The magic show!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those canvas shoes!

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Delhi is too far away!

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

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

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

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

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

Learning Sama hymns the virtual way!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

American Indian teenager eats a South Indian meal!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the music maestro came home!

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

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

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

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

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

When Big B came to school!

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

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

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

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

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

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