Looking for a song - in the previous century

In this age, when any song you wish to listen to is a click away, and when you have software that can find out the name of a song for you if you just hum a few bars to it, it seems like an eon ago when you had to bend over backwards if you wanted to listen to a certain song.

It was just before the advent of the internet. I felt a strong urge to listen to the male version of the song Tujhse Naaraaz Nahin Zindagi from Masoom. I tried humming it to myself for a few days, but when the longing didn't subside, I asked a few friends if they "have" the song. ["Have the song"! The phrase sounds so awkward now!] They didn't, and so I decided to go to the shop and buy a cassette with the song. [Go to the shop to buy music! And a cassette!]

I had to search in more than two or three shops before I found the song in a Gulzar collection - it was a double cassette, but I bought it. I had to go elsewhere after that and so I had to put off listening to it [One had to go home to listen to a song, unless you had a Walkman on you!]

Finally, I got home, tore off the plastic laminate wrapper, and put the cassette into the player. I fast-forwarded  to the song. [One had to fast forward or rewind, and it took some trials to get to the right spot! Couldn't go straight to the song!]

Finally! I thought, and pressed the Play button. And paused with anticipation . . .  and it turned out to be the female version of the song, which I don't like at all.

The frustration!

We have it so good now!

Celebrity status - a case of mistaken identity

Back when I was a student of MTech, I'd been to an industry to conduct an energy audit, as part of a project that I was doing. I was alone that day. After I finished the audit, I took a bus back to the city centre (Trichy, in Tamilnadu) after which I needed to take another bus back to my hostel. But my hostel was an hour away by bus, and it was already 2 pm. I knew that the mess would be closed by the time I reached, and so I decided to have my lunch at a restaurant in the city.

I chose one that looked decent, and stepped in. Let me stop for a moment and tell you what I looked like (you'll know why later). I was just about 22-23 years old. I was tired, my short hair more unruly than usual, as I'd been crouching and crawling around industry equipment. I wore an extremely simple and ordinary cotton salwar kurta without a dupatta, but it was well-fitting and suited me. I had a file in my hand, and a purse, I guess (though for the life of me, I can't remember what kind of purse I used in those days. Anyway, it would have been a handloom cloth purse or something ordinary like that.)

So, I entered the restaurant, and found a table. There were very few diners, as this is a part of India where they have early lunches. And all the diners were male. But again, this is a comparatively safe city, so I wasn't uncomfortable.

A few seconds later, I heard hurried whispering among two of the waiters, and then the manager arrived. They all spoke, looking over at me, and then the manager came to me, and asked me to follow him to a "better" table. I said it was okay, but he insisted, and so I went, and it was indeed a nicer table, set in a recess, for two. And then there was a flurry, as the waiters fell over each other to hand me a menu, and give me water, etc. I had no idea what was going on, but was too hungry to think. And I wasn't worried or anything, they all looked decent and not the least shady.

I ordered a plate meal, and it arrived. The manager hovered over me as I ate, asking me if everything was alright. By the way, all the conversation was in Tamil, and I answered to the best of my ability, and it was obvious that I didn't know Tamil that well. If I remember right, they also served me a complimentary item - a sweet or a fruit juice, that wasn't part of the meal.

After I finished, and paid the bill, the manager came over again, smiling and shuffling. And then he asked me in Tamil, "You are the chairman of DM foods, correct?" [I don't remember whether it was actually DM. It was an acronym, one I hadn't heard of.]

I said, "What?"

He repeated his question.

"Chairman?" I said, and shook my head, frowning in confusion and laughing, all together.

And then he also frowned, and then he also laughed.

And then I left.

I have absolutely no idea what had just happened. He had obviously thought I was some food industry bigwig and was being attentive. But - from which angle did I look like a bigwig?

If it had been the age of Google and smartphones, I would have whipped out my phone immediately and searched for DM foods chairman. But then, if it had been the age of Google and smartphones, the manager would have made that search too to confirm that I was who he thought I was, before showering attention and complimentary food upon me!

This is one of my regrets - that I'd stopped to find out more and see who it was that he had confused me for!

Glimpses of other people's lives.

For as long as I remember, I've been afflicted with cryptoscopophilia - The urge to secretly look through windows of homes as one passes by. And all I get is a glimpse - but there's so much one can tell, such a lot one can imagine from that brief window into someone else's world.  

This affliction was particularly acute when I was living away from my family.  I would walk past homes and watch families sitting together, and I'd miss mine terribly.  It hurt, but yet I wanted to catch glimpses.  I have forgotten most of the images, but  some of them have stayed with me - either for the setting, or for the scene playing out then, or just because of how I was feeling at that time.

And then there were scenes in which I wished I was there.  A sudden burst of laughter, perhaps, or a warm family room, a mother cooking and a child next to her, or just a person sitting quietly with a beverage.

A year or so ago, I walked past my own balcony (we live on the ground floor) and looked in.  I could see the balcony, the drawing room, and through that, right into the open  kitchen.  Puttachi sat at the kitchen table, under the golden light of the conical lamp that hangs over the kitchen table, and S was with her.  I realized that this was the exact kind of scene that, if I'd glimpsed elsewhere, would make me wish I was there.  And I smiled, and joined them.

Close Encounters of the Bond Kind

What better day to write about my recent experience with meeting Ruskin Bond, than today, his birthday?

I have written before about meeting him in Bangalore.  And in it, there's a line:

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.

I was wrong on two counts.

Count 1 - Ruskin Bond lives in Landour, not Mussoorie.  Small detail, but makes a huge difference.

Count 2 - Ivy Cottage has no porch.  Trust me.  I know. I stayed in an inn in Ivy Cottage [Try saying that line fast 3 times]

Okay, let's do this in order.

During our recent vacation to Uttarakhand, we stayed for three days in Landour.  Which, by the way is a beautiful place with some great views and green walks and is comfortably away from the mess of Mussoorie. We stayed in an inn that was a part of the same building in which Ruskin Bond also lives.  So, we literally shared a roof, and even a wall with Ruskin Bond.

Firstly, Ivy Cottage isn't set all alone in a grassy meadow, which was how I had imagined it.  A winding, narrow road leads up from Landour Bazaar, and hits Ivy Cottage.  This is where the inn is.  The road then turns to the right and climbs the hill.  So, basically, Ivy Cottage is bound by two roads that climb the hill.  One, the motorable road on the right, and two, the non-motorable, quiet, but steep road on the left. 

The day we checked in, I went round the cottage both on the motorable and the non-motorable one, looking for a likely entry to the house of a renowned, nature-loving writer.  I didn't find any prospective candidates.  I went back to the reception of our inn, and asked the friendly man who sat there.  He pointed towards the motorable road, and said, "Just next door, you'll see red steps leading up to his house."  He also invited me to go ahead and knock at Ruskin Bond's house, that he's used to it.

So, after that evening's walk, I went looking for red steps, but didn't find any.  Then S went with me, and he pointed to a very narrow, steep flight of stairs squeezing their way up through what looked like a break between two buildings.  "This can't be it," I said, even as I climbed it.   But we got to the top.  There was a door, the upper part of which was glass, and led into a kind of verandah.  I hesitated for a bit.  How would I feel if random people turned up at my house with no warning?  Yet, I couldn't help myself.  I rang the bell.  There was a movement at one of the doors leading away from the verandah.  And he appeared at the door.  Yeah, himself, Ruskin Bond.  It was one of the unlikeliest experiences ever.

"Who goes there, friend or foe?" he called out and opened the door.

I introduced myself, and apologized for having landed up without an appointment.  He said it was okay, but that he was in a meeting, and was apologetic about it in a charming way.  He said he'd be available the next day at Oxford Book Store in Mussoorie where he meets fans every Saturday.   He smiled at Puttachi and tried to talk to her, but she was looking at something else, I have no idea what.  I climbed down those stairs, and all I could do was shake my head.  This was unlike anything I ever imagined. 

I stood on the street, and looked up at his window.  That was the window where he keeps his potted plant, and where the birds visit him.  That is the window through which he looks out onto the world.  It overlooks the valley.  I looked at the valley. So that is the sight he sees. 

You know, there is something very spine-tingling about visiting a place like this - the home of someone you've read and admired - someone who's still alive too.

It is like visiting an imaginary place, only it is not imaginary at all.  How shall I put it?  How would it be if you visited, say, Malgudi, or Hogwarts, or Mordor?  Except that the world Ruskin Bond writes about is a real world.  And I'd been there.

The next day, I did meet him at the bookstore, and apologized again and he said he understood.  I told him that since the last time I met him, I'd started writing, and my stories had been received well, and thanked him for being one of my inspirations.  He said he was glad, and wished me well.  He then signed my book for me, and I got some pictures with him.

Later, back in Bangalore, I was reading some essays by him, and in one, he writes about some tourists from Delhi who came to visit him.  He could hear them as they climbed the narrow flight of stairs, and a lady said "He can't possibly live in this tumbledown place."  And I felt my cheeks go hot because though I didn't say that aloud, I thought it in my mind while climbing those stairs.   Only because the image in my head was so clear and well-formed, that it was difficult to reconcile it with reality. 

Even now, if I think of Landour, the first image that comes to my head is the original, imagined one.  Only then does the real image appear, and nudge the first one away.

Now, I only hope I don't appear in one of his future essays as the rude lady from Bangalore!

Edited to add:
At the bookstore, I told Ruskin Bond that Puttachi has read only one of his books - and promptly forgot the title.  Thankfully, Puttachi pitched in with "Tigers for Dinner" and then I caught my breath - it WAS his book right?  He has written before about people thrusting Tom Sawyer and Enid Blyton books at him and asking him to sign. [And he has signed as Mark Twain and Enid Blyton, in case you are wondering.  Har har.]
Phew :D

Rafting on the Ganga

No, don't scroll down looking for photographs - there aren't any.  But do continue to read.  Rafting on the Ganga was one of the highlights of our vacation.

It was totally unexpected.  We weren't planning it at all.  But AEF suggested it out of the blue.  "Why don't you go white water rafting?" she said.  "I'll look after Puttachi."  Even as we looked this way and that, she suggested it to her team of researchers and field assistants, and urged them to go too, and before we knew it, we were a team of eight, and one of them knew an adventure group who arranged a raft for us at a discount, provided us with an extra guide, and everything was settled.

But how about Puttachi?  Would she stay with AEF, whom she barely knows?  I asked Puttachi.  She listened, and she nodded her yes.  That was it.  Granted, part of the attraction of staying back with AEF was that Puttachi was looking forward to spend time with her new friend Himani who lived next door to AEF's field station. ( Himani is a calf, but what is a different species when it comes to friendship?)  But the alacrity with which she accepted was heartening.

But yet, I had a slightly disturbed night.  It was the next level of Letting-go for me.  Yes, AEF is a friend I trust completely, but I would be going rafting.  On the rapids.  On the Ganga.  Without a phone.  So far from home.  Leaving Puttachi.  In a remote little village. 

It helped that both AEF and Puttachi were supremely confident they would manage.  It was only half a day, after all.

And so, off we went.

We drove to Rishikesh, where we left our things in the jeep and parked it near the Adventure guy's shop.  We got into their jeep, loaded the life jackets and paddles in it, and the inflated raft on the roof of the jeep, and drove upstream to Shivpuri, 16 km away.  We drove by the Ganga, next to the very river-route on which  we were to come back rafting. 

Beautiful sights.  Deep green valleys, turquoise green waters, white sands, blue skies.  And the heart beating to the prospect of a never-before adventure.

We reached the spot where we would begin rafting.  We wore life jackets and helmets, and sat in the raft, and then the guide gave us the "training."  He told us how to paddle, how to lock our feet, what to do if we fall out of the raft, what to do if the raft topples.  He also said that there was an 85 pc chance of the raft toppling, and it was here that I started panicking.

We started.  The first two rapids were quite terrifying, and the guide noticed that I seemed afraid.  He probably thought that I would fall out in a panic, so, as we went into the third rapid, he made me sit in front of the raft, hold the rope in both hands, and crouch, with only my head outside the raft.  So basically, I faced the third rapid head on, literally.  And I knew I was safe because I had the rope nice and tight in my fists... my knuckles were white too - so there.  And I enjoyed myself thoroughly.  Got tossed about, got completely drenched.  And I wasn't afraid any longer.

And then, it got better.  We reached a stretch of calm water, and here, the guide asked us to just Jump.Into.The.Water.  And guess what, we did it.  Into the Ganga.  It was cold and it was lovely, and it was a 100 feet deep but of course we had on our life jackets.  For a while, we made a human chain and free-floated.  And it was bliss.  And oh, by the way, this is the Ganga, remember?  All my sins have been washed away, mind you. :D  Now, as long as other people's sins haven't come and latched onto me....

After this, I almost hoped the raft would topple in the next few rapids, but they were quite tame.  In fact, one was so mild that it was like riding on the pot-holed roads of Bangalore.

There was even a midway break place, a  Maggi-point.  By the way, if I had a rupee for each Maggi-point I saw all over Uttarakhand....  we stopped here, and ate - what else, Maggi, got the cameras out of the waterproof bag, took some pics, and then continued.

And then finally, we floated under the Ram Jhoola and the famous Lakshman Jhoola, past the Tryambakeshwar temple.  This place is quite beautiful and had a certain atmosphere, and was very clean for a pilgrimage centre.

We ended the ride on a ghat, and I was "reunited" with Puttachi at a restaurant in Rishikesh.  Seriously, I don't think I can thank AEF enough for what she did for me. :) 

A walk at night

I couldn't have said it better.

Going for a walk at night - alone - such a simple desire.  But it really is just a dream.

As a child, and as a teen, I loved going for after-dinner walks with my father.  The roads were quiet.  Traffic, which wasn't much to begin with, was sparse.  My father and I walked, and we talked.  And I came back refreshed.

S and I went for a few after-dinner walks after we got married.  Not as many as I would've liked, but they were lovely anyway.  These became non-existent after Puttachi was born.  I sometimes look out of the window at night, and I look at the moon, and feel the breeze and I wonder how lovely it might be to go for a walk.  

But what if I did go out?  Let me tell you what happened a few months ago.  This was after we moved into our new house.  Our apartment complex has a fair amount of walking space.    Late one night, at about 11 30, just before going to bed, I looked around for a missing water bottle, and I realized that Puttachi must have left it in the children's play area.  I wanted that water bottle right away, for some reason, and so I told S that I was going to the play area to see if it was there.

I walked out without a second thought, but the moment I got out of our block, and hit the walking path, I froze.  I looked over my shoulder.  I crossed my arms across my chest.  I looked all around me.  I frowned at dark corners, and stared suspiciously at shadows.  And I nearly ran.  I ran past the mango trees, the cycas, the tamarind trees, past the  pool.  I passed a night queen plant, and was only vaguely aware of its beautiful fragrance. I reached the play area, and there sat the water bottle, glinting in the moonlight.  I grabbed it, turned around, and ran back.  I got back home, and S said, "Must have been beautiful outside, right?"  And the only thing I could say is, "I didn't notice."

I know that our complex is secure.  I don't believe in the supernatural, and I am not afraid of the dark.  I was on the walking path, and it was fairly well-lit, so I wasn't afraid of creepy-crawlies in my path.  So what was it?

It was the utter unfamiliarity of being alone, outside, when it was dark.  My mind, and my body are conditioned to feel unsafe and scared and suspicious in such a situation.  And all I could think of was to get back to the safety of my house.

And I hate that feeling.

I want to feel safe. I want to reclaim the freedom that rightfully belongs to every human.  But I don't see that happening in the near future.

And that makes me immensely sad.






 

Day 26 - The joy of theatre

Each time I go to see a play, I come back with a full heart.  There's something about telling a story through drama that is very effective.   The real-time, spontaneous, interactive performances - especially in a beautiful, well-designed, intimate space like the stage at Rangashankara - it is such a complete, wholesome experience!

I haven't been to too many plays, but I've watched a fair number.  And it never ceases to amaze me how much drama groups can achieve just by the clever use of lights, music and minimal props.  Each play I've watched has thrown at me a particularly unique way of creating an atmosphere, communicating an idea, or bringing out an effect.  Induces goosebumps in me!

Day 25 - Being nice

Don't be yourself. Be someone a little nicer. -Mignon McLaughlin, journalist and author (1913-1983)  

Yeah, very nice quote.  But what if one doesn't know how nice is nice, and towards whom one should target the niceness?  

Throughout my life, I have had trouble with being nice. I personally feel I'm not nice enough, but people who matter have assured me that I am sufficiently nice.  I'll believe them, for convenience's sake.    

But I do think I can be nicer at times.  But the problem is, when I've made an effort to be very nice to somebody, I've been stalked in return, or been given loads of unwanted attention, which I've had a tough time getting rid of.  Or else, I've been taken for granted, and my time has been imposed upon, or my efforts have been belittled. 

It has become like this - every time I find myself being nice, the thought crops up - is it worth being nice to this person?  And I've been distressed by that thought.  

So I tell myself, "Look, do what comes naturally to you, the repercussions be damned."  

And so, it continues.

Day 22 - Reunions

We had a school reunion a month ago.  Of course it was fun, of course it was lovely meeting people after years - hadn't met some of them since we finished high school.

But one thing that hit me the hardest was how I was comfortable talking to some guys with whom I'd feel awkward talking to before.  Yes, there were some guys who were friendly, and friends with us even back in high school, but there were a few I knew only as classmates.  I don't recall having exchanged a single word with them.  I don't even remember having looked them in the face, eye to eye.  

I was never the shy kind, and was quite willing to talk to anybody who would talk to me.  But many of the guys were, I think, terribly self-conscious and diffident, and would skulk away and do anything to avoid talking to girls.  Even if they did talk to us, they avoided our eyes, and walked away backwards quickly, as if we were monsters who would gobble them up

We'd had reunions before, one in 2004 and one in 2010 - and though the guys were friendlier at these reunions than they were in high school, it was only at this reunion that I really felt that comfort level.  I'm guessing it has got something to do with the stage we are in our lives.  We've mostly found our niches, we're married, we have kids, we're comfortable with what we are, we've accepted our "shortcomings" and embraced our "plus-points" - and we have seen life a little - and probably that's why the guys are now comfortable in their skins, and finally know how to interact with the opposite sex like we are human beings. 

I shake my head in a worldly-wise way at those poor confused teenage souls we were back then. 

Bdellophobia?

While we were exploring trails around the homestay, we were told that there was one path through the plantation that made for a good walk, except for the abundant leeches there.   I had had only one experience with leeches before.  One had latched onto me during our trip to Wayanad last year, and naturally, I discovered it only after the fat leech, full of my blood, slid down the inside of my jeans.  I wasn't bothered.  After all, it doesn't hurt.  The only thing is  that blood keeps flowing from the wound long after the leech drops off, until the anticoagulant it has injected wears off.  After this instance, I observed with fascination the occasional leech we passed by, how they stand up on one end, and probe the air with the other end, push themselves forward, stand up and continue probing.

Once I got back, I looked up leeches and read about them, about how they inject anti-coagulant and analgesic into our blood before starting the sucking.  And I marvelled at what an amazing creature it is.   So when our host at Mugilu, when talking about the plantation walk, warned us, "In case you have a phobia of leeches..."  I shrugged it off. 

We went to the plantation, and started walking.  Puttachi noticed a big beetle, and we stopped to watch it.  I bent down to look at it closely, and then I saw next to it, a leech, standing on end, probing the air.  Hey look, I said, and then I saw one more next to it.  And then another, and another. All of them standing on end, probing, searching.....  Then Puttachi said, hey, look at your shoes - and we all looked, leeches were already on our shoes, and crawling up our jeans.  I looked down again, and suddenly it seemed to me that the ground was full of leeches, and I felt that the entire forest floor was rising up and reaching out to me through these filament-like fingers, wanting to suck my blood.  It was like a nightmare. I  couldn't breathe, I clutched my head, tears flowed down my cheeks, and I said something like, "I can't I can't I can't I can't...."   I've never felt that way before!  At first, S probably thought I was joking, and then he realized that something was really wrong, and we all immediately walked back up to safe-ground.  We spent the next ten minutes pulling leeches off our clothes, and checking our shoes and socks to see if we were clear. 

That was such a revelation - sometimes you cannot explain why you are petrified of some things, and why you are not..... in fact, the very next day, our host showed us a leech that was walking on his hand, looking for the right place to latch onto him, and I watched it again with the same fascination as before, from inches away, and felt no fear.  It was only down there, with leeches all around me, that I felt that kind of panic.  

Lessen learned. I'll never pooh-pooh phobias again. 

Moving

This weekend, we moved to our new home.

I'm writing this sitting in a room piled with belongings, and outside, work still goes on - I can hear talk, banging, drilling and I can smell paint. 

The house is not quite ready yet, but we moved in anyway.

Our previous home was special to me.  It was the first home I managed on my own. (We lived with S's parents until then.)  It was the place I learned, experimented, unlearned and blundered in.  We had a lot of lovely times there.  Of course there were bad times too, there always are, but I prefer to remember the happy ones ;)  It was small, but convenient.  [As Puttachi grew, we realized it was getting smaller ;)]  And of course, this home was next to a lovely park, where we had some beautiful times, Puttachi and me.  I'm going to miss that park, definitely.  Though we've moved only about 4 km from this place, the park is not across the road any longer! :)

And it is so true that memories make a home.  Yesterday, after we moved all our belongings to the new house and cleaned the old house, I stood there, looked around.  It is amazing how much this rented house that we lived in for 3.5 years, absolutely empty, totally devoid of all our belongings - seemed more like "home" than our new house, which is our own, and where all our belongings are.  Memories - good ones at that! 

Puttachi hugged the walls of the old house and bawled, saying she didn't want to leave it.  No wonder. It is the only home she has known.  On our last visit to the park, she even hugged the park (don't even ask how.)  Anyway, it took us a while to comfort her and drag her away from that house!

And I've found that it is also true that the kitchen is probably the heart of the home.  The kitchen is not yet ready in the new home, so we are living out of boxes.  I discovered how many elements it takes to make a cup of tea, only when I had to look through three different boxes for the vessel, the strainer, the mugs, and the tea.  I hadn't paid much attention to packing, because I had assumed that I would empty the contents of all the boxes into the kitchen cabinets, and only then start cooking.  Who knew that the people who come to work had other things in mind, and wouldn't have the kitchen ready? :)

So, the first two days, we ate the food I had manufactured on an industrial scale before moving out of the old home (while Puttachi spent the two days happily at her friend's house.)   After that, we ate out and at my mom-in-law's place, and late on the third day, I made the first cup of tea, and then some soup which we ate with bread for dinner.

Today, I whipped up a quick veg pasta with whatever I could find, for Puttachi to take to school.  And then I went into the room for something, came out, and felt the heat radiating out of the open kitchen, and felt a warmth that was much beyond the physical one.  This finally felt like "home."

This is a nice place, one we got after months of searching, and then months of renovation.  A very nice, green apartment complex with lots of space and facilities for Puttachi to play in, great location, aaaaaand - walkable from Puttachi's school! :D

Here's to predominantly happy times in the new place too!  Cheers!

After many years....

Yesterday, I got in touch with a high-school classmate on FB.  He wrote on my wall, "How are you doing?  Still leading the charge against all of MANkind? :)"

For a second, I assumed he must have mistaken me for someone else.  On reflection, I realized that yes, he was talking about the high-school me, and he's got the description of that fourteen-year-girl exactly right.  As I rolled about with laughter at my young self and the apt description, I remembered that yes, I was very firm and stern and vocal against what I saw as atrocities against womankind by that terrible tribe of men, and I made myself very clear about it.  Of course, I still feel strongly about the topic, but I no longer have that fire in my belly.

And I paused for a moment to wonder where that girl has gone.  It sounds funny, if I think of it, that I am the same person.  How different I was then, in so many ways!

Reminds me of something that happened a few months ago.  I had a little black book that I used in my teens, where I noted down phone numbers of friends.  Only the important ones entered the little black book.

I found this book recently, flipped through its pages, and was lost in nostalgia, until I came to an entry, "Prerana (Menaka's friend)"  [Names changed.]  Not only did I not recognize the name Prerana, I did not even recognize the name Menaka.  And Menaka must have been someone I knew quite well, to use her name as a reference for someone else.  I almost felt I was losing my memory or something.  I still have no idea who those two girls are.   But at some point of time, they were important enough to be included in my book!

I know how much people can and do change over the years.   But yet, I found myself making the same mistake branding a certain person by the impression I had of her in my childhood.  At that time, I perceived her as snobbish, and she always made me feel dowdy and insignificant.   I was never really comfortable around her.  After many many years, we got in touch again, and though she repeatedly extended her hand to me in friendship, I turned away with trepidation, the old ghost in me rising up and not being comfortable around her.  Finally, I realized that the problem was with me, and then I myself made the leap and connected with her.  I then realized she's turned into a lovely lady. [It could be argued that she always had been a lovely person, and I had not seen it. :)]  We don't get to interact too often, but I know now that she can be a good friend.

Everybody needs to be given a second chance, everything has to be given the benefit of doubt.  What say?

A peaceful end to a great year

We had a lovely week at S's mother's village, deep in the Malnad region. Crisp, cool nights and sunny, clear days, with nearly nothing to do all day. If anyone enjoyed herself thoroughly, it was Puttachi. She played with her cousins and the other kids, jumped, screamed, danced, and more than anything, ran. And she ate lots of bananas so she could feed the peels to the cows. She loved the cows, especially the little calf so much, that she would have even spent the night there in the cowshed if we'd let her. As it is, she sat down in some muck trying to hug the calf.

She fed puffed rice to the big fat fish in the river Tunga that flows behind the house, she drew water from the well, ate off banana leaves, and watched in fascination as they used a big stone mortar and pestle to grind food.

And I? I discovered timelessness. I now know what they mean by time standing still. Time refused to move. It would feel like its been hours since I awoke, yet, it would be just ten o clock in the morning. And it wasn't as if I got bored during those long, sluggish hours. I was very much involved in activities like looking at the sky. And for most of the time, I did not even know, nor did I really care what the time was.

But I'm glad to be back.

And I wish you all a wonderful year.

A Year of Independence

It's been a year since I started driving solo.  I keep wondering why I took so long to do start driving (Actually I know why - there are many valid reasons, but I wonder "why" nevertheless.)

My life has changed in many ways - most expected, some unexpected.  It is so liberating to be free of rude, cheating auto-drivers, and so good to not depend on S to drive me around.   Good for S too, I suppose!

I have inspired at least two others to plunge into driving, and two more are waiting in the wings.  One of my friends who has started driving called last month to thank me, and told me that the word I had used - "liberation" had never been so literally true for her until then.  If there's anybody else out there who's dilly-dallying and getting scared of Bangalore traffic - I suggest (at the risk of adding to the congestion) - go for it!

The first few weeks of driving was physically painful - I had headaches everyday.  Just as I was despairing of it, things got better magically - my hands didn't clutch the steering wheel any more, my breath became more even, my shoulders relaxed, and the headaches vanished.

Initially I went from apprehensive mode to confident mode to over-confident mode - and during this last stage, I had a couple of minor scrapes within a span of a week - and that pushed me right into cautiously confident stage, where I've been ever since.

In the beginning, I just drove in the familiar comfort zone, like a horse with blinds - not looking here and there - concentrating totally on the clutch and the gears and the traffic.  But as time went by, all this became second nature, and I gained enough confidence to look around, look for directions while driving, and found my way back with ease if I got lost.  Except for parking troubles, things are pretty cool around here.

Driving has got me wondering - is the way a person drives indicative of his personality?  Does an aggressive person drive more rashly?  Is a driver with a blemish-free record a careful, planning person in real life?  It does sound like it must be true - but I am not too sure.  What do you all think?

But driving in a place like Bangalore must surely change personalities at some level or the other.  I am a mostly a non-aggressive, non-argumentative, non-confrontational person.  But being such a driver in Bangalore won't get you around much - so have I changed at least a fraction after I started driving?

I do remember something that rattled me once.  I was trying to turn right into a main road from a narrow side road.  As some cars were parked atrociously on the left side of the road, I was trying to make the turn from the right side of the narrow road (the wrong side.)  A car came in from the main road wanting to turn into the road I was in, and found me blocking its way.  A moment of thought would've told him why I was on the right side (the wrong side) of the road, but instead of waiting, the driver blocked my path, switched off his engine and glared belligerently at me.  I was tremendously angry, but with an effort, maintained my cool, avoided eye contact with him, maneuvered the car out of the muddle and went my way.   The annoyance stayed for a couple of minutes but then I forgot about it.

But that night, I dreamt that I was back in that situation, and was repeatedly crashing into that man's car in anger - much like a jealous Herbie crashes into the new car in The Love Bug.  I awoke quite shaken.  If this is what driving is doing to me, I won't drive, I thought, in a moment of righteous indignation.  But thankfully, that feeling passed, and I haven't had such violent urges since.

Makes me wonder, though.  What do you think?

Post Office

The picture I have in my head of a post office is due to that specimen that I frequented for the entire part of my life before email came into the picture.

This post office was tiny, dark and dingy. A creaking brown fan rotated half-heartedly over the head of the postal clerk, who sat behind a counter with an old peeling sign that said "ST MPS.". His eyes looked frighteningly large behind inch thick glasses as he paused from his painstaking stamping to look up and ask you what you wanted. He then weighed your letter on an ancient balance and tore off stamps with grubby, shaking fingers.

You paid him, took the stamps and turned around, only to bump into a shaky wooden plank that clung loosely to a wall. About half a dozen people usually jostled each other around this one square metre of sticky wood, trying to paste their stamps on their envelopes using the glue placed on that table. This glue, contained in a blue plastic bowl, now black because of dirt congealed on old glue, looked exactly like snot. Somebody would have invariably appropriated the single brush in the bowl, so you had to bite back your nausea, stick your finger into the "glue" and try to paste your stamps onto your envelope. The stamp liked your finger more and preferred to stick to it, though. Finally, after achieving your purpose, you had to step out of the post office door (two paces from the ST MPS counter,) and drop your letter into the rattling red post box outside the door and go your way.

This was, like I said, about fifteen years ago, before the advent of email. I cannot believe it myself, but I don't remember having stepped into any post office in all those years (other than to accompany my grandfather once) and so I was in for a shock when I had to avail the services of a post office today (not the one of my childhood, though.)

I stepped in, and then stepped back out because I thought I had entered a check in area of the airport. Then, ascertaining that it was indeed the neighbourhood post office, I stepped back in, and went to the stamps counter, where a smiling man weighed my letter on a digital scale, took the requisite number of stamps from his desk, produced a Fevi Stik, pasted the stamps neatly and handed it to me. Dazed, I gave the letter to Puttachi who wanted to drop it in the box. We went out of the post office, and there was only one box there which looked nothing at all like the red cylindrical post box I had in my head. The steel cube sitting smartly there was much too swanky to be an ordinary post box, or so I thought. I hung around for a while until some one else dropped their letter into it, after which I gave Puttachi, who had been insisting all along that it was indeed a post box, permission to follow suit.

I am yet to get over the shock.

Some like it hot

The weather, that is. They cannot stand the cold, and long for the heat of summer. But I am totally a winter person. I would any day don warm clothes and curl up under a blanket with a hot beverage, than bear the heat of summer.

Heat drains me, tires me out. If I don't remember to keep myself constantly hydrated, I turn into this moping, grouchy, whiny, tired, irritable person, someone you would do best to steer clear of.

Bangalore summer has never been too bad, but it is progressively getting worse. Yet, I should be thankful I live in a city with a fairly good thermostat.

As if to teach me a lesson for complaining, fate sent me to do my post-grad in Trichy, a hot, dry place in Tamilnadu. The town is known for three kinds of weather - hot, hotter and hottest. I don't know how I survived 18 months in that place, but I came back with a healthier respect for Bangalore.

When I first entered the hostel, I was surprised to see that most of the local girls slept directly on the metal cots, without mattresses. Come summer, I understood the logic. The mattress was an encumbrance. It radiated heat. I rolled up my mattress, set it aside and lay down on the welcoming cool of the steel cot. It was alright for a while, until the cot took on the temperature of my body. Add to that the discomfort of sleeping on a hard surface, and I decided that I would rather sleep on the mattress. I then took to pouring a bottle of water over my mattress before I went to bed, just for the few hours of coolness. By midnight, the mattress would be dry, and it would be hell again. There was a fan, of course, but somehow, it was just not enough. Thankfully, there weren't many power cuts there. There was only one terrible night, where there was no power for a few hours. It was the peak of summer, and I stayed up all night fanning myself with the moistened lavancha (khus/vettiver) hand-fan. Yet, by morning, I was drenched in sweat.

The sun in Trichy is treacherous. Even when it doesn't look all that sunny, all you have to do is venture out to feel the sun burn your skin. It almost feels like needles pricking you. I travelled around the campus in a bicycle, mainly to make sure that I get from one place to another as quickly as possible. It didn't help that it was a terribly conservative place, where I couldn't wear even a sleeveless top without a thousand tongues wagging. So there I was, overdressed, panting, pedalling with all my might, straining to get to my destination before I turned into a dry leaf.

In spite of all my avoiding being out in the sun, our department (of Energy Engineering), had very thoughtfully arranged the Solar Energy Experiments in the Summer Semester. And the time? Just after lunch. So there we were, out in the sun in 42 dec C (I measured that in the thermometer we used for our experiments), and working out things like which inclination works best for solar water heaters and which for solar photovoltaics. It was so hot that you could fry pakodas on our heads. Not that you would want to, though, in that heat. And the strange thing is that I never sweated. Probably it was so hot that the sweat evaporated as soon as it was ejected from the pores of my body

When I got back to my room after that, I would go to the bathroom and pour a bucketful of cold water over myself. None of that water reached the floor of the bathroom. My parched body absorbed it all.

Then there was this time when my friend R and I had been out to the city. We hadn't carried water with us, and we were very thirsty. The city bus dropped us at the main gate of the campus, from where we had to walk nearly a kilometer to reach our hostel. We were so thirsty that our throats were burning and dry; we could't even talk. Just as we got down from the bus, the sky opened up a wee bit, and let loose a few drops of water. But we had no reason to rejoice. The moment the drops of water touched the burning, black, tarred road, the water just turned into steam and rose up. So there we were, walking in a veritable sauna. If the hostel had been even a wee bit farther than it was, we would have had to crawl up to the hostel, with our tongues hanging out. I realized then that those actors who portray thirsty people in the movies weren't really overacting.

The water that finally slaked our thirst felt like it came straight from heaven.

Now just writing all this has burned me up. Time for a drink of water.

A morning walk with a difference.

I took one of the Bangalore Walks on Saturday - The Traditional Bengaluru one.

Taking a guided tour in a new city is a beautiful experience, yes. It is a journey of discovery and learning. But to take a guided tour of your own city? That is nothing less than enthralling. It is like being taken around your own backyard, and being pointed out treasures you never knew existed.

I will not give away the secrets I learned about Bangalore. I suggest you go discover them yourself. But all that I seemed to keep doing was say, "Really? X played a part in the design of Bangalore's sanitation? Wow!" "Oh, I've passed this place a dozen times - I had no idea it was so unique." "Man! Such a historical spot, right next door to me!"

I felt pretty much the same way while I read "Bangalore through the Centuries" by M.Fazlul Hasan, but this was first-hand experience, and that made it much better.

It helped that our guide, Savita, is very obviously passionate about Bangalore and its history, and some of the things she said gave me an idea of just how much research and planning has gone into the development of this park. A wonderful effort.

It doesn't matter if you are new to Bangalore, or have lived in Bangalore all your life. I suggest that you go take one of these walks. It is well-worth the time.

Haircuts

I had my first haircut when I was fifteen days old. After that, my mom was my hairdresser until I was about ten years old. Man, did I need those cuts regularly! Thick, unruly hair needed maintenance - hair that had a penchant of getting food in them [And chewing gum once - a lot of hair had to be cut to get the gum out]. And Amma did the necessary work.

Somewhere down the line, my hair seemed to have become a toy. There is a popular family story of how two of my aunts started cutting my hair, one from each end. When their scissors met, they saw that the right side was longer. So they set out to make amends, and they found that now the left side was longer. It went on, and by the time they were finished with me, I had an army cut.

Then I reached the stage where I was no longer satisfied with just hair trimmings and I started demanding hairstyles. Amma had to give up - she sent me to a nearby beauty parlour. It wasn't really that clean, and Amma despaired - and as if in answer to her prayers, a new parlour opened closer home - and it was perfect. Clean, professional, friendly. There was no looking back. That friendly neighbourhood parlour (FNP) cut my hair for the next decade.

There was never any question of growing my hair. I tried once, and gave up, declaring that either I pass exams or I maintain long hair - I couldn't do both.

When I moved out of Bangalore for my post-grad, I came home often enough to get my haircut at the FNP. Even when we moved to a different area, FNP was close enough to visit whenever the need arose.

The problem started when I moved to Mumbai on work. Not that there was a dearth of parlours - they were a dime a dozen. I counted 15 of them within a 500 m radius of where I lived. All I had to do was find one to my liking.

That's when I would do my Reconnaisance. I would go to a parlour, and look around while I pretended to ask some questions. "What are your timings?" "Are you open on Sundays?" or just something like "How much do you charge for a pedicure?" While I asked questions, I would look around carefully - Are the hairdressers well-groomed? Do the brushes look clean? Are the mirrors scrubbed? Is the floor clean? Does the place smell fresh? Are the people friendly? How do the customers look?

And then I would make my decision - "I just stopped to enquire , I will come by this weekend" and escape, or stay on and get my haircut.

Of course, friendly hairdressers and a clean place do not ensure quality work. But it is just a start. I zeroed in upon a suitable parlour and one haircut went beautifully. For the second one, I told the hairdresser that I wanted it cut shorter than usual this time, because the summer was too hot. I don't know what she understood - she left me looking like Priyanka Gandhi. I like her hairstyle, but not on me! I didn't dare go back.

I started my Reconnaisance again and went to another parlour - further off, but very professional. The no-nonsense assistants were in uniforms, and were very good at their work. I liked the proprietress too, except that she asked me every time, "Are you a Catholic? No? I was quite certain you were." She also loved to thrust a colour catalog in my hand each time, and advise me, "You should really get your hair streaked, you know - it will suit you very well."

It was then time to come back to Bangalore, and then I got married and moved to S~'s home. It is in a locality with many good parlours, so I had no problem deciding on one. The problem arose again when Puttachi was born and I was in my mom's house. I couldn't leave home for too long, FNP was too far off, and there were no good parlours close by. I had a visiting beautician come home once, but she was horrendous at keeping time, and so I didn't call her again.

And then I saw a flyer in the postbox about a new "state-of-the-art" herbal parlour in the next road. I gave the parlour a month's time and then went for my Reconnaisance. A not-very-clean-looking girl was standing outside the not-very-clean garage-parlour. She saw me and said, "Please come in, I will call madam." "Not now", I said hurriedly, "I just came to ask you what time you are usually free, I have to leave my baby and come, you see..can't wait too long for my turn...."
"Oh come annnnytime madam, we are alwayyyys free!" she said chirpily. Poor, innocent, inexperienced girl. Wonder what her Madam would have had to say to that!

I convinced myself that a Mowgli look was cool, until Puttachi was slightly older and I could run to the comfort of FNP.

And now? Now I see Puttachi with the same kind of hair as I have, and I look at her and sigh - history is going to repeat itself...... but much sooner. I bet kids of these days are not the kind that will quietly accept an inexperienced mom's hair trimming for long. How long? That remains to be seen.

The Couple

There are couples, and there are couples. But this couple was different.

He was tall, and broad. He had a swarthy face, and hair that could have been a wig used by the villains of yesteryears to hide a bald pate. Except that he didn't really look like a villain - he was grim, but mild. He walked stiffly, and his hands were always in his pockets. He always looked at the ground.

She was thin, almost frail. Her salwar kurta hung from her frame like from a clothes hanger. Her wavy hair was tied back with a clip, she walked with a slight stoop, and was slightly pigeon footed. She always had a handbag on one shoulder.

My sis and I met them every evening on our way back from music class, walking on the uneven footpath of 8th main.

There was something different about this couple. As persons, there was nothing striking about them. They were both plain looking. Individually, you wouldn't have taken a second look at them. But as a couple, there was something that drew you to them.

They always walked, whispering softly to each other. They never ever smiled, but they didn't look sad either. It was as if they were always having a calm, serious discussion.

They never looked at each other. The man always looked at the ground, while the woman's head was half turned towards the man, at an angle of 45 degrees. She never looked at him, either, she looked at some far away point.

Their ages were indeterminate. As teenagers, we weren't experts at guessing ages, but we couldn't place them in any decade. We finally decided that they must be in their thirties - they definitely looked old enough to be married. The man could quite well be forty, but we weren't sure.

Every evening, it was the same sight. The two of them walking rather aimlessly on the crooked footpath of that busy main road, very occasionally sitting on the steps of a commercial complex and talking unhurriedly.

Were they married? We thought not. We didn't know any married people who would go out in the evening, walk without purpose on uncomfortable footpaths and sit on steps of buildings and talk, and then go back home. They looked more like office-goers, or colleagues who met after office hours and had discussions.

Another strange thing about them was that we couldn't fathom from which part of India they were. Having lived in a colony with people from all over the India, we were quite good at guessing which state a person hailed from. With these two, we couldn't even guess whether they were from the north of India or the south or the east or the west.

Once, we decided to catch them in conversation so that we would know what language they spoke in. For half a dozen evenings, we slowed down when we crossed them, and deadened our ears to the sound of traffic to try to catch what they were saying. But they always stopped speaking when anybody was around. Just once, we heard the sound of the woman's voice trailing off - a soft voice, with a neutral tone. But it was too less of a sample to take a guess at the language.

There they remained - the strange mystery couple, walking together every evening, for years.

I am sure you are looking forward to a surprise end - you are thinking that I am going to tell you that I met them again after fifteen years, Chintu-Mintu in tow, or something like that. I wish I could.

But this is one of the stories that you strive to complete by yourself, one of the mysteries that you solve in your head and convince yourself that you have the right solution.

This is one of the stories without a conclusion.

Indulgence

It's been quite crazy here. Lots of things to do, and only 24 hours in a day. Blogging has therefore taken a backseat. Though there are a dozen posts swimming about in my head, I haven't been able to sit down and put them down in words.

In the midst of this madness, I had an unexpected oasis of quiet enjoyment yesterday. Puttachi hadn't napped well all day, and so she took an extra nap in the late afternoon. After I put her to bed, I found that I was hungry. I didn't want to eat any more "healthy" stuff... I was craving for instant noodles. I found a packet of Maggi, made it (in 2 minutes!), and then went back to my room. I sat next to the window, and curled up with a nice fat book (The Lord of the Rings) and I ate the Maggi. For a blissful half an hour, I was suspended in a world of my own. Work was undone, things around me were begging to be put back in their place, but I retreated into a cocoon and read the book and ate Maggi. It was absolutely lovely!

Such simple pleasures - and so few and far between. If there is anything I miss in my life now, it is this - these moments with myself. The freedom to shut out the world and retreat into my own world. The freedom to just get up and head out for a walk without a second thought. Things like that.

Yet, this has perhaps been the happiest period of my life too. You lose some, you gain some!

Update: Just after I put up this post, I read this one!