Day of turmoil

Millennium eve. 1999. We used to run a very contained operation in that department of the resort I was in Goa. Okay, maybe contained is not the right word. Maybe, secluded is the right word. Room service. But in a resort, room service can be "anything anytime" word to the room guest. People would call up and ask for towels, wheelchair, nahane ka sabun and khelne ka plastic boat. And we had to somehow say we served just food and beverage. Then guide them to the particular department where those things would be available. Mary was our Room Service Order Taker. She was an amazing lady. Even if there were over hundred orders in processing, she would keep going, take orders calmly, remind the boys of priorities, work on reminders by the guests and mainly not panic. But one day she did. I received the call from her at maybe 10.40 am. She spoke in Hindi. The singsong Hindi that Goans speak. "Aap jaldi aa sakte? Idhar kuch toh bhi ho raha!" Mary requesting presence to anyone was panic stations. I was already in a late breakfast melee in the coffee shop but yet I extricated myself and reached her. To reach the Room service department from the coffee shop, one had to cross the main kitchen. And two wash ups. And one could see the debris of a full resort's morning operation. Dirty dishes piled high all over and yet service staff clamouring for plates, bowls and spoons. I knew what I was getting into. Wrong. I barely knew what I was getting into. When I reached the room service order taker's cabin, I saw that even bed teas from 8.30 am were still pending or had just missed the priority list of some service steward. Captains were running around assigning orders, doing trays for pick up, getting food from the kitchens. But it was all a game of increasing volumes. Every minute passing by was bringing more orders. Every minute bringing failure to serve. Say, Room 108. First thing in morning, the family ordered for bed tea. That may not have gone. Because of the rush. So they ordered for breakfast too. That might have been delayed. Now, they were ordering Dosas from the all day menu. Orders like this were happening from each room, every room. Millennium. Once in a life time. Everyone on a holiday. Everyone playing cards in room. Everyone needing food but lazy to go to buffets laid out in other restaurants of the hotel. Mary and me and the boys determinedly got to work. I remember even now how we cleared everything nearly by 4 pm. Lots of complaint handling. But we did it. We simply told the truth and got away in most cases. Patiently, we kept sending orders. I remember the kitchen guy who was doing sandwiches. At one point, he'd asked, itna sandwich kaun kha raha. None of us had lunch that day. It's another thing that I couldn't have dinner too after all that as the millennium party was gatecrashed and a 1200 odd gathering rose up to over 1400 and again all hands had to be on deck. The only food that I did have throughout that day was an utthapam shared with Mary somewhere late afternoon. It was cold and rock like. But it held us up. That evening, the stage was in water and Alisha Chinai sang. Made in India. We entered the new century leaving all the turmoil behind. And now we still see the same turmoil.

Pumpkins and success

Missus walked into the room. On her lips were one word - Pumpkin. No, that's not a word that she uses on me. Though, she could. Not lovingly. But with loaded sarcasm. I hear that after seeing a particular hindi film, people have started calling their men "adrak". If adrak, then pumpkin is also possible. Oi pumpkin, do something. See, it rhymes too. Anyway, if someone were to call her spouse pumpkin lovingly, how would that sound? My pumpkin, why don't you pick up the towel from the floor? Just for this, I would never throw towels anywhere. For fear that someone would address me like this. Fear of God. Any the pumpkin was being remembered because she had a pumpkin and the dish she had set out to create had a thin gravy and was going to have mustard in it. Pumpkins diced. Large dices. Some sour. Mustard with slices onions stir fried in it too. The dish would be yellow all the way. When in doubt, call up Mummy. Mummy in 44*C Gorakhpur. She's called. No answer. Some guy is called to ask where's she. He says he is out. There's another guy. He is to be called and he can connect to Mummy. A lot of calling happens. Then Mummy is on line. A recipe is taken. Then, talk drifts to other major things that's happening in the family. Conversation done. Aila, recipe is forgotten in the bargain! The pumpkin curry is fine enough even with a half heard recipe. But I still wonder. Would it be better with a few bean stalks in it? Or any other sturdy green? This recipe could make a superb bowl for a hungry afternoon. With boiled rice. In the evening, news comes in that a niece, Disha Mukherjee, has scored 97.2% in the X board exams. For the rest of the evening, we wear a pumpkin shell over our heads with a forever smile on the shell. Since we are Indian parents, the first thought would be - where did the rest 2.8% go?

The old guy can do things

The new Bhabhi is in the house. The older Bhabhi is also in house. Everyone is clamouring around the new Bhabhi. Guys want to bring films in an USB drive for her. Girls want to show her the bangle set they have bought just for her. Kids want to show some new game on a mobile. The older Bhabhi is quietly sitting beside the courtyard. Her son is studying his books. She's quietly keeping an eye. There's commotion in the kitchen. The new Bhabhi is agile. She runs faster to the kitchen. A plumbing issue. She can't correct things. No strength. Mummy tells her so. She feels bad. Mummy should not comment like that. Just when things are going haywire, older Bhabhi strides in. A wrench in hand. In minutes, with brute strength and finesse alternatively she's corrected the situation. She grins like a cat who's drunk some milk surreptitiously. Then she goes back and sits down beside her studying son. In the courtyard. People are quiet. They have seen a master at work. The new Bhabhi goes and sits beside her. Embraces her. People realize who's the boss. It was the same thing with Shane Watson the other night.

A girl with a drying apparatus

Deccan in Pune has its own clamour in the evenings. People selling fast fashion clothes at drop dead prices on the street. Pav Bhaji stalls sizzling butter. Throbbing sidewalks and trendy middle class out for a good time. Deccan also has many women meeting friends. I know it's not some big news. But still everytime I am there I think about what I see. Women meeting women friends. Elderly women. Decidedly middle aged women. Young women. In groups. Laughing. Buying. Eating. Talking. Again agreeing to meet. It's different. Trust me. It's something about that road. In this clamour, I sit in Wadeshwar with good friend, Sameer Athalye and he introduces me to a very intelligent young lady, Jui Kemkar. Jui was a working professional who suddenly decided that she needs to do some business. Not some small solopreneur kinds. A big kind. Something to do with agriculture. Supporting the farmers. Jui created a company called Desivdesi foods. She went around to check how some vegetables and fruits could be dried and eaten and could be tasty too. She also checked as to how some vegetables could be powdered and used as additives in food preparation. She found a niche market. Now she zeroed in upon some items that she could make. But she needed some farmers to grow these vegetables and fruits for her company. She went to her native village in Maharashtra. The farmers there refused. She was undeterred. She went all the way to Osmanabad. She met farmers there and they agreed. She put up a production unit. They started farming for her. Contract farming. She bought all their produce and converted to dried snacks. Beetroot. Beans. Spinach. So on. She also started doing her powders, notably onion, that's bought by a lot of downstream food companies. She was in business. The plucky young woman did not rest on her laurels. She went over to the Gulf and looked for avenues for her dried snack ensemble. She found good interest. And there she is, at the table in Wadeshwar. She tells me animatedly as to how she wants to run this business. She is direct, honest and completely willing to work hard for her business. She's still in her twenties. I am so proud of these young people we have in our country. The building blocks of a new nation. Completely unfazed. Very Global. Very focused. I know we let them down with all this religious, political and infrastructure sloth. But look at them, they are still building away. These are real startups. These, we need to encourage with all our abilities. And I ate the palak patta that she had dried with a spicy coating that one could have with chai or whisky in the evening just like that. It's good. It's different. But then, at one time, Maggi was too. (#storify brings another story that makes a lot of sense.)

Life is maybe worth living

Life is not worth living. Yesterday, came across a box of Satara Kanda Peda and could not sample it. Life is not worth living. The champion league final happened. Mo Salah was playing and I was travelling. Missed it. Tcha. Life is disgusting. I use #Oyorooms for the second time in life. I get a room just. Walls peeling. Bathroom ceiling ready to descend on me. Sheets old. Pillow covers old. TV not working. Remote missing. AC not working. WiFi not working. Vodafone does not reach into the hotel. Breakfast not ready on time. Cook came late it seems. Breakfast is an awful Misal pav and an even more awful poha. For all the hue and cry I do, Oyo offers 20% discount for the stay that will be applied to my next bill as I have prepaid. I decline the super offer. And we keep applauding such scams that we call startups. Life is maybe worth living. KKR is not in final. I don't have anything against SRH and CSK but I cannot sit tonight and root for any team. It will be a case of Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar. Maybe I will root for the quiet New Zealanders in both teams and one very quiet guy from Ranchi. Why do they call him Thala, beats me. Life is maybe worth living. Missus has informed that she isn't cooking. Some arrangements between mother in law and daughter in law. They had elections. Ma is first past the post like in a democracy. So, she's cooking for son. I know I will overeat. Life is worth living. It's a Sunday. Bangalore roads are fun for just one day. The rest of the days are spent in prayer. For life and completion of the metro line through Whitefield usually in inverse order.

Breaking door don't matter

Daya is sitting alongside me. Sullen. Angry. Wants to break a door. I have consoled him. Don't break a door. Break a leg. Now he is angry with me. "Kya hai, if I hit a door with my leg, door should break no? Why are you asking for my leg to break?" "Arre, no Daya. It's just an expression. Break a leg means enjoy life. Don't be sullen. Enjoy life, samjha!" "Oh, aisa. English is funny language. Bachchan theek hi bola tha." Yeah, we both nod, agree and be quiet. A little later I ask Daya as to why he is angry. He says, "petrol pricing". What's with petrol pricing, I ask? He says, "its gone up like never before. Rs. 84 now. Even in Bangladesh it is 58". I don't know about Bangladesh and so I listen quietly to his tirade. I say that even before my monthly budget for petrol was 5000 bucks. It will be the same even now. Daya laughs. "It's your loss na then. You will be roaming less. You will go to office by cycle perhaps." I am amazed that Daya can think so far and so clear. Like Akshay Kumar. I tell him that. Wow, he says, "Akshay and me anyway are so alike". Yes, you both break doors. You both answer to "Kuch toh gadbad hai". And you both don't know how to respond to this petrol price jump. Daya looks pleased now. I have changed the thought in his mind. Now he is thinking about Akshay. It's going to last a day. By the time something new will crop up in news and Daya will forget the petrol prices. On cue, we both receive notification. Some 9 guys shot dead in Tamil Nadu. At a factory called Vedanta. Daya is now asking me the meaning of Vedanta. What do I say?

Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga

Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga. A cousin came home. He's a lot younger. Around my daughter's age. He had work in Bangalore. He stayed with us. That's absolutely fine. Young man at home brings a certain ebullience to the environment. He used to hear one song everyday. Loudly. Attentively. Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga. At first I thought it's a song. He likes it. So be it. Then no, I had misunderstood. It was a state of life. It was his ringtone too. He nearly closed his eyes when he heard the song. I couldn't blame him. We did the same things with "Neele Neele ambar pe" back in time. So a few days passed by. There were these ads coming on TV during the ad breaks of IPL. Amazon Echo had a nice ad. A boy, a girl and a grandma. The girl and the grandma are teasing the boy and Amazon Echo lives up the moment with a song. Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga. And then Beena, the grandma smiles. Too many things happen at the same time to me. One, Beena was a heroine in the 80s and was Anil Kapoor's love interest in a film. Brilliant smile she had and still has. I am reminded of my age. I am also pleased to know that a pure bred love song from Hindi cinema still prevails among all the Clarksons and Athenas and Katys. I am very displeased to know that boys secretly love this self flagellation of a song. Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga. I still don't remember the film it's from. Google helpfully tells me that it's from Half Girlfriend. What did I expect? Illustrious men behind this miracle. Chetan Bhagat, the writer of the book. Arjun Kapoor, the actor. Then Arijit Singh. Women like him for obvious reasons and that's completely okay with me. Long sighs. Sonorous. Languid singing. Women feeling the comfort of intimacy with his ballads. All very fine. Men. How does Arijit figure in their heads. Like a typical Kishore or even Sanu enthusiast, I debunked him for a while. Naah, every song similar. That he disproved over the past couple of years. Same scales. He tried some stuff with Bhansali with different scales that I listened to the other day and he looked quite accomplished. But what's it that has clicked with men? After seeing the cousin it came to me. Lost loves. Boys become men over lost loves. We had our "Meri bheegi bheegi si" and they have "Main phir bhi tum ko chahunga". If there's a Kannada version, please relay to Yeddy. He wants to sing it to that chair. CM's chair.

Mad Max Infinity War

The boy has s lemon green tee shirt on him. On his back is emblazoned "Big Basket". He swerves into the traffic with his bike. He cannot brave it through. Gets stuck. In front of my cab. Cab is Ola. Big Basket looks strangely at Ola. He thinks it is Ola's fault that he is stuck. Ola is thinking he's travelling straight on a straight road. Though the road has all the attributes of classic Bangalore post nuclear dystopia. Potholes, ravines and crevices. Stuck vehicles, drooping electricity poles and loose stoned and sand thrown on the sides of the road. Even Mad Max wouldn't be able to traverse this. Ola has a job on hand. And then this. Big Basket. Wheel in front of wheel. Which wheel shall go first? May the best man win? No, they don't go out and have a duel. The duel happens through eyes. Sullen piercing eyes of Big Basket bores into Ola. Ola's bloodshot angry arrack laden eyes bore into Big Basket. The eyes devour. The eyes shove. The eyes make ten cars behind both of them go up 300 meters into the air with Rajanikanth fuelled 70 mm disruption. The eyes swivel buses ahead. Men fall down from 20 floor above in nearby dystopian towers by the force of those eyes. Then I, spoiler of Mad Max Infinity War, ask Ola to go back a bit and allow Big Basket to go. He does that with a roaring grunt. World War Z is averted. I am not there in the Vidhan Soudha. Wonder who's managing it there.

Frozen shoulder

Frozen shoulder. 1999. Ma is in Goa. One morning she is unable to lift anything with her left hand. Kind of stuck. She is taken to a doctor. Now Ma manages a very pained face when doctor starts with her. Then, to my dismay, she is not able to keep that pained face constant. She alternates between straight face and pained face. Doctor is also confused. Where is the pain? I helpfully put in that she, Ma, isn't able to lift anything with her left hand. The doctor is probing away here and there in search of a muscular disorder. Nothing. Ma is responding with yelps at inconsistent places. I see that she's yelped differently for the same place when the doctor has come back to press that spot after a few pokes elsewhere. It's like poke-ah, poke-ah, poke-ooh. Then back to spot 1 and viola, poke-ooh. The doctor is shaking head. I am also inwardly shaking head. We know injury is there but Ma's confused signals are helping none of us. Elaborate stuff with opening and closing fingers start. Till ten minutes before the examination, her fingers were absolutely fine. Suddenly her fingers were creating closing issues. Wrapping issues. Unwrapping issues. Very confusing. Like world weary pianists with misshapen fingers. Or truncated guitarists in mid concert jabs at the crowds. Suddenly the perfect hand had become something out of The Omen. I staring at hand. Hand staring and shivering at me. Doctor looking agape at me. Me helplessly looking at doctor. Ma oblivious. With extreme pained face. Anyway, the doctor after trying to remember all his medical lessons arrives at fact that it is a frozen shoulder probably. Needs physiotherapy. Physiotherapy usually gives succor to anyone who's ever tried it. Little machines and small exercises. Opens up muscles and creaky bones to newer activities. Ma yelps in pain during first physiotherapy. I patiently explain that there is nothing painful. But I know nothing. I am told so duly. I shut up. Better still, I stop going to those sessions where she has to go. Missus and others take over. Pain is gone or minimal. Over the years, I have deduced about 7 pain type faces that Ma has, specifically when I am around. I have allocated pains to each face. It helps. The Karnataka government will have it's pain type faces for us. The art will be in knowing those faces. One can negotiate better. Frozen shoulders or frozen bodies. Whichever.

The third revolution

Remember the days when TV used to be a new thing and suddenly the mother used to come and shut it off in the midst of something good saying it's not good for the eye or the TV was getting hot, it would burst. And we would moan! Or now when we advise our children to keep their mobiles aside as it's not good for health or the nonsense it is. Saw the evolution? Humans are still getting hooked as machines and eco-systems keep evolving. And we are already at the end of the second industrial revolution. We have seen the good and yet now people do not have work and there's a huge imbalance in the way the capitalist world has shared the spoils, the wealth and the resources. But there's hope. We are at the door of the third industrial revolution. This will not be country specific and this will not be capitalist centric. So, paupers can hope to rejoice. The third industrial revolution shall be the shared economy industrial revolution. The specific revolutions shall be with communication, power and transportation. Look at the past. The first industrial revolution happened because of the telegraph and steam engine. The second happened because of the telephone, electricity and car. Test telephone enabled us to speak long distances. The electricity liberated the way we worked, lived and performed. The car, of course, became the symbol of prosperity and is transportation too. Note, I put transportation second. And prosperity first. Especially, for India. Now, the third revolution is upon us. The communication internet has fast forwarded our thoughts, made us a global human village, sharing everything every second and most of it is free. Data usage is a small price to pay for such human sharing. Large impact, small carbon footprint, very less cost and happiness to almost all. We can share thoughts, music, movies, documents, papers, photographs, news, information, decisions and events as we live our own lives wherever. Even a village with two goats and a man can have the same resources as a business biggie in New York. The power internet is being created as we speak. Small kits of solar energy for homes. Small wind energy modules for a village. Solar farms for a community. Very less cost. Low maintenance. Small carbon footprint. Ceaseless energy from sun and wind. Share with the grid. Make money too. Contributory. Community service and evolved sharing. Get grid benefits as you travel thus saving money even during travel. Share, be social and co-create energy for every living being. All very nature friendly. So, no more tree cutting. Cheap and affordable power. Actually, near free. Don't be surprised if it will be like data, some paltry hundred bucks. Times are coming. The transportation internet has already begun by car sharing. The millennials don't want to buy cars. They hail transport and travel at opportune costs from point A to B. We used shared autos in some cities before and started the share economy. Now they have brought us apps to do it anywhere and everywhere. We will share cars, buses, trucks, planes and hyperloops to move ourselves swiftly. And move our goods even more swiftly. Trucks and buses shall also become mobile transponders and collect data about weather, communities, social networks and infrastructure on the roads they travel enabling people to plan more and deliver better. The transportation internet will bring us swiftly to each other's doorstep at low costs. Our goods will come to us at very low costs. Then, we can question ourselves. Why do I need the apples from Simla? Or Kiwi from NZ? We will use all the cheap stuff I mentioned above to create our own farms and control our produce, organic and fresh. We bring down cost of food. That's the ultimate. It will happen. People and governments all over the world are doing it. So, you will ask about employment? In India, that's a pertinent question. Engineers will be employed to make the three internets happen. The farms will turn high tech and they also will be needed in them. Data security, data flow and data analytics will get real time and enormous. People will get employed there. Content creation, agriculture, social development, education, social caring, green tech, food, healthcare, animal care, media, hardware tech, crafts and community development will create new and evolved jobs. In essence, people will stop migrating. There will be reverse migration. People will go back to villages. There will be much better income there. They will make their own water, electricity and food. Easily. With less money. And have time to spare. The village economy that will propel our nation in the coming years. So people, get hold of lands and start building your smart farms. Was I able to help you see a great future? Isn't it great? Remember, no government can undo this. It's competition, it's compelling and it's financial sense. *Do share if you think it's necessary

The midnight happenings

Many things happen at midnight. We achieved independence at this hour. Shahenshah walked the streets at this hour. The cops with the breathalyzers go home at this hour. Some Bengali households cook dinner at this hour. In Mumbai, back in the mid 80s, the dhows used to come in at this hour. Then, in the shadows, things used to be transferred to small cabs and trucks. It's how many friends got their Rolexes back then. Or their Henessy VSOPs. In Calcutta of then, the wall writing or graffiti work would start at this hour. The colours would be brought to the local party office by the evening. The brushes would be steeped in turpentine. The artist would come and inspect what he had to. And then, sleep for a bit. 11.30 pm, he would be shrugged awake. Then, at midnight, he and an assistant with a ladder would trudge out. The usual light was a hurricane lamp. That would be held by the assistant as the artist would work on the wall. If it was CPM, then lots of red and black would be there. If it was Congress, then lots of Green, saffron and blue would be there. The other saffron had still not been in cogue there then. And the other blue wasn't in existence. Of course, a lot has changed since then. The BPOs even have a shift that starts at 12 am. It caters to God knows which nation from then. But the IT parks are lit through the night. The mini buses ferry groggy kids through the night. They call it the graveyard shift. Earlier, only the press used to do such stuff. And land up at all night coffee shops for a beer and a late meal. The press was awake through the night and the early morning today. Call it landmark or whatever, today is the day that we will refer to, when we look back at a changed India of the near future. A constitutional change. For better or worse, we are at the inflection point. Caused by moral and material corruption.

Fidgety geniuses

Don't you think fidgety people are geniuses? I do think. It means they have a crazy mind in overdrive. They touch things, shove them about, wonder what is happening or what could happen. Do analysis right there about the thing and it's requirement. Murmur things. Then abruptly move on. Let's start with popular fidgeting fellows. Dinesh Kartik. Ever watched him closely. He'd like a cat on a hot tin roof. Nothing is constant about him. Thumping glove fingers on thighs. Thumping feet on ground. Walking about. Stopping. Cocking the head to some direction that's unwarranted. He does all. Sometimes all at once. Then, he is moving his eyes constantly. Never settling on one thing. As a captain probably that's a need. But a team member watching him, it would be difficult. Watching a man with so many inner things going on. Shahrukh Khan, his boss at KKR is another fidgety guy. Same traits nearly. Constantly moving fingers. Through hair. Gesticulating. Talking. Drumming fingers. Nervous energy oozing out. Palpably awash with ideas. Can't stand still. Needs to go and get it. If possible. Someone I know is also the same. She will sit in a car and it is mayhem. Every radio station is punched within the next ten minutes. The auxiliary cord is shoved into a mobile phone and a playlist is played. Then, the cord is pulled out and thrown off. The AC is increased. Then decreased. The slats is moved in every direction possible. The glove compartment is opened up. Finally, she is hungry. But they are geniuses, as I said. They are thinking ahead. You know about Shahrukh and Dinesh. The lady in question is also a genius. The person accompanying her in the car realises in minutes. Her ideas and solutions are extraordinary. Even the road routes she takes are extraordinary. All, with thumping music. That itself is genius. Thinking amidst thumping music. I will now keep an eye on such fidgety people. Is Kumaraswamy also fidgety? Because what's happened is also genius level, isn't it?

Sacrificial goats

Missus back from Kitty party. Showing pictures. Can't say anything. Will be blasphemy. Other women there. Women in Tanuja and Tina Munim poses. Cannot say she looking like Tanuja. Hanikaarak Bapu will have another meaning then. Telling about food. Mainland China. Soups, courses. Desserts. On buffet. Men feeling very deprived. Like fly in soya. Tossed out into waste bins type. Men want three course meal at least. A cotelette, a thermidor and a zabaglione will do fine. Even without a Merlot on the side. And if Merlot there, slightly chilled. Yeah, if wishes were horses. Men get light food in the evening. Because Missus had heavy food in Kitty party in the afternoon. Chaat. That's way light. Lighter than light. With sprouts within. Men have to see series on Amazon Prime and eat so that they forget what had been eaten. See, men also sacrifice. Or become sacrificial goats. Some, with beards. Not funny.

The man passing by

At crossroads we stand, As clouds gather above, Some say rain shall come, Some say it's just thunder, We look and decide, For the end is never an end. These roads don't lead us anywhere, We scratch heads and argue, A little rain happens, But generally it's all noise, We warm up to forthcoming destinations, But we just move along. Were we just meant to be passing by? Then what's the fuss with Aadhaar? It actually meant an address, right? A window, a stair, a bedsit, And then we went to work, And sat listening to Lata on lonely nights. We make a living, Pulverize competition, Create disorder for others, Shake their foundations, All to make some profit, All to bring a few bucks home. And we were meant to be passing, Enjoying the clouds and the thunder, Maybe having a few arguments, Maybe having a few hearty lunches, Then holding our satchels close, Just slink away into the grey. Long later some would gather, On a moonless night, A few drinks would be finished, Then one would pipe up, Remember that guy? And a few would nod and raise a glass.

The poem episode

Before every Rabindranath Jayanti (Pochishe boishakh, just gone by), the Bengali association in Ordnance Factory Chanda, conducted some competitions. Singing. Poetry. I think there was handwriting too. I don't remember much but there's this episode that I remember very well. There was this Tagore poem in Bengali that we had to recite. My age group had six participants in all. Some of them, I think all of them exist on my timeline even now, here. I had no interest in poetry spouting. We call it "Abritti" in Bengal. But Father wanted me to do this. There was a certain style he adopted while doing Tagore. First, the stance. Yes, he explained that the stance was also important. I couldn't be be very straight and open chested. I had to have an angle to the audience, as if I was reading from a book. A little angle. Just to show a bit of profile. Then, the pitch of the poetry has to be bass and gravelly. But one should be able hear me clearly even from the back of the room. I was, what, 13 years old back then. How much would that squeaky voice just about breaking then, would be that pitch, was questionable. Dissatisfaction. Father's angry face. Vigorous shakes of head. I had no clue. Then, the poem pronunciation. Tagore did not write easy stuff. At least it wasn't easy for people like me. I kept mucking things up. I could happily give up right then and there and go back to Dilip Doshi and his bowling India into a stupor. But no, father was getting as determined to get me right. That particular performance could have been my worst on public stage. That was the most rehearsed and yet the worst one. Of all things, the tension made me make the most elementary mistake that one can do. I forgot the poem in the middle. Anyway, God knows what merit was still seen. I got the third prize. Father was crestfallen. He couldn't believe that, I, his son, could be such a dunce on stage. He being the evergreen stage warrior. Poetry, play, compering, speech, everything he could do. So, that summer, just to compensate, I wrote my first poem. Shyly showed it to him. He was overwhelmed. He kept reading and rereading it. Of course, it had to be a bit layered and all that. Not the usual birds and skies kinds. He got that printed in that year's Puja souvenir book. It was in Bengali. Of course, I had done two poems in English post that first one. But he chose that one, the Bengali one, to send to the committee. Yesterday, I saw something on TV that brought back those memories. Fathers invest a lot of their selves in their children. Its a process. You may even call it vicarious. And they want their wards to succeed. Math. Physics. Electronics. Karate. Speaking. Singing. Cricket. Football. It's things that they like and want their kids to like too. Mothers on the other hand, just want kids to go out and excel even with things they don't know anything about. I sometimes feel that I could have done more during those young days to make Father more proud. Maybe that poetry, or some singing or that football gig I was good at, or that cricket batting that I had gotten very good at. A little bit more dedication would have done it. Or may be he went away too soon. Or may be he's watching over my shoulder as I am feeling reasonably proud of a daughter who goes to work every morning, even during her college holidays while other friends of hers enjoy the holidays. In white and black formals, just like I and Missus did, many years ago. She's preparing for a life that's not so black and white.

We deserve the netas we get

The candidate sat. Sipping a lemon drink. It's hot in Bangalore. 38*C. And after Bangalore has been denuded by builders and contractors trying to build glass and concrete monuments, the heat just richochets between surfaces. Even the hospitals have glass fronts. Don't know why. The candidate was approached by a few people who asked a few questions. He answered, wiping his brows now and then. I can see the effort he's putting in. He's never won the election. He hopes to. His Kannada is colloquial. He converses easily. But this is Bangalore Urban. A pocket that now has more cosmopolitan people than any other pocket in Bangalore. He needs to have his English and Hindi correct too. He does not. There's not much of the rural aspects left of the area. Yet, he's happy to speak about the water and health issues. He has a lot of followers milling around. We don't see them otherwise. They don't look like locals too. Maybe they are. But from those few suburban zones that this mini city now has. I wonder why there are no political workers among the affluent. Not just helpers. Workers. People who exhort others to vote. To take them to booths. Manage booths. Why don't I find them in these towers around me. The candidate finishes his stop. He's gotten up and wants to pay the shop owner. There are a lot of smiles and head shakes. Lot of unwanted servility. The common man still behaves as if a king has deigned to come his way. A lot of bowing down. Unnecessary. Maybe even the candidate feels so. He would just be happy if they all vote for him. But he moves on. They have some hours left and it's the last day of the canvassing. That evening I see a few of those followers sitting beside a granite store. Trading jokes. They must be from this area, a banged together ruptured Urban dysfunctional zone. Farmers who sold lands to developers and have grown rich overnight. Who know all about FSI and yellow zones but have no clue about what pulleys are levers are. Election day has arrived. We are the pulleys and levers for a change in our invested future. We paid for these towers. Yet we turn away little boys who come to exhort us to vote. We say we aren't interested in politics. What we don't say is that we will never turn away that courier guy who will bring that US Visa home. Little boys who come to our houses with election slips. Little boys with lots of hopes. I don't know how people can close doors on their faces. Beats me. And then they talk tall things about traffic, chaos, water scarcity. Little boys who work when the affluent watch Netflix in the AC cool of their homes. We deserve the netas we get.

Holmes times

The door. And a bunch of keys. And me not knowing which key is the key to that door. Interesting. There are two ways that one can suss out which is the right key to a door. One, try all the keys. Two, look at the keys and the door and try to deduce which is the best key. But of course, being a bit dense, I start by using every probable key in the door. But the door does not yield. The bunch holds about 40 keys and so you can very well understand how much time I shall take with that dense process. So, move to the second process. I take the whole bunch of keys with all the smaller rings branching out of the large wired up ring. I keep looking at it. I try and invoke my inner Sherlock Holmes. It would be a lone key on an individual ring away from the three sets of keys for each door within the villa. One key. I look closely. There's one key. My inner cam zooms in. Three smudges on the top side of the key. People have used this key a lot. The indentations also have minor discolorations. The levers were popped by those indentations before. Zoom out. Behind me Missus is zooming in her camera onto my backside. I don't know why fun people have when others are busy in creative tasks. I take that key and plug in. Thaack. Success. New resolve. I will invoke my inner Sherlock Holmes more. As I am standing in my lift an hour later with some palak bunches in hand, I invoke the keen sense of smell Holmes might have had. It's a lady's scent and a vanilla essence. It means a lady has gone up onto some floor with a birthday cake. There's a birthday happening somewhere. I am congratulating self as I leave the lift on my floor. A food delivery guy and a lady who's probably house help somewhere are waiting for the same lift. The scent is fragrant as I pass her. Obviously, he came to deliver the cake. Holmes is nonsense.

The banquet manager

1993. There's a very big conference taking place in our banquet halls. Lots of signage. Lots of names and directions stuck onto doors. Tremendous numbers of people walking in and out. I am running about trying to meet demands as I am the senior supervisor on duty. Otherwise, the in-charge of the day. The Banquets manager is sitting at a table in the middle of all the melee. Talking into a phone. I can see him from the distance where I am organizing the pick up of food for the lunch. He's smart. Black suit and a red tie. Over six feet in height. Fair. Hair done in the latest back brushed style of the day. Kind of Sanjay Dutt meets Amitabh Bachchan in looks. He used to have difficulty keeping the legs inside the desk and so while talking on the phone, he used to tilt his chair to the right and stretch his legs and talk away. Languid grace. That's the phrase that comes to mind. And he could talk. Right phrases. Right nuances. Essential salesman all day. Women used to just stop and gawk at him for a bit when they saw him on the banquet floor. So, now he's talking on the phone and out comes a harried guest. You have to know a harried Indian hotel guest. He has no preamble. He will never tell you where he has come from, what's his work or requirements, he will just start complaining about something that he, only he is involved in and barely anyone knows that he is the guy involved in that. He shouts, "the mikes given to us aren't working and no one is doing anything about it. This is unscrupulous and nonsense." Here, you have to know that when a Bengali gentleman shouts he tends to use big words. I think they teach that in those state schools. He goes on for a bit. Our manager is unfazed. He does not even get up from his seat. He simply listens. The guest finishes, pipes down and let's out a breath. Our manager gives him his glass of water. Just pushes the glass towards him. He scowls but takes the water and drinks it. Then, our manager says, "It's a machine, it's tested but it's not ruled by men, can go wrong anytime. We will simple replace. Don't you worry." Before the man pipes up again our manager seizes the moment, "That tie, where did you get that magnificent tie? I love ties but I never got anything like that anywhere." The guest is wearing an obnoxious violet based flouroscent kind of tie with some weird geometric designs in it. The guest looks down at his own tie as if seeing it for the first time. He mumbles something about New Market. Our manager now gets up. He puts his arm around the man's shoulder. Now, picture a tall good looking man with a small obtuse ordinary man. Walking back towards the convention hall entrance companionably. Of course, there was no more trouble with the mikes. Nothing was replaced. An ego was massaged. That was that. That was an instant lesson in positive communication that day. And look what we have to put up with as our leaders these days. A guy rolling up his sleeves constantly and another beating his chest constantly.

That evening the towers were hit

Middleton Street. Kolkata. Behind the hotel and banquet centre that I worked in was a derelict building with six tenants who were stubbornly waiting for the right price to vacate. On some evenings, a person who was a fixer kinds arrived at my boss's office in the hotel and they sat together to do some calculations and strategies. Then, the fixer would go to the building behind and sit with one or the other tenant. These weren't rooms or shops. They were hovels with rats and snakes all around. But by some force of greed, they stayed there, hoping someone would someday give them a bag of cash. In fact, one of the tenants who used to work as a security guard in the Loreto House College nearby even kept telling me repeatedly, "Sir, please tell Babu that if he quotes a decent price I will wrap up and go off to gaon, in Bihar. Why would anyone want to stay here?" And brick by brick the building behind would continue to fall into ruin. Every week I could see steady deteriotion. I used to ask the boss if he was getting someone to do the deteriotion. He would laugh at me. But I had my suspicions. That day, again the fixer after some strategies at around 4.45 pm went off to visit a tenant and they started a discussion that somehow moved into an argument. Kolkata, you know. Arguments are common place. I had come out for something and overheard their loud accusations for a bit. Mild curiosity led me to understand that the tenant had actually agreed on the amount on cell and the fixer was now convincing him to go below the agreed amount as that amount was only applicable for that day some weeks back. I smiled inwardly at the strategies of my boss and came back into my office. As I stepped in, I could hear my boss yelling for me from the mezannine floor where he sat. I used to be in the ground floor. I rushed up the small stairs. He showed me the TV screen. The first tower had just been hit. He used to watch CNBC for the business news and they had showed it nearly live. I was stunned but quiet. The mind tried to assimilate. Though it was very far and I didn't have foreknowledge of who worked in NYC among friends and where, I still tried to remember all the Yahoo chat and mail conversations. Anybody among friends and relatives? As we kept seeing the screen, the second plane crashed into the second tower. Pandemonium. Bizarre. Even seeing it on screen was difficult. The boss was on the phone as he had relations in US. I didn't, not then. I stood and kept watching. Numerous things running through the head. And yesterday, late evening, it all came back as I finished the tenth episode of "The Looming Tower". Good docudramas have a way of creeping into your senses and bringing out those hidden memories. I now remember how I absent mindedly sat there at my desk for the next hour in the evening. Playing some games on my computer and surfing the net for all kinds of news on the tragedy. A tea on my desk cold and undrinkable. The doodle that I kept doing and how I avoided going home to the family for the next couple of hours of the evening. I know it's not 9/11 today. But there enough insanity around. So thought, a reminder is necessary.

Entourage

A relative comes home. The train has stopped at a nearby station for a few seconds and he's jumped on to the ground from the train, him being from Bengal and adept at doing all this. He walks up to the platform, crosses over to the exit, hails a bus passing by and just arrives. Pretty nifty for a guy who doesn't know much about Bangalore anyway. I remember another episode of tracks and platforms from far back. 1995. Man arrives at Howrah station. Man is supposed to travel with me to Mumbai. Behind him is entourage. Man travelling for first time alone, it seems. Bengali men, I tell you. Anyway, man searches for me and comes into the compartment where I am seated. Those days we didn't dare think of AC compartment and all that. Sleeper non AC it was. He sees me and grins. He let's out a whoop and lets out a happy expletive. Select an expletive in your mind. Anything will work. Then the father comes into the compartment and sits beside us. Father is not going but he wants to sit beside son and explain to me why I should take care of his son. His son is no longer spouting expletives but sitting like a 22 year old dumb boy. Glum face and all. Then mother comes and joins. Promptly starts crying. Sister joins and she searches for place to sit. So I give up my place and she sits. The family reunion takes place. The man had just separated from folks 25 seconds ago, by the way. Then the train let's out a whistle. I gently remind that they have to get down. They get up. There is a lot of hand catching, hand wringing, whining and yelping before they are finally out. The train has started to move slowly. They have come round towards the window and are holding on to the grills and not letting go. I am afraid for them. I motion them to let go. They ignore me and concentrate on the man. The man is saying the same thing again and again. Yes, he will call. Yes, he will write. Call. Write. Call. Write. I am starting to get angry with Alexander Graham Bell and Waterman now. By the way, let me also state that Missus also had come with her sister to see me off and they had disappeared seeing this melee. Of course, we weren't conjugally operating then, so cannot blame her. The train picks up speed. Entourage keep running at top speed beside the window. Call. Write. Tears. The train speeds off from the platform. But then, the driver may have left his purse behind or something, the train stops beyond the station, on the tracks. A minute later, huffing and puffing, the entourage is there, down there, on the tracks beside the stationery train. It is mighty funny and highly dangerous. I don't know to respond. I am agape. My jaw is on the floor. I cannot even pick it up. Call. Write. Call. Write. We reach our destination. Many weeks later I ask the man, how many letters did you write. He's drunk the fifth night continuous. He says, last three weeks, none. Bengali families have a message for themselves here somewhere.

Tea and life, the meanings

What's in a cup? No, not a storm, you gossip mongers. Jahaan dekho, you search for gossip, intrigue and suspense se bharpoor drama. Nope. It's not that. Tea. That's what's there in a cup. At long last, after so many years, I have started to recognize Missus's haath ka banaya hua Tea. Probably, Tea is like life. It takes nearly 22 years to actually know someone. Adrak is like the instinctive thought and sugar is like the positive action loading up in any human. Milk is the aura. Tea leaves are the style. The final potion in the cup is of course, the magic, any person is. The mix of the known and the unknown. You don't know for a long time as to why that particular boil is there in a person. Why they respond as they do. What's their reason? Why am I ruminating about tea and life? No really. Men, do the women in your life know how you make tea? And similarly, Women, do your men know how you make tea? It is something like those TV games. Husband asked separately. What colour does she like? Gleefully he says, black. Then camera pans on to her. No way, she says. Blue is my favourite. He stands their with a lost puppy look on his face. It's why I like old couples. At long last, they realize what the other in the couple wants. 30 or more years it's taken by then. Then, they grow attentive to each other's needs. Say, you want to make lauki for them. Uncle says helpfully and mildly, "Beta, leave the lauki, woh na, she doesn't like lauki." You naturally keep it aside. But then you wonder. What's it that's clicked for them? Years of being around each other probably. Unconsciously watching each other while they stab at phones, see IPL, talk on phones, listen to Asha Bhosle or even sing off key "Chala jaata hun Kisi ki dhun mein". She also registers him. Disliking shoes with with pointed fronts. Wiping the laptop everytime he started work. Swatting flies. Cutting nails with vigour. Taking calls from workmates and starting off with "kaise ho"! Everything matters. In fact, these usual things matter the most. It's what they remember, when the one or the other passes on. And life or tea or both comes to a shuddering halt.