The train leaves the station!

Announcements at the railway station have a unique problem. The audio system starts off crystal clear- “Train number 40612, going to Chennai Central will leave shortly from platform number” and just when you are all alert for that critical information, the audio turns incoherent.  You are not sure whether it said platform 7 or 11. Or at the nick of time, your 4-year-old asks something irrelevant and you lose the plot. “Can’t you stay silent at least till the announcement is over?” you admonish her. She blinks back, clueless about why you are suddenly so angry!

As time runs out, you engage the services of a porter. The conversation begins with a strict warning, “Look! I do not want to haggle over the price once we reach the compartment! You tell me the amount now!” He scans the assorted pieces of luggage- two suitcases, a steel-trunk, cloth bags, a water-can and a crate of mangoes! He quotes a price that leaves you dumbfounded! “I will carry it on my own!” you protest and pretend to carry the smallest bag.

The porter makes a marginal adjustment to the price. Before you know, he has hoisted the steel-trunk and suitcases on his head, hung the bags over his shoulders and has started walking! Keeping pace with a porter is not easy. While you struggle, he jostles his way easily through the milling crowd. In a trice, he reaches the compartment, and compactly stacks the luggage.

You smile at the co-passengers- your companions for the next 2 days. Another passenger on the top berth, has already slept off.  Busyness fills the air wherever you look. People crowd around the Ticket Collector with multiple requests. Trays upon trays of meals are loaded into the pantry-car. Peddlers tempt you with a cup of coffee or a juicy magazine thrust through the window bars. Late comers run helter-skelter in a mad rush to reach their bogie. The relative who has come to send off the traveler repeats for the umpteenth time- “Be careful! Give me a call once you reach home!” The traveler coaxes him to leave, but he continues to hang around. The carriage gives a little jerk as the engine is coupled to the train. The guard blows the whistle. There is a momentary lull followed by the booming horn of the engine.  

Unobtrusively, the train starts moving, so smooth that you hardly feel it. There is a flurry of hand-waves and good-byes. Some try to keep pace with their loved ones with a final promise- “I am going to run with the train all the way to Chennai!”  Soon, their voices trail away. The train leaves the station.

 

Those golden voices!

It is ironical- Cricket is such a visual game, yet there was a time when we enjoyed it through an aural medium.  Till the late 1970s, video footage was a rarity and live telecast was non-existent. Enthusiasts across the globe followed Cricket commentary over the radio. The pleasure was indescribable- as though listening to lilting music or lines of sublime poetry!

The Cricket gene runs in the family. In those animated conversations with my father, two yesteryear Indian commentators stood out- “Vizzy” and Pearson Surita. Surita’s accented style of narration was the stuff for mimicry! And then came the battery of broadcasters we grew up with- Anant Setalwad, Dicky Ratnagur and Narottam Puri.  And in Hindi, there was the ever-effervescent Sushil Doshi!

India’s famed spin quartet- Bedi and Chandra, Prasanna and Venkat, spun a web of mystery around batsmen. Their mystique reached the masses through these master wordsmiths who transported you to the Cricket field. The mind’s eye conjured up the entire scene and the brewing excitement. You “watched” Chandra rolling up his sleeves, ambling in from his longish run-up and bamboozling the batsman!

If the shortwave radio sprang to life at midnight, it meant India was playing in the West Indies. Roberts and Holding, Garner and Marshall invaded our living room. Tony Cozier was a constant companion.  In his characteristic Caribbean accent, he sketched the survival story of many a hapless batsman, struggling against these fearsome bowlers.

Monsoon in India coincided with the Test Matches in England. Over those rainy evenings, we crouched  around the radio to listen the trio- John Arlott, Brian Johnson and Christopher Martin-Jenkins. They held us in their mesmeric spell, ball after ball, for 5 days of riveting Cricket.

When India toured Australia, we shook off the morning drowsiness listening to Alan McGilvray’s signature phrase- “Here is Lillee!” Invariably, India was 3 down by the time we woke up and battled with its back to the wall!

The 1978 series against Pakistan was iconic. There was an extra delight to hear about Gavaskar’s class and Vishwanath’s wizardry from Pakistan’s legendary commentators- Omar Qureshi and Iftikhar Ahmed. 

We never saw these commentators. We do not know how they looked. Their identity was just their voice. Today, Cricket is telecast live and available as a visual medium. Oddly, we miss the rosy romance of its earlier audio avatar!

The Cricket fraternity is unique- it follows the game across the globe, crossing national boundaries. Borrowing the words of Shakespeare, the Cricket fan asserts, “It’s not that I love my country less, it’s just that I love Cricket more!” Win or lose, the catchphrase stays the same- “Ultimately, Cricket is the winner!”

Word problems!

There was no stumbling block bigger than “word problems” in Mathematics. It required a particular mental acumen, in the absence of which, you walked on quicksand. One question or the other eventually devoured you.

The problems were invariably centered on mangoes regardless of the season. “If 4 mangoes cost Rs 8, how much will one mango cost?” Discussing the question-paper after the exam, my mother was aghast that I had arrived at Rs 32 per mango! I confidently replied, “I cross-multiplied obviously!” What made it worse was my inability to comprehend the blunder!  “But I will get step marks!” I persisted. “For what?” my mother asked. “My first step is correct! I have written 4 mangoes cost Rs 8. I will get marks for that!”

Sometimes, the questions sent you on a day-dreaming trail. “If Ram, Shyam and Alice divided 21 mangoes among them, how many mangoes will each get?” While Ram and Shyam seemed related, the sudden mention of Alice picked your curiosity.  Had Alice stepped out of Wonderland and if so, how was she related to Ram and Shyam? As you pondered over the complicated possibilities in human relationships, precious time in the exam ticked away! You felt it would be amusing to write a fuzzy answer- the number of mangoes depends on how hungry Ram and Shyam were! Or if they ate so many mangoes, they would have a stomach-ache! But you knew the teacher would not tolerate such dark humor.

The age-related problems were agonizing. “10 years ago, father’s age was 7 times as old as his son. 2 years hence, he will be….” This fort could never be conquered. The first step was easy, and you wrote- “Let the father’s age be x and the son’s age be y”. After that, you hit a block. You took some bold strides and arrived at the answer where the father was half the son’s age! It did not look right, so you reversed the values and wrote the final result! Sometimes, you were certain the question was wrong and no wonder, you got funny answers!

Word problems had only one aim- to twist you into needless contorted postures instead of touching your nose straight. The distaste was extreme. As a child, you heard of an afterlife in heaven and hell. You were certain that hell was filled with word-problems that you had to solve eternally. And when it came to heaven, you modified the popular cine song with more relevant lyrics- “jahaan gham bhi na ho, aasoon bhi na ho, word-problem bhi na ho, bas pyaar hi pyaar paley!” (Where there is no sadness, no tears, no word-problems, but filled only with love!)

 

Ice cream!

Ice cream in its most basic form was all ice and no cream! The hawker had his cart strategically placed outside the school gates. He grated the ice-slab and stuffed the ice-flakes into an oblong mold. Once the shapely ice-form emerged, he stuck a handle to it. Dozens of mouth-watering syrup bottles lined the cart. He squirted some syrup on the ice-head and voilà, the “gola ice” for ready! He handed it over to the boy, whose face lit up with a smile! Once you sucked the syrup off, it was bland ice. In his best mood, the hawker allowed a refill of additional syrup droplets. At other times, he shooed the boy away as though a pesky irritant!

For your child of 4 years, the height of temptation was going past an ice cream shop. Till then, it held your fingers gently. And now, it overpowered and dragged you with the ferocity of an Alsatian on a leash! You succumbed to the pressure and bought the ice cream. The “orange-stick-ice-cream” was at the lowest end of the spectrum. Next in the grade was the “choco-bar”, with its chocolate crust and milk filling. The child relished it- ice cream smeared on the nose tip and with a trickle down the dress as well! Stick ice creams were unstable. If the licks were clustered to one side, the ice cream lost balance and fell off! You braced yourself for a second round of hysterical bawling, at which point you made a hasty exit!

For growing siblings, the sole purpose of their existence was to needle the other! Any arsenal in the armory was fair game, even an ice cream cone! One of them held on to the cone untouched, until the other finished his. And now, with cone in hand, he savored it with greater interest, provoking the other sibling to no end! With an ice cream cone, you were on quicksand, if you held it for too long. It leaked and collapsed; you lost both the ice cream and your face! And then, there were times, when the other sibling, in one swift move, yanked the cone off and swallowed it in full, resulting in a full-scale fratricidal skirmish!

Ice creams have come a long way and are now a full-fledged meal. The "3-scoop sundae", with dollops of ice cream and garnished with pistachio is a foodie’s delight. And once you add whipped cream, hot fudge, and cherries, you take it to another level. Frigid countries of the West may boast of more flavors and perhaps a better ambience. But only the one baked in the Indian summer sun, can truly understand the joy in an ice cream!