Losing Grip!!

There we were, three of us, standing on the platform at Vapi Railway Station, Gujarat. We'd just finished a morning session with a client, at Daman and were now en-route to Baroda (ok, if you insist, Vadodara - kem che?).

My travelling companions, one of them, Suresh, aged around the same as me - nothing confidential about it, I'm 48 (though there are days when I'm older than the hills and there are days when I feel fresher than a teenager) now. The other was my colleague, Rushikesh, a youngster, lovable, hard working, full of fresh ideas and energy, around 28. 

It was a hot, humid day and we were thirsty. Walking up to the stall, I picked up two bottles, Aquafina. Gave one to my contemporary and kept one for myself - Rushi, my young friend was not thirsty. Even before I could take a sip, we boarded the train that was already there at the platform. Settled down, the chair car was roomy with more leg space than the Shatabdi. Stretched our legs out, continued making small conversation. 

Suresh cracked open the cap of the bottle of water, took a long swig, heaved a satisfied sigh, settled back, and continued talking. I, thirsty too, took my bottle. Aquafina is such a wonderful, refreshingly tasty bottled water brand. I've spoken about this to some others, too, and all of them have been unanimous - there IS something, slightly different, something quite indefinable but it IS there, that Aquafina "taste". And, given a choice, when I buy a bottle of water, I usually ask for and insist on AF.

So, being thirsty, I opened my bottle. Pretty simple, that operation. 

Step one: take bottle, place it in the left hand.

Step two: open with right hand (unscrew anticlockwise to open)

Step three: Drink. 

Step four: Sigh with deep satisfaction.

So, step one - check, done. 

And step two - eh?! Not done. Something wrong. The damn cap was tight. 

No matter. Some little bit more effort. After all, it is only a mere plastic cap! No matter? No dice, no luck, that cap, that mere cap remained capped. It did not budge. 

Mind you, this is broad daylight, bright afternoon, and that too in a public place. One more attempt, this time with all the strength that I could muster, my face imitating the expressions on Rafael Nadal's as he serves up an almighty huge ace. You know that look? Eyes go half closed and crossed, the face contorting, lips torn into a snarl, kind of look. 

Rafa can do it, serving up an ace, on call, on tap, anytime he wants. 

I'm not Rafa. 

That damned bottle remained unfazed by my expressions, my effforts and, like the RBI Governor refusing to heed the poor Finance Minister on interest rates, remained unmoved. Bloody status quoist.

By now I'm embarrassed - defeated by a bottle (water, that too! Pshaw! Shame on me!!)

Suresh is now watching me, with interest. So is a lady across the aisle. And the lady next to her. And that little eight year old boy in the seat ahead of me, across the aisle. I am dark skinned - it is not easy for me to blush. I did. My face felt warm with a suffusion of blood. 

Suresh by now is wearing a smile, broad, stretched from ear to ear and asks me "What happened? You can't open that bottle? Give it here!" and grabs it from me. I think he need not have spoken so loudly, damn him! I'm not very happy to hand over the bottle to him but he really didn't give me a choice. "How rude", I thought, "the way he grabbed MY bottle!" 

That sneering look on his face as he casually opened the cap - talking all the while, easiest thing in the world, really, to open a bottle. Only, that sneering look on his face gave way to bafflement, bewilderment and finally frustration. The bottle remained stubborn, mule like, unopened and immovable. Suresh, a lot more fairer than God ever intended me to be, was getting red, redder and rude. "Damn it!" he exclaimed, looking up reluctantly, unwilling to make eye contact with me."This is a manufacturing defect!" he sputtered. 

I smiled, unsympathetically, at his eventual emasculation and gave him an "I told you so!" look. "Schadenfreude!!" I said to myself and took that blasted bottle back. By now, my young friend, Rushi, was also aware, thanks to Suresh's loud remarks. Rushi wants to help and offers, without words, by just stretching out his hand. 

Vapi to Baroda (OK, I see you insist - Vadodara! Theek che?!) takes around 3 hours I think. 

I dozed a bit, spent some time reading, some time gazing out of the window, some time talking with Suresh etc. But, for the most part of that journey I watched, silently, engrossed, as Rushi tried to open that bottle of Aquafina. Vestal virgins were more amenable to giving up their virginity, I tell you! That bottle remained unopened that entire journey. Rushi tried opening it - anticlockwise, clockwise, vertical, horizontal, every which way one could think of and then some. 

He too made faces - all those expressions ranging from aforesaid Nadal, Charlie Chaplinesque, why even Sivaji Ganeshan!! ZILCH. NADA. Nothing doing. That cap did not move one micomillimetre. Taking pity on him I told Rushi "Give up, we've reached Baroda!"

And getting off that train, going over to the guest house that night, and, on reaching being welcomed by a short, diminutive caretaker who barely topped 5 feet.... we had some time to ourselves, bathed, changed our clothes etc and then assembled in the living room. Asked the caretaker for a glass of cool water, suddenly remembered that Rushi had carried that cursed bottle of Aquafina. 

Handed over that self same bottle to this Lilliput and told him to throw it away. Lilliput, indignant at this criminal wastage, demands to know "Why?!" So we told him, near unanimously, with a lot of heat and vehemence "That f^%#*ng bottle does not open - just throw the damn thing away!" 

And Lilliput nods, takes the bottle in his left hand, unscrews it with his right hand, opens the cap, takes a long drink out of it. 

We gape. Silently. And gaze at each other. 

A bottle of water - Rs.20/-

Train Fare from Vapi to Baroda - Rs.400/-

The look/expression on our faces - Unforgettable! 

Father, Dear Father..

This whole thing about "Father's Day" is, like Valentine's Day and/or Mother's Day, such an obvious marketing ploy. Every time I switch on my radio, regardless of the station - no, sorry I am wrong and I apologise, thankfully our very own All India Radio has not yet succumbed - every OTHER radio station has been bombarding listeners with profound questions such as "Why is your Dad your HERO?" (free gift of Godrej natural hair colour dyes for your Hero dad - or whatever!). 

Anyway, not being immune to such incessant and unsubtle bombardment, increasingly these last few days I've found myself thinking of my dad, dear departed soul - and, have caught myself wondering, too, about my dear departed (to foreign shores) son and wondering "Have I been half as good a father as mine was?" Well, frankly, I have no clue. My son and I communicate only on a "need to know" basis, the CIA would have been proud of us. Or, perhaps, even the Mafia. Il Cosa Nostra, eh, what? 

Come to think of it, my father and I (well, to be frank, my father and the whole world, apparently) also used to communicate on the same "need to know" with the only difference being that my dad had a much lesser need to know/let me know. We communicated, mostly, in grunts (from his side) and words of not more than two syllables (mine). His grunts could not, by any stretch of imagination, be called "friendly", but then, again, neither were they "hostile". I suspect he grunted because he had gotten so used to that strong, silent, image - Marlon Brando aka Don Vito Corleone could pick up a trick or two there. 

A typical conversation would be like this. Me: "Good morning"; He: "Grhnhnn" sometimes accompanied by a neutral nod. And that would be it. As in, that would be the end of the conversation for a whole day. On days when he was talkative he would actually take the effort to ask me (or my brothers) "Where is the newspaper?". Which is fully THREE words more than that "Grhnhnn", please. And to which the appropriate response is NOT "It is on the table in the hall" or anything of that sort. THE prescribed response (the one that gets me/us full marks) is for us to get off our butt, go, get the paper, give it to him, silently, wait for him to nod, imperceptibly, and vanish. To expect that "Grhnhnn" at this point is asking for too much. He's exceeded his quota for the day, the next 2 days might very well go by without the monosyllabic "Grhnhnn". 

Quiet man. Strong. Silent. Could be loquacious, on occasion. As I discovered. To my wonder and joy, one day, in the most extenuating of circumstances. And which is why I write this piece, "Mera Daddy, Mera Hero" - not that the Godrej Natural Hair Colour Free Gift Pack would make any difference. He ain't around no more - and, even if he were, he never did have much hair, on his head I mean (hairy like a bear, otherwise, positively). And, even if he had, he would have given us a goofy smile if we would have dared to suggest he dye his hair. Not that we would. Dared I mean. As I mentioned, quiet man. Strong, silent - we weren't exactly AFRAID of him but hey, why take chances? 

Anyway, coming back to the "occasion". 1982. I've just joined Vivekananda College, Madras (yeah, Madras, before those ...whatever), "pursuing" (why "pursuing" - was it running away, trying to escape me?) higher studies, B.Com. Evening college, classes from 5:30 to 8:30 p.m. 

First week in college, new acquaintances to meet, new bonds of friendship to strike and all that. Bonhomie. Good cheer. Fun. Etc. You get the picture. Except, this was Vivekananda College, allegedly the worlds most staid, boring, "disciplined" school where students were expected to behave as if "higher education" was even worse that kindergarten. Lecturers with a natural inclination to behave like Dementors, sucking all the joy out of one. Got the picture now? And so it was, one evening, we're sitting in class, lecturer not yet  apparated and suddenly the lights go out! There's a power outage. Darkness everywhere. And general, happy pandemonium. All around, classmates shouting, caterwauling and making a general ruckus. 

Equally suddenly the lights come on, again and even as the class continues to have a ball, shouting, throwing notebooks up in the air, etc, there's this short little figure of the Vice Principal, dressed all in white, standing and sputtering and looking completely astonished as if a hundred baboons had suddenly accosted him in the passage. He would have screamed at us but for the fact that he was gasping for breath and making strange gurgling noises at the back of his throat. Finally, in the same time that one by one the whole class became aware of his presence, he too gained composure. And, immediately, began expostulating, randomly picking out three of us, including poor, innocent me. "You, You and You - yesss, you" he lisped, "Assk your phather to meet me tomorrow, I will ssseee that you are ssussspended" he lisped and marched out. 

We ran after him, remonstrating our innocence - to no avail. He remained lispingly impervious. "I have ssaid what I have to ssay, bring your phaterss tomorrow" he said with finality. 

Returning home that night, with trepidation I broached this topic - to my mother, afraid to directly speak to "phather". Half an hour later she assured me that "All is well". I was to go the next evening to my dad's office and then we were to go together to college. Next evening I reached his office. He was busy. A big meeting going on - he was, at that time, working with the municipal agency responsible for Madras city's water supply, and, as always, there was a water crisis. No matter. Dad glanced at his watch, told his colleagues to carry on and walked out with me. 

On the way to college he asked me to explain what happened. I did. Succinctly but accurately. He wanted to know what time the Vice Principal would meet us, since he had to get back to his meeting. I had no clue but did mention that he (the V.P) would normally be in his chamber by 5. We reached, walked up to the V.Ps chamber and met up with the other 2 students. One of them had come with his mother, instead of the phather. We exchanged nervous smiles, we three classmates, and the mother and the other phather. My dad had no time for smiles, for minor pleasantries. I told you, quiet, silent types... Marched in to the cabin, announced his presence, his identity as my dad and demanded to know why he was called. 

The Vice Principal, looking forward with relish to the encounter, went into a long story of all the many and various transgressions committed by the three of us. He waxed, eloquently, on our complete and utter lack of discipline, our misbehaviour and even our abysmal, poor attendance. Dad held up his hand, gestured to him to pause, turned and asked me "What's this I hear about your attendance? Explain!" Honestly, since it had been a mere week since college had started my attendance was exemplary, 100%. Confidently I told my dad that. Turning to the VP, dad said "You said his attendance is poor? I want to see the register right now". Realising that he might have blundered, the poor man began to stutter and stammer sibilantly. "No, no, it is not about attendance only, look at the dissipline. Thesse boyss are a bad exsample" Unmoved, dad repeated "I want to see the attendance record NOW" leaving the poor man with no choice but to send for the same. Hey Presto, all three of us had an unblemished attendance record! 

Fixing the poor, hapless Vice Principal with a cold, disdainful look Dad said "I want my son out of this college right now! In all his 12 years of schooling he's never been cited for indiscipline. And here, within the very first week you've called me to meet you for indiscipline?! And what do I find? You, the Vice Principal, YOU are lying shamelessly!! I do not want my son studying in such a poor environment!!" 

Looking back, I kind of feel sorry for that man. He was completely unprepared to deal with this. He had no clue. Remember, Shoaib Akhthar castling Sachin with that perfect yorker? That look of amazed perplexity? I've seen that before, in 1982. Net result, Vice Principal apologising, father ungraciously agreeing to let me continue to study in that college. Game, set and match! 

I told you, Dad could - at times - be loquacious. My HERO!

Later that night, on reaching home, my mother wanted to know the details. Dad had already reached home but had not filled her in beyond a minimalistic "No problem". So I told her. And she asked for more details. You know, "who said what, to whom, in what tone of voice, and then what happened, and then who said what" and all that. So I told her, as much as I could, till I ran out of patience too. 

Next day, "Good morning" I said. "Grhnhnn" he said. All is well. 

Caught in the middle

 You know how it is when you're spending much of your working day driving around amchi Mumbai, meeting clients across the city. So, there I was, a couple of months back when summer was still around. Early May, sweltering under a cloudless scorching sun, cooling myself in the comfort of an air-conditioned car (and raising a smiling eyebrow at the memory of an ex-colleague, Aditya Kulkarni, now in Dubai who used to say "The man who invented air-conditioning? HE is GOD!!"....

Anyway, so there I was, at the Amar Mahal junction, stopped at a traffic light, around 3 or so. Blistering heat outside. Me, keeping cool, listening to some old Hindi songs on the radio. And, as usual, looking out at life in the metro. 

Three young girls, by the side of the road. Looking like school girls, perhaps 16 - 17 years of age. Dressed "hip" - jeans, tee-shirts etc. One of them wearing a shoulder bag, carrying books perhaps. Two of them are in what appears to be an argument. (The traffic lights at Amar Mahal take quite some time, as you might perhaps know)

The two girls have been arguing and the intensity of that argument appears to be increasing. The third one, quiet, not involved in this fight, looks around, obviously embarrassed at the "scene" that's taking place. I watch, interested to see how she reacts. The other two, oblivious to the potential embarrassment, have kind of "peaked" their disagreement - one of them stomps off, in a huff. The other flounces her hair and turns her back and appears to peremptorily command the quiet girl to come with her. Miss Quiet is reluctant, wants to strive for a rapprochement and goes running after the Miss Walk Away. 

Grabs her hand, pleads with her, and drags her back to Miss Flouncing. And then she talks to both of them. All this within less than a minute. She tries to make peace, to make both of them shake hands, or whatever. I'm smiling now. And then, suddenly, I am not. Smiling, I mean - not any more.

How often have you seen men get into fights by the side of the road? Growing up in Madras (before those Kazhagam guys went and made it Chennai), I've witnessed many a "fight" where the two protagonists swear vulgar abuses (and speaking of vulgar abuses, I doubt if any other language can stoop to the depths of a Madrasi's Tamil - that's a separate story!). Anyway, the two protagonists, each having first ensured that they are effectively held back by supporters, throw several punches in the air, careful not to hit the opponent. That's the ritual (with some genuine exceptions - which, too, is a separate story)

Coming back, why I was no longer smiling. The Miss Quiet, seeking to bring about peace, suddenly becomes a victim - Miss Walk Away, with no prior warning, suddenly cocks her right hand back, lets loose one solid punch with a tightly closed fist, right into the girls chin. WHAM! Out of nowhere! Miss Quiet lets out a kind of surprised "Woof" and goes down to her knees, another punch follows to the head and there she is, flat out, kayoed perhaps...

The blare of horns from vehicles behind shake me up, the traffic light's green, I engage gears and move on leaving behind me an incomplete story of a quiet girl caught in the middle.... 

Monday blues.....

It was on Friday afternoon/evening that I came down with the flu. A running nose, certainly running faster than Mumbai's local trains, saw me reach home earlier than usual. The weekend went by in a haze of Vicks Vaporub, D'Cold, Erythromycin and such other futile weapons in that battle against the flu. Confined to bed I stayed glued to the telly watching first Maria, and then David, go down tamely to Serena and Rafa. Not that I was complaining but dammit, those matches seemed so lopsided and mismatched.

Waking up to an overcast and droopingly wet Mumbai sky this Monday morning. Opened the windows to see the railway tracks behind my building resembling an impromptu swimming pool - and then, a bare fifteen minutes later heard a loud thud and a rumble, as if a roll of thunder. A portion of the boundary wall came tumbling down. Water gushed around here and there eddying like some rapids and the skies overhead grew ever more wetter. The running nose, by the way, remained in the race to be wetter than Mumbai's roads and faster than Mumbai's locals....

Nursing a sore throat, body aches all around etc, sipping listlessly at the filter coffee and turning the pages of the Indian Express listlessly, one was down and out, defeated by the energy sapping cold and cough. And finally, casting the paper aside, I took up the Business Standard supplementary "The Strategist" and turned with a death wish to "The Strategist Quiz" (No:308, by the way)..

Back in the days when one was in school/college one prided oneself on one's "general knowledge" - the arcane trivia of "who wrote/said what", "who did what to whom", etc. Currencies, capitals, heads of state, important dates in history, scientific inventions/discoveries, cricketing scores and all kinds of "all important stuff". For about a year now, each Monday has been a exercise in annihilating one's sense of self worth and ego. The BS quiz has a mere ten questions. So, over the course of a year of 52 weeks, of the 520 questions that I've read I've probably known the answers to around 20, possibly two dozen. With each attempt I shake my head in disbelief and the sheer extent of my ignorance. 

The crazy thing is each week I am back, to get another pounding, and am none the wiser because the answers to one week's quiz is given in the next but I am too lazy to go hunting for the previous week's questions. The end result, the answers are there, staring me in the face and I'm damned if I know what the question was in the first place! I continue, therefore, to exist, under an ever deepening cloud of ignorance. 

Will someone tell the BS to shift this damn quiz to some other, more appropriate, day? Wednesday, perhaps? Monday mornings are blue enough already!!