Words from a bygone era!

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The whimsical vending machine!

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

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

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

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

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

Remembering a Mathematics teacher!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spare a thought...

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

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

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

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

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

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

An ode to a flower!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sounds of rain!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The magic show!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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