Interviews and "side effects"

Originally written on 31st January 2010

Yesterday was a day to remember - for reasons you'll see below.

 

We're in the middle of a hiring spree in my company. Rightly or wrongly, by reason of having survived on Planet Earth for longer than necessary, I've "risen" up the ranks to a place where I now attend interviews from the "right" side of the table, I'm the one asking questions these days. 

(I've heard it being mentioned - by people who've "survived" my interviews and who've had the bad luck and even worse discretion to have agreed to work with me - that my interviewing ishtyle is "different", whatever that means)

 

Yesterday was a new experience for me - a first time trip to do that famous "hunting sport" called CAMPUS INTERVIEW. Tripped to Pune, visited 2 campuses (is that campii??) - shall leave the names out for reasons of personal safety, some of the candidates were "healthy" and could easily (if word of this gets around) take me to the lab and dismantle me limb by limb.

 

What struck me was:

• Kids (ok, don't get offended - anyone that's 20 years younger to me IS a "kid") insisting on "speaking" English and, in the process, committing murder of the language - even when we offered to ask questions in Hindi. One candidate even clarified that English is a "professional" language though he loves Hindi. I wonder where that sentiment comes from? Are our institutes really doing a service to the younger generation if this is what they teach? If this is true, I opine that for the fees they charge they should also teach English. Virtually every student that we met had attended a "Grooming and Etiquette" certificate course - just proving that old joke that light travels faster than sound which is why people look bright till they open their mouths to speak. The sarcasm here is unintended but a sincere plea (I do intend to write to the institute's Directors about this separately too) that these B schools ought to teach English too IF they wish to perpetuate the myth that speaking English is a "professional" requirement.
• The other thing that struck me was how ill prepared the candidates were to answer "general knowledge" questions - and the irony (or, perhaps, the cause?) is we're living today in the Information Age where everything is available at the click of a mouse courtesy Google, Wikipedia etc... is this why these youngsters don't bother to "learn"? I wonder... anyway, there was this girl (Date of Birth: 20th November 19XX) and my colleague asked her to name a famous Indian lady who was born on 19th November. The first response was - "Famous Indian lady? Oh, must be Aishwarya Rai!" I'm sure Indira Gandhi would be pleased.... I then probed her "knowledge" by asking who was born on 2nd October - thankfully she did reply Mahatma Gandhi and while I heaved a silent sigh of relief she put her foot in her mouth by "clarifying" that she remembers this ONLY because it's a holiday. I couldn't resist asking her to name another famous Indian who was also born on 2nd October - gave her a hint too, that he was one of our Prime Ministers... no dice, she was lost and clueless. Sad, no?

  

Later in the evening a friend and I went out for dinner. Pune was pleasant, just a nip in the air. Walked around for a while. Finally landed up at a bar & restaurant. This friend is a teetotaler (yes, EVEN these "types" do agree to be friends with a lout like me! "lout like I"??). Diet Pepsi, said he... A large Signature, half water, half sode and ice said I. "Sorry sir, today dry day" said the waiter. My "spirits" fell, my eyebrows rose and my voice did too - DRY Day? WHY? He replied "somebody's Jayanthi or something".. for a moment I was puzzled, clueless and asked him "Kya baat kar raha hai? Kiska?!!" The captain came over and whispered in his ears and the waiter clarified - Mahatma Gandhi Jayanthi. I was astonsihed at first but then the truth dawned on me.... 30th January, punya thithi... shit! There I was, crticising that girl for not knowing Lal Bahadur Shastri's birthday.... 

 

I had forgotten to observe that 1 minute silence yesterday morning... I made up for it at night. 5 minutes...... Bapu, I'm sorry.

 

Sats 

Do men cry?

Originally written on 28th January 2010

Isn't it kind of true, we've all been brought up with certain stereotypes drilled into our brains right from our birth? As boys we'd learnt that it's not right to cry (well, not cry TOO MUCH) if we fall and hurt ourselves, for example? It's the "man thing" to grin and bear the pain, right? So you get up, pick up the bicycle, wipe your runny nose and, at the same time surreptitiously wipe those tears that are just waiting to flow, secretly hoping no one's seen those tears... a quiet sniffle, you climb back on the cycle and pedal again even though your knees or your shin or some other part of you is bleeding and bloody painful... crying is for girls, right? So, if you cry, you're a "cissy" and what fate can be worse than that, having the guys in class bully you?

And thus it goes... you hurt and you smile, bleeding inside, unable to let those emotions show themselves for what they really are. You display it, oh yes, you certainly do - temper tantrums, screaming and shouting perhaps, or maybe you withdraw into a sulk and go off into a shell ... you disguise, sometimes, a forced gaiety maybe, that fools only yourself? Whether the hurt is physical or something else, the rule is MEN DON'T CRY, period. REAL men don't cry, so there!!

And so, when I returned from a short trip to Madras (Chennai?) with a bag of books and a few DVDs - yesterday I "indulged" myself. Was watching a movie called "Abhiyum Naanum" (Abhi and I) - a story about a father and his daughter (the daughter's name, in the movie, is Abhi). Years back, watching movies like Abhimaan or Shor (Manoj Kumar) I used to cry at certain scenes, heartstrings getting tugged dangerously.... the tears would come, silently, but safely because the movie hall was dark and no one was watching you. The females would cry more openly, kerchiefs out, sniffling sounds competing with the on screen weeping..... but MEN don't cry, or at least, not noisily! 

Yesterday, watching "Abhiyum..." was a liberating, humbling experience. The tears flowed freely and fast, happiness intermingled with pain, the movie so delicately displaying the growing up pangs, the pain - not of the little daughter but of the father! How easily the little toddler grows, how quietly age creeps up, how she gains confidence and at each stage as she becomes capable of knowing exactly what she wants the father begins to feel her slip away... and I cried till the very end, the very happy, happy end as he realises what Wordsworth said a few hundred years back. The child is the father of man...

The sadness of estrangement

Originally written on 20th january 2010

Today's newspaper carries two unrelated items - I don't think one of them can be called "news" - that left me feeling sad, wondering at the follies of human relations.

 

Item one was a photo-news, the third IPL calendar and the auction of players. Exciting stuff, Kieron Pollard and the other players. Somewhere in all that, Ness Wadia and Preity Zinta, still co-owners of their team but now estranged and a cryptic comment by the journalist that they were not "sitting together". The photo shows Ness, Shilpa Shetty and Preity, the latter looking down and (am I imagining this) the look on Ness' face was one of longing...... I have always admired Preity as a person who has spunk and I'm sure there must be very valid reasons for the falling out, but still, one can't help feeling a tinge of sadness..

 

The other item, even more intriguing, was a PUBLIC NOTICE issued by the Family Court, Bandra. This relates to a divorce case where the wife is the plaintiff and the husband is the respondent. The notice instructs the husband to appear before the court failing which the court would issue an ex-parte decree. OK, so what's unusual here? Divorces DO happen, even her in India, right? What caught my eye was the notice shows both husband and wife are continuing to live together, the address was identical under both names. If so, WHY a public notice? What went so horribly wrong that this had to be made a public notice? I'm sure there must be some valid reason here too - bit still, this is sad, too, isn't it? 

 

Today is Wednesday, the day for woe.... 

A blind life....

Originally written on 14th Jan., 2010

Sometimes I notice my eyes tend to get fatigued by the time it's evening. I wonder whether it is due to spending too much time staring into the laptop's screen, or whether it is due to the rather too bright glare from the windows of my cabin.Anyway, even as I reach home and realise that my eyes have begun to ache, I also realise how much of our lives depend on our eyes.

 

Speaking for myself, the typical routine - on reaching home each evening/night - goes like this. After having washed, refreshed etc (how "polite" a word to avoid describing bodily functions!) etc, I settle down with either a newspaper (yes, I didn't have the time to read that all important "Change of Name"!) or the crossword puzzle or a novel - while having my coffee. Or else, after a while, I switch on the TV and spend some time getting idiotised. And, maybe, every once in a while, here I am, plonked in front of my computer at home - rambling along to myself (and you!).

 

So, it strikes me, even the things that one enjoys doing, one tends to use ones eyes. Fatigue, where comes the relief? At this rate, failing eyesight, dimming vision et al only reinforce that earlier thought of mine about ageing... 

 

A year or so back, driving back home one evening, near the old Passport Office at Worli I was stopped by the sight of a blind woman leading a blind man, crossing the road at a traffic signal there. A not uncommon sight, one might say, but yet a sight that for a fleeting moment registered in my brain. I moved on, not really conscious of the seed that had been planted in my mind.

Waking up at dawn one day after that, while it still was dark I was overcome by a sudden impulse to try and live for a few moments at least, a blind life. So, I walked with eyes closed the few feet of familiar space from my bed to the bathroom. A mere few feet became a perilous minefield of protrusions that my knees unerringly found. Creeping quietly, so as not to wake my still sleeping wife, I bump into the exercise cycle's pedal, cracking my shin - biting down on my lips, eyes still tightly closed, I negotiate the distance to my bathroom, bang against the wall with my shoulder and somehow, soundlessly, manage to enter the bathroom - deliberately, I have refrained from switching on the light. In darkness now, I venture to open my eyes and grope around to get a feel of a once familiar place.

The washbasin - aha, gotcha. Turn the faucet on and wash my face. The towel is here, to the left, hanging from its holder. I take it and dry my face. The toothbrush and toothpaste are to my right, I get them one by one. Open the cap of the toothpaste and squeeze out the stuff onto the brush. That sounds easy. It ends up on my thumb and fingers.. messy, icky stuff. Scrape it off with the brush, not sure whether the quantity is right.. it's just a wee bit too less but I don't have the heart to risk squeezing the tube again. Brush brush brush, right, left, up, down - there, my teeth are ready for another day. Gargle, mouthwash and I'm through. What next?

Comb my hair. Where's the hairbrush? There, on the shelf just above the toothbrush holder, where it always hangs. SImple! Oops!! It IS there but just a wee bit to the right or left or wherever of where I assumed it to be. Plop, splash - the ruddy thing has fallen into the bucket of water and now my hand is wet up to the elbow, groping for the brush. Got it, now! Shake it dry, wipe it on the towel and finally I comb my hair. Now, I am ready for another day.

Gingerly I switch on the light and open my eyes - my combed hair is a just memory of the well groomed head that I am finicky about. The parting is awry, rebellious clumps of hair have refused to obey the dictates of my comb, standing up in defiance of my attempt at playing blind. Now, with seeing eyes I beat them down into submission, within a few seconds and meekly they fall in line.

I step out of the bathroom with a slightly better understanding of the power of sight - and, however brief my experiment was, I emerged with a marginally better insight into the life of the sight deprived....

Signs of "ageing"

Originally written on 7th Jan., 2010

You know you're getting old when........ oh, hell, thre are probably thousands and thousands of jokes along these lines (many of which cannot be repeated here before an audience that includes ladies - and women!). Yeah, I've been noticing that age has crept up on me too - perhaps several years back! It's just that I may not have had the inclination to accept the truth of this.

 

The signs were all there - the receding hairline, the greying hair not just on my head but on the moustache, beard (which I've knocked off temporarily, once more), the dimming eyesight (and hence the branded Zeiss spectacles!). Yes, the signs had already appeared a few years back and yet I refused to see them, even with my spectacles on. But I can ignore this no more.

 

"Dad's grown old" said my son to his mother the other day, sometime last week. Within my earshot. And my hearing's still reasonably sound (yes, I'm not T-H-A-T old, yet!) I lifted an eyebrow, fixed him with a baleful look and he say's "What? You ARE old!" And I say, "Like how?" and he says "You listen to old peoples' music".

 

A-ha! The coin drops. All is clear now (Zeiss lenses, again!!). It's like this, see? Way back, in 2007 (way back?), I got kinda sick listening to my son listening to Kishore Kumar and Kishore Kumar and Kishore Kumar and Kishore Kumar.... get the idea? 

So, there came a day when I went out hunting for good old rock music, not that I had a problem with the Yodelling Dude... so, anyway, a couple of hours later I was driving my car back from the music store with Led Zep, Dire Straits, The Doors, Deep Purple and others of similar ilk blaring from my system, eating up the asphalt, my fists thumping to the beats of "my" generation. And, I called my hulking offspring on his cell and growled at him, "Bum, whaddaya doing? Come down, I want you to lissen to sumpn' diff'rnt". And, so, off we went on a wild ride, music on full blast, giving him an "education" including that ANTHEM number from the old days "We Don't Need No Education..."

 

...... and Krishna got hooked! Big time. I mean, B-I-G T-I-M-E like he's no longer this human child that my wife and I brought into this world. K now walks around with a pair of head-phones wrapped around his ears looking like Dr. Spock from Star Trek (now THAT is old). And when we "converse" these days it has to first start off with me waving my arms around wildly like a bloody semaphore to grab his attention - he then condescends to turn the volume of his phone-music player down and we get around to talking.

 

So, where was I? Ah yes, I've grown "old", right. And why would that be? Not because I listen to Lennon and stuff. THAT is "kewl" even though the music goes back to before way back when... I'm old because, over the last 2-3 years, I have also developed a liking, an avid interest and one could even say a passion for Indian classical music. I am partial, I confess, to Carnatic classical music but I do love Hindustani as well. On my way around the city, morning or evening, night, whenever... if I'm alone (my poor driver, a genuine, Raj Thackeray/Bal Thackeray certified son of amchi Mumbai must be suffering too - like my son) I pop in a cd of KJ Yesudas (all time favourite), or Bhimsen Joshi, or Balamuralikrishna or Kishori Amonkar or whatever suits my fancy. And, even though I cannot (hopefully the "as yet" will be justified here) identify the various ragas or thalas, though I cannot (once again, "as yet") distinguish a bandish from a thumri, I have been enjoying the sheer melodies of these greats...

 

Kishore Kumar still remains within reach. As do the John Lennons and Santanas. Not to forget Ilaiyaraaja and the older goldens like Vishvanathan - Ramamurthy. Geniuses, all, delivering incomparable joy decades later still. Listening to these people, however old these compositions may be, one still feels young. My son agrees on this.

 

But, Shubha Mudgal, Ashwini Bhide Deshpande, TM Krishna? I am "OLD" now... I don't know, not any longer. But, when I introspect, I kind of understand where this comes from... when I was 20 you wouldn't catch me anywhere within a 5 mile radius of a kutchery, either.

 

Signing off, now. Gotta go... someone gifted me a lovely twin cd pack of leading artistes from Hindustani and Carnatic classical this new year. Pure Magic!!

Heaven is where Angels smile

She was barely four months old. At that "age", you don't describe her height, what you do, instead, is to try and measure her LENGTH. She was not too long, she fitted perfectly in that little length between my elbow and my palm.... I think that distance is called one cubit, I may be wrong.

She nestled there, sometime last month, snugly. A tiny head, covered thickly with hair. Eyes that were wide open, looking up into mine - wondering at the ugly face looking down at hers. 

She must have weighed perhaps 4 kilos? The weight of a whole world in my arms, terrified as I was, whether she'd feel comfortable in my arms. I held my breath, hoping against hope, this little bundle would not scream her protest... hoping, she would not cry!

My voice, usually gruff and unfriendly, took on a wondering tone.... I was melting inside, at the sheer loveliness of the sensation of holding an angel in my arms. And, somewhere, unknown to me, words began to flow out of my mouth in a language that I did not know existed.... words that come, when an "adult" speaks to an infant, sounds actually more than words.... nonsensical, reassuring, meaningless, words that - if you ask me now - I don't even know existed...!!

That little face, looking up at me, gazing at the ugliness hovering over her angelic face... that face puckered in intense concentration, seemingly following ... following God knows what! Following the expressions on my face, perhaps? Or following the tone of my voice? Honestly, I have absolutely no clue.....

How does one begin to understand the learning processes of a 4 month old angel's mind/brain? Where, when and HOW exactly does the cognitive process begin to operate? I have no idea at all... 

But, despite my appearance, despite the gruffness of the voice.... she looked up at me, her eyes opened just a wee, tiny bit bigger, she waved her tiny fists all around in excitement ..... and she SMILED, a great, big, gurgling, wet, noisy smile, rocked her head happily and, in that moment, instantly, Aahana showed me once again, there is a Heaven on earth.  

Sats

Hazar Khwahishein Aisi....

I just checked - it was there, in crystal clear font. Not a round number. Not even an even number. To my finicky, fastidious mind, it seemed out of place, that ODD number. I dislike odd numbers, generally. Even while listening to songs on my radio, for instance, sub-consciously my hand reaches out to set the volume at 16 or 18 or 20. Never at 17 or 19.... sometimes, I "compromise" and allow a 15 or a 25 (Jim Morrison and/or Bruce Springsteen don't sound right, at lower volumes, you know?!)

So, there it was. The number 1003. Clearly past the millenium - I wish I had caught it in that EXACT moment when it had touched and paused at 1000. 

I'm not the excitable type - too many years of practising the "stiff upper lip", what, eh, old chap has kind of made me less than a suitable husband to my ever enthusiastic spouse, less than a suitable colleague to a group of young, energetic and excitable teamsters... but, on occasion I do allow myself a quiet smile. 

In the 11 months that I've been here, blogging, my blog statistics overview page tells me that today 1003 page visits have been recorded thus far.... poor you! I promise to continue to haunt, harass, hector and harangue you for some time more :)

Run, before it is too late. But let it never be said I did not warn.... 

Strange.... Stranger... and Saddest.

Originally written on 22nd December 2009

Hi there, I'm back! Not that I really went away anywhere, it's just that I've not been among you for a week or ten days, that's all ;) So, while I've been busy EXISTING the world's been busy doing all it's usual tricks too.... the newspapers are/were full of stories of hope and disappointment at Copenhagen, millions of Indians went ga-ga because 11 guys in blue beat another 11 guys in even darker blue over a white ball. And then there were the even more regular stories of murder, suicide, rape, theft, pilferage, larceny (sorry, that's the insurance creep in me, creeping out!)

This morning I was speaking to someone in Baroda - or, has that changed to Vadodara officially? (Will NaMo scream "Off with his khopdi?"). This guy jogged my memory of a late evening some few months back when I was at a dark, shady lonely bar in suburban Mumbai (dare I still say Bombay?), lost in a jumbled world of intermingling conversations, snatches of Mumbai Marathi, expletives flying thick and fast in the air competing for space with the thick hazy clouds of smoke that rose from the cigarettes... across the table from me was a stranger, sitting, like me, alone. In the dim light and through the smoke I could see a "NO SMOKING" sign behind his head as he leaned forward and asked in a tentative voice whether he could borrow a cigarette from me. He promised to return it whenever we meet again! I passed my cigarette pack across - he carefully took one, mumbled a thanks. We went our ways, each making deep meaningful conversations with our glasses. His, I seem to recall, was rum & cola, I was as usual on a Signature - half soda, half water....

      

Anyway, when my Barodaker (?) friend referred to this incident I laughed because I remembered that I actually did get my cigarette back - a couple of weeks later, same bar, same table, same (can I still call him) stranger. Now a familiar face, he smiled and offered me a cigarette - never mind it was a different brand. Strange!

And then I laughed again because this morning my favourite newspaper (The Indian Express - mind it, it is THE) gave me one more of those lovely little bits of news - this comes from Jammu & Kashmir. Cops in K&K have booked one of their own - for shoplifting!Their constable, Roshan Lal was caught stealing cigarettes from a shop in Jammu on Sunday evening (what? He couldn't manage his "hafta"?). Locals chased him but he managed to escape. The locals then informed the police who have lodged a case of theft against him and sent a team (TEAM???) to his house - Roshan was not at home. The search for him is still on. Cigarettes?? I still don't believe this. My "stranger" in my local bar was straight. This is definitely stranger!!

But, hey, listen... this small, although intriguing, story was tucked away inside the IE (page 8, if you insist) right there on Page 1 was another cop story screaming out loud. No less a person than the retired DGP of Haryana Police, SPS Rathore, was found guilty of molesting a minor girl 19 years back. Subsequent harassment eventually led her to commit suicide - and, today, 19 years later, this venerable official has been "sentenced" to 6 months in jail and a fine of Rs.1,000/-! This gets even better - he was also granted bail immediately! Justice delayed is justice denied, it's often said... in this case, my personal feeling is 'twere better if the man was acquitted altogether. What is the message that the court is seeking to send? That molestation is an "affordable" crime? Rs.1,000/- bucks???? And what of poor Ruchira Girhotra who committed suicide? Should this not have been tried as an offence culpable to homicide? This is the strangest, nay, saddest take away of the day.....

Thoughts on Life..... and Death.

Originally written on 17th November 2009

I've been away from my mail box for a while, I know. This is the first mail in, what? some 3 weeks, I guess.... I've been telling folks that speak to me about my mails that I write because writing has been, for me, a therapeutic stress buster. So, the absence of mails for 3 weeks may be interpreted as an absence of stress - or, too much of it! Whatever...

 

Over the past 2 - 3 days I've seen a lot of mails in my in box at work as well as on this "off-line" avatar that I have, about the untimely and sad death of  Ranjan Das, the young CEO of SAP.. how, lack of sleep took its toll despite his fitness regime. The world knows Ranjan Das through these e-mails perhaps better than it did while he was alive. Sad, no?

 

Today is 17th November - day that got burnt in my heart and soul last year. I write this at 12:15 in the afternoon sitting in my office. I write this in memory of a very close and dear friend who passed away this day, around this time, last year. And, as I write this, even after a gap of one year, I feel the pain of his absence. He was a friend with whom my rapport was inexplicable, a person from the same industry (insurance, broking) and a rival (??) to boot... yet we shared a rapport that has left a void in my life. He was around my age, mid forties, with the best years of his professional life still ahead of him. No, not an age to die, he was till the very end celebrating life each day with always a ready smile and a cheerful disposition. I miss him. At times I wish........

 

And, while the internet is alive with e-mails doing the rounds of the late Ranjan Das I want to leave a thought for those of us still here to consider........

 

......... and that thought is this..........

 

3 weeks back I had noticed a strange rattling noise in my car, coming from the under-carriage. I tried to listen and identify the source. I suspect this is from the suspension and/or the lower arm and tie rod. Took it to my garage and got it tested. They've given me an estimate for a variety of parts that need replacement. Shall leave it at the garage this weekend I think. Would not like to delay this any longer....

 

That same week, I'd been to see a family friend at the Hinduja Hospital. He'd been admitted for a problem with his prostate and was recovering from a surgery. When we were talking he told me that he'd been having this problem for a while but kept postponing the decision until it couldn't be delayed any longer..... when the pain finally became unbearable he had to be operated on.

 

My car does have spare parts, both genuine as well as "local make"..... many of our hospitals do not even have blood in the blood banks!! Yet we continue to ignore the signs that our body keeps giving us. Ironic?

 

So, while I'm still here on earth, why not take some basic care? You, too!

Made in........ Korea??!!

Originally written on 29th October 2009

It was yesterday, I guess, I was sitting with my newspaper in the morning and enjoying my coffee. Noticed my fingernails needed trimming and so, finishing the coffee I hunted out the nail-cutter and commenced "Operation Nail Removal"... multi-tasker that I am (yeah, me?) I was reading the paper too.

 

(I digress here, for a while - permit me. A sudden memory of myself aged 4 or so, my nails being cut by my Dad. Rough hands, stubby, hairy fingers gripping my tiny fingers one by one... my eyes shut tight in anticipation of that dreaded slip when the razor blade would draw blood. It never happened, not once - Dad was deft, my nails would come off cleanly. I still remember, the razor blades used to be "Wilkinson". Long before nail-cutters became common...)

 

There was this photograph in the paper, showing the newly appointed Chairman of ISRO, K Radhakrishnan, at Guruvayoor Temple, Kerala. The accompanying article spoke at length of his accomplishments so far, his association with Chandrayaan I and the forthcoming missions Chandrayaan II and manned moon mission. His credentials and accomplishments are impressive, I must say - what struck me, too, was a life beyond work. In addition to being a renowned and busy scientist he is also a trained Kathakali dancer and vocalist - way to go!!!

 

As I was pondering, with pride, about India's success in space my mind (or is it brain?) did one of those sudden leaps back and forth - competing thoughts/ideas made me recall my Dad using that blade to cut my nails, another parallel thought brought memories of the first time we had a nail-cutter at home. I remember, they used to be "Made in Korea", every single one of them... this, I'm talking of back in the late 1970's....... I looked at the nail-cutter I was using yesterday.

 

Yep, you guessed it - they're still "Made in Korea" :) - we've sent satellites to the moon and beyond, but "cutting edge technology" for my nails? Still comes in from Kim or Park?

Sats

Patience/Impatience - the paradox.

Originally written on 15th October 2009

I'm doing something that I don't often do - using my laptop while in my car. It's something that I don't relish and would rather avoid. However, there was something that NEEDED to be done and so here I am, having finished what needed to be done, hooking up to send/receive mails...... while my mail-server (official) is slow, I'm here on Gmail, catching up.

 

There's a huge traffic jam, I'm close to Matunga - and there's a BEST bus behind my car. BEST drivers have this tendency to honk. 

I don't mean "honk" ............. 

I mean the "honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk-honk............... honk" kind of honk.

You know how it is! There's stand still traffic all around, either due to a red light or a traffic jam but many (would I be right in saying "most"?) BEST drivers just feel compelled to honk. Sometimes I am tempted to get out of my car and steal the rubber balloon horn that BEST buses have!! I think the driver will be UNABLE to drive if I do that!! I mean, the guys don't have patience??

 

Another feature on our roads - motorbike riders "creating" space to wriggle through between the narrowest of openings. There I am, in my car, close to another vehicle with hardly six inches between my vehicle and the next and a mobike noses in, usually with two seated..... the rider manoeuvres his handlebars first this way, then that way, leaves a scratch on my door or "gently" bangs into my rear view mirror, gives my driver and me a goofy smile/grin as if to say "I'm sorry" and keeps going to the next six inch gap five feet ahead.... and there WE are, patiently waiting for the jam to clear.... when THAT finally happens a hundred cars leap forward, revving up to 60 or 80 or even 100 kmph rushing headlong in a mad scramble to the next traffic jam. I'm in a tearing hurry, see, the next jam's just ahead - cannot aford to miss that, now, can I?

 

Speaking of "patience" or the lack of it - this time, too, once more, I was in a minority of Mumbaikars that voted. Last time around, for the Lok Sabha elections I reached the voting venue around noon and had to wait for about 2 hours. So, this time, I beat the crowd. Reached the booth at 9. Problem was, everyone else too beat the crowd!! So, there we all were, waiting again for a good hour and a half! The saving grace was since it was morning, the heat wasn't as bad as the last time around...

 

Most of the voters were, as was to be expected, from the poorer sections. (Why dow we middle/upper classes not vote as much as we complain? - A separate topic that). They (and, with them, I) waited patiently. Many of them in fact were having a good time meeting old acquaintances, enjoying some private jokes, well meaning jokes at each others' expense... not exactly a carnival but a general air of bonhomie. One jarring note - a little ahead of me a well dressed person, apparently not having "budgeted" for the long queue kept cribbing about "how slow" this was.

 

She first complained to the lady ahead of her. She then complained to the man behind her. Kerchief flutering, waving ineffectually at her worries, she then caught a passing polling official and berated him for the slow speed. She said "I'm waiting in this queue for 30 minutes". The official moved on without even looking at her. THAT got her agitated even more and a few seconds later she caught a police constable on duty and told HIM "I'm waiting in this queue for 45 minutes now, why don't you people do something??"

 

I was amused that within a few seconds she was able to expand her notion of time from 30 minutes to 45 - Einstein couldn't crack this cosmic puzzle but she did in a flash! Anyway, her impatience was quelled when the havaldar fixed one baleful eye on her and cracked in Marathi "Oh, Madam, arada orada karu naka, tumhala vote karaicha tar kara. Nahi tar tumhi ghari jaa. Maajha doka khaaoon naka" (Oh, Madam, don't just stand around making noises. If you wish to vote, vote - if not just go home and shut up. Don't eat my head!)

and sauntered off..... silence prevailed for a while.

 

Patiently, we waited, to vote - patiently for politicians who promise what we all know is our right but is merely a dream. Where is that BEST driver? I want him to get after our legislators and honk-honk-honk-honk-honk........

 

Sats

Work in progress.....

Originally written on 15th October 2009

Today was one of those rare days when I was able to reach a prospective (not for long I hope) client's office well ahead of the scheduled time - my meeting was supposed to commence at noon and my colleague and I reached there almost 30 minutes ahead of time. Tough luck, because, another colleague was on his way from another place and so, we were constrained to wait a while :(

 

Took time out to have a so-called SIFC (South Indian Filter Coffee, for the uninitiated) - at a so-called Udupi restaurant. Bad, over-priced, lousy coffee the kind that one usually gets at a Cafe Coffee Day or a Barista (so go ahead, sue me!)... anyway, after that coffee we came in to the lobby of this building. The ground floor was in shambles, one table and several chairs helter-skelter and loads of "stuff" lying all around.... and bags, hessian cloth as well as polythene bags, containing colour powder lots of it. Messy. On the ground faint outlines of circles arranged in a floral pattern.

 

Two people - a lady and a man - standing, surveying this mess. My colleague and I wondering whether to go up or to stand here and wait..... just then the lady took some purple colour powder in her hand and commenced to draw a "rangoli". A magical transformation as, before my eyes, an image began to take shape. Diwali, coming to life right in front of me. The sheer felicity of her fingers as she drew, free - hand, shapes with a fluidity that spoke of her talent.

 

Many times I have seen "rangoli" creations, the FINISHED product. Many, may years ago when I was a little child I remember seeing my neighbour drawing "kolam"  (that's Tamil, by the way) figures but was too little to appreciate this.

 

Today, as I stood and watched, mesmerised at the beauty of the creation taking shape before me I realised - sometimes, the work in progress is more beautiful than the finished goods!!

 

Happy Diwali to all of you. 

 

Sats  

What's in a name?

Originally written on 9th October 2009

Well, by now, many of you would know how quirky/nutty I can be - here's one more facet.

 

In addition to my preoccupation with (among other things) road names in Mumbai/Bombay (speaking of which reminds me I have finally cracked the puzzle of Pandurang Budhkar Marg), I also have got this crazy addiction to reading the "Change of Name" columns in my daily newspaper!! Wel, yes, I know, odd and all that but hey, I've got hooked onto this.... the editorial page, international news, those little, little human stories ("Newsin Brief" types), the comic strips (long live Calvin & Hobbes, Hagar etc), SU-DO-KU (thank you Wayne Gould), Sports section ..................

 

.................................  and ........... Change of Name

 

Wherefrom, much to my everlasting distress, I have realised that "Kumar" is perhaps the most USELESS appendage that often gets excised... example: "I, Pravinkumar Vinodkumar Agarwal, hereby change my name to Pravin Vinod Agarwal"... what then, do I do with the Satheesh Kumar that my dear dad lovingly named me? (Or Shashi Kumar, my elder brother, or Sujith Kumar, my younger?) (Note the spellings, the double "e" in SathEEsh, the "h" in SHashi etc...) So, do I then go and file a gazette that I, K V Satheesh Kumar, hereby change my name to K V Satheesh? Well, that sounds like me - half a nut, incomplete, so I guess I'll let this be.

 

But then, how lucky are men, especially Maharasthrian men - they get to retain their name, not just their surname but the whole damn first name, middle name AND surname!! Witness, for instance, the sad lot of a typical (or shall I say "orthodox") Marathi maiden on marriage? "I, Indumati Dattatreya Purekar, hereby change my name and shall henceforth be known as Kusum Dinkar Kulkarni as per Gazette" Imagine, a new household, new relationships and then, that most personal of things - one's own identity - changed overnight? Is there a trauma here? Or is this, too, a novelty to be welcomed? I can only wonder....

 

And then, occasionally, those stories that lie hidden behind the few bland words: 

 

I, Vimala Shankar Iyer, hereby change my name to Salma Shaikh Mohammed........... or

 

I, Shankar Dayanand Patwardhan, hereby change the name of my minor child Rajesh Shankar Patwardhan to Rekha Shankar Patwardhan.....

 

makes one wonder.

 

But, to explain where this adiction actually started from, witness this - (this one is 100% TRUE, I swear!!): "I, Nazareth Pascu Gandu, hereby change my name from Nazareth Pascu Gandu to Nazareth Pascu Patil"......... I wonder what a life Nazareth must have led during his school/college days?

 

Sats   

Tata Tea - and bribery

Originally written on 1st October 2009

Some advertisements go beyond being eye-catching, they stay in one's mind and leave an impact that lasts - though, equally, a large number of advertisements are outrageously irritating too.

 

The Tata Tea advertisements - election campaigning, for one - and now, the most recent campaign against bribery (with the tag line "Ab khilana bandh, pilana shuru") is another lovely gem. Tonnes and tonnes of papers have been published on corruption, bribery etc. Transparency International routinely comes out with their annual reports rating/ranking countries from the least corrupt (rank 1) to the most corrupt (rank xyz) and most Indians would not be surprised to know that we always end up at the wrong end of the scale. We all know how corrupt the "SYSTEM" is and, most often, WE take a "holier than thou" approach, don't we?

 

Set me thinking, this Tata Tea ad.... I'm 45 years old now. Till 2002 November I can honestly say I'd never bribed any one (nor taken a bribe!). Yes, there had been occasions when a bit of speed money would have helped to move my various files/applications - getting my dad's death certificate, legal heir certificate, my mother's family pension papers passed, a telephone connection, gas connection etc. I'd always fought my way through, sticking to the adamant stand that I will not bribe...

 

In November 2002, for the first time in my life I came to STAY in Mumbai as a resident - the city of opportunity, the city of hope - and within a few months (between December 2002 and February 2003, to be exact - I have the record in my diary) I had "encounters" with Mumbai's traffic police on no less than 7 occasions. Traffic violations ranging from parking in No Parking zones, using the cell phone while driving, jumping red lights, lane cutting, not wearing a seat belt, my co-passenger in the front seat not wearing a seat belt... The first of these was a clean, straight forward event, I had to track where my car had been towed to, paid the full official fine and drove off.. no hassles.

 

The "using cell phone" incident happened at Peddar Road, coming back to the suburbs from town. It was 4 in the afternoon and I was flagged down by a cop on a bike who puled me over. Asked for my driver's licence which I handed over. He told me the fine was Rs.100/- which I offered to pay telling him to write out the challan. That's when I hit my first hurdle - he informed me that he was not authorised to collect the fine but only to confiscate my licence and issue a challan. I was to collect the licence the next day at Tardeo police station. I found this strange but still stayed firm - NO BRIBE, I was guilty, I would pay the fine. Which I did, 2 days later when my work involved a trip to a client close to Mahalaxmi.. no big deal.

 

And so it continued, time after time, fines totaling almost Rs.1,200/- in 3 months for a variety of offences... till the BIG day. I was somewhere near Borivli, not a place that I usually visit, no clients there. I had "jumped a red light" that was virtually invisible, I had blindly followed a BEST bus (are they exempted from observing signals?) and was flagged down by a havaldar. And then the argument started - I tried telling him that the signal was not red, that I followed the bus, etc. No avail.. he asked me for my licence. By now, I am familiar with the "hints" and the "eye-winking" that follows this. The idea of having to drive back to Borivli to collect my licence, to spend more than 3 hours and the fuels, to pay a Rs.100/- fine...... somehow, it didn't seem worth the trouble. A "wink-wink" and a "nudge-nudge" and a quick haggling, "settled" the matter for Rs.20/- and came away, licence intact but conscience damaged/dented a bit....

 

It's a bit like losing one's virginity? That first time led to a few more, then it became routine, the final stage being reached when the act of handing over one's driving licence became a practised art of keeping a Rs.20/- note inside the palm...

 

A month back I met someone who shared with me a similar experience/anecdote. He told me how he was flagged down at Mulund, refusing to pay a fine for he was convinced he was not guilty, he decided to protest in his own manner. He stood his ground, parked his car by the road-side and kept taking photos of the cops with his cell-camera each time they tried to take a bribe from other motorists!! The cops threatened him, grumbled, muttered and finally let him free after about 30 minutes.... I don't know whether this story is true or embellished a bit but it struck a chord... 

 

....... and then the Tata Tea ad. And, tomorrow is Mahatma's birthday..... 

 

ab khilana bandh, pilana bhi bandh..... if I have to pay a fine, I will.... instead of driving all the way to Borivli, I shall wait ten days and collect my licence from Worli HQ....

 

Fine is fine, no more bribe! 

Bird watching

originally written on 27th Sep., 2009

Those of you that have been to my house know that I live on the 2nd floor with every single window looking out on the green trees (yes, even in Mumbai!!). Quite often, as I sit at my pc surfing and/or catching up on my mail box, I enjoy brief moments of bliss when I look out at the variety of trees beyond. Rain trees, coconut palms swaying gently, acacia (yes, I actually learnt that name) etc.

(That's my complex, by the way - photo courtesy 99acres.com) 

I used to look out just to enjoy the cooling sight of the different shades of green - how soothing to the eyes. Sometimes, occasionally,  I would get to see some birds - apart from the usual pigeons that infest all of Mumbai. Crows, fairly common, sparrows slightly less commonly seen (I remember they used to be the most common birds that I grew up seeing as a child in Madras), mynahs sometimes. Anything beyond that lies in a world that I'm yet to explore - bird watching having not been a hobby (the feathered kind, I mean)

 

Suddenly, though, over the last fortnight, I have begun to see more birds (still talking about the feathered kind only!) than before. Last week, on a hat-trick, I saw parrots in and around my colony - not one, not once, but a pair, thrice. And I wondered how wonderful they looked in flight - how pathetic then, when one sees a parrot caged. Today, on the branch outside my window I see a large brown owl in the daytime - inauspicious, as my grandmother would say muttering "Shiva, Shiva" under her breath.

 

In the skies above a pair of eagles/kites/hawks (whatever?) circle aimlessly, gracefully - free from the ties that bind me to this keyboard and you. How blissful, then, to soar above and look down, to ride the wind........ freedom

The bleakness of existence

Originally written on 12th Sep 2009

Certain habits, formed over years, tend to become addictive. As a child I was encouraged by my dad, elder brother, teachers etc to read the newspaper. Over the years, waking up each morning, one of the first things that one did was to reach out for the paper and sit with a cup of coffee... some things have changed - during my school/college days, by the time the paper reached my hand it no longer had the crisp freshness, having already passed through my dad and brother's hands. The coffee cup too was a medium sized one.... today my paper is unspoil'd and the cup has given way to a L-A-R-G-E mug with the words "COFFEE ADDICT" embossed...

 

Yeah, so some things have changed and yet some things haven't, not really... each morning I realise within 15 minutes of glancing through the paper our newspaper's predilection with the bleakness of our existence. Pages and pages of tales (true, no doubt) of exploitation, corruption, scandal, terror, cheating, rape, murder... is this really worth the time and trouble? I wonder...

 

This morning a friend wrote me a mail about the inanity of TV shows such as "Sach Ka Saamna" generally bemoaning about the declining values of our times. I replied (rather facetiously, I now think) why do you watch it then? I now realise this same rule applies to newspaper reading too. Why, at all, should I allow my morning to grow bleak by reading the paper? It has become an addiction that saps one's soul each morning.

 

Our Home Minister, the Minsiter for External Affairs, Prime Minister et al keep expressing their disappointment, frustration etc at Pakistan not acting against Hafez Saeed despite dossiers and dossiers of evidence given to that country about Saeed's involvement in 26/11. I read about this. Then on page 4 or 5 or 6 or 7 I read that "dreaded dacoit so-and-so" has been acquitted by this or that High Court for want of evidence! Our own courts do not recognise "evidence" and "investigation" by our "premier" agency the CBI. What a mockery?! Moninder Singh Pander of Nithari walks free?

 

Occasionally a gem shines, making the morning worthwhile - yesterday, for instance, a simple statement by a Dalit primary teacher: I no longer remove my slippers and hold it in my hands when a Thakur walks by.

 

Yes, some things HAVE changed....

 

Sats

Mumbai saga - in relentless pursuit

Originally written on 9th Sep., 2009

Finally, it seems as if I'm getting to see SOME light on that very elusive name, "N M Joshi Marg".... and for those of you who're wondering why I'm seemingly obsessed with that one name/road, well, what can I say?

 

Each day as I sit in my office and happen to look out of my window I see N M Joshi Road - well, that's actually a lie, what I get to see is a thick carpet of vehicles spread all across that road. But, I digress - you get the point, I'm sure, this road has become so much a part of my sub-conscious mind and it S-T-R-E-T-C-H-E-S all the way from Byculla till the end of the world!!

 

So, without more ado, here's what I've gleaned.

 

From my father-in-law who's 88 now (and let me say "Thank you, God!") I got the first clue - he was a union leader, helped organise mill workers, and my f-i-l also recollected that N M Joshi had already "passed on" by the time my f-i-l arrived in Mumbai circa 1963. So, there it was, just that tantalising bit - a union leader, not (as I suspected) a freedom fighter (remember Sane Guruji and Senapati Bapat)..

 

Today, I stumbled across a little bit more info on N M Joshi - in 1925 Shri N M Joshi introduced a private members bill in the Central Legislative Assembly, the Indian Trade Unions Act. The British Government promised him that it would introduce a Bill to this effect and, accordingly, in 1926 the Indian Trade Union Bill was passed into law. N M Joshi is, therefore, considered the father of the Indian Trade Union Movement.

 

One regret, still.... what does N M represent? Narayan Manohar, Narendra Madhavrao, any guesses?

 

Sats

PS: I've learnt, later, courtesy my thambi (younger brother) who was in Dubai back then (in 2009) - and courtesy a colleague - NM Joshi is Narayana Malhar Joshi..

Mumbai Saga - a slight detour

Originally written on 8th September 2009

Among the many roads, chowks and other places of public "interest" (is that the right word?) that have caught my attention, here's one...

 

As one crosses from Dr. Ambedkar Road to Sane Guruji/NM Joshi Road near Elphinstone Station, just before the railway bridge on the left hand side is located Ramachandra Kashinath Shirodkar Market - oops! Did I get that right, or is it Kashinath Ramachandra Shirodkar Market? There's a plaque and a neat little statue of a rather nattily dressed (late?) Mr. Shirodkar. One day I WILL get off my car and stop to read that plaque to know a li'l bit more about him and the market too. But, as always following Sir Isaac and his third law indirectly, there's got to be a cause & effect, no? Shirodkar is a name that owes existence to Shiroda and while there may be other Shirodas in existence I am reminded of the one that I personally know....

 

Goa - ahhh, beaches, shacks, fish, feni, cashew nuts, a 2 day package tour, Day 1 for North Goa & Day 2 for South Goa. Instant, ready mix tour packages are like instant coffee, not just the real thing. I speak from the experience of having lived 8 glorious years in that sun kissed state and having enjoyed every single moment of the stay. Forget the popular beaches, forget the popular shacks... Goa, to paraphrase Mohandas Karamchand, lives in its villages....

 

Fatorpa, Fatorda, Majorda, Sanquelim, Sanvordem, Sanguem, Collem, Mollem, Zambaulim - names that musically lilt in my ears years after I've come to Mumbai. One such place is Shiroda. Off the tourist map, on the road that goes winding leisurely (it IS Goa!) from Ponda to Sanvordem, crossing at some point the Zuari River at Borim... lush green, trees everywhere, people who instinctively know without ever having heard the term "work - life balance".....

 

And a temple. Shiroda's "own" Kamakshi, the diety having been brought to Shiroda from Raia in adjoining Salcette to escape the pillage of the marauding Portuguese - Kamakshi, in turn, bestowing Shiroda with some of the most beautiful stretches of riverine land. The temple itself is truly beautiful, old worldly and among the most peaceful spots in Goa

 

 

The next time you plan a trip to Goa, take the road less traveled and make a halt to meet Kamakshi - say my respects to her, please.

 

Meanwhile, I must find out more about Kashinath Ramachandra (or is it Ramachandra Kashinath?).

 

Have a lovely day!!

Disconnected thoughts.....

Originally written, by me, on 3/9/2009

I wonder how many of you have a liking for English Poetry... many years ago I fell in love with English poetry, one of the reasons being my school teacher. Joycelin James imbued in me a lasting love for English... if I could meet him today, I would pay my deep respects to him. I read - a lot. Pulp fiction, novels, non - fiction etc... and, sometimes, when life looks too grey, classical or renaissance poetry. Words and works of Keats, Byron, Coleridge (he gives me goose pimples!), Shelley, Tennyson.. modern poets, Yeats, Eliot etc..

 

This is nonsense that I write, a large mug of beer in hand, simply because I've just spent a most memorable evening with myself.... I started off (as usual) on a tangent and am now connecting the stuff....

 

Among the most beautiful poems I've read is a John Keats' work "On First Reading Chapman's Homer"... where Keats describes his joy on getting to know a new experience.... I've had such a moment today, an epiphany!! Someone (Chandra, may I publicly thank you?) sent me a link to YouTube and a collection of old Hindi songs... my evening started at 7:20 with Manna Dey's glorious voice "Ae Mere Pyaare Watan" from "Kabuliwala"... the song, by itself, has always stirred my heart... what made the evening memorable was my "DISCOVERY" that YouTube offers a mammoth collection of music.... no more radio jockey nonsense, I had 90 minutes of listening to the music that moves my soul.......................

 

KJ Yesudas' Carnatic Classical, Pandit Jasraj, old Tamil songs from the 60's & 70's, Malayalam songs from the same era, Suresh Wadkar singing a NEPALI song (Wadkar is as melodious as always!).... what can I say? Lights switched off, a dark room lit just by the glow of my monitor, beer in hand, Balamuralikrishna rendering "Endaro Mahanubavulu"... no cell phone, no conversation.... I've just discovered heaven. And, so, like Keats on discovering Chapman's Homer,

 

 ............... like some watcher of the skies
 When a new planet swims into his ken;
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
 He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise —
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien.................

 

I have discovered a new heaven and, like a delighted child, am keen to share this joy with you........

 

On a disconnected note, a thought that's been in my mind for a couple of days... the comfort of "familiarity". Ever wondered how we feel slightly uncomfortable in an unfamiliar surrounding? How certain things are "all right" simply because "that's the way it's always been"?

 

I pride myself on being gender "liberal" (whatever THAT means!) - women are, in fact, better than men in handling most situations. I've "overcome" my initial "outrage" (opps!!!) of women that smoke... have still been hung up on women who do not wear a "bindi". Somehow, an Indian lady (yes, LADY!) looks much better when she wears a bindi - yeah, that's a very personal statement, I know (welcome all the brickbats!)... perhaps, (I'm yet to analyse this fully) the feeling stems from seeing my mom grow "OLD" in January 1989... Suseela, ever beautiful, simply aged overnight when she stopped wearing the bindi after my Dad passed away.. I stil look at those photos of my mother, the strength and arrogance that simply vanished.....

 

Here's Wikipedia on "Bindi":  The area between the eyebrows (where the bindi is placed) is said to be the sixth chakra, ajna, the seat of "concealed wisdom". According to followers of Hinduism, this chakra is the exit point for kundalini energy. The bindi is said to retain energy and strengthen concentration. ^[4] It is also said to protect against demons or bad luck.

 

A small dot, a big smile on my face.

 

Sats

Being a "MOTHER"

Originally written, by me, on 29/08/2009

Last week, I'd been on a short trip to Bharuch for some work. Traveled by the Shatabdi Express (which, by the way, is now rather sleek!) - if I have a complaint about this train, it is only this: they feed you constantly!!! It IS a bit too much...

 

Across the aisle from me (the train wasn't too crowded, thankfully) a lady was seated with her 2 children. A boy, around 5 years old and a girl, perhaps 2 years. Some of you who know me well would know that I adore kids and get into conversations with them. This time, things were different - the boy was quiet, it was clear that he was missing his father. The girl, on the other hand, was a real pest! Constantly poking & pinching her brother, she would bawl loudly and throw a tantrum, screaming at the top of her voice (and, WHAT a voice!!) when he'd push her hand away... she was getting on my nerves. The man seated adjacent to me was muttering under his breath, grumbling about the child's behaviour...

 

The mother? Patience, personified, kept consoling the boy AND the girl - unflappable, never once raising her voice, her even tempered nature served only to infuriate us (my neighbour and myself) even more...

 

I'd boarded the train at Bharuch, around 5:15 - within minutes the attendant had served a samosa, a sweet, 2 chocolates, and a tetrapack juice. Ten minutes later it was tea/coffee! Half an hour later, soup and bread sticks. At 7, dinner! Finally, dessert was an ice cream.. I had the first, the soup and refused the rest. But, here's where this mail comes from... 

 

The mother fought a losing battle trying to get her daughter to eat anything - she also could manage to get the boy to eat just the samosa and soup. She looked tired, fatigued - I could also gather, from her cell phone conversations (why do people talk loudly? - that's another topic!!) that Mumbai was only a halt on her way to Dubai... a long night, head. But, the look on her face, as she fed ice cream to the children... the sheer depth of love that shone through... that expression of unblemished love made me realise this. How much ever I might have thought that the girl was a brat, to the mother the girl was (and perhaps always will remain) an angel.. Being a mother, I guess, is being constantly in love.........

A "paradox" called WOMAN

Originally written, by me, on 28/07/2009

This may come as something "off - beat" to you all. But hey, so what?

 

Coming down to work this morning, somewhere near Dadar I stopped at a traffic light when a contract bus pulled alongside. The day had been bright and sunny, not much sign of rain (how sad, no?). One of the windows in the bus had been pulled down in "shut" position and the lady at the window seat was struggling to get it open. A man from the seat behind her got up - I guess it would have been her colleague, for this seemed to be a bus on contract to ferry employees - and, after a brief effort he got it up and bolted. So what's great about this, you wonder?

 

Well, the fact is, I've been toying with an idea (very nascent, nebulous) of doing a book titled "Through My Windshield" and this is a classic example of what sets my brain (?) going. What I saw was this - as the man tried to open the window the lady had her lips pursed tight, as if it was she who was doing the work. That was one.

 

Second, when the window was finally open the look in her eyes was one of admiration at the man's "strength" (is that the word, I wonder?) - and THAT is what gives birth to this mail.

 

How is it that "WOMAN" who is actually much, much stronger - physically as well as emotionally - feel so "weak" in small things as this? I know for a fact that most men would crash from sheer fatigue if asked to live the daily routine of any average woman (Guys, back off before you get outraged!). 

Waking up early, getting the tea/coffee prepared, filling up the water, getting the milk, waking up the kids, getting them to brush their teeth, getting them to drink their milk, have their breakfast ready in time before they catch the schoolbus, lunch, coordinating with the maid, getting breakfast ready, washing vessels, washing clothes, ironing, packing the husband's lunch, (boy, I'm tired just listing these tasks out) going to work, catching the train, catching up with friends, catching a quick power nap if one's lucky, ...... sheesh!!! 

To add to these "daily routines" just imagine "THAT TIME OF THE MONTH" when despite everything the routine must go on (wasn't it Raj Kapoor who said "The show must go on"?). And, finally, childbirth..... can any male ever even begin to imagine the strength needed to withstand that pain?

 

And yet, the look on her face as her colleague opened that teeny bloody window? Funny, no?

 

Women - I will never understand them. But, boy, here's a big salute to all of them.

 

Sats

A couple of quotes, before I send this out:

 

Whatever women do they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good.  Luckily, this is not difficult.  ~Charlotte Whitton

The two women exchanged the kind of glance women use when no knife is handy.  ~Ellery Queen