Floccinaucinihilipilification

Floccinaucinihilipilification (FLOK-si-NO-si-NY-HIL-i-PIL-i-fi-KAY-shuhn) noun

Meaning - Estimating something as worthless.

[From Latin flocci, from floccus (tuft of wool) + nauci, from naucum (a trifling thing) + nihili, from Latin nihil (nothing) + pili, from pilus (a hair, trifle) + -fication (making).]

- My current favourite word!

Ever since my uncle introduced me to A Word A Day from Wordsmith , I have been hooked. A Word A Day(AWAD) usually lands in my box at lunchtime, and it is one of the brighter moments of each work day!

AWAD was started by Anu Garg. Each week, he presents five different words with a common theme. Along with the pronunciation and the meaning of each word, he also describes the root and the origin of the word. There is usually a short witty note on the word too. He also gives an example of the usage of the word in the media. And as a bonus, he puts in a very interesting quote (not related to the Word of the Day). [Sometimes I suspect that I wait for the quote more than I wait for the word!] At the end of each week, Anu sends across a mail, a collection of titbits and inputs from readers all over the world, on the words of the previous week.

Each email usually brightens up a dull day, and livens up a lifeless post-lunch Shruthi.

In fact, the credit for the name "Nychthemeron" goes to AWAD. The day I decided to start blogging seriously, I decided to change my url, and was trying all sorts of words. Nothing was available, and I was getting increasingly frustrated. Then I received that day’s word, and found that the word was Nychthemeron . I loved the meaning and the way the word slid off my tongue. I tried it – and it was available. And the rest is, of course, a branch of Social Science.

If you like words, and have not subscribed to A Word A Day yet, then go ahead and do it NOW. By the way, not all words are long and unpronounceable like today’s word is. This week’s theme is “long words”. So don’t worry!

AWAD is interesting and informative, and yes, you cheapskate - it is free.

A few links.

Since I am very busy (for a change), I haven't been able to blog at all. So I will leave you with a couple of links.

Anu, on Mysore - this beautifully written post reduced me to tears - with my love for Mysore. And no, this statement does not mean you get the license to crib about Bangalore on this post , coz I still love Bangalore :)

The weekend was very eventful. I have written about the Kannada serial Muktha earlier. When I went in search of info about the serial, I landed here. During the course of discussions, I was drawn into writing daily updates of Muktha here. The regular commenters at this post became so familiar, that we decided we had to meet up. We did meet up last Saturday, and the surprise guest was Mr.T.N.Seetharam himself. (The acclaimed, popular and well-loved director of the serial). I am itching to blog about it. Let's see if I can.

I gotta go now - please don't forget me ;)

At my wits' end.

Somewhere in the world
There is peace of mind
Somewhere in the world
That's what I must find
Somewhere in the world
Himesh must be unheard of.

[with apologies to Boney M].

Friends, foes, fans(?), and fellow countrymen - I can take it no longer. I am going away in search of that elusive place. I was thinking that the worst was over, but now I hear that Himesh Reshammiya is to lend his voice for the song "Mehbooba Mehbooba" in Ram Gopal Verma's remake of Sholay. Probably because he can howl so well. "Oo-oo-oo". Well. I don't want to be here when that happens.

Before I run away, I will leave you with an idea for foolproof, effective torture. Take your subject, tie him up or strap him down, plug his ears with huge earphones, and play Himeshquito's "Aa Aa Aashiqui main teri, Jaa Jaa Jaayegi Jaan meri" in a loop. Before long, your subject will be a blithering idiot and will do whatever you say.

And no, I am not giving you the link to that song. If you haven't heard it yet, good. We need sane people for the future of the world.

Update: Don't miss the comments on this one!! :)

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?

Flitterwochen

Is a honeymoon necessary?

Why? To spend time together? Yes, definitely, but as some killjoys love to point out, you can spend time together sitting at home too.
Then? Is it to get away from dinner invitations from over-enthusiastic relatives? Now this one makes sense. A wedding is like a hurricane. You'd rather run away on a vacation, than display any more muscle-cramping plastic smiles or be subject to more bone-crunching handshakes.
Or is it just an excuse to take that much needed vacation? - This is the time when the boss is most accommodating, and is mostly likely to sanction that long-requested-for leave. I know at least one person who cited his honeymoon as the reason to take a vacation. If he had had his way, he would have gone without his wife - anyway, that's another story.

I have a very (in my view) compelling reason that a honeymoon is essential.

When you take a vacation with somebody, you get to see the real person*. An individual's behaviour during the sane, comfortable, predictable flow of daily activities might be in stark contrast to his attitude when he** is travelling.

Take a man on a vacation, and observe him. Even better, throw in some last minute glitches, a few obnoxious people, a couple of plans that go topsy-turvy, and a little unexpected hardship. Then stand back and watch him react. There is a high possibility that that's the real him. [Or her. Doesn't matter.]

A vacation can give you some pleasant surprises and some rude shocks. It can warm you, or warn you.

[Ever gone out on a long trip from college and come back with stronger bonds, or broken friendships? Same theory.]

I believe that a honeymoon is an indicator of your life ahead. Do I hear you say, what's the use, anyway you are already married? Maybe. But you might learn in a span of 1-2 weeks, what would have taken you probably a year or more to learn. [And even then, you don't know nothin' yet. But let me not go into that now.] And that might stand you in good stead.

Disclaimer -
*This is written in the context of a culture where the bride and groom are not too well-acquainted, or know very little of each other before the wedding. Or even in the case where they do know each other pretty well, but have met only in ordinary circumstances, and haven't spent extended periods of time together.
**I have used the generic "he/him". You can very well substitute "she/her". No difference.

Post inspired by an account of how Shastri discovered his wife's mental strength, during an eventful trip to Kemmannugundi.

Your thoughts, of course, are welcome!

The best wedding gift?

5 clocks, 6 casseroles, 10 tea-sets, 4 flasks, and 8 Ganesha wall-plates. Familiar? It is a list of just a few of those things that find their way into your hands, beautifully wrapped, in the name of wedding presents. And more often then not, the newly weds do not use it at all, but banish them to a life in the lofts of their parents' homes, unpacked, untouched, nearly forgotten. [Or, yes, recycled!]

I have been wondering whether, in India, the practice of gift-giving has come down through the ages, or whether it has been borrowed from the west. Probably it did exist to some extent. Since the young couple usually lived in a joint, extended family, there would be nothing that they would need, per se. But probably they were given gold and silver, by well-meaning relatives, as a private investment.

Later, as young men moved into cities to find work, they needed to set up independent homes in the city. Then they would definitely have needed material or monetary assistance. The man was usually the sole bread-winner, with a not-too-large salary. Half his home could be set up with the right kind of gifts. Cash would have been welcome too. Then, perhaps, a carefully chosen wedding gift was invaluable to the young couple.

In present times, usually both the bride and the groom work for a living. And in places like Bangalore, there is a high probability that both of them work in the IT industry, and they earn enough, and more. Or on the other hand, the couple has plans to settle down in the US. When such people get married, what can you possibly give them? This is the age when everybody has strong likes and dislikes. Unless you know the couple well, how can you be sure of a gift which they will like for sure? Giving them cash might be a good alternative, but what is the right amount to give them? Ok, you might say, the gift or the amount is not important, it is the thought that counts. Fine. But at what cost?

My grandparents went through this dilemma, and got really confused, especially when it came to a gift for a US-bound couple. They couldn't think of anything that the couple would have been able to use. If they had to give them cash, how much would be a good amount? What would 100 rupees mean to the newlyweds? Two dollars? Finally my grandparents started doing the best thing. They stopped giving gifts. [Unless they specifically knew what the young couple would like.] And actually, nobody really minds, or cares.

But many people still think that gifts are a necessity. So they turn up with these time-tested gifts of a clock, or a flask, or wall-hanging. And since everybody has the same bright idea, you get enough stuff to start a shop with.

Then there is the bouquet trend. Can't think of a gift? Take a fancy bouquet of flowers. "In the wedding video, it won't look like you went empty-handed". Bah! And at the end of it all, the poor flowers wilt in the dustbin.

When I was to get married, we wrestled with the thought of adding the line "No presents please" in the wedding card. But it looked very awkward. So we did not say anything. Instead, my mother talked to her close relatives and friends, and anyone else she could influence, and told them not to bother about giving me gifts. Or that she would let them know if I wanted something specific (Which I did not). Or, she told them, if you are really bent upon giving them something, give them cash.

It worked quite well. Apart from cash, we got only 4 tea-sets, 2 casseroles, 3 Ganesha wall-plates, and......well, you get the picture.

Oh yes, we did get some extremely thoughtful, personalised, and memorable gifts too. But a lot of thought, time and love had gone behind those gifts.

Then, we also received gift-vouchers. Lots of them. And we found that it was not a bad idea at all. We could buy what we wanted. S and I decided that if ever we are caught in a what-do-we-give-them dilemma, we will fall back on gift vouchers.

Those gifts in their boxes in the lofts make me cringe whenever I see them. There are a few items which I think I will be able to use sometime in the future, but I know for sure that I will not use most of them at all. What a waste of money! At these times I wish I had explicitly mentioned that I would not accept any gifts. But some people would have still insisted on giving a gift, as a token of love. So what could I have done instead?

Last week, I got a wedding invitation from Sanjay, a blogger friend I have never met. His mail contained some personal words of invitation, and then he wrote:

Please do not bring any gifts or flower bouquets.
*************************************************
IF you like - you may present the same amount as cash, which we will be happy to consolidate and transfer on your behalf to some people working for our society. There are countless NGOs doing all kinds of things. Not that I've been actively involved or done anything significant, but there are a few names I've grown to trust, for example Parikrama, (genuinely high quality education for slum children) or Samarthanam, (enabling the disabled) or a friend's mother who is working with some government schools, where all it costs for a child's schooling for ONE WHOLE YEAR is around Rs 1000! You might as well give it to them directly instead of giving it to us, we're merely a means of convenience that's all :-)

Sanjay, I am impressed. I wish I had thought of this.

[An old post on giving gifts.]

28

.....Give or take two, is the number of traffic signals I encounter on my way back home from office. Of course, we don't stop at all of them all the time. We stop for just a few seconds at some, and are stuck for upto 20 minutes in others. But that is Bangalore traffic for you.

And in case you are wondering, yes, I actually counted.

Of Radio stations, contests, and vouchers.

There was a time, not so long ago, when nobody listened to the radio. Television had made its addictive presence felt, and the old "Radio set" was relegated to the background. It sat there, unheard, unseen, gathering dust - until FM invaded our airspace.

Radio for me, as a kid, meant listening to the Bournvita Quiz Contest every Sunday afternoon, while having hot phulkas and dal. Apart from that, my parents listened to classical music on Akashvani regularly. Sometimes my father tuned in to Vividh Bharati. That was what radio meant to me. That is, until the resurrection.

Radio City had probably just taken root in Bangalore, When I had to go out of Bangalore for further studies. I lived in a hostel. There weren't many stations available, and the best was Vividh Bharati, which by now was available on FM. I was hooked on to it. No matter how tired I was, I would fall asleep only with the fading of the last melody on Chhayageet*.

Then I moved to Mumbai and was hit by a deluge of Radio Stations. 6, or 7 stations to choose from! [Important learning - When you are not too particular about what you want, too many options will kill you.] My FM receiver, that I bargained for and bought outside Andheri Station, went kaput in no time, and the reason, I suspect, is that I changed stations too frequently. By the time I had zeroed in upon the stations and programs I liked best, it was time to leave Mumbai.

By the time I got back to Bangalore, Radio City was omnipresent. In the cab, in the parlour, in the restaurant, in the gym, in the shopping mall, in the.. well, you get the drift. Since commuting in Bangalore usually takes very long, music is the best way to distract you from traffic. Though I would have preferred to carry my own player and listen to the music of my choice, people in the company cabs want to listen to the radio.

So, all the company cabs play the radio, and previously they were all tuned into Radio City. Only occasionally, when an annoying driver changed stations, we would be forced to listen to AIR FM Rainbow, which, while it played not-too-bad music, had boring anchoring, with sudden long silences, which made us wonder if we lost the transmission. So Radio City it was. Though there were too many ads and too much of talking, there were some likeable RJs - like Vasanti on Good Morning India, and Darius on Route 91 in the evenings. So we listened anyway, especially since the alternative wasn't too inviting. Then Darius left, and I couldn't bear the hyperactive anchoring of Sunaina who was his replacement. Just as I was reaching my wits' end, in stepped Radio Mirchi.

Mirchi's USP seems to be Kanglish. A mixture of Kannada and English, that (they probably feel) most people will identify with. To top it, it plays lots and lots of music, and there are very few ads (As of now. And I know it will change). Anyway, it lives up to its claim of "More dhak-dhak, less bak-bak". The anchoring is measured and relaxed, but enthusiastic. Just the right mix. Sometimes the Kanglish gets too contrived, the songs are repeated too often, and there are a couple of irritating fillers. But on the whole, it seems to have won over Radio City, because all the radios in the company cabs, are now by default tuned to Radio Mirchi.

A couple of days ago, I was dozing off on the cab on the way home, gliding along in that phase between wakefulness and sleep, when from far away, I heard the RJ speak of "a contest". "Who am I??" Asked the RJ, "My first name is a store that sells home appliances, and my second name is a hotel on MG Road**". From somewhere in the recesses of my misty consciousness, the name "Vivek Oberoi" floated up, dancing in my mind's eye. In an instant I was wide awake. Usually, I never participate in these contests, but this time, though the word "PJ" was ringing in my ears, I felt compelled to take out my cellphone, punch in the answer, and send it along.

After a couple of songs, the RJ came back, and she put someone on air who got the answer right, and he got two tickets to watch a movie in PVR Cinemas. Fret, fume, I thought, and promptly went back to sleep. I woke up again to the strains of "Ya Ali" from Gangster, which is my current favourite, and Radio Mirchi is considerate enough to play it for me 3 times a day. Just as it got over, I was preparing to go back to dreamland, when the RJ came back again, and said, "Congratulations Shruthi, number ending in xyz, you have won yourself body care vouchers." Whatever it means. Anyway, yay! They even called me to get my home address, so that they could send the voucher home.

Now naturally, depending on the usefulness of the voucher, I will decide whether to continue to extend my patronage to Radio Mirchi.

Naaaah. :) As long as it remains better than Radio City, Radio Mirchi it is. Until, of course, it goes to the dogs. And then? Well, time will tell!

[*Chhayageet - A half-hour program playing golden oldies, every night at 10 pm on Vividh Bharati
**Vivek's is a popular chain of home-appliances stores, and The Oberoi is on M.G.Road in Bangalore.]

Camera matters

I got my first camera when I was ten. It was a gift from my uncle, who brought it back with him from England. I was extremely thrilled. It had a built-in flash, and auto-focus features. I loved it because it was so unlike my father's complicated, bulky Canon, which I couldn't even hold in my small hands.

I gleefully set about taking photographs with my lovely new camera. But there was an inherent limitation to the number of pictures that I could take - 36 - in one roll of film. I would have used up rolls upon rolls of films, but my father sat me down and explained to me the expenses involved in photography. The cost of the film, then the developing and printing. "It is an expensive hobby", he said. "If it had been your only pursuit, then it would have been alright. But after truckloads of books and music cassettes, your music lessons and the sports club, it will be good if you go a little easy on photography. Oh, I am not saying you should not take any photos at all! Go on, click away, but keep it under control. When you grow up and start earning, you can do what you want!"

I, a sensible and obedient (ahem) daughter, appreciated the reasoning. So I set limits for myself. Is it a short 3-day holiday? I could use up only one roll of film. Is it a week long holiday? To historical and touristy places? Ok then, two rolls. Is it a birthday party? 15 snaps at the most. A family get together? 15 or 20 photos. And so on.

Now, this limitation actually turned out to be a boon. I deliberated over each snap. I would wait for the best possible view, the best time to take the snap. I would pick and choose the best scenes, the most remarkable, memorable views and object. And then I would focus, hold my hand steady, and just move that one finger, and... click. The view was frozen for eternity.

And then the desperate wait to get back home and get the photos developed and printed, to see how the picture had turned out!

If I look back now, I marvel at my photographs. Much care and thought went into each photo. Each one was perfect. I was immensely proud of them.

Now I have a digital camera. No limit on the number of photos. No film costs, development costs, printing costs. Just click. Endlessly. And added to it, I immediately get to know how the picture has come out. Not satisfied? Click again. Auto focus. Light adjustment. Zoom capabilities. I now click with one hand. I click as many as I want to, saying, I will just pick the best. And the result? Not one of them is as good as the pictures I took with my trusty old camera.

Oh I am not blaming the poor digicam. It is a wonderful gadget. My own apathy is at fault. I know that with the digicam, I can click snaps that are far better than my simple little snaps of yore. But I don't try that hard. Because now I have nothing to lose. The enthusiasm, the need to make each picture faultlessly beautiful, does no longer exist. The agonizing, yet exciting wait to see how the snaps have come out, the anticipation of looking at the snap for the first time after it has been printed - the charm has gone.

Yeah I know, I know, all is not lost yet. :) I am glad I stopped to reflect on why my pictures don’t seem to be that good any longer. A problem acknowledged is a problem half-solved, and all that. But a part of me also wonders if I should get back to using a good non-digital camera (What's it called?). All you photography enthusiasts out there, go ahead and give me tips. ;)

[My other post on photography.]

Music has no religion.

Naushad passed away three days ago. His music was unbelievably beautiful. I will not say more, because there is no use in restating the obvious. Anyway, I was watching the reports on TV with my father, and I saw his body being taken out of his house, and I suddenly realized that the men carrying his body were Muslims. "Oh!" I said, "He is a Muslim. I hadn't realized." My father laughed, and recalled an incident that had occurred many years ago.

Back then, I had just observed that some Hindustani musicians were called Pandit, and some Ustad. I had asked my father why that is so. He had told me, "Simple, Hindu musicians are called "Pandit", and Muslim musicians are called "Ustad". See, Pandit Jasraj, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, Pandit Dinkar Kaikini are all Hindus, and are called 'Pandit', whereas Ustad Alla Rakha, Ustad Bismillah Khan, Ustad Amjad Ali Khan are all called 'Ustad'". "Oh!", I said, "I hadn't realized that they were Muslims."

I was not thick in the head, nor was I a kid. I was old enough to know one religion from the other. Yet, this minor detail had escaped me. Just like I had not realized that Naushad was a Muslim. And why should it have crossed my mind? It is just not relevant. They are all the same to me - great musicians. Nothing else matters.

Even as my father and I recalled this incident, the reports showed a file clipping of Naushad, speaking on stage in an assembly, where, I think, he was being honoured. He was thanking everybody, and saying, "....I am very fortunate that .... Mujhpe Maa Saraswati ka Ashirwad hai.. " [I have the blessings of Goddess Saraswati]. Whaaaat??? Saraswati? Naushad? Muslim???

My father reminded me that this was nothing new - Ustad Allauddin Khan was a staunch devotee of the Sharada temple at Maihar, reportedly going so far as to refuse to move away from Maihar for medical treatment, saying that if he had to die, he would rather die close to Sharada (Another name for Saraswati). Ustad Bismillah Khan is also a devotee of Saraswati. Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, among many others, sang beautiful compositions in praise of Hindu Gods. Likewise, There are many Urdu compositions which are religious or spiritual in nature, and are sung by all musicians, religion notwithstanding. And why should it matter? After all, it is just music.

No wonder it is said that Music has no Religion.

[Do check out the comments for some more heart-warming examples!]

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".

Why don't they get it?

Scene 1.

A colleague and I enter office together. The colleague is, to put it mildly, on the plumper side. She says, "How is it that you do not diet but still manage to keep your weight down? I just cannot understand. You are so fortunate. Me, I diet so much, nothing happens, it must be the body structure... whatever, you are so lucky..." We reach the foyer, we separate, I take the stairs, and she takes the lift to her first floor office.

Scene 2.

Me chatting online with a friend. She says, "You have read so many books! How do you get the time to read so much? Some people have all the luck. I just cannot find the time to read even one book in a month. Oh I am so busy, so much work... must be a luxury to be able to read so much.......... Ohhh its almost 8... will signout now... Don't want to miss my serials... four of them.. back to back."

Why don't they get it?

[Familiar? :) Do you have other incidents like this to relate?]

To click or not to click.

I love looking at photographs. Oh no, not the kind in the bulky photo albums of your neighbour's daughter's wedding, where there are 657 photos of the couple posing with half the people in the world. Nor the colleague's honeymoon album, with photos that make you blush a deeper red than that of the brand new bride's brand new lipstick.

I am talking about the photographs of my childhood, of family get-togethers, of exciting vacations, of old friends, of school and college.... I can completely lose myself in them, looking through old photographs, recalling fond memories, replaying conversations. People tell me that while I am with my beloved photo albums, I have a wistful smile on my face, and a faraway look in my eyes.

"Din jo pakheru hote, pinjre mein main rakhleta" sang Rafi in Dil Ek Mandir. "If days were birds, I would keep them in cages". I Think photos come closest to capturing memories.

As a result, I am a shutterbug. I insist on carrying cameras wherever I go, and click everything and anything. If there is a family get-together, out comes my camera. If we are on a holiday, I first pack the camera. I capture people, places, roads, buildings, trees, hills, rivers, sunrises, sunsets - I want everything. I want to bring them all back and then look back on them and recollect the beautiful moments.

Some places, people and settings fade with time. Once it is captured on the camera, they stay forever. EAch time you feel that the memory is getting hazy, you can whip out the photograph, look at it, and voila! Your memory is refreshed!

S agrees that photographs are special, but he says that in the confusion of taking out the camera and concentrating on clicking, you miss out on the real experience. He feels that photos are great when you want to take back images of people, and of the places you have visited. But when the experience is a fleeting one, one where you need all your senses to experience it completely, then you should just put the camera aside. Some moments can anyway not be captured on camera, moving or still, so why not just forget the camera and enjoy the moment completely? So that later on, you can look back on this moment and still feel the joy of it.

Yes, there are definitely some moments that cannot be captured. If Rose, standing with Jack on the prow of the Titanic, with her hands outstretched, had thought, "Oh wow, how beautiful! What a lovely moment! I really should capture this", then taken out her camera, concentrated on getting the best view, while making sure that the camera does not plunk into the ocean - now that would have been stupid. Anyway, by the time she got her snap, the ship would have hit the iceberg. Ok, I am digressing.

What I am trying to say is, I am not that bad either. But where do we draw the line? How do we decide what deserves to be experienced by itself, and what ought to be captured on camera? There lies the problem. S and I are slowly on the way to agreeing upon a common definition of "camera-worthy" and "experience-worthy", but it will take some time.

Meanwhile, if you'll excuse me, that tree is swaying absolutely beautifully in the rain. I'll get my camera.
[Male voice in the background] Come on, just sit back and enjoy the rain. By the time you get your camera, the rain would have stopped!

And the story continues...

What YOU can do about it.

Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought." said John F. Kennedy, at a commencement address in Yale in 1962.
["...much less the discomfort of action", adds Raaji, a reader.]

---------------------------------------------

My parents are regular readers of my blog. They do comment, but very rarely on the blog. The bouquets and the brickbats are given to me offline. :)

My father watched the heated discussion on this post, and zeroed in upon the repeated complaints about infrastructure and the feeling that we cannot do anything about it.

This is what he wrote to me (modified slightly by me).

-------------------------------------------------------

I have been following keenly the post on Bangalore and the numerous comments. One of the concerns which is clearly coming out is the feeling of "helplessness" to improve infrastructural woes of Bangalore and also that nothing can be done by us as individuals.

Well, I tend to second the suggestions by the noted consumer activist and writer, Shakuntala Narasimhan. One clear message from her to the citizens is that one should protest whenever the situation calls for it. The citizen should put forth his views to the organizations meant to provide civic amenities like electricity, water, transport, health, education and the like.

If we do not do anything, nothing will happen anyway. However, if we assert our rights to get a fair deal from these entities, something "could" happen. If more people do it, certainly, it will be difficult to ignore the voice of the people. Therefore let us decide to "speak" and not be silent. This can be done by sending mails, personal meetings, demonstrations or whatever.
Since e-mail is convenient, the least we could do is to keep sending mails -
1) Directly to the departments and the chiefs concerned
2) To the media (newspapers, magazines, TV)
3) Consumer action groups.

One more point. Let us not assume that all officials/employees in the utilities are indifferent. After all they are also like us. There are sane voices within these behemoths. I was told by an official in one such organization that he spoke to his boss about some suggestions he had for bringing about improvements, quoting the inconvenience being caused to the public. The boss asked him whether anyone had complained, or whether he had any written complaints to show. He had none. The boss waved him off, saying that in that case, it must be a non-issue. And there ended the matter. Our action to register our views will strengthen the hands of this minority.

-----------------------------------------------------

I think it makes sense. I later discussed it with my father, and we agreed that there are two small obstacles.

1) It might not be easy to get hold of the email ids of all the relevant organizations. Writing letters is always an option, but more and more people are moving away from it, citing lack of time.
But this is not an insurmountable obstacle. If we have the will, we can find out.

2) We might not get any response or see any action for a long, long time. We need a lot of time and patience. So it is very difficult to sustain the initial enthusiasm. Not everybody can be as stubborn and strong-willed as Andy Dufresne of The Shawshank Redemption, can they?
There must be some way to sustain the interest. Form a group? Take turns in writing?

What are your thoughts on this? Any suggestions? Any ideas? Your inputs will be appreciated.

50 years of Ruskin Bond.

Wow! Ruskin Bond just celebrated the 50th anniversary of the publication of his first book, The Room on the Roof, and like he says in View from the top:Golden Memories,

Both book and I are still around.

Thank God for that! And well, why not? Who can resist his stories? Stories packed with fantastic pictures from the land of mountains, hills, trees and rivers, where every person springs to life, every little corner has an exciting tale to tell, and where every story is as likeable as the man who wrote them?

I cannot recall when I was first introduced to Ruskin Bond. But for as long as I remember, I have been an admirer of his. I remember looking forward to his articles in the Sunday supplement of the Deccan Herald. There was usually something by him. An essay, which would take me on a brief sojourn to the beautiful place he lived in, a little ghost story that would make me jump at my own shadow for quite a while afterward, or a seemingly unimportant incident, which would dance with life with his words.

I have spent many hours planning how I would go to Mussourie to meet him, sit on the porch of Ivy Cottage, sip tea, and talk to him. But before my dreams could see the light of day, he came to Bangalore. ;)

About a year and a half back, I woke up in the morning to see an ad in the newspapers that told me that Ruskin Bond would be spending an hour in a well-known book store, as part of a promotion tour. The next thing I knew, much to my disbelief, I was on my way, all across town, to spend a few minutes with one of my favourite writers.

As soon as I entered the store, I spotted a plump, pink and pleasant figure in a maroon shirt, walking leisurely along the aisles. I lost no time in joining him. He looked up from the book he was browsing, and looked at me, much like a kind grandfather, and smiled and nodded. I don't know if anybody was watching, but I am sure I blushed. I introduced myself, told him I loved his writing, and thanked him for his delightful stories. He smiled, and said something like "That's good".

Before I could ask him anything else, some kids discovered him, rushed up and flocked around him, with eager faces and shining eyes. I hung around, waiting. The kids left him alone for a moment, and I snatched a few more moments with him. "How much of your work is autobiographical?" I asked. He spoke, in a slow, measured way. "You could say that most of the events are real. But I have built up on it considerably". Fair answer. But for me, more mystery. Which is built up, and which really happened? Sigh! Maybe some things are best left unanswered?

Then it was autograph time. Ruskin Bond sat, smiling pleasantly, as kids lined up with their newly bought books. I stood in line, a brand new Ruskin Bond omnibus in my hands. He spent a couple of minutes with every person who went to him. There was this little girl in front of me, who had bought a book of ghost stories. When she gave it to him to autograph, he looked at the cover, and made an expression of mock horror. "Ghost stories! Are you really going to read this? Even I get scared when I read this book!" There was laughter all around, and then it was my turn. He asked me what I do, and wrote a personal message in the book, and autographed it, while the official photographer took some snaps. I left with a feeling of exhilaration. I returned to pick up my snaps with Ruskin Bond from the store a
couple of weeks later. Highly amusing. My expression is one of joy, restrained with great difficulty. I went around showing everybody his autograph and the snaps, and I was promptly christened "Bond girl". Oh well!

If this little meeting sent me into such raptures, I wonder what I would have done, had I lived my dream - which is exactly what Uma at Indian Writing tells us she did, in >this delightful account.

In his article, in which he looks back at the 50 years since his first publication, he says,

When, as a 20-year-old, I set out to make a living as a freelancer in India, many friends said it would not be possible. Fifty years later, some of them are still saying so.

He is happy, he says with the life he has lived.

If I could live my life all over again, I wouldn't change much. Only this time I would get down from that night train at Deoli and speak to the girl on the platform.*

Ah, such joy! :)


[*From The Night Train at Deoli, a beautiful story, in which he did not get down and speak to the girl on the platform, and later speaks of it with regret.]
A list of his books.
More info about him here.

An open request from a Bangalorean.

A request
To those residents of Bangalore, who haven't been living here for long, and hence do not consider themselves Bangaloreans,
To those who consider themselves Bangaloreans, but who do not think too high of the "localite" or "Kannadiga".

* I know you have been inconvenienced by the recent riots in Bangalore, and I know that it was unnecessary. The reasons for the riots were many - most of the rioters were just drunken rowdies out to have a good time. Added to it, total mismanagement by the police, resulted in a totally chaotic situation, which caused agony to many. You have every right to bemoan your fate, and discuss about how silly and pointless everything was. But please refrain from making sweeping and unfair generalizations about how "Kannadigas are blind and crazy", "South Indians are movie fanatics", and more than that, please do not bestow rude epithets on the Kannadiga.

* Please note that Bangalore is what it is because of the localites. Bangalore houses you, clothes you, and feeds you, and it houses the concern where you earn your daily bread. The office has been set up here in the first place because of the conducive atmosphere of the city and its (once) salubrious climate, and the welcoming and hospitable attitude of the local populace. If the localites seem hostile to you now, it is because of built up frustrations over a long period, resulting from the hostile and superior attitude that most of you might have displayed.

* Hindi might be one of the most widely spoken languages in India. But the localites need not know Hindi. It is the mother tongue of only a few of you, and you cannot expect everybody to know Hindi for your convenience. Try speaking in English, and if it doesn't help, then learn Kannada. Learning new languages is good for the brain too.

* Bangalore is in India too, but there are cultural differences from place to place. Your natural confidence and open body language is more often than not, construed as arrogance, high-handedness and superiority here. This is not taken too kindly by the localites. Try to be polite. Even if you do not know the language, make sure you use "Thank you" and "Please". The localite is basically a good person. He will respond in kind. [This Thank You and Please will go a long way anywhere. It's called the lubricant that makes the world go round!]

* Do not make fun of the South Indian accent. For your information, the accent you are speaking with, is not too great either. Some English sounds are not present in Indian Languages. Kannada and other South Indian languages do not have the sound "o" as in North. Some of us tend to pronounce it as "Naarth". Some of you cannot say "school", you say "ischool". You think the pronunciation of "bear" is like "beer", but it is not. "Entry" is pronounced as "Entry", not "Antry". Just as some of you cannot speak good English, some of us South Indians do not speak Good English. We are all Indians trying to speak a foreign language. All of us are in the same boat.

* Yes, we speak Hindi with a funny accent. We pronounce "hai" as "hy", because the sound "ai" is not there in Kannada. But we do not know how well you speak Kannada because you do not even try. Even then, try making the "L" sound with your tongue rolled. You will find it very difficult. Because that sound is hardly used in most of your languages.

* Yes, there are rude and greedy localites. There are cheats, there are thieves. Like there are, everywhere. If they seem more rampant here, that is because it is proportional to the population. And because the disparity between the rich and the poor is ever-increasing, this will also increase.

* Yes, the infrastructure is bad in Bangalore. The planners of Bangalore never dreamt of this kind of a population. Even now, enough efforts are not being taken. There is inefficiency, and carelessness in the way things are being dealt with. We are also being as inconvenienced as you are. Stop the ceaseless complaining, or do something. [This applies to the localites too.]

* Bangalore is not a hotel. You are not paying to stay here, and hence there is no point in expecting some kind of special service from the place. It is a place like any other.

* Yes, there are many things wrong with Bangalore. LIke any other place. If you had great expectations from the city, then that is your problem. Try instead, to find out what is right with it, and enjoy your stay here. But also note that most "outsiders" do not return to where they come from, and make this city their home. Warts and all.

We are all Indians, for heavens' sake! Let's not waste our time in demeaning each other, and instead, try to understand, respect and appreciate each other.

NOTE1: You are welcome to comment on this, but let us all refrain from name-calling, and too broad generalizations. Let it not get ugly. Let's have a healthy discussion. Extreme regional or parochial statements will be deleted, whether it is from an "outsider" or a "localite".

NOTE2: If you want me to add anything else, please leave it in the comments. I will update it.

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 world from a wheelchair.

Ok, ok, the title is slightly misleading.. I must have spent a total of just 4-5 hours on a wheelchair, and only at the airport. But it is a different world indeed!

Continuing from this post - When I tore a ligament in my ankle, I had to fly home to Bangalore from Mumbai. I had not booked a wheelchair with my ticket, but the authorities saw that I really could not walk, and provided me with a wheelchair.

Now the wheelchair was quite trendy and comfortable. I sat on it and felt very conscious, and I giggled for the first two minutes. Then, as is the case with anything, I got comfortable and made it my temporary home. A wheelchair-attendant(let's call him WA) appeared and took complete charge of me. I zoomed through the check-in counter [no having to stand in the queue, mind you], and I passed as easily through Immigration check. [The flight was an Air India one in transit, hence the Immigration check]. Halls and escalators and people became a blur as we whizzed past them.

Where people used escalators, we used lifts [elevators, for the Americans among you!]. Some of these lifts were so tiny that there was just space for a wheelchair and a man. It was quite uncomfortable, in that cramped space, with the WA standing so close to me. Thankfully, nothing unpleasant happened [sad, how we are always wired to think that a strange male will take advantage of a helpless female] and we arrived at the waiting lounge. "There is still time for the security check, I will be back", he said, and disappeared.

I sat there, immobile, clutching my bag. No company. Totally dependent on someone else to move around, and that someone is nowhere to be seen. I got weird thoughts. What if the WA forgot about me? What if he could not recall where he had left me? What if....? I kept my thoughts in check and busied myself with a book.

A cursory glance at the electronic board revealed that the passengers of my flight were being called for security check. I looked around. No WA. I waited for half an hour. A painful thirty minutes where I could envision all my creepy thoughts coming true. People were queuing up and disappearing inside. And I was still here. I even tried to work the wheels of the wheelchair but it spun out of control. So I just sat and waited. A very helpless feeling indeed. Suddenly I was in motion. I looked behind me, to see the WA pushing me towards the gate. "Yippee! Yay!" I said in my mind, and bestowed upon the WA a grateful million-dollar smile. He just looked at me quizzically, and mechanically continued to push the wheelchair. "Humph!" I said, as I cruised through security check. The WA then deposited me at another waiting lounge, asked me if I needed anything, and then disappeared, leaving me waiting for the boarding call.

This time I was not that uncomfortable. There was another wheelchair in the hall, with an elderly lady, her husband hovering near her. She gave me a smile, it seemed, of compassion or solidarity. I sat, my book forgotten, observing the ways people gaped at me. Some people are so deliberate. They look at me, look at my foot and then back at me, and then again at my foot... sheesh!

The boarding call, finally. My WA appeared surprisingly quickly, and I was pushed through, clutching my boarding pass, and deposited on a kind of portico, overlooking the tarmac. The non-wheelchair passengers [Ha! See how perspectives change?] were getting into the bus which would ferry them to the aircraft. While I was wondering how we would commute, I found myself being pushed on to the tarmac, and taken well near where the huge flights were standing. Then I was suddenly alone. My WA had disappeared. This was the worst bit. Alone in the dead of night in the middle of the airport, with huge aircraft monsters all around me, the noses of some of them pointing menacingly towards me. I know I know, they were still and all that, but I could hear sounds of engines all around me. So what if I was just a few feet from the terminal, I was still immobile. What if one of the aircrafts lost its bearings and came right at me? I would just have to rely entirely on my childhood hopscotch experience! Frightening feeling!

Soon, my WA came back with the old lady, and just then, there came into view, the coolest contraption I have ever seen. People go ga-ga over cars and bikes, I have gone ga-ga over only one machine, and that was this.

It was a van with a closed cuboid passenger compartment. The rear end opened backwards, and touched the ground, and became a ramp. The old lady and I were wheeled up the ramp, into the compartment. The ramp closed up and once again turned into the rear end. The inside was quite plush. It had huge glass windows, and comfortable seats for the escorts. There was place inside for at least 4 more wheelchairs. We moved quickly, and within 5 minutes, we came to the aircraft. Then the entire passenger compartment started moving up, until it reached the level of the ceiling of the drivers cabin. The front end of the compartment opened up and became a platform, and we were moved onto this. Here there was another platform which whirred and extended itself, and adjusted itself beautifully such that the end of the platform came up just to the door of the aircraft. We were moved on to this, and wheeled directly into the craft. How perfect! I was totally impressed. [The van looked approximately like this.]

The wheelchair could not be moved into the aisle, and so I just hopped over to my seat, which was thoughtfully close to the exit. The air hostesses were very attentive and all that. I settled into the seat and turned to thank my WA, but he had disappeared. Sigh!

The flight was uneventful, though it did occur to me that if anything untoward happened, I wouldn't be able to run for my life! Anyway the flight touched down without incident, and at Bangalore, it was not much of a problem. A waiting wheelchair took me through the vestibule from the aircraft to the terminal, and it wasn't too long a distance from there to the exit. My father was waiting near the baggage collection area, and from then on, everything was cool.

On the way back to Mumbai from Bangalore, I had pre-booked a wheelchair, for, though I could walk, my ankle was still painful. But this time, i was a veteran with the wheelchair! The flight was again not very eventful, apart from a particularly charming head steward, who was exceptionally attentive.

Our airports, I concluded, are quite friendly to the physically challenged... but wish I could say that about our cities too! Anyway that's a different story altogether!

Part 2 - but not quite!

Oops! When I wrote the previous post, I never intended to write part-2 of that episode! Yes, looking back, I seem to have ended the post on a suspense-filled note, and it tickled the curiosity of many of you! Some of you thought that my husband was one of the characters that figured in the post, but I clarified that, no, he was nowhere in the picture.

There are some things which I would like to keep private, more like the "no-comments" policy of the glitterati. :) Of course, I am not a glitteratus [is that a word? ;)] and my story is not top secret either, but at the same time, I would prefer not to blog about it!

But since, inadvertently, I built up expectations and made you all so curious, I will just put it this way. It is just that my invalidity [Is that a word? If not, I am coining it now. It’s a convenient word :)] led to some situations and circumstances which ultimately led to my marriage. It should suffice to say that had I not been confined to one place, things might not have turned out the way they have.

I apologize for the anti-climax :( but then, that's about it!