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.