Redemption

Many decades ago, in a small village in Karnataka, there was a boy, the son of the Shanbhog (Village accountant). A very bright and intelligent fellow, he always topped his class at school. When he finished middle school, his father decided to send him to the nearest big town, Davangere, for high school, since there was no high school in the village. The boy stayed at a hostel and attended the high school at Davangere.

Gradually, the boy fell into bad company at the hostel, and started smoking, gambling, and bunking classes. Before he knew it, the exams were upon him and he failed in a couple of subjects. He returned to his village for the holidays, and it took all his persuasive skills and promises to let his father send him back to school. His previous excellent reputation at school might have played a part too, and anyway, his father sent him back to school with a warning.

The boy went back to school, determined to avoid all the boys he hung out with the previous term, but as time went by, he was drawn to them again, and he was back to his bad habits. This time, when the exams loomed large, the boy got scared, and unable to face his parents, he packed a small bag and ran away. To cut a long and painful story short, the police found the runaway boy after two weeks in a distant town, and sent him back home to the village. His homecoming was joyously celebrated, but the matter of sending him back to school was dropped. The boy also had no guts to speak about it, so he resigned himself to a life of a Shanbhog.

Shortly, the Shanbhog's friend came visiting, and was quite pained to see a boy he considered brilliant, taken out of school. He talked to the Shanbhog, and told him that he would take the boy to chitradurga, where he lived, and the boy could stay at his house and study at the high school in Chitradurga. The Shanbhog was difficult to persuade, but he relented at the end, on the condition that the money for all the fees and other expenses of the boy should go directly from the Shanbhog's hands to the friend's, and the boy should at no time be allowed to have even a paisa on his person. This was agreed to, and the friend took the boy away with him to his house, and made arrangements for him to stay in a room in their outhouse, where other boys like him were staying and studying at the local high school.

The arrangement was fine, the boy ate breakfast and dinner at the friend's house, and attended school, but for lunch, the boy was in a dilemma. Being of a shy disposition, he couldn't bring himself to come back home during lunch break and go up to the main house to ask the lady of the house for lunch. The lady, perhaps, assumed that the boy, being the son of a Shanbhog, would definitely have money with him, and would be eating his lunch somewhere outside. Too embarrassed to explain this situation to either his father or the father's friend, the boy went through many months without lunch.

Soon, a couple of boys at school - brothers - befriended this boy, and their friendship grew. The brothers naturally noticed that their new friend did not eat lunch at all, and instead, filled his stomach with water from the tap. They went home and told their mother about this. Their mother felt sorry for the boy, and told her sons to bring him home with them for lunch henceforth.

The next day, the brothers told the boy about their mother's invitation, but the boy was too shy to accompany them to their house. He refused to go. So the brothers went back home for lunch without the boy. Their mother was furious. "Why didn't you bring your friend with you? What kind of boys are you? How can you think of eating when your friend is sitting there, hungry? This is because you don't know what hunger is. You won't get any lunch today. Hereafter, if you want lunch, you should bring your friend with you". The brothers went back, hungry and crestfallen, and told the boy what they had had to undergo because of him.

The boy couldn't believe his ears. Was this lady for real?

The next day, he had no choice but to accompany the brothers to their home for lunch. Their mother welcomed him with affection, and he became a regular at their house. Soon, he virtually started living in their house, and he was always treated by the family as another son of the house. [Even now, seventy odd years later, the boy considers the lady as his second mother, and remembers her fondly.]

I don't think I need to add that the boy now applied himself to his work diligently, and when he passed the tenth standard board exams, he was just among a handful of boys in the entire district to pass with a first class.

The boy, in case you haven't already guessed, is my grandfather.

This is the gist of one of my favourite episodes in my grandfather (Prof J.R.Lakshmana Rao)'s memoirs, "Nenapina Alegalu" - Waves of Memories.

I like this story for a number of reasons.

1) That such a confused(?) young boy turned out into a fine, well-respected Chemistry professor, chief-editor of the University's Kannada-English dictionary, authored about 25 science books, many of which won him Sahitya Akademi Awards among various other awards, was awarded a National Award for Science Writing, etc. -- This story shows that no child is incorrigible. Belief in a child, guidance in the right path, and love can make any child bloom.

2) Can such people have really walked the earth?
A man, who, out of his confidence in a friend's son's abilities, offers to take up the entire responsibility of his studies, in spite of the boy's notoriety as the "boy who had run away from home".
A lady with so much love that she could make her own sons go hungry for a boy she hadn't even met - And later, treats him no different from her own sons.

It is beyond comprehension. And it never fails to touch my heart.

PG Aunty

During the 16 months that I worked in Mumbai, I lived as a paying guest(pg). Many people had advised me against going for a pg accommodation, citing restrictions and lack of privacy. But when I did go house-hunting and found this house with a convenient room and a nice Sikh lady in charge, I jumped at it. I decided that I would need company in my first few days in the big bad city, and then later, if I felt that the pg cramped my style, I could always move to a flat. Besides, I didn't plan to live in Mumbai for too long. So I moved in. [I did try flat-hunting after a month or so, but at every stage I evaluated the merits and demerits of the flat and the pg I lived in, and eventually gave up the idea of moving into a flat of my own].

PG Aunty, as we all referred to her, was a very interesting woman. Very fat, with thinning hair, she had a perpetually worried look on her face. With five daughters, three of them yet to be married, she was forced to take in paying guests after her husband's business suffered severe losses. With a large house with many rooms, she had quite a few girls rooming with her. Add to them, the three daughters of her own, and a stern silver-haired silver-bearded husband, she had her hands full.

Her schedule was remarkable. We girls left home for work at different times in the morning - The two girls who were my colleagues, and I, were the first to leave. We had to catch our bus at eight in the morning. Aunty would rise at around seven, and go straight to the kitchen to start the food manufacturing for the day. She had a four-burner stove, which she utilized completely. On the back left burner, the tea boiled. On the back right burner cooked the vegetable curry of the day. On the front left burner was a tava on which she cooked chapatis for us to take as packed lunch, and on the front right burner was another tava on which she cooked thick parathas. All simultaneously.

She had two lumps of doughs - one for parathas and one for chapatis, and her hands never stopped working. She would pluck out a fistful of dough from the dough, and with three - just three (I counted) twists of the dough, it would become this perfectly spherical ball. She would then roll it out quickly, into, needless to say, a perfectly round chapati/paratha, and then it would fly, as if on its own to one of the two tavas on the stove. Oil would be poured on the chapati/paratha (this is where I would avert my eyes). A couple of quick turns and twists, and the chapati would come out of the tava and get wrapped up in aluminum foil and go and sit in our lunch boxes, and the paratha would fly into our waiting plates. In the milliseconds that she had between making these chapatis and parathas, she would add the masala to the curry or sugar to the tea, and stir the contents of those vessels. And by the time we came back for more parathas, the ready curry would have magically found its way into our boxes, the box would be packed and ready for us to take. How many times have we tried to tell her that we would do the packing ourselves, Aunty, please don't bother - but no. It would somehow get ready, as if she had a magic wand. And in all those mornings, during all those months, she ensured that we were never late. Only once did we miss our bus by a whisker - and that was because Aunty couldn't wake up in the morning because it was too cold (by Mumbai standards).

I can't speak enough about her cooking. It wasn't gourmet fare, but she was a good cook. Cooking for so many people, thrice a day, everyday, is far from easy. And she did the best that she could. Yes, it was Punjabi food most of the time - but I did not complain. I am such a foodie that I don't mind any cuisine, as long as it is good. I did miss South Indian food sometimes, and once, when I missed Saaru too much, I bought a packet of MTR Rasam powder and made Saaru for everybody that night. She also used to make something called Sindhi kadhi, which tasted remarkably like our huLi - so I enjoyed that quite a bit. Sometimes as a "special treat" to me, she would make Idli - sambar. The idlis were like stones and the sambar was not at all like sambar - but anyway I told her that I enjoyed it - I couldn't bear to see disappointment on her enthusiastic, eager-to-please face.

But she was the authority in Punjabi cuisine. She made some of the best parathas, and some great curries. These had too much oil in them sometimes, and part of my lunch ritual at office was pouring out the oil floating on top of the curry - but it was delicious nonetheless. She made great Baingan ka bharta and stuffed brinjal. Her potato fry was also very tasty. Her Khichdi was delicious. It was kind of too gooey for my liking, but I loved the taste. Her masterpieces were the Methi Malai Matar and the most exquisite Dal Ka Halwa. Strangely enough, her Carrot Halwa was uneatable, but if you ate her Dal Ka Halwa, you would forgive her for anything!

Sometimes she would turn fiercely money-minded. If we took extra curds with our dinner three days in a row, her eagle eye would notice it and say, "If you want so much curds, you should pay fifty rupees extra each month!" On the other hand, when I was down with a bad stomach upset, she made bland food and lassi for me, apart from the usual food for everybody else, and nearly hand-fed me everyday until I got better.

She often joked and laughed with us, and told us her problems. She in turn wanted to know everything about us - especially whether we had boyfriends. Sometimes the child in her would come out and she would indulge in playing pranks upon us. She also occasionally conspired with us against her husband who tried to be very strict with us. Uncle had set 11 pm as the curfew for the pgs, but if we pleaded with Aunty to relax it for "jusssst one day", she would turn a blind eye and even distract her husband when we let ourselves softly into the house after 11 pm. Uncle always wanted to watch Aaj Tak channel on TV. So when we wanted to watch something else, we would switch on our channel and then "lose" the remote (The TV was slightly conked out - the channel change button on the TV set did not work). We would then "find" the remote and hand it back to Uncle once our programme ended. Aunty knew all this, but she just smiled and said nothing.

She was extremely sensitive. She would take offhand remarks to heart and worry about the layers and layers of meanings in that comment. It worked the other way too. She was very conscious that she would hurt one of us inadvertently.
Once she came to me early in the morning and told me about her expenses and that they had to pay the daughters' college and school fees that month and they were out of money and all that. Just when I was wondering where it was all leading to, she said, "I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise, but could you please pay your rent for this month quickly?" I was surprised - I had already paid the rent for the month. I reminded her, but she was confused. I then jogged her memory, told her that I had brought the money to the kitchen, but her hands had been busy and so she had asked me to keep it under the sugar box. Enlightenment dawned on her face and she grew extremely apologetic. "How could I do this to you? You are always the first one who pays the rent, and always within the third of the month - and I doubted you of all the people... " She apologized until I was worried I would get late for office. I said "Aunty, it is ok, such things do happen...." But she called me even at office - twice - to apologize, "Bura mat maan-na, Shrooti, please, kya boldiya maine, kya sochegi tu mere baare mein..."... I finally had to tell her "Aunty, aap mujhe sharminda kar rahe hai"... She stopped, but she was extra nice to me for the next week!

She wasn't in town when I left Mumbai. Her daughter who lived in Indore was not well, and she had gone to visit her. It was good in a way, because she would have become "senti", and I, being the softie that I am, would no doubt have cried.

I still call her sometimes, and I once even wrote a letter to her in Hindi - it's very touching to see how thrilled she always is to hear from "her girls", as she calls us.

Good times and bad, I have had them all in Mumbai - but there is no doubt that by and large, my stay was comfortable and convenient - and a lot of the credit for that goes to PG Aunty!

Open to the elements!

One of my favourite subjects when I studied Energy Engineering, was Energy Efficient Buildings. These are just buildings that are built in such a way that artificial energy requirements are minimised. This is done by designing the house such that it makes optimum use of naturally available light and air, and you need not rely on artificial lighting and cooling. The materials that you use to build the house also matters.

Actually, our ancestors knew perfectly well how to build energy efficient homes. If you walk in from the hot sweltering sun into an old house with a courtyard, your face is greeted with a cool breeze, and your feet tread upon a deliciously cool floor. Where does this coolness come in on this hot day? Just a little planning and design.

And now we have lost it. For as usual, we are aping the west. The sleek glass buildings that we see so much, that look so posh and sophisticated and appealing are perfectly suited to the western climate. The glass windows are excellent absorbers of heat, and the building is automatically heated, thus reducing their heating requirements in winter. But in a tropical climate like ours, it only serves to heat up the interiors further, which we then try to counter by pumping in precious energy to power the air conditioners. So, due to glass windows, now the air conditioners have to do the work of reducing temp from 35 deg to 24 deg, rather than 28 to 24 deg (In summer, in Bangalore). And when there are power cuts, the problem could have been solved by simply opening the windows - but ah no, the windows here cannot be opened. So you have a backup of diesel generators which results in more energy wastage.

Building such energy guzzling buildings in a place like India is almost as silly as building an igloo in a desert.

If you want an example of an Energy Efficient Building, visit the office of The Energy Research Institute in Bangalore, very near Airport Road in Domlur. They have constructed the building in such a way that artificial lighting is not necessary at all. As far as I could make out, there was no air conditioning either, and no fans. Yet, there was a lot of air movement, and a cool, pleasant atmosphere. One more specialty of this place is that this building stands next to an open drain, the smell from which hits you when you go past it. But inside the building, there is no hint of a stink. You can get an idea about how it was accomplished, here.

And building such buildings is not expensive either. You just need an architect and an engineer who know the basics. But renovation or modification of an existing building to become energy efficient can be expensive.

Even our department in our college was built with these principles. The college is situated in an extremely hot place. Even then, we did not need to switch on fans even if the temperatures outside were 30-35 deg. Only when it went to 40 deg, did we switch on the fans. As for lights, even on the cloudiest day, we haven't switched on the lights in our classrooms. In fact, I wouldn't even have known where the light switches were, had we not had special classes in the evening by a visiting professor!

To give you a slight idea of the type of construction and materials used -
1) The South and West facing walls, which experience maximum solar radiation, had no classrooms or windows, but were covered with granite, which doesn't absorb heat, instead creates a cooling effect
2) The building had a courtyard, with classrooms all around... and a courtyard is perhaps the best design to create cool breezes.
3) The walls had insulating materials between bricks, which again minimized heat absorption.
4) The floor of the terrace, again, was specially constructed such that heat is not absorbed.

There is a lot of information available on the internet too, if you are interested to look. But when reading up on principles, you should remember that the principles change with the place and latitude. What might be a perfectly good design in Australia, will be totally useless in India because the angle of the solar radiation is totally different in the two hemispheres. Similarly, even a building in Bangalore (moderate climate) will be different from one in, say, New Delhi (extreme climatic conditions). Our department building was designed for a very hot climate, so it concentrated on minimising heat absorption.

Design of a building is one step - the next step involves using energy efficient light fixtures, etc. The third step involves incorporating solar water heating, and solar photovoltaics for taking care of a part of the energy requirements of the building - all these make up an energy efficient building.

And the best part of such a building is that it is a pleasure to be in it - it creates the effect of lots of space - it looks beautiful. In fact, schools should be specially designed with these principles in mind - a lot of light and air is conducive to learning.

So, if you are going to build a house, do give this a thought, will you? :)

The Meal on a Banana Leaf

..Or as we call it in Kannada, BaaLe Ele OoTa, has to be one of the best things in life. Any celebration in South India is incomplete without a sumptuous lunch served on a Banana Leaf. In fact, I admit shamelessly that there are a number of functions to which I go more for the lunch than for the event itself.

The importance of the food in such events, especially weddings, cannot be understated. Food is what the guest supposedly remembers even after he has forgotten the name of the bride and the groom, and how he is acquainted with them.

In fact, the caterer for my wedding had been decided three years before the groom was. Well, what I mean is that my mom and I had been to a friend's wedding, and the food was so wonderful, that my mom took the caterer's card, and when it was time for my wedding, it was this one that we contacted. And the food was fantastic!

A wedding feast is an event in itself. You are usually hungry and tired after talking to so many relatives/friends, whom you get to meet only at weddings. After all the smiling and talking, all you want to do is eat. So when you hear that lunch is ready, you run to the dining hall (unless you are unlucky enough to be closely associated with the couple getting married, in which case you get to eat only in the third pankti(batch) or so).

You sit at the table (it was cross-legged, on the floor, in the days when people were in good shape), in front of a fresh green banana leaf. You sprinkle some water on the leaf and clean it with your hands. Then you watch the food being served - in the preset order, in the preset positions on the leaf.

You wait desperately for the rice and ghee to be served, because only then are you supposed to start eating. Once it is served, you look around you to ensure that the older generation has started eating, and then you delve into the food.

You start off with the Payasa (Kheer), and then licking your lips, you eat the Thovve(simple, thick dal), which tastes fantastic despite how simple it is. Probably just your brain getting the pleasant signal that food is on its way. By that time, they arrive with the huLi (thick sambar with loads of vegetables), and you gobble it up in no time. Before the next item arrives, you have time to eat the mixed rice (Puliyogare, Bhaath or Chitranna), and sample the two different kinds of Kosambari(Mixed, garnished salad). You even taste the Gojju (A thick spicy preparation with a tamarind and jaggery base), and the Mosaru Bajji(Raita).

Just as you stretch out your hand towards the different kinds of Palya (Gravyless, vegetable curries), they arrive with more rice. Close on the heels of the rice comes the Saaru (A kind of Rasam), and you eat it with relish, mixing the Palya, and the HappaLa(Papad) with it.

Once you have savoured that, you sit back and crane your neck to see what the Bhakshya (sweet/s) is. Hurried exclamations to the person sitting next to you, expressing joy(usually) or disgust(extremely rarely) at the choice of sweets. Then you polish off the sweets with relish, and even as you eat them, along comes some kind of a fried savoury, like a Pakoda/Bonda, and you lose no time in eating that too.

In the middle of all this, some of the items make an appearance once again, and you have the choice to eat your favourite stuff all over again, if your stomach permits. Finally the Rice comes along again, followed by curds, which you mix and eat with salt and a little of the pickle.

Then you get up and wash your hands and leave the dining hall. A packet with a coconut and betel leaves is thrust into your hands. You look around for the nearest scapegoat on whom you can dump the coconut, and then do likewise.

Then you go back to the main wedding hall, where you can easily distinguish the guests who haven't eaten yet from those who have. The latter have this smug, satisfied look on their faces. And of course, a coconut in their hands.

The tortoise

In our final year of college, three friends and I, enthused by the lovely Tanishq ads in the papers, decided to visit a Tanishq showroom and do some window-shopping. Shopping with money was out of the question at that stage of our poor lives, so window-shopping it was. One friend was slightly reluctant to go in and just look at everything and come out, so to make her feel comfortable, we concocted a story of our "colleague" getting married, and we going to buy a diamond pendant for her.

The story worked well, and varieties of pendants were being shown to us, while all we wanted to do was gawk at the gold and diamond necklaces, which were on display in the next room. We painfully enacted our drama, and then pretended we did not like any of them, and then casually set out to look at the other bigger stuff. I walked up to the diamond necklaces and spotted a particularly pretty one.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I pointed at the necklace, and asked the salesgirl casually, and with as much confidence as possible, "How much does that cost?"
The salesgirl looked at me quizzically. "Which one?" she asked.
"That one, third from left, with the number 5-8-0-0-0-0 written underneath it".
She smiled sweetly "That's the price ma'am".
My jaw hit the floor. I saw the salesgirl smiling at me ever so politely, but I saw the glint of amusement in her eyes. And then I wished I were a tortoise....

It was the annual day at school. I saw our Kannada teacher, dragging along a little girl. I went up to her with a couple of my classmates, vowing to spread a little of the butter.
"Oh... howww sweeeet", I gushed. She smiled nice and wide.
"Grand-daughter, ma'am?"
The smile froze. "No, daughter", she said.
The night suddenly became cold. I quickly recovered.
"Ohhhh!" I was suddenly all bubbly and effervescent. "Such a sweeet child! She looks jussssst like you!" And I took the little girl by the hand and played with her for ten minutes, and then delivered her back to her mom, smiling brightly. Yet, she looked daggers at me, and then I wished I were a tortoise.....

My classmate C once challenged me to jump down a flight of stairs. It was lunchtime. I stood on the top step, and eyed the landing. C was standing on the landing, watching me. I could hear steps behind me, and I spread out my hands, motioning for whoever was behind me, to stand still and wait until I jumped. I concentrated on the landing, and then took one look at C before I jumped. She was gesturing to me desperately, but it did not really register. I was already in the air. I landed safely on the landing (see, that's why its called a landing), and looked triumphantly at C, whose eyes were averted.

Suspicious, I looked behind me immediately, and there coming down the steps, with a smile in the corner of his lips, was our Sanskrit teacher, infamous for his quick temper. "Practicing for the Olympics?" he muttered, while he walked past. There was laughter all around and then I wished I were a tortoise.....

..So that I could just withdraw into my shell and pretend I were a rock.

Thames and Zebras

My sis P and I are, as usual, occupied in pulling our little cousin V's leg. V, who has been in the UK for a year or so now, can now speak in a “prop-ah” British accent when he so chooses. He started off correcting our pronunciation for certain English names, but the last straw was when he told us that Zebra is not "Zee-bra", but "Zeh-bra".

So, like all big sisters do, we engaged ourselves in torturing the little fellow.

P - Akka, do you think there are any Zee-bras near the Thay-ms [1] in London?

V - It is not Thay-ms! It is "Tems"! And I already told you that it is Zeh-bra.

S - I don't really know - maybe there are lots of them in Ree-ding [2] and Nor-witch [3].

V - It is Red-ing! And Nor-ich! I already told you!

P - I am sure there are some in Lie-cester [4]. Or in Burk-shire [5].

V - Stop it! Stop it!! It is Lester!! And Bark-shire!

S - Aww, come on, V! If the British could come over and call Srirangapatnam "Seringapatam", and Chitradurga "Chitldrug", then we most definitely have the right to call Edinburgh "Edin-burg". At least we are true to the spelling.

V - *Claps his hands over his ears* It is Edin-bra!! Amma! Amma! Look at these two girls! They don't know anything!

V's mom - Oh, that's ok, V - they are just teasing you. Naughty, aren't they? We'll teach them a lesson. Let's just chuck them into the Thay-ms.

V - Aaaaargghhhhhh!!!!

And it continues ........

NOTES:
[1] Thames
[2] Reading
[3] Norwich
[4] Leicester
[5] Berkshire

Papeeha - The first whiff of romance.

I grew up in a township with dozens of other kids - and not one day was dull. But as we turned into teenagers, I saw to my horror that my friends, with whom I had always been on the same wavelength, were turning into movie-buffs. They spoke incessantly about movies and songs and Anil Kapoor's moustache and Madhuri Dixit's smile. I could speak volumes about Mark Twain and the Mahabharatha, but my friends would have nothing to do with a girl who thought that "Chandni ribbons" looked like mosquito nets.

It got worse. Childish giggles turned into dreamy sighs as I saw my once-sane friends walking around looking moonstruck and claiming that romance had entered their lives. A bunch of them claimed that the love in QSQT was the purest of them all, while two others were in love with the love in Maine Pyar Kiya. Some of them swore by Roja. And on top of all that, they asked me, ME, which movie introduced romance to me. I offered a tentative "Errr... The Sound of Music?"... and it sealed my fate further as the girl who doesn't know anything about Bollywood.

I have never been much of a movie-goer, but there were some movies I loved. Some brought laughter, some brought tears, but "Romance"? What was that?

And then, one night, Doordarshan screened Papeeha. And Romance, with a capital R, tiptoed into my life.

Papeeha is a wonderful, little-known, movie, made by that fabulous film-maker Sai Paranjpye. Winnie Paranjpye plays an anthropologist who goes to the forests to study tribals. There she meets the dashing Milind Gunaji, who plays a forest officer. In the course of the movie, they fall in love, and after a brief misunderstanding, they get together again. A simple, sweet, love story.

But the movie totally swept me off my feet. It was a strong, heady feeling, and it made me feel that I was the heroine and it was I who met the hero and fell in love with him. I saw myself in the dainty shoes of the very charming Winnie Paranjpye, she of the sparkling eyes and impish smile. I went with her to the forest, and was overwhelmed by the presence of the brooding, serious and handsome Milind Gunaji. I was a part of their witty conversations, recognized their love before either of them acknowledged it, agonized over their misunderstandings, and exulted at their reunion.

I don't know what did it. It might have been the unlikely location for the story - a forest, a village. It could have been the absence of complications - no villains, no strict parents, no interfering relatives, no slapstick comedy, no atrocious makeup, no grandiose settings. It could have been the stark contrast between the energetic, loveable and sweet heroine and the arrogant, egoistic, carelessly stylish hero. Oh, it could have even been that both the hero and the heroine were not at all glamourous in the conventional sense, and that made them so real, so attractive. It could have even been the fact that both of them had definite, unambiguous occupations. It could have been the underlying theme - of saving the forests, the life of the tribals.

Or more likely, it could even have been the simple fact that I was at a silly, sentimental, vulnerable age. Or it could just be the magic of Sai Paranjpye at work.

But whatever it was, it became one of my favourite movies. And it still is, even after I have watched hundreds of movies ever since. I haven't watched this movie again, nor have I even heard of it being spoken of, and I haven't even met anybody who has watched the movie. [Even now, in the age of Google and internet, I wasn't able to find any info on the movie - except for a few lines on the subject of the movie]. What a gigantic pity.

And oh, when the movie was screened, Milind Gunaji was an unknown actor. I had missed his name in the titles, and agonized over the name of the actor for a very long time. So, it was a pleasant surprise when I saw him in the trailer of Fareb. I lost no time in finding out who he is, and then finally, I put the name on the face.

So at last, I had something to tell my friends. "Papeeha" brought romance into my life, I said. But it didn't really make any difference. Nobody had heard of the movie, and the actors were nobodies. I was still the boring girl, until we all grew up and knew better ;).

Anyway, Papeeha is a beautiful movie! I would love to watch it again [and find out what effect it will have on me now, after more than ten years!]

The angel in white.

A few years back, Isha Yoga Foundation conducted Sahaja Sthiti Yoga classes at our college. Finding that we would be taught breathing exercises, and being aware of the benefits of Pranayama, I enrolled for the course. It went on for two weeks, and I quite enjoyed it, especially the 15-minute Shoonya meditation, which I find very effective.

[For a time, I did the entire exercise cycle regularly, and was surprised by people asking me why I was glowing with health. But in spite of knowing that it is good for me, I don't do the exercises, nor the meditation, and I have no excuses for that.]

Anyway, back to the course. On the last day, it was arranged that we would visit the Isha Yoga Foundation at Coimbatore. I was persuaded to go with the promise that it is in a very picturesque setting. So off we went, in a bus from college.

Arriving early in the cold winter morning, I found that the place indeed is beautiful. It is in a kind of valley, with low, green hills all around. It has pristine green lawns and beautiful trees, and pretty buildings - in all, a very peaceful environment.

After a painful, but refreshing bath with freezing water, and a sumptuous breakfast, we were taken around the grounds by a couple of volunteers. It was cloudy, and there was a slight drizzle. Beautiful weather for a beautiful place.

As we roamed around, it started raining. We ran, enmasse, across the green lawns, towards the main building, for shelter. As I reached the building, I kind of lost my bearings, and wondered aloud, "This way or that?" A soft voice behind me said, "To your left". I turned to thank the source of the voice. And the picture I saw took my breath away.

In the background, emerald green hills, grey clouds, green lawns, with the rain coming down. And framed in this setting, stood a vision, swathed in spotless white. The pure white in stark contrast to the bright green lawns, freshly washed with rain.

She was pleasantly plump. Her round face was crowned with short black curly hair. She was smiling very sweetly. Her expression was one of serenity and joy all at once.

She must have thought I did not hear her, coz she repeated, "To your left", and she pointed with one finger. And she smiled again. "Thank you!" I said, and ran in to get shelter from the rain. I caught up with a friend R, who saw that I was looking bewildered, and raised her eyebrows questioningly. "I just saw an angel", I said, at the risk of sounding corny, but I meant it. R looked at me funnily, and we went in.

The angel also came in, and walked over to our group. She introduced herself as Tina, and said that she was our guide for the day. Another pleasant lady, Angela, joined her. They were resident volunteers at the foundation.

They took us around, and patiently answered all our questions. The day was good. We ate, played games, did the breathing exercises, meditated, went around the place, and relaxed.

I saw with amusement that I was not the only one upon whom Tina had had that extraordinary effect. R agreed with me about her being like an angel. As for the guys, they were following her around like puppies. ;)

When we got some time to sit down, we chatted with Tina. She was funny, friendly, enthusiastic, but more than anything, she seemed at ease with herself and the world. Always smiling that tranquil smile.

She said she was from Lebanon, and was staying at the Foundation for a while. We did not press for more information, nor did she say anything else.

After a round of photographs, we said goodbye and left. In retrospect, it might be that I followed the exercise regimen so strictly in the hope that I would also turn out as happy, calm and graceful as Tina. ;)

Tina, I have no idea where you are now, but I hope you are safe.

Paper packages and cranberry squash

What do you do when you fall ill? You go the doctor.

According to my experience, going to the doc consists of the following steps:

1) Go to the doctor
2) Doc examines you, identifies the illness, writes out a prescription.
3) Take the prescription to the chemist, buy medicines, take them.
4) Get well.

But it works slightly differently in Mumbai.

1) Go to the doctor
2) Doc examines you, doesn't tell you what is wrong with you.
3) Doc's assistant puts 3-5 pills each into little paper packages, puts these packages into ziploc covers, and hands it to you. Each ziploc cover is for one day, and the contents of each paper package is to be taken after each meal.
4) Get well(???)

I discovered this paper-package phenomenon when one of my pg-mates, D, fell ill. Since we did not know any docs around, PG-Auntie took her to her family doctor. D came back with these paper-packages-in-ziploc-covers and a bewildered expression.

Me: What are these??
D: Medicines!
Me: For what?
D: I don't know!
Me: What did the doc say is wrong with you?
D: He didn't say!
Me: So you don't know what medicines you are taking, and for what illness?
D: No!
Me: Didn't you ask what these medicines are??
D: Of course I did! He said "How can I tell you my formula?"

I made her throw the tablets away, and dragged her to the OPD of a nearby hospital, without telling Auntie. There they diagnosed her sickness, and wrote out a prescription. We bought the medicines at the pharmacist, and got back. Ah, the comfort that comes with knowing what you are swallowing!

After that I did a lot of research. All the docs I enquired about in and around Andheri were the paper-packages-in-ziploc-covers types. So I took refuge in the OPD of the hospital, and brainwashed other pg-mates to do the same.

Once, my roommate R told me that someone told her about a good doc, and it looked like he is the prescription type. The next time I developed a sore throat that I couldn't cure on my own, I thought it was best to go and try out this doc. R came with me.

Scene at clinic -
The doc examines me.
Me: What's wrong?
Doc nods.
Me: Is it an infection?
Doc writes something on paper.
I reach out to take it.
Doc looks daggers at me, passes it on to assistant.
Assistant starts wrapping up little pills in paper packages.
I look daggers at R.
R looks at me apologetically.
Doc takes out a big white can that one normally associates with kerosene. Can contains a bright red sticky liquid which reminds one of cranberry squash. Doc pours out an amount into a small white leaky plastic container. Hands it to me along with the little paper packages.
Doc: After every meal, take the medicines in each packet and drink two spoons of this liquid.
Me: What are these medicines? What is this liquid?
Doc: (Glares at me) Sixty rupees.
I don't reply. I pay doc, and leave with R. Leaky bottle is disposed of right outside the clinic, and medicines are thrown away after being brought home and subjected to an unsuccessful scrutiny to determine what medicines they are.
Next morning sees me at good old hospital.

Now, why, you ask, can't I trust the doc and take the medicines that he hands over to me. Here is just one reason. Suppose I turn out to be allergic to something in the medicine, or a pill has some side-effect, and I need to be treated. Imagine the conversation.

Me: (Aaakkhhhkkhhghgkkghg) I have rashes in my throat! Please doc! Do something!
Doc: Have you taken any medication recently?
ME: (KKKGHHHHGHhhhhhh ) Yes!
Doc: What medicines?
ME: A large round white pill, a little red pill, half of a yellow pill, and an orange capsule. And cranberry squash.

I rest my case.

The burning ambition

I had a burning ambition. The thought of it had been eating into me for quite a while now. Finally I achieved it.

What could this ambition be, you naturally wonder. Let me not keep you in the dark for longer than is necessary. Simply put, it was to travel in those cool new Volvo buses on Bangalore roads. Ah, I can hear you say, "What a lame 'burning ambition'". No comments.

I had had no occasion to use these buses before. We use company transport, and I very rarely use buses to commute elsewhere within Bangalore. But each time I saw those gleaming red buses with electronic route display, those wide doors and huge scrubbed windows, those plush blue seats and the yellow handrails and the sophisticated grey interiors, my eyeballs would follow the bus until it turned a corner.

I finally got to travel in one this week. I left office early, and took one of these volvo buses (which have an additional advantage that they stop right at the office gate). As the doors softly slid apart, I entered the cool interiors, and selected a nice window seat. The polite and smiling conductor issued me a ticket with that ticket-vending machine they hang around their necks. The volvo noiselessly made its way through the clean and green streets of Electronic city. With the soft strains of a song from the radio, sitting in the cool comfort of the bus, gazing out at the glass buildings on either side of the road, it was like being cocooned in a different world altogether.

The bus is, naturally, well-equipped and high-tech. A rear-view screen for the driver. A microphone, into which the driver talks to his passengers and announces bus stops. Well, you know, the works.

It was interesting to watch first-time passengers. A family of four got in. The youngest girl was extremely delighted. She was giggling and jumping around, thoroughly excited to be on this bus. Her older sister was as excited, but she tried very hard to maintain her dignity. But ever so often, her face creased into a smile and she let out a joyous laugh, and then looked up shyly at her mother. The mother, supposedly busy telling her younger daughter to keep quiet and sit down, couldn't get the expression of awe off her face. There was suppressed thrill in each action. And then, of course, the father. Exulting in the reactions of his family, his face was a picture of pride and importance as he peeled off notes from his wallet and paid the conductor.

The conductor, ever smiling, stood near the door, and at each stop, as passengers got in, he appraised them coolly. If he suspected that a passenger was getting in without being aware of the high fares of the bus, he would lean close, and ask, "Yellige, sir?" [Where to, sir?] When the passenger told the conductor his intended destination, the conductor would lean even closer, and softly mouth what was obviously the bus fare. Then a shocked look would come over the passenger's face, and he would back off, and stumble out of the bus, while the bus driver waited patiently. It was uncanny, the way the conductor homed in correctly on what he thought was a passenger who couldn't afford to pay his way in the Volvo. It was somehow saddening too. Yes, I know that it is a special bus, and there are many more ordinary buses along the way, yet, it is depressing that the majority cannot enjoy the comfort of the Volvo. Anyway, let me not dwell upon that.

It wasn't that I haven't been in such buses before. It is just that I hadn't been in such buses in India. And they look even more gleaming and inviting in contrast to the other vehicles. Like a shiny new coin in a bunch of old coins. All a matter of perception, huh? Anyway, I finally did get to travel in the BMTC Volvo, and I enjoyed the comfortable ride. More so, because I had at last achieved my "burning ambition". Again, no comments.

Mumbai Monsoon.

The rains are here! Of course, they've been here for a while now, but I was tempted to write it off as one of the quirks of Bangalore weather... but the constant cloud cover, the drizzle, the chilly mornings - it can't mean anything else!

And that reminds me of another city which has a distinctive monsoon - Mumbai.

The rains in Mumbai took me by surprise, to put it mildly. It is an entirely different culture out there. Coming from a place where people take shelter at the hint of a drizzle, here I saw a city that does not stop! What is amazing is the attitude of the -

People. They walk nonchalantly in pouring rain through knee deep water. They cheerily walk into office in casual clothes, drenched to the skin, and then change into formals in the changing rooms, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. They don't put off any business, or any visits. They just treat the rain as a minor inconvenience, and go about their business, unfazed.

Another thing that amazed me is the nature of the -

Rain. Continuous. Sometimes pouring, sometimes drizzling, but raining all the time. Initially, after a day of incessant rain, I said, "God! It's been raining for 24 hours non-stop!" My colleagues rolled their eyes at me with a "You ain't seen nothin' yet" expression. Sure enough, the rains continued round-the-clock for a week! Roads were flooded, trains stopped, but Mumbai went on.

One distinctive feature of the Mumbai monsoon - the ubiquitous -

Tubs. Or buckets. Outside shops and commercial establishments. Where you dump your dripping umbrella, before going in. Very convenient. The watchman doesn't have to take the risk of offending a customer by telling him to deposit his umbrella outside. And the owner of the establishment doesn't have to endure the agony of seeing rainwater dripping over his newly polished floors. But you need to have a knack of depositing your umbrella in just the right place in the tub. If you dump it right in the middle of the tub, then it will get entangled with the other dripping umbrellas, and you will have to move heaven and earth to retrieve it in one piece. Or if you place it on the periphery of the tub, someone, in the process of looking for his dumped-in-the-middle umbrella, will displace yours, and it will land ten feet away from the tub. You have to place it just so. And yes, if you have a distinctive umbrella, and if you place it in the tub all tied and folded, you have a better chance of getting it back. In one piece.

Then of course, is the major matter of -

Shoes. After the first major rain, I tried to skirt puddles daintily, trying to protect my footwear. When I realized that daintiness doesn't really work on the streets of Mumbai, I waded through ankle-deep water, and promptly spoiled my shoes. My room-mates guided me to Andheri to buy footwear suited for the rains. I duly landed in the market, expecting to see cheap plastic monstrosities, and was stupefied to see rack upon rack of "Rainy shoes"(sic), some really elegant. I bought a cool brown pair, which served me beautifully even as .. um... non-Rainy shoes.

And then, you cannot expect to survive the rains without an -

Umbrella. I had brought a tiny three-fold umbrella with me from Bangalore, which would fit snugly into my handbag. I disregarded warnings that I would need a sturdier two-fold umbrella, claiming that mine was very strong. A week of enduring the rain and winds and the Tubs of Mumbai, my dainty turquoise umbrella was a clump of rusty spokes and muddy fabric. The next weekend saw me again in Andheri, bargaining for a hardy two-fold umbrella. I picked up a light blue one with white raindrops... that somehow made me feel like a Powerpuff girl, but which, I was sure, was pretty resilient to withstand the winds, and unique enough for a life in the Tubs. A month later, though the white raindrops had turned brown, the umbrella was intact. It even accompanied me back to Bangalore as a prized possession.

And I just cannot stop talking about the -

Sights. And the experiences. A walk down Marine Drive in the rain, biting into hot, spiced, corn on the cob. Or looking out towards Powai Lake. Or a drive on the Mumbai-Pune expressway, through Lonavala and Khandala, in the rain. One of the best experiences ever. Endless green hills and valleys with drifting cottony clouds. Black roads, dark tunnels. And the chill. My only grouse is that I had no one travelling with me to share the moment with, and I did not have a camera. Aaargh!

Of course, everything is not hunky-dory in the Mumbai monsoon. Cancelled trains, stranded passengers. Clothes take forever to dry, and attain that musty, sour smell that no perfume can mask. Grease gets on your clothes when you wade through water on the streets, and no amount of scrubbing will remove it. And if you are not too careful, the clothes in your cupboard develop fungus. And worst of all, if you are feeling lonely or if things are not going too well for you, the Mumbai monsoons have the immense ability to hurl you into the depths of depression.

But nowhere else is the monsoon an event in itself. And the way the city and it's people have adapted to this necessary evil(?) is a joy to observe. How can Mumbai possibly not endear itself to you?

All about love!

Can we choose to fall in love?

A question by Chitra, and some turbulent thoughts in a friend's head, prompted me to think about this.

First of all, what is love? Nobody has succeeded in defining it. But the closest I have come to see it being defined is by M.Scott Peck in A Road Less Travelled. It might look like a self-help book, but it isn't. It is a beautiful book of concepts that will surely change your way of thinking. Of course it is not only about love, it also talks about various aspects of life, but this section stayed with me, because it answered all my questions about love.

Scott Peck says that "Falling in love" is effortless. But it is not equivalent to "loving". "Loving" requires effort. Love is a decision. Love is an action, an activity.

He says that what is commonly called love is actually cathexis. But for true love to develop, a certain amount of cathexis is necessary.

Instead of trying to explain further, I will reproduce a part of a succinct review by Laura Bryannan.

...(Scott Peck) discusses the difference between being "in love" and love. He notes that love is not a feeling, but an activity, and defines it as "the willingness to extend oneself for the purpose of nurturing one's own and another's spiritual growth." He bemoans the rampant notion of romantic love that pervades society today, which holds that one is not truly in love unless one feels those incredible "I'm in love" feelings that we all know so well. He observes, "Many, many people possessing a feeling of love and even acting in response to that feeling act in all manner of unloving and destructive ways. On the other hand, a genuinely loving individual will often take loving and constructive action toward a person he or she consciously dislikes..."

He teaches to be suspect of the familiar "in love" feeling for two reasons: 1) "The experience of falling in love is specifically a sex-linked erotic experience," which he believes may be genetically coded in us to insure the perpetuation of the species; and 2) "The experience of falling in love is invariably temporary...the feeling of ecstatic lovingness that characterizes the experience of falling in love always passes."

I wonder how many relationships end, or never get started, because the partners feel genuine connection and communication together, but don't feel "in love." ....

Now to answer the question, "Can we choose to fall in love", I will take three situations:
(This is from only one perspective. Needless to say, you need two to tango.)

Situation 1
Guy is interested in girl. Girl feels undeniable attraction. But somewhere at the back of her mind, she knows that this guy is not good for her (whatever the reason is). So she can hold back. She can resist the sweeping emotions. If she is strong enough, she can step back from the flood of emotions, and not fall in love. But if the attentions and adulation of the guy is very intense and continuous, and if the girl is not very strong-willed, if she cannot swim against the currents of her own feeling, she can very easily be swept up in it and fall in love. So though she knows the guy is not good for her, she has fallen in love with him.

Here, after the first high of "having fallen in love" fades away (yes, it will), she might find that it was a grave mistake after all. Then the relationship might break down. Of course, she might even find that what she thought would be an issue, was not an issue at all, and she might have grown to love him, and in that case, all's well that ends well.

Situation 2
Guy is interested in girl. Girl does not feel any particular attraction or attachment. She likes the guy, and thinks he is a very good person, and respects him. But that's it. But she can think, "He is a good person, I am sure I will be happy with him." So she decides to love him. But she cannot "fall in love" with him. (Maybe she can, too, but I am not so sure about it). But she can grow to love him.

In this case, the girl might never experience the high of having "fallen in love", but that does not mean that she does not love the guy.

Situation 3
Guy is interested in girl. Girl is interested in guy. She has no qualms, she knows that he is the best person for her. She very easily falls in love with him.

If, during the high of having "fallen in love", she has also grown "to love" the person, then what else do you want? But I am not saying that this situation will definitely have a happy ending. She might discover things about him which she did not know, and she might realize that she cannot love him after all!

Back to the question. Can you choose to fall in love? I think that you can choose to resist "falling in love", but you might not be able to choose, or force yourself to "fall in love". But you can definitely choose "to love".

At this point, if you are brimming with questions, I strongly recommend "The Road Less Travelled".

Fit and fine!

I have always been vaguely conscious of the need to be fit and healthy, and have made several ill-fated attempts at achieving fitness. More often than not, Lady Laziness, and the Slumber Queen have taken over and played spoilsport to all my plans.

That is, until I got married. Now S has very strong opinions about good health and fitness. Since both of us love walking, we have walked a lot before and after marriage. But my idea of a walk is a stroll, smelling the flowers and enjoying the breeze, whereas S thinks that a walk should be walked wearing walking shoes and track pants and exerting your pathetic body as much as possible.

Well, in short, S took over the department of fitness in my life, and Lady Laziness and Slumber Queen bid goodbye to me, and Uncle MuscleAche said Hi. But S was not to be beaten. He advised me, coaxed me, cajoled me, preached to me, threatened me, but he made sure I exercised every morning, and went for a walk with him every evening. At his pace. Which is more or less like the walking race in the Olympics.

I grumbled, whined, made faces, made up fictional stories of pains and sprains, but S was unfazed. He made me walk longer and faster than I ever thought possible, and he was the one who decided when I could stop. My protests fell on deaf ears. I even tried escaping, taking off in the direction of home, when he wasn't looking. But he caught up with me and threatened to make me walk for half an hour extra, as punishment. I finally gave up and relinquished all control to him. I followed his regimen, but took revenge by reminding him every day that I can't feel any difference.

That is, until the short trip we took last weekend. There are some really beautiful roads in those parts, and we walked a lot and had a lovely time.

We had walking for some time on one of the roads, when we came to a steep incline. "Sigh! An incline", I thought, and braced for the strain, the pants and gasps, and winced in advance, dreading the pain that I was sure I would feel in my legs.

Then the miracle occurred. I glided, yes, literally floated up the incline. I even had to look behind me to see if I really had walked up myself, or somebody had pushed me. It was effortless! My legs were strong and steady, my breathing was just moderately faster, and my heart was not pounding away! I was thrilled. My legs were listening to me! They were under my control! I beamed with pleasure. We had to walk a lot more after that, but I strode on so easily and tirelessly, that I could not believe it myself.

At first, I hid my glee from S. Ego, you see. But I could not contain my happiness any longer. I burst out with it. Thankfully, he did not say "I told you so", but I could see he was pleased, almost like a coach would be of the medal-winner that he has trained.

And oh, before S pounces on me, let me clarify. I still have a long way to go. Had that incline been steeper, or continued for longer, I would still have huffed and puffed and my legs would have protested. But I have now tasted blood. The heady feeling of being in charge of your body is too wonderful to disregard. S now has an uncomplaining walking partner.

A peek into paradise.

It was one of those holidays which you wish would never end... and you come back so refreshed and rejuvenated, that even coming to office on a Monday doesn't seem like such a bad idea!

Friday morning: (Had left Bangalore the previous night) Reached Mangalore. (Yes, Mangalore again). Bus is 5 hours late because of a traffic pile up on the Western Ghats due to an accident. But bus is a Volvo, and the sights out of the window are heavenly, so no problem. Attend a programme at Mangalore, dressed again in a Kanjeevaram saree (This time, I had not forgotten my safety pins) and eat 4-5 kinds of sweets (including delicious Badam halwa and luscious mango salad) at lunch.

Friday afternoon: Take a bus to Udupi, pause there for the customary Gadbad Icecream at Hotel Diana. Take another bus, which drives through some of the most beautiful hilly regions in the country - and through Agumbe, a little green village, known for the highest rainfall in Karnataka.

Friday evening: Reach a tiny village near Shringeri.



The village and the house - A cluster of old, beautiful houses. The house we visited - where my mom-in-law grew up, and where S has spent countless happy summer holidays in his childhood, and where S's uncle now lives. It is a stately old house with a tiled roof and a courtyard. With pillars and low doors. A beautiful 350 year-old temple on one side. With a garden all around. An erstwhile apiary. All in a beautiful setting, with trees all around, mountains in the horizon, and the Tunga river flowing in the backyard. [A Kannada saying - Tunga paana Ganga snaana - For ultimate bliss, Drink the waters of the Tunga and bathe in the Ganga].

Friday night: Eat dinner, sleep. In spite of blistering heat all day, no fan needed. No mosquitoes around, either.

Saturday morning: Explore the house, feeling like I am in another world. Hit my head and see stars while passing through the low doorways. Experience a different lifestyle. Eat food sitting cross-legged on the floor. Healthy, unpolished rice grown in the fields behind the house, Food cooked on a stove fueled by Bio-gas. Drink milk which comes from the cows and buffaloes in the barn outside. Bathe with water heated using firewood in the "Hande" (a mud tank with a hollow underneath, where firewood is stuffed, lit and the water in the tank heated.) Drink water drawn from the well. Well, you get the drift.

Watch the cows and buffaloes munching on straw, listening to them go chomp-chomp, their mouths moving comically from side to side, their eyes looking at you benignly, the not unpleasant smell of their droppings lingering...

Visit the famous Saraswati temple at Shringeri, and the Durga temple close by.



Saturday afternoon - another gorgeous meal. Then, sit on the cool floor and read stacks of old saccharine sweet Readers Digests, and doze off eventually.

Saturday Evening - visit a house two villages away, and walk back in the darkening evening, drinking in the deliciously cool and fresh air, walk through the trees, along the highway, across a 115 year old bridge over the Tunga, built by Sir M.Vishweshwarayya.

Saturday Night: Some more delicious food. Climb on to the roof, and watch the moon and the stars and enjoy the cool gentle breeze, wishing I could go to sleep right here. Come back reluctantly down, experience a relapse into modernity with watching a little Television, and then curl up in a tiny cool room with wooden doors and wooden bolts, and quaint little windows, and go to sleep.

Sunday Morning - Walk up to the Tunga flowing in the backyard. Sit on the banks, with feet in water, look at the river flowing gracefully past. Feed raw rice to the fish. Get a pedicure from the small fish, and a foot massage from the big fish, some as long as my arm and twice as thick. Take a small ride on a small "Ikkada/Theppa" (coracle) - a wide, but shallow bamboo basket, lined with plastic cement bags and fortified with tar, and rowed with a wooden oar (Rowed by a neighbour, with S trying out a bit of rowing later on!) Beautiful river, beautiful green trees, and even more beautiful weather. Takes all of S's might and persuasive powers to drag me away from there. Rest of the morning acquaint myself with the gorgeous, huge doggie in the courtyard, a cross between a Great Dane and a Doberman. Slowly graduate from being twenty feet away from it, to being 5 feet away from it.

Sunday Afternoon - An enormous lunch of raw jackfruit huLi(like sambar) and delicious wheat and jaggery payasa, and then hit the bed.


Sunday Evening - A long leisurely walk along the pebbly and sandy banks of the serene river. Throw stones into the river, watch the ripples. Try to skip stones on the river. Collect tiny shiny pieces of mica, in childlike fascination, but drop them all on the way. Watch birds, especially stark white cranes which come to rest on the overhanging trees of the river, looking like white handkerchiefs all hung out to dry on a single, favoured tree.

Sunday night - A quick dinner, and pack up and rush to catch...sigh!...the bus back to Bangalore!

The day that changed my life.

Exactly two years ago, when I was working in Mumbai, the client arranged for everybody working on our project, to go on a visit to EsselWorld. Having seen the EsselWorld ads repeatedly on TV, with declarations of "Esselworld mein rahunga main! Ghar nahin jaaunga main!" [I will stay on in Esselworld, I will not go home!], I couldn't wait to go and see what was so special about it.

I went armed with a mini first-aid kit, on my mom's insistence. [Yes, she has heard too many horror stories involving fun parks.] Her advice rang in my ears. "You are over-adventurous. Don't go on rides which are too crazy." Well, moms will be moms. Anyway, after promising to send her an sms every one hour to prove that I am still alive, I joined my colleagues on the bus to EsselWorld. Just as the bus started, I got another sms from my mom. "Be careful. If the ride looks too dangerous, do NOT go on it. Remember, there are people who love you waiting for you back home." Phew! "Ok mom!" I replied, and we were on our way.

At the gates of EsselWorld, a couple of colleagues went to buy tickets. The rest of us, more than 60 of us, were just waiting around. Someone suggested a game to play to while away the time. It was an improvised version of kho-kho. The players stand in pairs, one behind another, in two concentric circles. There is one guy who is the chaser, and he chases a designated runner. When the runner is tired, he tags one of the pairs, and the player in the pair who belongs to the outer concentric circle turns into the runner.

Well, the game progressed, and finally, somebody tagged me. I did a little of smart running and dodging, and then decided to tag somebody else. I approached someone, tagged him, and stopped with an awkward jerky movement. Suddenly, my left ankle twisted beneath me. I desperately clawed the air for a handhold, and the guy nearest to me tried to prevent me from falling, but I went crashing down. A number of hands immediately helped me up. I stood up, put my weight on my left foot, and promptly went down again in pain. I hopped over to the side, sat, and suddenly found that my left shoe was too tight. I took off my shoes and socks, to find my ankle twice its size. It was throbbing in pain. I was half-laughing, half-crying. An ambulance materialized out of nowhere, and took me to the "medical centre" in Essel World. There was a very gentle and soft-spoken doctor on duty. She examined my foot, and declared that it could not be just a sprain. It could be a fracture. Whaaaaat? Yes, she said, and advised me to either go back home to Andheri and show it to an expert, or, go to Bhayander, a suburb close by, to a doctor on EsselWorld's payroll. Going back to Andheri would mean that someone would have to go with me, and that would mean that s/he would lose out on a fun-filled day. Going to Bhayander would take just a couple of hours, and my escort could continue with enjoying himself/herself in Esselworld. I chose the latter. The ambulance again came for me. First they confirmed that I indeed held a valid EsselWorld ticket, failing which they would have probably cast me out just like that.

We set out, my colleague Bhupi, and I. Now Bhupi is one of those people who has helped me a million times when I have been in trouble , and has been a very good friend, but unfortunately, I have never been able to acknowledge how much his efforts have meant to me. Maybe it is just that sometimes you can never thank some people adequately. Anyway, Bhupi accompanied me in the ambulance to the doc in Bhayander. On the way, my mom sent me a message, "How are the rides?", and Bhupi prompted me to write back, "Enjoying a very special ride!" :)

The ambulance ride was pretty painful. The road was bumpy, and my poor ankle kept getting tossed about. I gritted my teeth and bore it. After too long a journey, we arrived at the Bhayander hospital, and I went hopping in on one leg. The doctor examined my foot, said that it was not a fracture (a sigh of relief) but looked like a ligament tear (whaaat?). He bound my foot with a crepe bandage, and told me to go to a specialist. I decided to do that the next day, and went back to the EsselWorld medical centre. I was given a clean bed in a cool room smelling of disinfectant. I convinced Bhupi that I would be fine and he went to join the others.

I lay down there and called mom and told her what happened. I philosophized to her, telling her that you can never know what will happen, and when. See? You were so afraid that I would hurt myself on some ride. I hurt my ankle even before I could enter EsselWorld! Anyway, After that, left with nothing to do, I made a lot of calls, and played games on my mobile. Finally it was lunch time, and the ambulance came for me again. I joined the rest of my colleagues, to a lot of solicitous questions and pampering. After lunch, I got back and slept well, until another colleague, who was feeling woozy after a particularly dizzying ride, joined me. We chatted and kept each other company until it was time to go back home.

I reached my paying guest accommodation, and got pampered by PG Auntie. Then I went into the bathroom. I was hopping on one foot, and the toilet was wet, and well, you know. I crashed again. I tried not to howl, but just took painkillers and went to bed. The next day, I went to an orthopaedist close by. He took some X-Rays, and said that it indeed looked like a ligament tear, and he said he would refer me to an expert. [What was he?] He said, you need bed rest for at least 2 weeks. Whaaat? Then might I as well go back to Bangalore and get treated there? That would be best, said the doc. Fine. Then Bhupi arrived, heard of my predicament and immediately went to the airport to arrange for tickets. Meanwhile I got back and called office to tell them that they would have to do without me for a while. They were supportive, and I packed whatever I could while I hopped on one foot. Bhupi came back with some really economical tickets, for a flight which started at... 3 am! Well, obviously I needed an escort at that time of the night.. and naturally Bhupi volunteered. Well, he took me to the airport, and found that we needed to have booked wheelchairs while booking the tickets. So there are no wheelchairs, sorry. Sigh.. I made a very sad face, and hopped very helplessly around, while Bhupi did some pretty good convincing. Then the airport authorities felt sorry for me and gave me a wheelchair. [My experiences with the wheelchair here]. Bhupi checked me in, and went back. I reached Bangalore early next morning, and horrors! - my entire family had come to receive me. My mother got all teary-eyed to see her dear daughter in a wheelchair.

Anyway a quick trip to the best orthopaedist followed... after confirming that my ligaments were indeed torn, they had to determine how bad it was. So a particularly painful x-ray followed. The doc said "Ready? This will hurt!" and grabbed my ankle and twisted it with all his might, and the x-ray guy took the x-ray. The whole twisting thing probably lasted for just 3-4 seconds but my I saw red and black spots and i clenched the sides of the bed. I was sweating and whimpering with pain by the time it was done. This was to see how much damage my ligament had undergone? Ha! The ligament would have suffered the most damage during that x-ray. Sob sob :( Anyway, doc knows best! Then the doc took one look at the x-ray and declared that my foot needed to be in a cast for a minimum of six weeks. Whaaaaaat? Well, my leg was put in a cool blue fibreglass cast, a walker was obtained, and I was a pampered invalid for the next six weeks. Then of course, i needed two weeks to be able to walk after the cast was removed, and it was 2 months before I could go back to Mumbai.

Now why did that fall change my life? Well, some of you know why.. for others, I will just say that this little, but painful incident, drastically and unexpectedly changed the course of my life in a very positive way - I met the guy I would marry. ;)

Subtle brainwashing.

My first reaction to Rang De Basanti was that the movie gives out a dangerous message. Just because our freedom fighters avenged a wrong by employing extreme means of retaliation, it does not make it okay to do the same thing now. Yes, the protagonists in the movie did not get anywhere by doing what they did. But it did portray them as heroes. Martyred heroes.

But I think this movie might not really encourage such extreme behaviour, as some fear, because I think that the average viewer is rather discerning, and knows that what they did in the movie was quite idiotic. But that is because it is a direct, in-your-face message. Compared to this, far more alarming are the subtle messages that movies and television serials send across every day. Nothing as dramatic and controversial as Rang De Basanti. But far more dangerous. Slow poison. You will not even realize that your brain is receiving those signals. It seeps into your sub-conscious when you are not looking, and corrodes the collective psyches of the entire nation.

Everybody can see what Rang De Basanti seems to be telling us. But nobody realizes what serials are doing to us.

Take the saas-bahu serials. Repeatedly, they send across the message that the place of the woman is at home, looking after the affairs of the house. All the protagonists are paragons of virtue. They look after their husbands and in-laws, cook and feed them, and act as the wall of the family. They are traditional, have a lot of respect for "sanskaar"(culture) - how I have started hating that word! On the other hand, there is the scheming woman who is invariably highly professional, or ambitious. She is bold, confident and always wants to have her own way. Her husband is either her partner in crime, or a weakling. Watch this serial for a year, and you will develop an inherent bias towards the bold, ambitious woman.

Consider any ordinary soap. There are no grey characters. Everything is either black or white. All emotions are extreme. Rivalry, jealousy, quarrels, infidelity, backstabbing, and what have you. Relationships are never straightforward. No word spoken can be taken at face value. Every word, every look, every action has to be analyzed to ensure that there is no scheme behind it. A harmless sentence spoken by a mother-in-law is contrived by the daughter-in-law to mean something entirely different. I wonder how many perfectly fine MIL-DIL are going down the drain due to "maybe this is her actual intention" thoughts.

There are hundreds of situations which give the same message again and again in every serial, every language.

A guy molested a girl? How will she get married now that her "good name" has gone? So get her married to that very molester.
Did you get married? Give up your dreams and goals, cross over from jeans to a aaree, wear your hair in a bun, and make the kitchen your home.
No matter how much of an ugly spoilt brat the guy is, the girl should be "beautiful, virtuous and from a good family".
Observe fasts for the long life of your husband. No matter if he is a first class crook. After all, being a "Suhagan"(woman whose husband is alive, to put it crudely) is the supreme state.
Send your harrassed daughter back to her wife-beating, womanizing husband, because a "woman's place is in her husband's home".
Got a child? Make sure that he always comes first in the class in studies. Any other talent can go to the dustbin.
Your mother-in-law, sister-in-law, or daughter-in-law, or any damn female in-law can never have your good at heart. All she says is just a farce, and her real "face" will come out sometime very soon.
Any problem or bad phase can be overcome by appeasing the Gods by having an expensive pooja, homa or havan.
If a character is afflicted with a life-threatening disease, he/she is most likely to die. All medical breakthroughs are coolly ignored.
Utter rubbish.

Such conservative beliefs, superstitions and myths, are being continuously drilled into our somnambulent brains each time we watch a crappy movie or a serial.

You and I are "educated, broad-minded", and we know that these serials are "rubbish", and we are "superior" and do not get affected by any such "stupid" serials. But you and I do not make up India. You and I are not the sole bearers of Indian culture. We are just two among a billion and more. There are millions of people who watch these serials everyday. Millions who are still steeped in ignorance and backwardness. These people need a positive example, they need to be brought out of the darkness.

Instead, these serials are just reiterating and reaffirming the blind beliefs of yore and pushing the masses backwards into the eighteenth century.

Subtle brainwashing, working beautifully.

The results are out!

A colleague just walked by, and he had in his hand a sheaf of papers. When I saw him, he was smiling and rustling the papers at some person behind me, and his gesture was one of "Look, here it is!"

I suddenly froze, and a familiar, yet forgotten feeling crept over me. That was the same gesture that "Pyjama Tata" used to make when he brought the examination results to the department! That feeling of dread, of foreboding, of excitement, all mixed with the smell of suspense in the air!

The four years of engineering were just a blur of exams and results. We wrote eight exams and had to go through the ordeal of receiving the results eight times. Bangalore University was notorious for churning out unexpected results. You could be confident of having fared beautifully in an exam, but you could be certain that you have cleared it only after you had seen the results. So the results were much more than just a reflection of how you wrote your exam. It also told you how much luck had favoured you.

Little wonder then, that the results were awaited with so much anxiety. Even the battle-hardened veterans had to cope with increased pulse rates. Bangalore University was also very infamous for not being prompt with the results. The most common rumour in the campus was "I heard the results will be put up today!" This rumour could go on for two months, and yet we students would believe it every time!

On the day the results finally arrived, there would be a hush in the college. Urgent whispers could be heard. Someone would say that he saw Nagendra, the main office-guy, bring a huge folder and take it to the Administration building. On protests of "It could have been anything!", the informer would say, "No, no, Nagendra had a knowing look in his eyes". This bit of information would be repeated and reiterated until some guys went up to the admin building and nailed Nagendra and got him to confess that what he had brought were indeed the results and he had indeed gone to the University to get them. When this information reached the rest of the waiting populace, blood pressures would soar, barrels of water would be downed, and there would be a queue outside the toilets.

Even the seemingly unconcerned hostelites would get the message, tumble out of their beds, and come to the department, hair tousled, and eyes anxious. There The Wait would commence. Any office person coming towards the department from the direction of the Admin Department would be examined. Any person with a sheaf of papers in his hand would be scrutinized.

Many red herrings later, someone would think of Pyjama Tata. He was an ancient little man with no teeth, no cheeks, no hair, but with a jutting out jaw and an uncommonly loud voice. His role in the department was indefinite. His identifying feature was a loose, flapping pair of pyjamas. Nobody knew his name. Everybody called him Pyjama Tata.[Tata - Grandfather]. It was to him that we would finally go. He would cackle loudly and say, "I was just about to go to the Principal's office and get the results".

It would be half an hour more of drinking water and going to the loo until we saw Pyjama Tata's dirty white pyjamas flapping from far off. We would watch every step of his until he approached the department. It was then that he would smile and shake the papers at us and make that gesture of "here it is!". The excitement would reach a painful peak. As he climbed the stairs of the department, we would flock about him and beg to be shown "just one page". He would resolutely shake his head and take it straight to the Head Of Dept's office. We would watch the door of HOD's office for the next ten minutes, shifting our weights from one foot to another.

Finally, Pyjama Tata would appear from inside, pick up some board pins and with deliberate sluggishness, he would proceed to the notice board and start pinning up each page. That was one of the times I wished my name started with "A". He used to put it up alphabetically and all the As and the Bs would flock around and start calling out to each other. Then I would wait with my teeth gritted. D, J, L-M, N-P, R, and then S, finally! I would rush forward, only to be pushed and pulled, and someone would shove their elbow into my nose and I would hang on to somebody's plait for balance and then crane my neck and look at the board. And invariably, read the result of the person before or after me. My heart would plunge to my feet and my head would buzz and my vision would get blurred, and then suddenly, someone would be patting my shoulder and saying "Hey Shruthi, great results!".. and I would say, "What the..".. and would look at the board again in renewed hope, and this time read my own result. I would put out my finger and trace a straight line between my name and the new result, confirm it, and would come away from the board in whoops of joy.

I would quickly look at the faces of my friends, to verify that it went well for them. Coz if hadn't for even one, then my own success would seem insipid. Then after a series of palm-burning high-fives, we would run to the nearest phone booth to call our parents[It was the era when only a privileged few owned cells]. After that, it was time for celebration, until it was time for the next results!

By the time we reached the final year, Bangalore University had become very tech-savvy, and the results of the final two semesters were put up online. This was anxiety of a different sort. Sitting up at midnight and refreshing the web page repeatedly until we read the golden words "Results announced for 7th sem - Click here". But nope, nothing compared to the collective tension of the mass of perspiring students, waiting for the bits of paper that contained their "passports to a good life".

It seems so funny now, to think back on it. I can hardly remember the marks I scored or the percentage I got in any of those semesters. Yet, at that time, it seemed to us like a matter of life and death! :D

The perfect guy!

It is tag-time!!

Three bloggers tagged me during the last two months, and I have not been able to work on them at all! So here I go, one by one.

Anil tagged me to write down 8 qualities of my dream lover. Now, when I started listing it in my head, I realized that I was being very biased and listing down the characteristics of my .. umm.. hubby :D. So I gave up on it. But Anil requested me again to write it anyway, in his own words, "from an experienced person's perspective". ;)

So here I list down 8 qualities which a guy must possess in order for a girl like me to have a happy married life with him. For a moment, I will forget that I am married :)

1) Loving, caring, sensitive. Cliched, but still, top of the chart. Without this, even if all the other 7 qualities exist, it is of no use. Empathetic - He must understand my needs, desires, dreams, ideas(however silly they may be). He need not agree with them, but he needs to understand why I feel that way, so that it can lead to further discussion. In short, I must not hesitate to tell him my innermost thoughts, for fear of being ridiculed.

2) He must be pleasant-looking, well-mannered, neat and organized, cultured and polite.

3) He must have similar attitudes towards life, and similar interests as mine. If he does not, he must be supportive, and must be enthusiastic to learn and participate in activities that I love.

4) He must love and respect his own family - only then can I expect him to love and accept my family, and consequently, that's the only way I can expect him to be a caring and committed father to our children.

5) Must be intelligent, well-informed, enthusiastic to learn, curious.

6) Must be passionate about what he does, must be positive and confident, must have a good sense of humour, and must know how to enjoy himself.

7) Someone once told me, "I love him. He makes me laugh". I told her, "It is not important if the guy makes you laugh. What is important is whether he can make you smile." See the difference? I had said this before I got married, but after marriage, I found that I was right! :)

8) He must not snore. :)

I understand this is a lot more than eight qualities, and I have very "cleverly" categorized them into eight points. :)

Hope this serves as a guideline for all you unmarried people out there. :)

It's the time to be on time!

You are swamped with work, when you receive a mail, requesting you to come at 4 pm to the cafeteria, to discuss which songs should be sung for the annual day celebrations. You plan your work accordingly; reschedule a meeting with the client, and at 4 pm sharp, you go the cafeteria, to be greeted by empty chairs and tables. You sit there for ten minutes, drumming your fingers on the table, irritation mounting. One person turns up, and apologizes for the delay. You point out that you need to leave in twenty minutes, so can we start the discussion? He suggests that we wait for five more minutes for the others. Five minutes pass by, without any change in the number of occupied chairs. You say, fine, let us at least start. He agrees, and you spend ten minutes trying not to argue with each other. At this stage, the others enter, and they say, "Sorry, we had work", and you say to yourself, "Yeah, and I was surfing on the beach." Anyway it is time for you to leave. They request you to stay on, but you leave anyway, extracting from them a promise that they will come on time the next day. The next day, history repeats itself. What do you do?

I dropped out. I told them that if this is the dedication and sincerity, then I don't want to be associated with this kind of a singing group. They tried to dissuade me, but I did not budge. And I am glad.

I usually do not indulge in much confrontation and argument. But when it comes to people who do not care about other people's time, I become ruthless.

My sister had exams but had promised to help clear some doubts that her junior had. She waited and waited for the junior to arrive, even giving up on her evening walk to accommodate her. But she did not turn up. Then the next day when my sister was deeply immersed in studies, she lands up and says, "Hi, here I am". My sister, being the sweet girl she is, got up to go and help her anyway. But I happened to be around, and forbade her to step out of her room, saying, "If she cannot value your time, you need not help her". But she pacified me, and convinced me that she would spend just five minutes on her. She was true to her word, but I also knew she was very irritated. So I brainwashed her a bit before I left, to make sure this does not happen again.


Why are people like that? If they have a genuine reason for being late, then it's fine. But more often than not, most people just take their own sweet time. "I only follow IST - Indian Stretchable Time", they announce, with pride, while laughing expansively. It irritates me no end. I hate to be kept waiting, and so I do not make people wait. So I just cannot understand what gives people this "Chalta Hai" (Anything’s ok) attitude.

I know some people who say "Anyway the other person will be late, so I will also go late". My argument is - don't do that. Remain true to yourself. If each one of us makes an effort, the whole society can change. It is possible. One more reason they give is "Too much traffic". So? Don't you know Bangalore's traffic? Would you take a risk when you need to catch a flight? Wouldn't you leave much earlier? Then do it here.

If you are held up for some valid reason, then call. Communicate. Let the person who is waiting for you know that you are held up, so that s/he can do something else in the meantime. Do not think this is some kind of a formality. Do this when it comes to your loved ones too. When my husband and I need to go out somewhere during weekdays, I travel from my office to my husband's, and then we go out from there together. I give him an estimate of when I will reach his office, so that he can schedule his activities accordingly. Even if I am just fifteen minutes late, I call him and tell him that, so that he won't pack up prematurely, and he can spend that time doing something useful.

I think that we should start young. Inculcate timeliness in your children. I, in fact, got it because my parents were so particular about keeping time. I always recollect going for dinner invitations on the dot. I even remember the time my father was supposed to pick up a colleague at a particular point, and because the colleague was too late, and did not care to inform him either, my father just drove away. And sure enough, the colleague learnt a lesson.

Fortunately for me, my husband is also a stickler for time, which trait, I am sure, he got from his parents too. Recently, a couple of LIC agents who were supposed to come home were almost an hour late, and had not given any explanation either. My father-in-law just called them and asked them to do a right-about-turn and go back, wherever they might be. Needless to say, at the next appointment, they were at our place before time!

It is possible to change other people's way of thinking, if you lead by example. Why do my colleagues go to the conference room ten minutes in advance for the teleconference with the American client, and why do they go ten minutes late to the meeting organized by their manager? It is because they know that the American will start right on time, but their manager will not. If you want to ape the Americans, then ape this trait.

If you create the impression of being prompt, and get labeled as being particular about keeping time, people will have to co-operate, and hopefully, in the process, they will also change. Am I being too optimistic? Well, the world lives on hope, and I thrive on it!

The Circle of Life - A short story.

This story of mine was placed third in a company-wide short-storywriting competition.

The Circle of Life

She banged the door shut, locked it and walked out. He was not there to hear her, but she felt strangely satisfied by the loud noise of the banging door. She fingered her new string of pearls as she walked to work. He was so preoccupied that he had not even noticed her wearing the pearls that he had gifted her. He had been curt, to the point. She had no idea what was bothering him. Had she irritated him, or was it work? What is with these men, she wondered. Why don't they speak out?

The sky was as dark as her mood. The clouds opened up and so did her umbrella. A little boy in his uniform was running past her. He was getting wet. She automatically pulled him under her umbrella. He looked up at her, with urgent eyes. “My bus!” he said, pointing. A big yellow bus was pulling slowly out of the bus stop on the other side of the road. In one sweeping movement, she picked up the little boy, crossed the road, ran after the bus, and banged on the side of the bus. It stopped. She deposited the boy on the steps, and closed the door. As the bus moved away, she saw the boy’s nose pressed against the glass. He was smiling a most angelic smile, and was waving at her. She waved back, and suddenly her heart felt light. She resumed walking with a smile on her face.

*****

The little boy sat at his usual window seat. At the next stop, a senior student got on the bus, and with a frown on her face, looked around and sat next to him. He ventured a “Good morning!” to her. She looked away with a snort. Undaunted, he took out his drawing book and opened the page to his favorite drawing of a clown. He poked and prodded the girl next to him until she looked at him, ready to snap. She then looked at the book the boy was holding out, and burst into laughter. She pinched the boy’s cheeks, ruffled his hair and gave the book back to him. She leaned back on the seat.

*****

As soon as the bus reached school, she got down from the bus and went to her class, hoping that the class bully did not make fun of her braces again. She had gone ready with her own comments against him. But even when she saw him, she felt no antagonism against him. She had no idea why. She found herself smiling and saying, “Hi! Did you finish your homework?” and left him there, mouth agape.

*****

Nobody had ever smiled at him before, let alone ask a polite question. He felt good. He felt strange. He went through the day, dazed, and was even polite to the teachers. In the lunch break, he went out to eat his lunch all by himself, as usual. The gardener came by, watering his bushes. He carefully kept out of the boy’s way. The boy suddenly wanted someone to speak to. “Ahoy!” he shouted at the gardener. The gardener peered at him suspiciously through the corner of his eyes. “Here! Taste this Pulao! Its delicious!” The gardener walked up slowly and held out his hand, and the boy piled a couple of spoonfuls on his dirty palm. “It is delicious! Please tell your mother”, he said. “I will!” said the boy. “And by the way, my mother thinks that the school garden is the prettiest one she has ever seen!” The gardener smiled a wide, toothless smile.

*****

He walked away, smiling to himself, deep in thought. So there are people who appreciate good things, after all! He thought that nobody, except his daughter, thought that his beloved garden was beautiful. His daughter! The poor girl. She does so much for me; I never do anything for her. I should take something for her on the way home. He stopped at a sweet shop and bought a couple of her favorite laddus. He entered his little house to see his daughter stirring the dal on the stove. “Come and sit down. I will serve lunch in a moment!” she called out. He touched her shoulder, and she turned around. He handed her the packet. She opened it curiously. Tears stung her eyes. How she loved laddus! She ate one, and offered one to her father. Both of them sat, side by side, silently eating the sweet, savoring the moment. Suddenly with a horrified look she jumped up. “The dal!” she cried.

*****

The dal was slightly overdone, but neither of them cared. As they ate, she smiled to herself. Father is such a dear. He is so forgetful, always obsessed with his garden. But he does care for me after all! Humming a popular Bollywood tune, she cleared the plates. She took them out to wash them at the common tap in the locality. The boy who lived on the next street walked past, looking at her furtively. They said he was a nice boy and that he worked as an odd-job man in a good company. Everybody knew that he liked her, and that he was summoning up enough courage to talk to her old father. She kind of liked him too, but she never acknowledged his presence. Today she looked at him. He immediately averted his eyes, but slowly looked back at her again. She smiled.

*****

His heart turned somersaults. She had never even looked at him before, and today she smiled at him! Her dimpled cheeks, the sunlight on her hair – she looked divine. I will surely talk to the gardener this Saturday, he thought and smiled. His lunch break was coming to a close, else maybe he would have gone and talked to her. He hurried back. Sir would be waiting. He peeped in into Sir’s office. He was rubbing his temples. Maybe Sir has a headache. Sir wasn’t well and hasn’t been in office all these days. And so much work. I’ll make him some good ginger tea. The boy whistled as he made the tea, and took it to Sir’s office. He had never disturbed Sir like this before, but today he was too happy to care about what Sir would say. As he entered with the tea, Sir looked up absently. He took the tea and sipped it. “Its good to have you back, Sir” said the boy. Sir just smiled and waved him away.

*****

The tea was refreshing. He felt much better. His mind cleared. He smiled as his fingers tapped the keys with a new urgency. He found a proposal that had to be dealt with at the earliest. Twenty minutes later, he nodded with satisfaction, glanced through the proposal one last time, typed out the email and clicked on send.

*****

“You’ve got a new message. Do you want to open it now?” asked the pop-up box on the young man’s screen. But he did not see it. He was sitting at his desk, brooding, playing with a paper clip. He was so sure that his proposal would be accepted and that his company would get the contract. But when? He had sent in his proposal almost a week ago. Still no response. He was to submit his appraisal form for promotion today. If the acceptance mail came in today, he could include it as one of his achievements. It would really boost his performance records, as this contract was a big one for the company. Of course, he could always mention it in the next appraisal, but that was months away. He fretted. It’s just an email! He had checked his inbox for new mail countless times since morning. Mechanically he turned back to the monitor. He saw the pop-up box. His heart skipped a beat. He hurriedly clicked on “Yes”. A cursory glance confirmed that it was what he hoped it would be. His heart beat like a rock concert, and a smile spread across his face. He quickly forwarded the mail to his seniors, and went to tell his boss about it personally. He came back and added this achievement to his appraisal form. He then saved and submitted it, and relaxed in his chair.

He thought about his wife. He couldn’t wait to tell her. He looked at his watch. He could go and pick her up from work and surprise her. He left immediately, drove to her office, and persuaded her to leave early. She came out of her office, smiling, and got into the car. “What’s all this about?” She asked. “You’ll see”, he winked, “Where do you want to go?” “Anywhere”, she said. “Ok”, he said, “And dear, those pearls look beautiful on you.”