uprooted from home and abandoned in a forest. Where do you go? Whom did you leave behind at home? Where will you search for them? As Mahakavi Bhaarati says in his poem, "Dhikku theriyaadha kaattil, unnai thedi thedi ilaithene".....In this trackless forest..."dhikku-dishai theriyaamal" as we say, I searched for You....hither and thither...and am now....totally worn out. The cheetah's feelings must be similar.)

"Ghissu" - the compulsive memorizer!

Back then, when you said someone was “studious”, he matched a particular profile.  He was a veritable bookworm with the capacity to memorize entire textbooks. For hours, he paced the terrace from end to end like a tiger in a cage, reading his lessons aloud. Give him any subject- English, History or Biology, he “mugged-up" the book from cover to cover, inclusive of the table of contents and the appendix! “The heart has 4 chambers. The heart has 4 chambers, 2 auricles and 2 ventricles. The heart has 4 chambers”, he repeated ad nauseum. He educated the coconut trees in the neighborhood and even the passerby, who filled in for any lull in the recitation with apt answers- “2 auricles and 2 ventricles”!

When it came to Mathematics, he knew both the questions and the answers “by-heart”.  “Rama lent 4 mangoes, Rama lent 4 mangoes to Krishna. Rama lent…” he babbled on and on. In the exam, he was aware of the answer even before he started solving the problem! If he got a different answer, he could immediately back-track and correct the mistake! So thorough was his preparation. In North India, this peculiar species was termed a “ghissu”, one who literally scrubbed textbooks and made the contents his own!

The ghissu cracked all exams. After all, the whole book was in his head. If at all he had a problem, it was a unique one- to answer a question on the Battle of Panipat, he had to begin the recitation from Mohenjo Daro. He required that flow to get to the point!

Relatives and visitors kept a safe distance from the ghissu’s home. The home resembled a railway station with a vendor shouting himself hoarse. Normal conversation was simply impossible and got tangled with auricles and ventricles all the time.

To make matters worse, the ghissu’s sibling was often another ghissu! They had to be caged in separate rooms. Crosstalk was unavoidable. While one studied Biology, the other was shouting herself hoarse on the Zilla Parishad. Each one raised the decibel level to outshout the other. The result was total commotion. Occasionally, the ghissu-siblings emerged from the quarantine to the common living room area. Like canines with exclusive territorial claims, they snarled angrily, each blaming the other for being too noisy.

Sadly, the ghissu is becoming an extinct species. Of late, there is negative propaganda by non-ghissus, heckling the ghissu of being just a “parrot” who “crammed” lessons. Today, the education mantra has changed. You must “understand” the basics and sharpen your “problem solving skills”. You must work “smart” and avoid all “donkey work”. The accusation is unfair- both to the ghissu and to the donkey!

It is all in the jeans!

We do not know when the “jeans fashion-bug” bit the world. For the cowboys of the Mid-West, the weather and their job made “denim” a natural choice. Since then, denim jeans have taken over the world. Jeans is the de-facto fashion statement!

Fashion has no rationale. Imagine Chennai in summer. The midday sun melts even the tar on the road. Scan around and you spot the youth parading in leg-hugging jeans. It takes another level of self-mortification to strut around in a material, with the coarseness of a gunnysack, in the heat of Chennai!

My grandmother had fixed ideas about jeans. “This evening, we will have guests at home. Be sure to discard this gunnysack and wear something proper!”

The old world had old ideas. A corporate professional had to be “tip-top” in dressing. It meant going to the office in a full-shirt and formal pant. If you were higher on the corporate ladder, you wore a suit and tie. The old order giveth way to the new. Now, the corporate uniform is jeans- from the CEO to the foot soldier. The older generation is baffled. “Are you going to office like this? Don’t you have a dress-code?” “This is the dress code Appa!” you hit back.  

Jeans and the color blue go hand-in-hand or leg-in-leg may be! A teenager’s wardrobe is filled with jeans by the dozen. Only the degree of blueness differs- from the light to the deep blue. The shades are so close you would think, the same pants are worn each day! The converse is equally true. You can wear the same jeans each day, and pretend you have a dozen in the same color.

Jeans have mutated over time. Starting from bell-bottomed and baggy-jeans, they moved to the figure-hugging ones.  You had “faded” and “stoned-washed” jeans. “Ripped-jeans” were made with a peculiar recipe- the jeans were shot with a pistol to drive holes through them! After all, fashion defies logic. It banks on that undefinable ideal- what is construed as “cool”!

Wearing a corset in the Victorian days seems like a punishment. What about skin-tight jeans? You hobble around with the jeans at the ankle, huffing and puffing, just to pull them over each leg! And once in, it takes greater effort to step out of them- you must literally scissor them off the body!

Jeans have made life easy. If they are smelly and unwashed, no problem! If they are crumpled, even better. Jeans have bridged the gap between the haves and the have-nots. The homeless and the Bollywood diva wear equally torn clothes!

For one, it is born out of necessity. For the other, it is a head-turning style statement!

 

Remembering TVS, the master musician

There are musicians who enthrall the public, and then, there are musicians who cater to the connoisseurs. TV Sankaranarayanan straddled both worlds with effortless ease. TVS as he was popularly known, passed into the ages on September 2, 2022. Carnatic music lost its diamond pendant.

TVS had the gift to transport the audience to another world. His amiable personality, so evident on stage, blended with his “jana-ranjaka”, enjoyable style of singing. The result was sheer magic. For 3 hours, rasikas hung to his lips, forgetting themselves, sporting in a world that TVS created.

He mastered a template that formed the bulwark of his concerts. The selection of keertanas was impeccable. There was never a lull in the concert. He strung brisk pieces with the more elaborate compositions in a manner that made each concert engaging.

Ragam-Thanam-Pallavi (RTP) forms the main piece of a Carnatic concert. Traditionally, it is rendered in ragas considered suitable for elaboration like Thodi, Kalyani and Kambhoji. TVS made a departure from the norm. He sang RTPs in “light” ragas like Kapi, Desh and Brindavana Saranga. Sometimes, he forayed into obscure ragas like Surya and Andolika. The selection did not matter. Each piece shone with the indelible “TVS stamp”.

Teamwork is an essential component of Carnatic music. The vocalist must gel with the violinist, the mridangam and ghatam player. TVS brought out the best from his accompanists. When he teamed up with the legendary violinist MS Gopalakrishnan, they raised the concert to a new level. We loved the way TVS encouraged his accompanists, by openly expressing his admiration. When it was the violinist's turn to play, TVS forgot himself, and involuntarily joined the violinist and sang the phrases that the violin played!

He ended his concerts with “tukdas” that rasikas relished. When he sang “Eppo Varuvaaro” “When will He come?” theatrically, it brought tears to our eyes. Thereafter, he changed the mood with the lilting “English note” composition that listeners looked forward to. His trademark last piece- “Srinivasa” sung in dramatic style, took us to the portals of Tirupati.

TVS followed the “bani” of his illustrious uncle, Madurai Mani Iyer. Singing swara patterns was his forte. He mesmerized audiences with cascading swaras, that flowed effortlessly like a gushing waterfall. His unbridled enthusiasm rubbed off on us, and after the concert, we were fully charged and refreshed.

TVS passed away too early. We wonder if he was human or a “Gandharva” in human guise. Perhaps, a Gandharva who captivated us for a few decades and moved on to entertain other worlds. His music will stay with us. We will miss the unassuming man and his beaming smile. When will we have another TVS? “Eppo Varuvaaro?”

 

Ganpati bappa morya!

 

Penciling a pencil's tale!

The pencil is your longest companion. Pens came later in life, and much later, the gadgets. Even now, you do pick up a pencil. Someone calls, and you need to urgently jot down the phone number. At arms-reach, is the stationery-stand. It is cluttered with an untidy mix- half a dozen pencils, outdated pens, and crayon-stumps.

The pencil is the tallest and you pick it up. The rule is crystal clear- “A functional home cannot have a functional pencil!” The first pencil has no tip and must be cast away. The next one is overly blunt that makes it illegible. The following one is sharpened to a pinpoint, but the moment you place it on paper, it buckles at the ankle and the lead-shoe slips off! “Not one pencil will work in this home!” you shoot your mouth off. It is too late- the generalization has inflammable ramifications for the rest of your day!

Meanwhile, you have asked the phone number to be repeated thrice. If all goes well with the pencil, it falls in the “2H” category. "HB" is the most utilitarian type.  The 2B variants are bold and bright and serve the artist’s purpose. The 2H serves none. You never buy them intentionally. Absentmindedly, you pick up a box of pencils, and the 2H comes home. A 2H cannot write- at best, it can scratch the paper.

You can trash as many pencils as you want. However, pencils are tenacious fellows. They claw their way back into the stationery-stand and laze around. The next time you pick up a pencil, it will still be non-functional!

There is surely a nexus between the pencil and sharpener manufacturer. Sharpeners have a singular purpose- to erode the pencil till it is dwarfed to a stub and must be thrown away. You twirl the pencil a few times. You see the tip getting sharpened. One more twirl and you have gone beyond the edge. The tip falls off and you are back to square one! We do not know who is the bigger prankster- the pencil or the sharpener. In tandem, they are double trouble!

Pencils are reminders to a distant past, when pencils were greenish-blue in color or with red-and-black stripes. There was one variety dressed in white with floral patterns. It broke the gender stereotype in the world of pencils!

Students were innovative. They sharpened the pencil at both ends to serve as a double engine! When students day-dreamed, they chewed the pencil-head. There was no need to write your name on the pencil. Each pencil was unique- the pencil-head reduced to the bone and embossed with the owner’s distinct teeth-marks.

You borrowed another’s pencil at your own peril!

The lift

The lift is a sullen place. The moment you enter a lift, something snaps. Cheery people turn poker faced. The talkative man is silenced. Couples who looked into each other’s eyes, dewy-eyed, stand apart. Argumentative spouses opt for a truce. It is as if, there is a stay-order on everything. You stand grim and solemn, with the gaze firmly on the feet. No is related to anyone- we are perchance fellow-travelers in the lift’s journey through the floors! Such is the lift’s inexplicable impact!

It is surprising that a lift with so many buttons, should have no provision to “undo” a floor selection. Sometimes, your finger accidentally hits a floor-button. But once pressed, there is no way to correct the mistake. You have little choice but to watch the lift meander its way listlessly, much like a passenger train.

Time is at a premium in the morning. You have just those few seconds to get to the office-cab. That’s when the lift is at its slowest! You press the ground-floor button with all your strength, hoping some secret-sauce will kick in, to avoid stopping at other floors. Murphy’s law grins at you even more. The lift stops at each floor, while you clench your jaw, impatience writ all over the face!

A lift has its absent-minded professors, who stay glued to the cellphone. Each time the lift halts, our professor strides out. Just when the lift is about to shut, there is a frantic shuffle of feet. The professor outside is all worked up, trying to pry open the door. He sticks his hand and foot and risks every part of his anatomy. Professor suddenly discovered that this was not his floor after all!

A lift ride is never complete without a stop at an empty floor. The door swings open, but there is none. Time hangs like eons. Eyebrows knit, you repeatedly blink, wondering what happened. Perhaps, someone changed his mind and took the stairs instead?

If it happens at the dead of night, it does not get spookier. You turn around and tell your fellow lift-traveler, “They say this floor is haunted! Years ago…” and leave the sentence dangling! Your lift mate’s face turns pale and once the lift comes to a halt, he bolts out like a frightened deer!

I have often toyed with the idea to greet the empty space on some such unscheduled lift-halt with loud, animated banter, “Long time buddy! Good to see you!” As a draft of air flows in, and the lift closes to the emptiness, you turn around and spot scared feet retreat to a corner!

It is good to add that feather of mystique to your personality!

 

Crossing the road!

Crossing the road in India is not for the faint-hearted. It requires timing and judgement and above all, a sportsman’s agility. Schoolbooks have lovely pictures that show pedestrian rules, like using the zebra crossing. The ground reality is different. Zebra crossings are non-existent or if present, they are meant for zebras! Humans need to cross the road the hard way.

“Look to the left and right before crossing” is prudent advice, especially meant for our “one-way roads”. Invariably, there is someone driving the opposite way confidently. You have no choice but to watch out for this goon!

Metros with their multi-lane roads demand immense patience. All the lanes never clear up at the same time. But street dogs are street smart and have mastered the technique. They effortlessly maneuver one lane at a time, stop at that precarious point between the two lanes, wait till the next one clears, and so on. Once they are on the other side, they cast a triumphant glance at humans, still stranded at the opposite end. After all, every dog has his day!

Hesitation can be your worst enemy. You feel you can make it across and take bold strides. Midway through the road, you get the jitters and beat a hasty retreat. It is like a batsman who wants to steal a single, but changes his mind, half-way down the pitch! In the process, he puts himself and his runner at risk.

One brave approach is to run a 100-meter sprint like Usain Bolt. But fellow pedestrians warn you, “Never run across the road!” The advice is counterproductive. You wait for a clearing, but there’s none. There are cars and more cars, stretching all the way to the horizon, ad infinitum!

Someone alongside you has decoded the method to the madness. He blindly walks onto the road with an upheld hand. It seems an act of absolute foolishness, but it works! Miraculously, the cars avoid him, and he reaches the promised land!

Another trick is to use a fellow-pedestrian as a human shield. You leave the onus of decision making to him. You stick to him, and ape his movement, step for step. It is like the strategy that Arjuna used. He propped up a fellow soldier Shikhandi, as a human shield, to combat Bheeshma! The method works like a charm!

After 30 minutes of indecision and false starts, you finally made it! The euphoria is short-lived. You suddenly discover on your cellphone map, that your destination is on the other side of the road. You need not have crossed the road at all. You just had to walk ahead a few meters!

Some mistakes in life are costly!

 

Of guavas and trains!

When it comes to fruits, India has an embarrassment of riches. Traditionally, banana, mango and jackfruit are considered the Big-3. Guava may seem an innocuous contender. But on its day, guava can favorably compete against every opponent and even win hands down!

Guava’s appeal is that unlike the other fruits, it can be gobbled whole! You can bite right into it, unlike jackfruit, that requires enormous effort just to get to the edible portion. Most fruits require that optimum wait-time, till it is ripe for consumption. How many times have you cut a mango and felt, if only you could have waited another day or two! With Guava, raw or ripe, either way, it is just perfect! Also, it is a pan-India fruit. The guava variety found in South India is just as delightful as the famed “Allahabad amrood”!

It is late afternoon. The Mumbai-Chennai Mail snakes its way through the pastoral countryside and halts at Kondapuram. Vendors peddling tea and coffee shout themselves hoarse to entice the customers. The guava vendor has no such problem. The aroma of delicious guavas wafts in the air and announces itself, well before the vendor’s arrival. He eventually reaches the coupe and lowers the basket. It is heaped with succulent guavas. Each guava is mouthwatering, lush green in color, and pocked with water droplets that glisten like crystal beads!

The guavas are irresistible, and everyone clamors for one. The vendor props up a guava and makes precise incisions at the top. He stuffs it with a mixture of salt and chili powder.  Children can hardly wait for their turn. In the excitement, one child drops the guava and watches it roll down the train’s aisle! “What is the tearing hurry? Now, you cannot eat that guava!” parents admonish and ask for a fresh guava!

The elderly gentleman on the side berth observes the entire scene impassively. He laments, “I don’t have the teeth for guava anymore! The seeds get lodged in my molars!” Soon, he succumbs to guava’s temptation and wants one too! The vendor is pleased as he makes brisk business.

Guavas are immensely tasty- both the rind with its rough texture and the pulpy insides! A dash of salt gives that added kick and leaves a mild tingling sensation on the lips! Before you know, you have swallowed the guava in full and stretched your hand for more. “You have already eaten 2 guavas! Any more guavas and you will have a stomachache!” parents warn.

Guavas are a complete meal, so filling that you decide to skip dinner at Guntakal Junction. The train hurtles past the arid terrain.  Guava’s pleasant aftertaste lingers as you peer out of the window.

Travel checklist!

There are some who live a jet set lifestyle, hopping from continent to continent. Their job needs them to be up and about, sleeping at Los Angeles and waking up at London!

Some of us are different. We stay rooted to one place, so much so, going from Chennai to Bengaluru is like going to the moon! Preparation for the trip starts with an elaborate checklist. The modern generation trivializes the entire process with absurd ideas- “Checklists are already available on the Internet.  Why do you need a fresh one?” The suggestion irritates you. You question, “Does your blessed Internet know that I have to carry my “pancha-paatram” for daily Sandhya Vandanam? Then?”

Preparing a checklist is like practicing mindfulness. You visualize each moment right from the time you wake up till you go to sleep. If you gloss over any step, you could be stranded without your reading glasses or worse, without dentures! It should cover every contingency- from a cloudburst at Bengaluru to a stomach-upset. Oversimplifications like “You can buy it in Bengaluru” are struck down with an iron hand.

Ideally, you want to strike off the checklist after placing the item in the suitcase. It is now that you hit a traveler’s block. If you pack the toothbrush right away, what will you do tomorrow morning? After all, the travel is still one week away! Evidently, your hands are tied till the day of the travel.

Meanwhile, your wife looks at the checklist and is alarmed. She strikes out items deemed unnecessary like jacket, thermal innerwear, and monkey cap. “We are not going to Alaska!” she argues. You hit back, “Do you know how freezing the train air conditioner is? And Bengaluru is not like your Chennai. It is frightfully cold!” She warns, “If you wear a monkey cap at Chennai station, the dogs on the platform will be after you!”

The checklist soon gets out of hand. There are scratched out items and overwritten items and items that can only be packed later. Some items are undecipherable because they were written in a Eureka moment of enlightenment, with an unsteady hand. A smaller checklist is prepared for the critical items alone- ticket, cellphone, and wallet. Another checklist is to match each item with its location in the suitcase. And yet another checklist referencing what each checklist broadly contains.

Totally exhausted, you sink back in your easy-chair and switch on the fan. You watch the checklist papers swirl in the air and scatter across the room. Suddenly, they appear completely irrelevant. You resolve to travel light and pack the most important checklist item- an uncluttered and uncomplicated mind. Everything else can be left behind!

Mannequin Mania!

We are bitten by the shopping bug. Malls are packed with tireless shoppers through the day. It is the clothes store that draws the maximum crowd. The attraction is instant! It happens the moment you see the mannequins. The wooden dolls draped in elegant saris and trendy menswear drag you to the store, as though an irresistible magnet.

Mannequins come in different flavors- some stand in attention, while others are animated. These days, mannequins have hinged limbs that can be propped in different postures. Lady mannequins sit down, their legs crossed and the hand stylishly resting on the chin! Male mannequins stand tall and upright, with their broad shoulders and chiseled features.

Modern art has entered the mannequin space too. The trend is to see mannequins with no facial features whatsoever. It is as though the craftsman suddenly ran out of patience when he came to the face. The head is a full egg, with no eyes or nose or hair. The mannequin stands like a Martian, wearing designer clothes in earthen colors!

Another modern twist to mannequins is to slice them at the waist leaving only the legs standing! Multitude of such legs decorate the shop entrance- all in tight-fitting jeans and colorful leggings. At times, these leggy mannequins hang from the ceiling! It looks as though they tried to escape by drilling through the ceiling, and were caught midway through the act! Perhaps, on the upper floor, the heads of these mannequins will jut out from the ground- an image straight out of a horror film!

The fascination for mannequins takes extreme forms. Captivated by the mannequin’s outfit, you tell the salesman you want to purchase that mannequin dress. The salesman pulls out similar outfits by the dozen, but you reject them summarily. Seeing you fixated on that dress, the salesman is forced to take the extreme step. He tells his attendant to take the mannequin inside, disrobe it and get that dress for you. The mannequin’s outfit is in your hands. But now, the mannequin is back in place, wearing a different dress. Seeing that, the mind is again in a tizzy. “Do you have that color? It looks better than this one!” you shuffle your feet. This time, the salesman’s reaction is curt!

Back home, you wear the mannequin outfit and scan yourself in the mirror. The mannequin looked so charming in the same dress, but the reflection is unflattering!

Thankfully, the brooding subsides, and good sense prevails. For all its dainty features, a mannequin can look good, but do no more. It stands cold and emotionless, with no feeling or empathy. End of the day, a mannequin is what it is- an attractive, wooden, doll!

 

The dog ate my homework!

We hear the expression “The dog ate my home-work”. It was the proverbial, lame excuse that students used, to outwit teachers. Teachers had a tough time to sieve out the legitimate excuses from the outlandish ones!

“Ma’am, I completed my homework, but forgot the book at home! Mother promise!” saying so, the student pinched his neck. The teacher retorted, “So forgetful, is it? Do you forget to brush your teeth also?” You had half a mind to respond, “Yes, I forget that too!” But then, such an indiscrete answer would provoke the teacher. Silence was a better option. You put on the most sad-puppy face to bail you out from the brewing crisis.

Back then, the absence of the cellphone gave complete anonymity to the student. The parent was  inaccessible. Information was exchanged between parents and teachers through hand-written notes in the school-diary. For most parts, students wrote the notes, filling those big parental shoes at that tender age! Sridhar was absent for a couple of days. When he came back, his diary said- “Sainus”. The teacher caught him by the ear, so sure that he had fudged the excuse and his mother’s signature. Sridhar had a glib answer for his sinus ailment, which caught even the teacher off-guard, “Ma’am, my mother does not know English! She studied in Tamil medium!”

Playing truant from school was common. The diary was filled with reasons like “cousin sister’s wedding”, “went to native”, “high fever” or “bad cough”. When you got the diary signed, you coughed a few times, to lend an element of authenticity. Students invented innovative excuses- “helped grandaunt who fractured leg”. Some went one step further- “granduncle gone”.

The occasional parent-teacher meetings led to prickly situations. The teacher expressed genuine sympathy, “I am very sorry to hear about Dinesh’s granduncle.” Dinesh’s mother was confused, “But he does not have a granduncle!” Sridhar quickly saved the blushes- “Teacher, that was not Dinesh, it was Rajesh’s granduncle!”

One lost count about the number of relatives who had broken legs or who had passed beyond the pale of human existence! The following year, students resurrected the same relatives for another round of falls and broken bones.

Class tests and excuses went hand in hand. Just when the test was about to begin, Dinesh complained of stomach-ache, the most unverifiable ailment! Dinesh put on such a theatrical act that the teacher was forced to excuse him.

Dinesh limped away to the sickroom, holding his belly. He passed by the class-window. The coast was clear.  He glanced at his buddies. His face lit up with the most mischievous half-smile before he doubled the decibel level of his pain! What a sly fox!

Footwear Escapades!

There are situations where there is no choice but to leave your footwear outside. It could be a religious event or a group gathering. You come back and cannot spot your slippers. The mind is in a haze- you try to recall your footwear and where you left them. In a frenzy, you shuffle all the footwear in the pile. Some look similar, but they are not yours. Anger fumes from within- who could be so unscrupulous as to steal your footwear of all things! Or perhaps, so careless not to recognize their own slippers!

The next course of action is unclear. Should you file an FIR? Or should you make a dash with a different pair? What if the rightful owner comes running and holds you by the scruff of the neck? As you ruminate over the possibilities, all the people leave the premises. It is now totally empty, but one forlorn pair of slippers is still standing! The feet have an uneasy feel as you trudge away with that pair! At times, the shock is worse. The last pair belongs to different slippers and sometimes, both slippers are for the same foot! The mind goes blank trying to piece together this puzzle.

Slippers are slippery fellows- with a mischievous soul pervading the sole! They wait for the opportune moment. You are pleased with life and walk with a larger-than-life swagger. Suddenly, the foot is arrested. The Hawaii-chappal buckle has slipped off from the base! Hobbling on one foot, you manage to set it right by threading the buckle back into the hole. From now on, you are on the backfoot. Every 100 steps, the problem resurfaces. It is like a tooth that has developed a cavity. The shooting pain is just round the corner!

Shoes are funny fellows. They are pebble collectors! The collection stays unnoticed on the sides and heel, till it swells, and you start feeling them! Upturn the shoe one day, and an entire family spills out. It rains shells and stones, nails and coins, an entire treasure that you never knew!

Formal shoes play a particular prank. The sole gets partially detached at the tip. As the foot is raised, it opens its mouth, and snaps shut, when you place the foot on the ground. Call it Murphy’s Law, but faced with this predicament, not one cobbler or shoe-shop is in sight. How far can you walk thus, scraping and flapping your way?

Just when you lose all hope, something snaps from within. In a moment of brazen recklessness, you abandon both the footwear forthwith. The crutches are thrown away. You step out and hit the turf with bare feet. The freedom is total!

 

The vanishing skill of handwriting!

Back then, we dealt in sweeping generalizations! If someone had a bad handwriting, we were sure he would be a doctor! The doctor’s proverbial scribble while prescribing medication was well known. And if someone could decipher that handwriting, he would be a pharmacist! It was a miracle that the pharmacist handed out the correct medicine, for the prescription was totally illegible!

Teachers pulled you up if the handwriting was bad. “Your handwriting is like your head-writing!” they scolded, as if destiny’s reading was easier than this gibberish! The first-ranker in class invariably had a beautiful handwriting. His proficiency was a nuisance since he showed the rest of us in bad light! Any time, you brought home the first-ranker’s notebook, comparisons were inevitable. “Look at his handwriting! They are like pearls!”

Handwriting was a skill you worked on from the beginning. Initially, you went through the drill to write one letter at a time, and then, moved to “running-hand”. These days, the nomenclature has changed. “Running-hand” is replaced with the Americanized term called “cursive-writing”. A “running-hand” gave you speed- a critical need for the old-style exams. Invariably, there were outliers, who never took to running-hand. They continued to write in “print letters” all through life, and still managed to clear exams. “Lefties” had a different writing style. Their elbow was bent and came around the paper, and the wrist was cocked, as they chiseled away with their pens! Some stuck their tongue out or babbled away involuntarily, as their writing hand kept pace with the mouth! Writers came in all flavors at school.

It is ironical that a skill so fundamental as this, is on the brink of extinction. Some of us have not written for ages. Signing a bank-cheque makes us nervous. The hands tremble as the pen is brought to paper. It requires several trials on scrap paper before the cheque is signed! A week later, the cheque is back with us, with a blunt note that the signature does not match! The helplessness is acute, as if we need to go to kindergarten all over again.

The question is- does handwriting have a place in tomorrow’s world? It is amply clear that the future is typing- whether it is on the cellphone or the laptop. That said, wouldn’t it be more worthwhile to replace the writing drills in school with typing exercises?

Going forward, no one is going to sign a bank-cheque. “Bio-metric” security and its ilk will take care of that. It took us decades to go from thumbprint to a reasonable percentage of writing-literacy. And now, with bio-metric, we are back to thumbprint all over again! Life has come a full circle!

Spot the 6 differences!

Magazines of the past carried a constant fixture called “Spot the 6 differences!” It was impossible to flip the page once you saw the two pictures. You hopelessly succumbed to the temptation.

The first few minutes punctured your self-esteem. The pictures were exact copies, and not one difference could be spotted, leave alone 6! You wondered if someone pasted identical images to send you on a wild goose chase!

You stared at the pictures unblinkingly- the tree and the bird, the man and his dress. You had half a mind to punch the editor in the nose, for incorporating this activity and wasting your time. Just when you were about to give up, you spotted the first difference. The bird’s beak was parted in one but closed in the other! Your kicked yourself, “How did I miss this?”  Once the first hurdle was crossed, you were on a roll. Other differences bubbled up- the hat had a different design, and the shoelace was untied. Eventually, the fort was conquered, and pleased as punch, you turned the page.

Later in the day, your sister questioned if you spotted all the differences. Apparently, she could find only 4. “It was so simple!” you lied. For effect, you pompously mimicked Sherlock Holmes, “You see, but you do not observe!”

Now, you were pulled up to explain the differences.  In a moment of indiscretion, you took up the challenge. Quickly, you reeled off all 6. But there was an objection, “That is only 4. You counted the hat twice!” Irritation turned to anger as your credibility was in doubt. You raised your voice and asserted, “Bird’s beak: one!” “Man’s hat: two!” This time, the fingers stayed upraised at two and you could count no more!  

It was unbelievable. That you had solved the problem once, was history.  It was a brand-new problem yet again. How much it toyed with your patience! At the end of it, you gave up and turned to the page that carried the answers printed upside down. It was a humbling moment. The oversight was so obvious. In one picture, the man’s hand was resting on the hip; it was hanging down in the other!

Humans are strange beings! Where there are no problems, he invents one, just to whet his problem-solving appetite. Apparently, crosswords and puzzles keep the mind alert as we age! “Spot the 6 differences” falls in the same category. It is heartening that this innocuous tease has such lofty goals!

Meanwhile, it is another day, with a new “spot the 6 differences”. You avoid eye-contact and quickly turn the page. Something snaps- you dither and go back! You are sucked into the whirlpool all over again!