What's in a Word?

I've often labelled myself as a "carpenter of words" and have long been fascinated by words themselves. Not only have I fallen in love with a beautiful verse, a well written essay, or a beautifully structured sentence or phrase. Even a single, stand-alone word often holds my thrall. 

I look at a word and wonder -  whence did it come, from which far off land? How did it come to mean what it means? 

For, make no mistake, as languages grow, so too, words. A word that is familiar today may well have meant something else, entirely different in another day/age. 

As I type these random thoughts on my phone, I glance at my battery icon. I have 21% power and will soon need to plug my phone in. For which, everyone reading this would recognize that I must use a charger.... 

But picture yourself as some English resident from the 11th or 12th century, and ask your neighbour or brother, "Have you seen my charger?" He is probably not going to be puzzled. He may well say, "Why, yes certainly. The beast is in the stable, being tended to by our ostler" Puzzled? A charger was a horse back in those troubled and turbulent days, a war horse, or otherwise known as a destrier...

Cut. Not back to our present.  But a time in the 70s. A book. And a movie based on it. Was the rage for well nigh a decade. An autobiography of a French prisoner, Henri Charriere, called Papillon (Butterfly) Made immortal on screen in 70mm, by Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman... And those of you who read the book no doubt know what 'charger' meant. For the uninitiated, my lips shall remain sealed.

Lockdown - Exit Strategy

It has been what? 50 days? or 60 days?

Does it seem like years, to some of you? This strange little thing called "Lockdown" - making a curious history of its own. It sure has beat those lessons that we studied in History, WW I and WW II, those (thankfully) stopped at II. Here, LD 1.0 has, all too quickly, segued into LD 3.0 (coming to an end today) and continuing to LD 4.0 with barely a break in stride....

And so, L & G, we have (mostly) been safe (or "stuck" - depending on a POV) in a place that once used to be called "Home, Sweet Home" since a long time ago. Speaking purely for myself, since LD 1.0 began, I ventured out of my colony all of three times - and, count my blessings, have been in absolute (not relative) comfort all this while. A couple of times each week I venture out of my building, still staying within my compound, going up to the main gate where a vegetable vendor rules his empire of 6 buildings and 440 captive customers.

For the most part, though, I have remained happily in the comfort of my HSH  - attending video meetings (formal shirt, necktie, a suit/blazer et al) on cam, while off cam in "down under" a pair of Bermudas have completed the wardrobe. Boy, there ARE things about the LD that I've grown to love.

Grown, too, during the LD was a thick, bushy, and mostly white beard streaked with bits of grye more than back. This flourished for 45 or more days until even I, myself, couldn't stand it anymore. Off went the beard and I was back to pre-LD days. The beard trimmer is, perhaps, the single most useful invention of mankind (after, of course, beer!)

The other day, I began to itch. And scratch. My head. The hair. Had grown. Too long - by my standards. I hoped LD 3.0 would get over and I would be able to Clap Urbanely - but that was not to be. Urban Company did not rise to my occasion and I was left scratching my head - literally and figuratively. I looked at myself in my mirror. And did NOT like what I saw (never have, even in the best of times). At times like this, seeking the help of the better half can be fraught with peril, and so, in a fit of misplaced confidence, I became like one of those Americans or Australians who are oh-so-capable of DIY miracles.

I looked at that ever so reliable beard trimmer. Phillips. Neat. Compact. Tidy. Easy to use. Also, very helpfully, it even has numbered settings ranging from 1 going up to 8 or something.. Simple, really, to do the job. And so I did.

Plonked at the dressing table, an old newspaper spread to reap my harvest, fan switched off, the air-conditioner ON and the door locked (one did not want "she who must not be named" walking in and giving unnecessary lectures)

Permit me to digress a bit - did any of you watch the Rajiv Bajaj interview? Where he speaks candidly of how government failed to plan. Something along the lines of "How can you begin something without being clear of how you are going to finish?"

Anyway, I began. And I was clear about the finish. I was going to end up with a neat but short cropped top, very closely trimmed sides and matching, very closely trimmed back of the head. It's easy to do. You start at the sides with the blades set at 2, move up to 3 and then finish at 5. Easy peasy.

And so it went. All perfect. To plan. And, periodically, one removes the removable plastic head, cleans it up, collects the lumps of hair, and sets the plastic head back, adjusts the number to 3 or 5 or whatever, and resumes.

I remember reading a blog written by my good friend, Adi Pocha, where he narrated his travails during a similar exercise a few weeks ago. I smiled at the memory, amused at his adventure. If only he had my foresight.... this is sooooo easy, almost child's play.

Almost. There's one small detail that I suddenly skipped. The sides were now perfect, the back was, too. Exactly the way I wanted. I was now proud of my skills and was contemplating a change of profession. And now, to the top. Having cleaned the trimmer, collected those lumps of hair, etc, I now turned to the top of my head, the crowning glory. And, as I confidently ran the trimmer (setting at 7, please double check!) I suddenly see - horror of horros - a clean, completely bald patch in the exact middle of my crown. Ooooops. I had removed the plastic head from my trimmer, cleaned it up, kept it aside and FORGOT to put it back on.

Now, it doesn't matter. I know exactly what Rajiv Bajaj was talking about. I also know something that he doesn't. So what if things go awry? Make a clean sweep.

And, on that note, I shall stop boring you. My exit strategy.....

     

A Requiem For A Girl Gone

She bubbled, enthusiasm unbound,
Jumping with joy, from one foot to the other,
She was going home, after many months,
She was going to see her mother.

All of twelve, she was full of life,
Excited, happy, a huge smile there
On her bright face, shining eyes,
Her dress neat, well oiled hair.

Home was a distance away, another state,
And she was one, in a group of more than ten,
And they set out, on the road,
Some women, some children, some men.

On their heads, and in their arms
They carried whatever they could
And they walked, and they walked
And they laughed, they felt good.

The road was long, and hot, dusty too
The sun overhead burnt hard and bright
And they walked, and they walked
And she walked too, until night.

Stopping now, stopping then,
Their feet, ceaselessly, moving all the time,
They ate up the miles of dusty road
The men, women, all in their prime.

Landless labourers, in search of a job
They were all healthy in a way
For who would employ them otherwise
But now, with no work, no pay
They were going back, back home
Until this thing that people spoke of
Would blow over, this virus
That ate you up with just a cough...

They walked, she walked, day after day
Enthusiasm still high, laughter ready
And she played and sang songs
And hopped and skipped, still steady

And still days passed, five, then a week
And they ate up the road, ate up those miles
A little slower now, as they ate up their food
Sleeping at night in those narrow defiles..

How long can enthusiasm continue to live
While hunger eats you up from your inside
You and I may perhaps never know
But she, mere twelve, faltered in her stride

As they crossed that border from state
To native state, home now a day's walk away
She fell, and rose, and fell again
Stumbling now, swooning from hunger
And thirst and sheer numbing pain.

The others with her, her village folk
Tried what little they could but without hope
A woman, her mother's friend they say
Took her tired head on her slope
Of a lap, made her rest a while
And pressed her tired, tiny feet
Little able to prevent this angelic child
From leaving us all, her God to meet.

The Ëthics"of Borrowing

Don't be misled by the title. This ain't nothing about loan waivers and/or write offs. This ain't no political - or economic - rant. I'm not qualified to think about such heavy subjects, leave alone write.

I am, after all, merely an idle man, with an idler mind, sitting in a corner observing life around me.

So...

As tales go, "Once upon a time...."

Once upon a time, before "all this", among other things there used to be bars and restaurants where people used to go. Either in groups among friends, or, even alone.

Once, one of of those days, I was sitting alone in a "family bar & restaurant" in my neighbourhood. A place within walking distance from home, a place that was familiar to me and as important, a joint where I was a familiar face to the owner and the waiters.

The place had/has(?) a unique charm, rare in Mumbai - an open to the sky frontage. With a scattering of tables, a small teeny-weeny handkerchief sized fish pond, and a cigarette shop adjacent. Almost always full, almost always noisy with friendly banter.

There I was, one evening, alone. At my "usual table", being attended by my "usual waiter" (all of whom are always called - by me - as Vijay) By now 'Vijay' does not need to ask me what I need. The whiskey, the soda, bottled water, ice, a cigarette packet with 3 cigarettes inside, all appear without any exchange of words. Eyes speak, say Thank you, and ask a silent question. The menu is shown, I point a finger, he nods, and he's off. Silence between us, comfortably efficient. This is GOOD. I light up the first of my three cigarettes, inhale deeply, look up to the stars and idly watch the smoke escape in a twin jet from my nostrils. The whiskey-soda-water tastes just right. Life, in balance, is just lovely.

The restaurant is filling up. It is almost 9:30 now. My table, meant for 4, has only me and three vacant chairs.

A man now stands, a bit diffident, at my table and gestures silently, seeking permission to sit across from me. I nod casually and he occupies the seat diagonally across. A sheepish smile that says "Thank you" and that's it. He looks around and beckons 'Vijay' who is busy at another table. A couple of minutes later, Vijay is here, taking orders from my co-customer. Strong beer, some snacks and he is ready.

For conversation.

Nods at me, in a friendly manner. I nod back, not as friendly, not actively seeking a chat with a stranger. But he's made of sterner stuff and plunges in. A few seconds are all, I now know his name, where he lives, where he works. A brief lull. Stretching slightly longer. He is looking at me. Expectantly.

I get it, after a while. I am expected to respond. I do. One word. My name. He is thirsty for more.

Where do I live, he wants - no, needs - to know. I am evasive. Nearby, I say. Clearly, not enough. I let it slide. Take a sip of my whiskey. He's curious about that too. "Whiskey?" he asks. I nod. "Which brand?" I tell him. He nods, soberly. "Mehenga hoga" he observes. I can neither confirm nor deny. He offers advice. Not that I was askIng, but still.. he suggests the name of another restaurant up the road. This brand that I'm drinking is, probably, a bit cheaper there. I am amused but wear a serious look as I nod. "Next time" I say.

Meanwhile, Vijay comes around again. I'm ok, need nothing more. The other guy fishes around his pockets, comes up with some cash and asks V to get some cigarettes. Vijay is back in less than a minute with bad news. The cigarette shop is shuts by now. The man looks disappointed. Meanwhile I've just lit up my second smoke.

He looks at me, furtively at first. I can actually see the words forming in his head, I can sense the momentum building up in his mind. Eyes meet. A half question, unformed, a half smile beginning, he points to my cigarette pack and asks, "May I?" in Marathi. I nudge the pack across, matching his half smile with mine. He smiles now, beaming wide, ear to ear, lights up and leans forward to promise, "I'm just borrowing this for today. Will return. By the way, what brand is this?" I tell him not to worry. He studies the stick and asks hesitantly, "Classic hai?" I nod, finish my glass, call for my bill, settle (a decent tip to my "Vijay") and leave. A friendly nod to my cigarette borrower. A goodnight nod. And I go home...

Once upon a time, we used to visit bars and restaurants... And I did, too. Several times after that incident. My usual place, my usual Vijay, my usual drink and snacks. The usual evenings, usual usuals...

Until one day. THAT man, from THAT evening. Once more, standing across "my table". I did not recognize him. He sat down. Smiled - confidently. Nodded at me - confidently.
Reached into his pocket. Leant across. Placed ONE Wills Classic before me. "Yehi hai naa? Aap ka brand? Sorry, bahut din ke baad aap ko dekha" 

Returned with Thanks. Returned with confidence. Honour, intact.

A Conspiracy of Silence

My cell phone(s) (that's right, I own 2 of them) I suspect have taken to playing games with me. It is, I am sure, a conspiracy. A downright dastardly one at that.

They are, I'm sure, giggling between themselves even right now, even as I am sharing these thoughts with you through THEM

They are naughty. Pranksters out to deprive me of my peace, trying to drive me out of my mind.
They listen in, quietly, silently spying on my conversations with the people around me - and they remain silent, mute for entire long stretches of time, nary a cheep out of them.

So, there I would be, working away on my laptop, and there they would be, right by my side, holding their breath in pin drop silence. After a while, in these days of W-ingFH, in the kitchen washing the vessels, and there are are, watching me gleefully as plates and pans slip out of my soapy hands and clatter around - from the other room, the (by now bitter) half has plenty of paragraphs to say while both these Korean brothers remain silent in their mirth. Their maun vrat remains unshakable as I read a novel, as I nurse my evening Scotch... They are imperturbable almost all through a working day.

A little further away, their fellow Korean cousin who does duty for the wife is one hell of an excitable, garrulous chappie. Every few minutes he bursts into chatter, bleating out AND vibrating too, as he urgently summons "Madam" - meanwhile, my two guys remain stubborn, silent, almost showing a Zen calm..

I am not unhappy. I have no complaints. Silence, after all, is.golden...

And I decide, keeping this book that I'm reading, or setting my laptop aside, or keeping those just now washed/dried vessels neatly away... I decide it's time to bathe, or to use the washroom, and I've just entered the bathroom, and I'm standing under the shower, shampoo in my hair/eyes.

And that is EXACTLY when they call out to me.

One goes off at a shrill RRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG RRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG and half a beat later his brother blares out a manic melody.

Again, and again, and insistently again as if the Heavens have decided to fall on my head.
Bleddddy bas#@*ds, I curse viciously, grab a towel, step hastily out, almost slip and fall, and grab for the first fellow while the second still screams.
As I flip open the cover, he clams up, silent as the Sphinx. Muttering to myself, I now grab his brother and keep it to my ear and say, "Allo, Allo" - I'm speaking into air, to an empty nothingness...




I now glare at first the one, then the other, to no avail. Even Bharat Bhushan had greater expressions on his face.

When MAN is caged....

With Man in retreat
Cowering behind walls
And hiding behind masks
The streets have been reclaimed
By others, perhaps more deserving
Of this earth than Man.
From here, from there
Friends and acquaintances
Have been sharing videos
And I have been absorbing data
And observing perspectives
On life in a lockdown.

From the streets of Ahemdabad
On an early morning, a flock
Of Rosy Starling on wing
(A murmuration is the term)
Wheel around the empty streets
In numbers larger than before...

Elsewhere from an unknown land
Through the dark night a herd of deer
Walk bravely now where once they timidly trod
Now without any fear..

And finally, the best of all,
A little clip, a little deer
Gambolling in delight beside a
Rolling sea on an empty beach
A sight that makes me wistfully hope
For this season to last and stretch
Into the distant forever...

Today is Akshaya Tritiya - and, due to this lockdown, instead of being inundated with full page advertisements, I look a bit more closely at this festival and the significance of this day...

This is a day of "endless/boundless wealth/prosperity", actually the THIRD day of endless endless prosperity..

Akshayya, meaning eternal, never ending, etc is a word many of us familiar with the story of the akshaya patra from the Mahabharat would know.

It is believed Lord Krishna gave this vessel to Draupadi on this day. Or, was it given to Yudhishtra by Lord Surya, my memory is a bit off..

Today is also the day when the (Hindu) world's first "stenographer" began to take down the dictation, from Ved Vyasa, as the latter started narrating the Mahabharat.

So, why and how does this festival get so closely linked to GOLD? It is on this day that a certain gentleman, whose name is Kubera, was appointed as the Lord of Wealth. Richer than anybody else in all the three worlds, Kubera is still collecting interest on a loan he gave to the presiding diety of Tirumala in Tirupati, Lord Balaji - and that, mind you, was a marriage loan. Speak of a big, fat, Indian wedding 😃

And oh, by the way, Kubera had a brother - shall I say more notorious? A Shiva bhakt second to none, master of arts, receiver of many boons..  and better known to our world as Ravana

Happy Akshaya Tritiya to all of you. May you have never ending joy, success and just enough wealth always.

Planet 2.0 - Will this happen?

When all this is, hopefully, over and behind us I wonder what new world will we step into.

I'm actually growing used to the idea of lockdown, it seems a good intervention - as a society, we seem to have adapted well.

Consumption is now minimal and need based.

Stress inducing commuting is history.
Instead of a "work - life balance" I think many of us have discovered life is bigger than work.

We stand in queues, without jostling.

Men have learnt to shoulder at least some responsibility of work AT home...

I did see a news report (hopefully fact, not fake) that even said that seismologists are saying the earth's mantle is quieter than a month ago... Because of the slowdown/lockdown across much of the world. Reminds me of TS Eliot's poem's (The Waste Land) ending, Shantih Shantih Shanti

All in all, this is good. I hope we remember the lessons were learning now.

Meanwhile, the lady of the house has acquired sufficient skills to find her way through my (MY? Hers, now) smart TV. We are now sitting, engrossed, watching that delightful comedy series from the 90s... Yeh Joh Hai Zindagi  Life, was it simpler then? Or is that merely the camera tricks of nostalgia?

The Religion of a Virus

Religion is business, BIG business. And this is a truly secular statement of a fact. Whether one is a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian or anything at all, there's tonnes of money to be made... No?
So, to reiterate, entirely unnecessarily, merely for effect - religion is BIG business.
Perhaps - in fact, almost certainly - religion, in pure "turnover" terms must be much, much bigger than my sector, which is insurance.
And so, having set that "background", let me look at a mirror to my own actions...

There I was, earlier last month, in the first week of March, flying out to Delhi on an overnight trip. Business beckoned, I chose to travel. (Also, spent a fantastic evening with a very dear friend, catching up on old times)

A week later, again a business trip, this time down to Chennai, and once again, did not miss the opportunity to meet a couple of very dear friends...
All this while Corona was in the air... I flew, I met clients, I met friends, stayed with relatives, etc.
On return, both times, it was life as usual AND business as usual...

I am (as of now) not a Covid "case" (and, hopefully, won't be) and hopefully I haven't passed on the virus to anyone else...

Now, compare this with the "irresponsible idiots" who went to Nizamuddin Markaz... They, too, went for "work", no?

Or, compare us with the (allegedly) "massive" rally that the BJP took out in Gwalior to welcome a certain Mr Scindia into the fold...

I cannot resist quoting one of the most spectacularly famous "men of god", a certain Jesus of Nazareth

Two Books - a review, of sorts

Two books.
A Man Called Ove, and A Gentleman In Moscow.

Both hugely readable, yet so vastly different.
Both made me smile. Both made me pause every now and then, to let the words soak into my heart. Both certainly NOT "unputdownable", for both demand time to relish, to contemplate..
But where Ove drew you to get involved in his story, completely, to be a part of his life's daily routine... Without once making one feel one was a spectator...
Moscow makes one watch not merely the characters, as if one a stage, it makes one aware that one is, perhaps, witnessing a master puppeteer at work. The characters, the story, everything is spellbinding. But, more than all, what captivates is the beauty of the language. The AUTHOR is the hero, here, firmly capturing ones attention with every turn of a well built phrase, on almost every page.
Rarely has a book shone purely for the felicity of language, as this.
I resist, meanwhile, the urge to discover more about Amor Towles. Where Frederik Backman gave us Ove selflessly, Towles makes sure he's done us a favour, and what's more, makes sure that we know it.
A master at work

Lockdown

Stepped out of my complex today, for the first time in 8 days - it felt strange. Almost empty roads (although, even in this post apocalyptic world I did see one two wheeler driving in the wrong direction - mera Bharat mahan)

At 10:45, not too many shops were open. Just one small bakery. Picked up a few essentials from the masked man behind the counter. He didn't have much, in any case.

I ventured further, ahead to the D'Mart store. Even before I reached, I saw a long serpentine queue stretched even longer by the conscious distance between one patient shopper and the next. Discreetly retreated. Nothing too urgent to warrant standing an hour at the minimum.

Returning back to my complex I notice security is less than half strength at the main gate. I am stopped, tentatively, by a stranger, a new guard, to whom I too am a stranger. My beard and generally unkempt look perhaps made me look undesirable, unworthy of being a resident here.

I walk past him breezily, with insouciance - he quietly slinks back. So much for protection...

Back at my building, a hand sanitizer is the only guard I see. No other human in sight.

Leaves fallen from trees gather in the gentle breeze, assembling together for a seminar of the dead. They rustle, they murmur among themselves, and do a sudden quick dance in a mild strengthening breeze.

My lift arrives, doors swish open. The floor looks unnaturally dirty, splashes of water and shoe marks on the tile. Floor 2, should I press the button? A sudden nervousness grips me.
I pause. Consider. The risk of infection weighs a moment on my mind.
"Ah, hell!"
I press. Go up.
Home.
One week down....

How many more?