The Eye of the Needle

 Back in the 1980s I was a young(er) man. And a more voracious reader than I now am. And, back then, my reading was almost entirely fiction - over time, the market share of fiction has come down to around 50% which is still not bad 😁

Anyway.. back in the 80s there was this book, by Ken Follet, titled "Eye of the Needle" (they also made a movie, starring Donal Sutherland and Kate Nelligan, if I'm not mistaken, a damn good flick too, ALMOST as good as the book)

        

Back in the 80s,too, I used to go past the mosque at Thousand Lights, in Madras, on my way to school - and, on the outside walls they had painted several verses from the Quran of which one, particularly, stuck i mind (for the imagery, I guess). It said, "Verily, verily, I say unto thee, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter Heaven"

Back in the 80s (and even in the 90s) I was a young(er) man. And the eye of the needle was something that I was familiar with. Buttons would come off my shirts, hooks off trousers, and the like. And a needle and thread used to be a handy thing in my travel kit. And threading a needle was child's play. Back then....

When was the last time YOU did that? Threading a needle? The process has not changed in perhaps 2000 years. 

Apparatus required: One Needle, one roll of thread.   

Procedure: Wet the tip of the thread to make the end stand straight. Pass it through the eye. Simple. Or, to be a Hercule Poirot, "Voila!"

As I said, the process has not changed.

So, there I was, yesterday, doing just that. One needle - check! A roll of thread (white colour) - Check. Wet the tip of the thread - check! And... "Voila"? Well, not exactly.

In fact not at all. Instead of a simple "Voila", I found myself smiling at my ineptitude - at first. I tried again. And smile some more. And tried again. A tiny frown, now, because I needed to con-cen-trate. And tried again. That frown? It grew into a grimace. A small muttered oath escaped my lips. And I tried again. A bigger, more pungent oath this time. And again, the oath now in Hindi (stronger, Indian masala) 

And thus it went. On & on.

What was that lesson about Robert Bruce and the spider? If at first you don't succeed, try, try and try again... 8 times that spider climbed and climbed to only fall? And succeeded on the 8th attempt? Or 9th? Whatever crap.... I did a spider, I did a Bruce and then, after perhaps 10 attempts, I gave it all up, threw the effing needle and thread away, threw my bleddy spectacles away too, threw my crappy hands up in the air and did what any sensible idiot/fool would have done at the very beginning...

Learn from the Yankees, I say.

I outsourced the bleddy job. One needle, one roll of thread, one maidservant who was in earshot. Job done!

And oh, one thing. Before I forget. Slight change in specs.

Apparatus required: One Needle. One Roll of Thread. One Pair of Good Eyes. There! Now you know. 

She - II (A short narrative)

She sat in a corner, numb. Eyes staring into nothingness. Too empty to feel even grief. There was nothing left inside her, nothing. Not even an ache where her heart was. Eyes dry, bereft of tears, bereft even of expression.

 

There may have been, perhaps, regret - if her mind was capable of thought. An onlooker would not have noticed it, though, she seemed lost, far away.

From where I stood, she looked frail, short and disheveled. No, more than disheveled she looked dispirited. I gestured to the uniformed lady, eyebrows raised. The name tag on her sari read Sujata Dumbhare. Sujata called out in a not unkind voice, 'Vaishali Pradhan, Vaishali Pradhan! Come here!"

A silence fell on the room. The low murmured chit chat from the rest of the inmates died away. All eyes turned to the corner, an expectant hush in the air. 

She stayed there, unresponsive. No change of expression in her eyes, on her face. She was not there. With a sigh of annoyance but tempered by an unaccustomed kindness the warden unlocked the door to the cell, giving a stern warning to the others to stay where they were. As she reached Vaishali's corner I noticed how gently she reached down to tap her shoulder. 

A blank look as she turned her gaze, looking up at the warden. A brief exchange of whispered instructions. And, dully, without any resistance Vaishali allowed herself to be coaxed into getting up. 

She half stumbled her way across the cell, to the door and past it until she stood in front of me. She looked at me without really seeing, waiting for something or nothing. She simply stood there, uncaring, unseeing, simply because she had been brought there, to this spot. I looked at her. She was not pretty, not good looking - just your average, normal, lower class maid servant type woman. A simple cotton saree, a loose blouse that was clearly a hand me down from somewhere, a bindi - vermilion on her forehead. A face that seemed older, much older than the 24 years that I knew she was. I gestured to her to follow Sujata and me to the interview room, a semi private section down the corridor where we could speak without the raucous din of the general cell.

Sujata led the way, Vaishali in the middle while I followed close behind. Reaching the room, Sujata left us with a simple "Call me if you need anything" and we sat down, facing each other across a small table. 

Silence hung heavy while I looked at her face, while she looked at nothing. A few seconds passed as I gathered my thoughts and then gently broke the silence. In a few quick sentences I told her who I was, and how the District Legal Aid system had assigned me, Radhika, to be her lawyer. I introduced my rather short career (just 2 years out of law college, struggling, burning with idealism seeking to do the right thing) and ended with the hope that we could work together and see how best I could help her.

It was like talking to a wall. Or a table. I wasn't sure that she heard one word. In a tone sharper than I should have used, I asked her, "Did you hear what I said just now?" 

That seemed to get through, just a little. Desultory, but finally some response. She nodded. A half nod, actually. Encouraged, but still a bit riled (who wants to waste time talking to a wall?) I said quickly, slightly loudly, "Tell me what happened?"

Vaishali's story:

There was no food in the house. The children were hungry. Somehow, yesterday, I managed to bring home a little food. The lady at whose house I worked, she had some leftover food. Just a little, but I could give it to the 2 kids. Jyoti, my elder daughter (poor thing, she's only 8 years) had to go to Madam's house to collect it. I was unable to go, no? Because of my condition. And HE, that useless, good for nothing fellow? He was not to be seen only. Anyway, so Jyoti went and got the food, in that plastic dabba. She and Arjun ate it all. They're good children, both of them. Despite everything. Poor, good souls. What will happen to them? (She broke down, sobbing, burying her face in her hands)

(After a little pause, she resumed)

I didn't have anything. I wasn't hungry, much. So I drank water. And slept. Or tried to. Jyoti was at home, little girl trying to do all the work. Arjun had gone to play. And this little one,the baby, she was crying. Crying. Crying all the time. She was tiny, feeble, even her voice was weak. What else could she do but cry, cry, and cry? Or sleep, sleep and sleep? I knew she was not keeping well. I knew she was having a fever. When I took her frail, five day old body in my hands to try and feed her, I could feel her little body as if it was on fire.. and what am I saying, "feed her"? What could I feed her? (Suddenly she drops her pallu, her blouse seems empty, two tiny breasts barely making a dent underneath the cloth) Look at these! See? Like little dried onions?!! What will I feed her??

(She looks at me with bitter anger, hopeless defiance, challenging me to make and hold eye contact. I try. And fail. Looking away, I whisper, "Go on". Anger giving way to despair, she resumes)

Anyway, that was before.. before THAT day... a bitter laugh, she looks down, eyes resting on her hands resting on her lap. (My eyes follow hers, I look at those hands, those slender, long fingers, her nails painted a cheap bright red - like blood? I shuddered, looked away.)

That day, (Vaishali resumed) he left early even before any of us woke up. I was tired, didn't even have the energy to get up from the bed. Jyoti woke up first and I saw her, poor thing, sweep the house.  A glass of water was all she had before she went out. I tried calling out, to ask her where she was going. She said something, about milk or perhaps tea, or something and she was gone. Arjun was still sleeping, it was around 7, maybe more. I finally got up and went, washed myself, and came back. The little one was sleeping, thank God for THAT I thought to myself. I dreaded what would happen if she woke up. The poor thing, I thought to myself. I looked at that tiny face. 

Thoughts came, unbidden, to my mind. Bad thoughts, I know, but they still came... What to do? It is not as if I wanted to (her voice trailed off. A couple of moments of awkward silence, before she resumed)

I am tired, didi (she said). Look at me! How old do you think I am? Do I look like I am 24? Anyone would think I am a grandmother, that's how I look! And that useless drunkard, all he does is loaf around all day, get drunk, come home and fight. He beats the children, he beats me and then he falls asleep. At least if he sleeps, that is bearable but NO! He will wake up all horny as hell, with that rod between his legs taking a life of its own!

That time too, he pushed me down, climbed on top of me and did what he wanted to. I tried fighting. I begged, I cried, I told him to at least wear a condom. Will he listen, that bastard?! It is of no use he simply turns deaf and does what he wants to and then rolls off.That night I did something I'd never done before. I was desperate so I went to the toilet and washed myself down there, cleaned out whatever I could, even took a bit of cloth and inserted it as deep as I could, hoping that I could remove his filthy seed. For ten minutes, maybe more, I tried everything to clean myself up before I came back to sleep.

(With a forlorn shake of her head, she resumed) Anyway, in a month or so, I knew I was in trouble. No periods, there I was, despite all the washing and cleaning and praying, pregnant once again. I hoped, waited for a few days, praying that the bleeding would start. Nothing. I was desperate. There was no way that I could afford to be pregnant once again. Not with that bastard husband behaving the way he is. 

Went to my mother's house for advice and help. Advice I got, in plenty, all of it useless. As always, she told me to "adjust" but that is not surprising at all. She has been doing exactly that all her life with a husband who is even more useless than mine! (Bitter laugh) Anyway, that was all she could offer so I came away, still wondering where to go, what to do. I think it was the next day, or a little while later, I was talking to "Madam" (the lady of the house where I worked). Madam is a moody lady, she listens sometimes, sometimes she can be quite abrupt and rude. One has to be careful and gauge her mood before speaking. 

That day she seemed in a good mood. We were alone so it must have been a weekday. Cautiously I opened the topic. Slowly, little by little, I told her my fears and, quite surprisingly, she was in a helpful mood. She told me about her own unwanted pregnancy, and how her husband and she went to the clinic for an abortion. She told me too about other things, how to prevent pregnancy permanently etc. She even spoke to her doctor and all. I asked her how much it would cost. She told me not to worry, and gave me some money for the operation - like a fool, I took the money. I should have told her to keep it herself!! (Her voice rose in anger, she was shouting at herself apparently. I asked her, "Why, what happened?")

I had not hidden the money, it was in the small cupboard. When he came home and changed his clothes, his eyes fell on the small bundle. It was 5,000 rupees. It stayed home for barely 3 hours, before he stole it from me - I begged, I pleaded, fell at his feet, tried to take it back from him. He kicked me in the stomach, called me all sorts of abusive filthy names and he was gone. My money too. He was not to be seen for 4 while days, god knows how much money went to drink and how much to those randis that he visits... I had to narrate the whole sorry story to madam. She wanted me to go to the police. Easy to say, no, go to the police?! Tell me, can people like us ever go there and get justice? What they will do? Pull him in and beat him in front of me and the children! How will that help? Will I get the money back? Where will the police be when he comes home again seeking revenge? Will they be there to ensure that he doesn't drink again? Bah!!

Madam refused to help, after that. She thinks I am a fool. She must be right. She's so different, no? Educated, independent and all. Not like us. Tell me, madam, does your husband beat you? (She looks at me. I don't reply, just show her by a shake of the head, "No" while remembering that one time when Girish held my neck in rage)

Anyway, why should I bore you. As you know, the baby was born last week. Jyoti was all excited, poor little thing. She as there at the government hospital all the time, she and my mother. It was a pre-mature baby, she was born one month before time. Poor thing was under weight too. Born hungry, destined to remain hungry, but with a voice! What a voice!! At the time of her birth her voice was loud, like a loud speaker. Even the nurses used to laugh and crack jokes, telling me she will be a political leader! (She smiles, wanly, at the week old memory) In two days I was back at home. And in all that time he didn't come to visit, not once! When we reached home he was there, lolling on the bed, watching some stupid show on TV.

All that he said was "One  more girl like you? Useless!" My heart sank. Is that all he has to say, I thought to myself. I showed him the baby, tried to get him to hold her for a minute. He simply got up, used an abusive word, and left home. 

That's how it has been. Not just now. That's how it has been for a long time. I am trying to remember, has he ever spoken tenderly, gently with me? Perhaps in the beginning, maybe a few times. But from the time Jyoti was born? He's been like this ever since. Not even when Arjun was born did he change... in fact, he's often... (her voice trails away here, drooping in defeat) 

So, THAT day, (incidentally, that's yesterday) Jyoti came back with a small plastic bag of tea and Parle biscuits. She had gone to the corner shop and swept the floor and washed some vessels to earn this. We had that, the three of us, Arjun, Jyoti and I. The little one was stirring awake. Her voice, which was so loud last week, had trailed off and was barely audible now. Weak from hunger, weak from fever, the poor thing suffered. I looked at her and my spirits sank. What am I going to do, I wondered? How do I feed her when I have nothing to give? Jyoti tried lifting her up but I told her to get ready for school and to take Arjun along She's a good girl, my Jyoti, always obedient and responsible. 

In a while the house was empty. The child was now in my lap. I was feeding her. An empty house, an empty pair of breasts. Nothing there, just the little thing sucking on a nipple, hungry for milk, hungry for life with no hope of anything... Alone, all alone, I looked down at her, at her face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth and lips moving, sucking at nothing, and nothing that I could do to change her fate.

In a flash I saw visions of her future. Darkness was all that I could see. A life of desperation, of suffering, of hunger, and sickness and beatings and worse. My heart swelled to bursting point. The little child, now realising that she was sucking on an empty bag began to cry. A small, weak voice but insistent, grating, getting on my nerves. I tried telling her "Keep quiet, keep quiet" over and over, but would she listen? No! She kept crying, squirming, twisting on my lap, in my arms... I can see her face now, I can see my hands now (she lifted her hands and looked at them, I looked too) and I can see my fingers, as I placed them around her neck and pressed and pressed and pressed, these nails puncturing that tiny neck until her face turned blue and she cried no more.

********************************************************************************************

She was discovered by a neighbour who, ironically, came into the hut wanting to borrow milk. Vaishali sat there, like a statue, with the dead child on her lap. Her hands still firmly around that yet to be named daughter's neck. 

*********************************************************************************************

"Why did you do it?" I asked in a horrified whisper.

"Because I loved her" the mother replied. 

***********************************************************************************************

         

  

All in a (sun)Day's work....

As one crosses IIT Powai and comes down, one has to take the side road, avoiding the flyover. Instead, 

I realised that I was getting on to the flyover, at a high speed, narrowly missing the parapet wall. I had been preoccupied, thinking about something important.

 

Ahead of me a container truck loomed. Very close. 

My foot hit the brake. Or tried to. Only, there was no brake! 

I was sitting in the rear seat. Alone. There was no one else in the car. No driver. No one. And I knew I had to do something, anything, to avoid the crash. 

I had to somehow move up, jump over, from the back seat to get into the driver's seat.  

Without feeling panic, I collected my thoughts. The hand brake. Climb up, into the narrow gap between the front seats. Racing at speeds faster than a Cray super computer, my brain told me in calm tones, "No can do. The impact will happen within 1 second. You will need 7 seconds to get into the driver's seat. There's only ONE thing that you can now do." 

Pause.

Nothing dramatic. 

The only thing left, before that fatal impact....

Wake up.

Satur Dayzzzzz

Aaah! Saturdays!! Did I spell that right? Naah, not right. Well, technically, in English, perhaps. But there's another way, a better way... S - A - T - U - R - D - A - Y - S. Now, THAT'S how you do it. Nice and easy, one moment at a time, stretched out, as much as one can... make each moment last, each moment count... reap the 100% dividend of sheer laziness...

What makes Saturday's even more special is the smug knowledge that there's one more lazy day in store. That's a bonus.

But Saturday, in and by itself has goodies in store for me.

First, the Business Standard. A paper that I "waste" good money on for 6 days a week. I'm sure there are folks out there who are avid readers of this (possibly respected) newspaper. I am sure their articles probably are well written, perhaps even well researched. But don't bother asking me. From Mondays through to Fridays, week after week, this paper has but just one sole use for me. The cryptic crossword and, to a slightly lesser extent, the sudoku. My mornings are an addiction to the filter coffee and the Indian Express. My evenings are an addiction to the sudoku and the cryptic c.w (and music and a nice glass of God's water, if you please)

But come Saturday, and the BS is a joy to read. The edit, penned by TN Ninan has been a joy to read for a long, long time. The double bonus, in recent years, has been to also have Shekhar Gupta's "National Interest" column too.

But what makes my Saturday truly, truly an indulgence of joy is a weekly blog by a man I now cherish as a friend. He has been a part time writer, a creative film maker and a full time wonderful human with a quirky view of life, a man who seems to share a secret knowledge that life is a big laugh and no, there's no point getting serious about this great big joke. Adi Pocha, whose once upon a time weekly column for the Indian Express, "Rebel Without A Clue" has now metamorphed into a weekly blog which he calls "My Friday Blog" but generously shares on a Saturday morning.... (if you wanna see his blog, here you go: https://adipocha.blogspot.in)

Saturday - and no, I'm too lazy to retype/re-spell it the correct way - becomes special with that triple treat of food for thought.

So, here's where I stand.

• Filter coffee - check
• IE - check
• Ninan - check
• Shekhar G - check
• Adi - double check.

Now what?

Of God, Gods and being Humane

For far too long I have been - for want of a better word - an "atheist".

I find it impossible to believe in the existence of a "God" (or multitudes of them) that is all knowing, all seeing, omnipresent etc. I do not believe in a 'divine plan' for mankind. 

I do hasten to confess, however, that I have no problem in going to temples (usually at the behest of the wife - 'god' save me from her looks if I don't!) or other places of worship. 

Including churches. Which are, generally, a bit cleaner and a lot quieter than many temples (with a few notable exceptions - Udupi, Sringeri, almost all the temples in Kerala) 

My familiarity with churches is a throwback to my school days, from classes 1 through 10. Studying in Christ Church High School, in Madras, a school that was built around a church, one could not but get real familiar with it. A towering, elegant steeple, a pristine prayer hall that had stained glass windows, nice comfortable pews AND a superb pipe organ - AND one Mr V Abraham, a history teacher who had a divine touch on the piano as well as with this magnificent pipe organ.

Memories of "church days" are usually memories of sitting comfortably on the benches under the blades of huge, really huge ceiling fans that rotated slowly, listening to the Padre's sleep inducing sermons and then standing up now and again to sing hymns in praise of Our Lord... 

Even then around the time I got to 9th or so, the first stirrings of questioning thought had been born. The seeds of un-belief were taking root in this rebellious mind.

In the years since I've been to temples, churches, gurudwaras and mosques, often as a tourist does, looking at the marvellous structures that man has built to glorify his Gods. 

I will not get into a debate with those who believe - you have your belief, it gives you strength and more. I'm glad for you - leave me to my godless world, in peace.

But I am, today, thinking. It is Easter, after all, and as the Christian world rejoices in the Resurrection of Christ, all those years of sermons by absolutely well meaning pastors ignite a small memory. 

What was Christ's message to man?

Did He not say, during the Sermon on the Mount, that He would introduce a new standard of righteousness that expanded on the Ten Commandments, which were at the heart of  Moses' law’s of prohibitions and commandments. “Thou shalt not kill” was no longer enough; Christ required His followers to reject hatred, be forgiving, and even love their enemies. He asked the people to change their hearts as well as their actions..

Are we worthy of Him, of His sacrifice? Even within the Christian world have we not riven His teachings into so many sectarian walls that war among themselves in His name?..

And in His name, or more accurately, under the PRETENCE of His name how many wars have been waged? 

If humanity can return to the basics of Humane thought, do we need Gods? 

Humane living. Now THAT is something I will subscribe to. Vasudaiva kutumbakam.... Like Christ's teachings, an ideal. 

Loopy Stuff - or, Devil in the Details!

The Devil, I've heard it said, is in the details. 

And so, therefore, by virtue of being born in the wrong side of September (which  makes me Virgo - Virgo, mind you, not vir...) 

I am preordained to be condemned. 

That sheet of paper on that table is not exactly straight.

The book on the bookshelf is not exactly straight up.

That bit of this, over there, is not exactly THAT.... 

You get the picture? 

That comma? The full stop. And all. And etc.,? So, Brit English (there's no other) says programme, no? 

Finicky.

Fastidious. 

Downright persnickety! 

That's me.

Which means what?

Nonsense rules the head and rompa/stomps all over the irrational heart!

So, as I stood in the showroom, checking out a variety of trousers... 

Texture.

Colour.

Cut.

Fit. 

Yeah, yeah, i know... 

But, what is that ONE thing that swung the deal?

Call me nutty.

Call me crazy.

Or mad.

Or just plain eccentric.

LOOPY even!!

Those small, itty-bitty things that make up less than one percent of the whole damn trouser... Loops. LOOPS! 

Stuff that belts go though?

You've seen them before I'm sure?

Yes? Yess!!

This pair of trousers had 8 loops going around the waist. 4 on one side. 4 on the other. And so, to 'paraphrase' (or bowdlerize) (or whatever) "If two heads are better than one", certainly God intended 8 loops are better than 6.

You can't go wrong with 8 loops.

So, trousers, tick! Paid for. Done.

What's that you say? I'm loopy?

Nah re baba, I'm just a screwed up Virgo.

We're wired different. Wired. Weird. Same difference. 

.... Never the twain shall meet!

I'm tired of the West. I am firmly of the East. The West has, for far too long,lorded it over the East and looked down in sneering scorn. It is time, I think, to set the score right.

In all this, while I am tired of the West, what can I say of the South? They don't even get into the East vs West argument, such smug buggers they are, staying aloof and snooty.

 

If you think I am talking about inward looking, contemplative, Oriental thought and philosophy set in conflict with Occidental culture, science and the Renaissance.... you're way of the mark.

That is a battle for another day. But yes, there is a small, tangential connection. The oft mentioned comment, "The East is east, and the West is West, and never the twain shall meet" is somewhat true.

But I have suffered ENOUGH. Not once, not twice, but on THREE CONSECUTIVE NIGHTS this resident of the eastern suburbs of this wretched hell-hole called Mumbai went traipsing (at the beginning) from the East, in an attempt to reach the western suburbs (which, by the way, I must say, is enough for a lifetime) What I started off doing (traipsing) soon degenerated into a slow funeral march, crawling, inching, and if you allow me to be accurate, millimetering through the traffic snarls of the uppity, snooty, snobby, pathetic, horrible, horrendous, lousy, terrible roads of the W suburbs...

Thursday: Left Churchgate at 5:05, reached AND crossed the domestic airport at 5:55 (YES!) and was en-route to a friends house in Kandivli. Guess what? Destination reached, finally, at 8:20! The Smokehead (a fine, majestic single malt) was worth that ride. As was the company - and the conversations too. But next trip to Kandivli? In my 4th rebirth after this! (That will be too soon)

Friday: This, in fact, was an unplanned, impromptu gathering of lie minded oldies (mature talents, as the initiator described this). Despite misgivings, tempted by the promise of free flowing conversations, one left home (Kanjur Marg - and YES, that IS a place, and it IS in Mumbai, seriously, go look it up on Google, real people DO live here) at 7:00. Was at the "J" end of the JVLR Highway by 7:35. Destination: Global Fusion, near Ambani Hospital in Andheri West, reached at 8:40! 

Saturday: As with Thursday, a PLANNED trip. Once again to Andheri West (Andheri: The heart of darkness? The abode of depression?) Shall say noting except one word, "Ditto" (same as above) 

I'm now seeking early retirement. From the "charm", the "seduction" and whatever else you may say to me, about the Western suburbs.

Give me places with names like Vidya Vihar. Like Bhandup. Nahur. Even Govandi and Bainganwadi. Give me a heaven called Kanjur Marg. 

Where the roads are good. 

Where traffic flows smoothly.

Where a journey is just a journey and not a fight with life.

Where Life is GOOD.... 

Where the East is, there is inner peace. 

And you, South Bombay (somehow, while the Eat and West became Mumai, SsoBo remained Bombay, no?) - yes, YOU, South Bombay, you just shut up! I'll bash you if you even smile smugly after reading this. Not ONE word from your snooty mouths!! 

Be warned. I'm in a fighting mood tonight. 

And yes, on that note, here's wishing you a Happy Gudi Padwa.

A Cut Above - A Frontier Reclaimed

This may well be one of the most politically incorrect things I'm about to do. As the whole world (and it's aunt) glorifies International Women's Day I strike a note of defiance and discord.

Ever since last Saturday I've been restless. Sleep, too, has eluded my nights. I wake up each morning, bleary eyed, and look at myself in the mirror. It is not a pretty sight - never much to look at, to begin with, I have been looking even more disheveled these past few days. 

It's the hair. It's all wrong. Wavy patterns. Sticking out like weeds, especially around the ears. It's too long. That's the problem. Too long. It's grown to all of two inches, by God! 

I need a hair cut. And so, today morning, a Sunday, I go over.

There was a time... My neighbourhood had a barber. Yes, a barber. Exactly one. Exactly the quantity required. This was not too long ago. 

And then things changed. The n.hood now has more than several, which is many. All of them nice, fancy, air-conditioned places. Offering more than a hair cut. 

A manicure. Pedicure. Streaks. Bleach. De-tan. And a lot more. I can - and have - tolerate these, without succumbing. 

But... All these new and hep upmarket places have a feature that leaves me uncomfortable. They are all *Unisex* "parlours" 

And there lies my problem. A serious one. 

It's as if the last frontier has been breached. The last bastion has fallen. There's no place left where a man can get his haircut in quiet peace. 

To the left there's chatter. To the right there's chatter. One feels like one is in the middle of the charge of the light brigade. Colouring to the left, curlings to the right, volleyed and thundered.... And even the men who come there?! It is as if no one goes for a plain hair cut any more... They want to perm, they want to make three strands long, they want a small bit of goats hair below the lower lip... And the discussions are endless. 

So, today, I went for a haircut. To THE barber. Who, seeing me after almost a decade, nods silently and quietly points to a seat while attending to an already seated client. 

I look around. Familiar surroundings. Simple. Basic. Nothing fancy. Not a sign of female presence. Not even on the walls. Silence prevails, except for the occasional snip of a pair of scissors. And once in a while, a comment. 

Conversation. Not chatter. About the state of the economy. And corruption. And politics. The customer and the barber dwell, briefly but wisely, equally dismissive of Sharad Pawar and Modi, equally contemptuous of Rahul Gandhi and Kejriwal. I keep my silence. Do not interrupt "Men at Work"

Once done, he turns to me, looks at my reflection in the mirror, nods and asks a decade old question, "Ek dum short, hai na?" and, without waiting for my response, begins.

I feel at peace. A frontier has been reclaimed. 

Murder... (not) most foul...

When I woke this morning, I saw a murder. Right outside my living room window! It was bad enough that today, being a day after India's 64th Republic Day, there were no newspapers! But to see a murder?!!

Thankfully, this was an unusually quiet murder - no noise, at all. You could actually hear a pin drop.

The wife, in the kitchen, getting my morning dose of filter cofee, made a lot of noise when I called her to see what I was seeing - "Rohini", I called, "come here, look out of this window. There's a murder happening right now!" So she came, noisily, eyes blazing full on, all agog and excited.

"Murder?" she asked, "What murder? Where?" 

I pointed. Outside my window. There's that rain tree? I said "Look, there?"

Her voice went up a few more decibels. A higher octave altogether. "What?! Those crows?!! I can see only crows!" 

So I asked her, laughingly, "How many do you see?"

There were a large enough number to safely say that one needed more than the fingers of both hands..... perhaps around 15 or 16. So I said to her, "What do you call a large number of crows?"

Those wide eyes went impossibly wider, that voice even one octave more as she did a small gig in excitement.... "Aaaaaaaaahhhaaaaa?!! A MURDER of crows?!!!!"

My coffee tasted a wee bit more fresh this morning. :)