Endangered species

It appears that we modern humans, that is the present-day people living all over the World (‘homo sapiens’), evolved sometime over 200,000 years ago.  This figure keeps on changing with newer research studies!  I think for most part of their evolutionary lives, men and women were purely meat-eaters in their dietary habits! Hunting, gathering and having fun eating all moving creatures that were palatable, and provided sustenance, I guess.    I understand that as a consequence of human migrations into new regions of the world, there has been the extinction of many animal species indigenous to those areas. Human hunters apparently had played a large part in the extermination of large species of animals including majority of the larger ones like mammoths, mastodons, giant sloths, etc. Most of these extinctions apparently occurred within a few hundred years and we humans were very likely the trigger that set off these catastrophic events. I am digressing, this is not a piece about palaeoanthropology. Pulling myself back on track,  I simply wished to point out to my dear readers, that I was born a strict "vegetarian" in my dietary habits (or more precisely a lacto-vegetarian in today’s parlance). Being vegetarian in today’s World has its own kind of drawbacks or disadvantages; to put it mildly, this has jeopardised my place as an honourable member of the society! In other words, due to my vegetarian dietary habits, I had sometimes been an object of ridicule and sometimes made fun of; this is my claim, of course, judging from people’s reaction!

Having stayed in the Middle East for quite a few years, my dietary habits were always a source of discomfort and embarrassment to me. Most of my colleagues at work and friends outside work were strict non-vegetarians! They loved the variety of dishes that were offered in the innumerable swanky Restaurants and were proud of their dietary habits! They happily gobbled up the choicest dishes available from all over the World served in the best Restaurants of that place. One of my colleagues at work always constantly needled me pointing that I was missing out on the good things in life; tastiest and best food in life by following the 'vegetarian' route! After all, what’s the use of living such a miserable ‘vegetable’ life, if you cannot taste the best food the World had to offer to non-vegetarians!

While travelling on Middle-Eastern flights, I have always been rather embarrassed to point myself as a vegetarian to the stewardesses. You see, the stewardesses do not like passengers who disturb their rhythm and create interruptions, while serving/distributing food trays. During one of such flights, I still vividly remember, the beautiful stewardess, giving me a cold stare when I told her that I was a vegetarian and would like a vegetarian meal; she stared at me hard and coldly, I thought; she was hoping that I would soon revise my dietary choice so that she can swiftly get on her way to serve other passengers! I can still feel her chilling looks on me (she wasn’t that beautiful anymore!); looking at me as if I was an alien from another world. I felt more embarrassed as other passengers in my row started staring up at me too with horror, as if I was pointing a loaded revolver at the stewardess! Unfortunately, adding further fuel to the embarrassment was the fact that all the other passengers in my row were of Middle-Eastern origin. I couldn’t find a sympathetic Indian face who could understand my plight and lend me moral support in the situation! I didn’t budge; I gathered all my inner strength and stood my ground repeating my request to the stewardess. I could see the chilly-cum-mildly hopeful expression on her face fall once again; which gradually turned into a stiff forced smile (no doubt, she was trained well by the Airline not to give chilled looks for long, directed towards passengers!); she realized that I was steadfast in my resolve to have a vegetarian meal. However, my beautiful stewardess was made of a stronger mettle; she wasn’t the one to give up the fight so easily. Making a last-ditch effort, she announced that she didn’t have any vegetarian option as it was a short flight. It was my turn to show dismay and we were back to square one. But I too, wasn’t in any mood to give up. Travelling continuously over a period of years, I had gained in confidence and had learnt the art of dealing with ‘beautiful-cum-chilly-looking' stewardesses; I asked her what are the options she had in her ‘pantry’ or whatever they call it on aircrafts. She thought for a moment and told me that she could give me a cake at the most. Getting wary, I instinctively asked her if it was made of egg (I was a strict vegetarian you see!); to which she replied she didn’t know.  Even  I knew rhat cakes have an element of eggs. The stewardess was steadfastly looking at me with piercing eyes now! I could clearly make out that she had her doubts confirmed that here was a specimen from some other planet!

After all, how long can you hold up an airline stewardess, however beautiful she might be to look at; she has to attend to many more passengers! After such high drama in the air, I felt defeat pass over me. I said, never mind, I didn’t want any of the food the airline has to offer. The stewardess moved away serving food trays to other passengers; the smile back on her face. She looked beautiful once again!

I don’t know if my luck had turned on that day! The beautiful stewardess was back in minutes holding out a small pack of chocolates towards me. I gratefully accepted her offer and promptly pocketed it. Being diabetic, I wasn’t supposed to eat chocolates you see, but I had a family which loved any variety of chocolates!

There was another incident that stands out in my memory clearly to this day. We had a party going in our office and many dishes had been ordered from an Arabic Restaurant nearby. The choice of vegetarian dishes was limited, as I was the lone vegetarian in the office. After the food order was received, the dishes were served, spread out on a table. Some of my office colleagues had already started nibbling away at their choicest picks. There was a dish looking very much like an Indian ‘Roti’, that was spread out on a tray. I was looking across the dishes wondering which of the spread was suitable for my consumption. I was trying to determine if it was a plain ‘Roti’ or some stuffed ‘Roti’, perhaps. Making up my mind, I finally zeroed in on one ‘Roti’, which looked quite inviting! I picked it up. Suddenly I heard a voice saying that it was a meat preparation. As quickly as I had picked it up, I instantaneously dropped the ‘Roti’ back in the tray; scrubbing at my hands as if I had touched a hot iron rod! Seeing my reaction, there was shock followed by laugh riot all around. All my colleagues had a field day,  guffawing at my expense. One of my colleagues, of Middle-Eastern origin, felt insulted and announced that he couldn’t eat the stuff after seeing my extreme reaction. I promptly apologised and hurried back to my cubicle. I couldn’t eat any food for the entire day! It was bad behaving the way I did, I had also unabashedly insulted my colleague. I could offer no explanation, other than the lame excuse that I was a vegetarian! As a parting shot, one of my office colleagues, in half jest told me that she would make all out efforts to convert me to eat chicken before I finally left the country. However, her wish remained unfulfilled, as I have steadfastly remained a vegetarian to this day!

During my entire stay in the Middle-East, I have hardly come across a person with strict vegetarian dietary habits like me (including not eating eggs or even onion/garlic), which made me realize that I and some of my ilk were part of a miniscule group of people surviving on their last legs of human evolutionary cycle! In my opinion, the vegetarians could be hardly around 1 or 2% of the World population, if such survey could ever be conducted! Could I take the liberty of mentioning that this tiny vegetarian group of surviving people (or ‘tribe’) is certainly a vanishing species or an endangered one; soon to be named perhaps as, ‘homo-veggy’ or something similar shortly after disappearing from the human evolutionary cycle!

what's in a name?

What’s in a name?

Shakespeare in his famous play ‘Romeo and Juliet’ had said, “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet”.  I would say that Shakespeare was far off the mark here! This was after all a play written in the 16th century. Does this line still apply in 21st century? I don’t really think so, judging by my experiences of carrying a name such as mine all through my life!

I was never happy that I had been named ‘Nagaraj’ by my parents. In my youngers days I was always cross with my parents for having been named so. It appears that my parents had offered oblation to the snake god before I was born. This sacrifice had borne fruit in the form of a child and as an offering to the snake god I was named after him. People had all sort of weird ideas, those days. But how can we question faith? 

 It appears that my parents had been childless for quite a few years and so they had been going around visiting all sorts of temples and pious places before they stumbled upon this practice of offering ‘oblation’ to this snake god. Perhaps this snake god was so pleased with their offering that he blessed the couple with a son. This is all fine. My parents had their wish fulfilled, but how were they to know that being named after this snake god would lead to all sorts of experiences, mostly embarrassments, later in my life.

Having the snake god’s name is fine, but I also had another name, ‘Hari Prasad’. This is another interesting story why I was named so. It appears that as part of his daily rituals my father was reading or reciting various chapters from different Vedic manuscripts or texts. While reading a particular chapter named “Harivamsa” from a vedic text, it seems my mother gave birth to me. As the gods had granted my parents’ wish of having a child, they had named me after the chapter in the vedic text. So I was saddled with two names from two different contexts; or was it that both the gods had been so pleased with the devotion of my parents that they decided to join hands with each other in granting their wishes! But the question remained which name would take precedence over the other. Was it that the superior “God” had a precedence over an inferior “God”? I don’t know. It was a just a matter of toss, perhaps? Anyway, the crux of the issue is, I was stuck with the name ‘Nagaraj’ as per official records in the school certificates. Personally, I would have preferred my other name to be incorporated in my school records, but then I didn’t have a choice, did I?

The names that is handed out to their children by their parents is a very curious custom if I may say so. While mapping out my family history recently, I came across a custom that seems to be rather bizarre. My grandfather and great-great grandfather had the same names from my father’s side of my family history. Similarly, in the case of my grandmother too, her father and her great grandfather had the same name. When I delved deep into my family history it came to light that many grandsons were named after their grandfathers, probably to perpetuate their memory. This is also the practice with many western customs including American and British subjects, I understand from Google!

My school name is quite commonly found in Karnataka State. If I were to google my name, the name would gather a million hits. But then all these addresses would be from Southern States only. As long as I resided in a Southern State, there wouldn’t have been any issues connected with my name. In the school I used to be called ‘Naga’ or ‘Raja’ variously by my friends and I didn’t think this was funny. I took it in my stride though I didn’t like people shortening my name.

It was only when I was posted out of the Southern States that things became different. I was working in a Bank in Haryana State in a place called Ambala Cantonment. The local staff would make fun of my name and call me as ‘Snake King’ or ‘Cobra’ and spell it wrongly too either as ‘Nagraj’ or ‘Narraj’. The staff were curious as to why I was named after snakes. One of them had asked me half in jest, if I was from a ‘Snake Charmers’ family? Though I offered an explanation as to why I was named so, I think he was quite convinced that I did belong to a ‘Snake Charmers’ family. Perhaps it was then, it struck me, had I been named ‘Hari Prasad’ I wouldn’t have had to face all the embarrassment.

When I moved to Middle East all hell broke loose! My name became a constant source of embarrassment. You see, Arabic language does not have the alphabet ‘G’. The word ‘G’ is substituted with the alphabet ‘J’. This is the genesis of all problems. When I applied for VISA to this Country, Kuwait, my given name was T Nagaraj S/o Aphale Vasudeva Rao Thothadri as per my Indian Passport. Kuwait Government wants an Arabic translation to be submitted along with the Passport. As per Kuwaiti laws only Arabic translation holds good and English spellings are of no concern to them. They issued a Visa to me with the name ‘Najraj Totadri Vasaudev Apal’ which became my official name as per records. Look at how spellings got changed based on Arabic language translation. This is how Kuwait works, I was told, when I brought this to the notice of Kuwait embassy. Fantastic, who am I to question them.  If I have to stay in their country, I have to follow their rules and customs. Reasonable, right?

As per Arabic custom, a person’s name will be succeeded by his father’s name followed by grandfather’s name and finally by the surname. Great!

This became my official name in the Bank’s records. I was literally reborn here in Kuwait with a new name; to my Arabic colleagues as well as the local people there, I had officially become ‘Najraj’ or ‘Totadri’ or sometimes even simply ‘Apal’. I was apalled, literally.   How did this spelling come into picture. My surname was Aphale.  This was shortened, I suppose.  Anyway, I used to be called variously by different people. In the beginning when some of my Arabic colleagues addressed me as ‘Totadri’, I didn’t quite know that they were addressing me! I realized this later when my Indian colleagues prompted me that I was being addressed to.  Funnily enough, they thought I was dumb or even better, deaf.  Deaf and dumb, rhymes well!

Many a times, Arabic colleagues working in  different Departments used to call me on the phone for various official matters; they used to address me as ‘Mr.Totadri’; it was then that I finally understood, I had officially been reborn in Kuwait with all the above names!

My Indian colleagues in Kuwait used to call me as ‘Snake King’ or ‘Cobra’ once again here. I was ‘Snake King’ to my boss, always. He didn’t address me by any other name. The IT Department head who was an Indian guy regularly called me ‘Cobra’; he used to leave phone messages when I was not there addressed as ‘Cobra’. The name stuck. Initially, all my colleagues in the Office were amused when I was thus addressed. I felt embarrassed too, but once this name got stuck, I was quite comfortable with it! I used to console myself that it was fine as long as I still had a name!

May be, Shakespeare was right, after all, does it really matter if I am called a Snake King or Cobra or whatever. I would always be the same person, no matter what.  After all, my wife had accepted me and stayed married for so many years to boot! Reason enough.

The City of Dreams - A love story!

He had always wanted to visit Bombay as a young man (apologies, it is Mumbai, now; but then, he always remembered Mumbai as Bombay, the city of dreams). The experience of Bombay had been that this was an an intense, bustling city to his mind (he was in his late teens, at that point in time).  His loneliness were intertwined with a depth of intense feeling, perhaps, melancholy is what comes to mind.  Associating Bombay with melancholy is unheard of; in this city of dreams. Perhaps, it was the desolateness and hopelessness, which had pervaded his mind at that point of time, that evoked such strong feelings inside him.

When he first traveled to Bombay by a train from Bangalore, it was raining heavily when he reached the outskirts of Bombay.  The bustling activity in the station had jolted him out of the deep slumber, which he had fallen into while the train had glided slowly into the station. At a station on the outskirts, he had to switch trains and board a local train at about 3 AM in the morning. The local train was overflowing with milkmen and their families loading and unloading huge milk cans into and out of the train.  He had reached his uncle’s place in about ten minutes by the local train.  His first impression of Bombay, was, that the city never sleeps.  People were going about their activity at all times of the day and night.  Many a time, he had wondered when do these people sleep, amidst all the hustle and bustle?

For the next few days, he gradually explored the city, as he had nothing much to do.  He had completed his graduation in Bangalore and landed in Mumbai (staying in his uncle’s place on the outskirts of Bombay) in search of a job.  The job searches consisted of merely looking into the columns of Times of India newspaper daily for any suitable opening, which was hard to come by, during the late seventies.

He bought a second class season train pass for the entire month from the part of the city (where he was residing) to the centre of the city that was, Victoria Terminus, called VT, those days.  After his morning breakfast, he had set himself a daily routine of boarding the train and travelling to VT station.  From there on, he had no place to go.  He explored the city walking alone from the VT station to the nearby places that he fancied, mostly in the direction of the Arabian Sea, which was quite near to the station; this was at a walking distance of half hour, at the most.  Sometimes he walked down to Crawford Market or to Colaba.  His regular walks within the vicinity of the VT station had become a sort of daily ritual.  Being young and alone in Bombay with hardly any money, can be quite exhausting and excruciating.  The lonely walks created an intense feeling of disenchantment in his mind.  Just looking at the Sea intently, while lazily strolling on the sands of a beach, alone, can be a rather jolting and tiring experience.  Once this daily job of staring at the Sea was done, he used to hurry back by the late afternoon local train to the part of the city, where he was staying with his uncle, after partaking of a light meal in a nearby cafe.

The experience of boarding and alighting from the local trains in Bombay, was, in itself, a huge and scary experience.  Luckily for him, he used to board the train after the mad office rush was over in the morning times and even before the evening office rush started, he used to travel back to his place of stay.  He had learnt the trick of avoiding the rush hour on the local trains as it was a physical impossibility to get into or get out of the train during those mad rush hours.  One had to be a seasoned veteran of Bombay to master the tricks of boarding and alighting from the local trains during peak hours.  He was not quite there, yet.

In the first few days, he used to watch this mad rush of humanity, boarding and alighting from the local trains, with amusement.  After a few days, the amazement faded away and it was fast becoming normal routine with him, as well.  He wouldn’t call himself an expert, in this activity, though he had a few close calls, a couple of times.  It had almost felt that his end had come, during those times, when he was left dangling, hanging without any support holding on to the ledge of the train doors.  He had miraculously scraped through, surviving those terrifying moments.  He could now say, that he was lucky to be alive.

The vast sea of humanity, that is Bombay, is an experience, in itself, that one can never get over.  The sheer number of people, in every direction you look at, is just mind-boggling. Despite the vast number of people, the place can be humbling and quite lonely.  Being a shy person and an introvert at that, he had difficulty in striking acquaintances in the trains or at the beaches.  He stood staring, sometimes, at the various moods of the Arabian Sea, the dirt and remains it carried to the shore; huge ships and trawlers were visible at a distance.  He was devoid of human company and wanted someone with whom he could share his innermost thoughts and the situation he was himself in.

One sunny morning, during one of his long walks on the Seashore, he came very close to striking friendship with a beautiful girl, who appeared to be of his own age.  She had a dog with her.  He first thought that she smiled at him, though this was more of his imagination, playing tricks on his mind.  She was slowing down as she approached him.  The girl was of medium height, wearing a smart dress with long hairs flowing down her neck.  He was tempted to strike a conversation with this girl as she was comely in appearance and was alone; other than the dog, she was holding on to, at the other end of the leash.  As she neared him, he remarked that the dog she owned, looked beautiful and he asked her, what was the breed of the dog. She replied something, which he couldn't remember now.  What actually he wanted to say to her was that she looked beautiful and would she be friends' with him.  It was an awkward moment.  The girl was looking at him inquiringly, as she paused right in front of him.  She appeared more beautiful now and her eyes were sparkling; she had long eye lashes. There was a hint of a smile on her face, as she looked at him.  He was dumbstruck and could hardly speak another word; as the girl came near him, her close presence and the perfume she wore held him in a mesmerizing spell.  He was speechless, staring dumbly at her. His heart was pumping and the He could feel the blood rush through his veins, pulsating and throbbing.  He could feel his dopamine levels rise, leading to a warm and happy feeling.  He let go of the moment.  The girl walked away slightly disappointed.  He kept on staring after the girl, as she disappeared in a distance.  He had a strange feeling, perhaps, he thought this was what people called love at first sight.  It was a strange and bewildering thought.

From that moment on, his mind was in a whirl, racing with mixed emotions, unable to fathom what was happening in his mind.  He desperately wanted another opportunity to just see this girl, even for a moment.  During his entire stay, of nearly an year in Bombay, he never came across this girl again.  A strange sort of hopelessness had swept over him, disappointed with his own shy and reticent nature; adding to his hopeless situation was the fact that he could never find a job in Bombay during his long stay, in the city.  People called it the city of dreams, but, not to his mind.  He returned to Bangalore, shortly afterwards quite disappointed with the situation.  

The story of life is not without its strange twists and turns.  It turned out that the girl he fleetingly met on a beach in Bombay, so many years ago, was to become his life partner.  They had met in a common relative’s home during a function, several years later after their chance encounter in Bombay .  She still chides him about his dumbstuck stare on the beach whenever he speaks of the Bombay experiences.

Remembering Grandma

It has been my great fortune to have lived and spent a large part of my young life with my grandmother. My grandmother, who lived up to a ripe old age of 95 years, was an exceptional and an incredible person. She was gritty, pleasant, affectionate, tolerant and many more. I cannot find more epithets to describe her. She was full of wisdom. She was a larger-than-life individual, especially in the eyes of her numerous grandchildren, I am one of them. She was everyone’s favourite grandma.

She had been married at a very early age, when she was just 12 or 13 years old. My grandfather was 35 years old at the time of their marriage.  After bearing 10 children in continuous succession and widowed soon after, one would expect that a person in her position would have been worn out and given up on life! But not my grandma. She took on herself to bring up all her children without any kind of moral or financial support, or any other help from those around her. Her eldest son (that was my father) was 25 years old at the time of my grandfather’s death. There was a gap of 2-3 years between each of her children. She was 41 years when she was widowed and left to fend for herself with her large family; with no money or security in a big town (that was Bangalore then). My grandma and her large family of 9 children (her second child had died during childbirth) survived the initial ordeal with a great deal of grit and determination. The family had to go through untold misery, pain and struggle for survival on a daily basis. This period may be notorious for such struggles for survival and this may, perhaps, be the common recurring theme of many families during the era of the 1940’s in India. However, this does not take away in any way or diminish the pains and struggles of each of the individual families, they had to undergo for survival during that period.

Perhaps, the long period of family struggles and hardship had shaped my grandma’s character, providing her with the grit and determination and the will to fight for herself and her family’s survival. This may hardly explain her cheerfulness and affectionate nature, which I guess she may have inherited from her parents. She had very little in terms of formal education; she just attended primary school. She reminded us of her educational qualification from time to time to motivate us to read well and prosper in our luves.  As she hailed from a small, nondescript village in Shimoga district in Karnataka, I am not sure what kind of primary education she may have had there, in those days. Her parental family background had been of limited influence in her life as she had married very young and left her parents’ house at an early age, soon after marriage.

My grandma had a large influence on my upbringing and early part of my life. She had her say in most of the important family matters and had been a ‘go-to’ person for all issues concerning the family and the children’s future, e.g., naming of the children, when they should attend school, when should the boys undergo the ‘sacred-thread ceremony’, when should a girl be married, etc. Though she was duly consulted and she had her say, the final decision would rest with the main person involved in the matter. She did not interfere and push her own thoughts or agenda, she would only provide her counsel, as an elderly and wise person.

I was in the habit of having long and deep discussions (or let us simply say, arguments) with my grandma concerning religion, faith, God, etc., needling her with outrageous suggestions, which, provoked strong responses from her on many contentious issues. Though we had strong arguments on various issues, she was not the one to give in easily. She argued her case long and hard. As soon as the issue was settled one way or the other, she would affectionately call me her biggest rival.

My grandma was a source of great strength and comfort to all of us in the family. When my father and my two other uncles passed away prematurely, she stood like a rock absorbing all the shock, pain and distress. When the rest of the family was uncontrollable in their tragic loss, I remember her sympathetic comforting words to the rest of the family members, quoting the God’s will and other scriptures; human beings were nothing more than mere pawns in the Almighty’s chess board and she would say that these are testing times; we cannot abdicate the responsibility of fulfilling our destiny chosen by God; life, simply has to go on, despite all odds. This was, perhaps, the sign of her strong beliefs in the Almighty and the Hindu scriptures. She was a very pious, God-fearing and religious person. She had been indoctrinated into the strong Hindu  beliefs to an extent that she was prompted into shaving off her head, following the death of her husband (that is my grandfather). She had steadfastly continued this ritual of shaving her head until her death in the year 2001.

My grandma was a great believer of traditions and rituals. She used to partake of full meal only once in a day (that was lunch alone).  In the evenings, she would have some light snacks and milk. She continued this habit of having a lean diet till her death. She followed the traditions of fasting once in a fortnight on the ‘Ekadashi day’. A strict rule she observed till her very end.

My grandma was a great cook. I still remember her simple, yet excellently cooked food using only the basic minimum ingredients which, however, tasted heavenly. The food she cooked did not have any exotic or extraordinary ingredients. Most of the dishes she cooked were based on regularly available ingredients, the food was cooked, however, with lots of love and care. My cousins and uncles still rave about the extraordinary taste she squeezed out of ordinary ingredients; and the food she prepared tasted great.

I remember her constant and all-encompassing influence in my early formative years. Looking back, I believe it was her calming presence that gave me the strength and courage to survive, especially in the turbulent phase of my life, post the death of my father. If it was not for her presence, may be, I could not have lived through steadfastly with the trauma of my father’s death. I always believed she calmed down my teenage rage and tempers with her sagacious presence in my life.

My grandma was healthy and strong all through her life. Her robust health was her greatest asset. I have never seen her fall ill with minor ailments. Only in her last few years, after she turned 93, she was admitted to a hospital for treatment, may be just 2 or 3 times.

My only regret was that I was not in Bangalore when she passed away. I was posted in Mumbai at that time. I could not attend her funeral and have a last glimpse of my dear Grandma. This reminded me of the beautiful quote so eloquently expressed, which read, “Those we love, don’t go away, they walk beside us every day, unseen, unheard, but always near, so loved, so missed, so very dear”.

Bhoot Bangla - A live story!

Nelson Mandela had said somewhere that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it and the brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear. Nice quote. Gives me courage to say that fear is nearly almost present in all of us! May be to a varying degree, perhaps. I think it is the human gene that is the culprit! ‘Fear’ gene (or whatever technical name the scientists would have given this gene) may have been passed on to us right from our evolution days (either as homo sapiens or homo erectus or some other earlier species even). Who knows? What I am trying to do here is to justify that we all fear something or the other, especially the unknown. 

The word fear is defined by Merriam-Webster dictionary as something or someone to be afraid of; to expect or worry about something bad or unpleasant. Basically, it is an unpleasant emotion caused by the threat of danger, pain, or harm. Fear drives people to do many things. Both good and bad. Though most of our fears are irrational and unfounded. 

It takes me back to the time when I was young, may be 9 or 10 years old. I had this terrible fear of unknown. Let’s call it fear of ghosts, because that was the nomenclature commonly used those days! I used to stay with my parents on a quiet street in a lonely area of Jayanagar (Those days Jayanagar was lonely and dimly lit during night times). There was this empty house on our street. During our stay of 7 years on this particular street, I never saw this house ever tenanted. This house wore a dilapidated look because of lack of maintenance. Shrubs and creepers had grown all around the house which gave it a decrepit appearance. In the mind of 10-year-old, this house had an eerie look! Whenever I used to pass this house during day times I had this habit of staring at the house looking for signs of any activity in the windows, though I clearly knew in my mind that no one resided there. However, during the evening times (around 7 PM or so just when the Sun had set and darkness was creeping upon) the house used to acquire a sinister look (in the mind of a 10-year-old). While passing the house one evening, on an errand, I kept staring at the house. I paused just slightly before the house as I could see some dim lights coming through the front bedroom window and I had this feeling that some shadows were moving behind the windows. I felt a creepy fear pass over me slowly. My pause turned into a short run. I reached the end of the street. The blood in my veins kept pounding as I kept looking back towards the house while on run. Just at the end of the street, there were two corner stores located, quite brightly lit. It was here that I was headed to for buying few things (I don’t remember exactly what I wanted to buy from corner stores). After completing my purchase, on my way back, I didn’t have the nerve to cross the empty house once again. I thought of taking the long route from the other end of the street by crossing over to the adjacent street. This again had its pitfalls as there was another empty house across that street too! This kept playing on my mind and I decided to take my chances and take the short route home. I closed my eyes and sprinted across the street (crossing the empty house) as fast as my young legs could carry me. I opened my eyes only after reaching the safe environs of my home. This sprint was the fastest blind run in my life. I could have given Usain Bolt a run for his money for the fastest 100 metres dash! My heart kept pounding and the blood gushed through my veins. I kept this incident to myself. I was ashamed to admit to my parents that I was scared. The next morning it was again the time to pass the empty house on my way to the shop. As was my habit, my eyes kept darting towards the empty house. I looked at the house through the corner of my eye. I couldn’t dare to look at the house directly as shivers were running through me. I didn’t see any activity happening in the house. The house stood empty as always! Nobody had occupied that house. I still don’t know if the play of lights and shadows that appeared behind the front bedroom window of the empty house that night were just the wild imagination of 10-year-old boy or something else! 

Continuing on this incident, I had connected this “haunted house” phenomenon to the Hindi movie titled ‘Gumnaam’ which I remember watching in the late sixties or so with my parents. After watching this movie, I was quite convinced that ghosts did exist, after all, (though the movie plot said that it was the female character who was carrying out this charade to deceive somebody or the other). I don’t exactly remember the plot of this movie now. This movie with its haunting melodies preyed on my mind for quite a number of years. I was scared of going out alone on the streets late in the evenings. I used to come home before nightfall (after play) as I was scared of late evenings. This was the time when shadows creep due to interplay of light and darkness; I always avoided staying late outside the house after 7 PM. This timing of 7 PM was sacrosanct due to my irrational fears. The fears that I had developed as a young boy age had persisted into my late teens and even during my youth.

This thought leads me to another incident that left an indelible impression on my mind. I was posted to work in a village branch during my first stint after joining a nationalized Bank. That was my first exposure away from my close-knit family. This was a remote village in the rain-fed area of Malnad region in interior Karnataka. The village was notorious for its rains and coffee estates. There was hardly any accommodation available for rent in the village. On the very first day a colleague of mine who was also from Bangalore offered to share a huge old bungalow with me for our residence. The problem with this bungalow was that this was situated outside of the village limits, though hardly a 5 minutes-walking distance from the Bank branch. This was the last building in the village environs. There were no houses on either side of the building. The house was located on a very lonely stretch. Thick shrubbery had grown on either sides of the house. My colleague and I used to keep all the rooms in the entire bungalow locked up except for one room which we used as sleeping quarters. We didn’t have any cots to sleep. Just our basic rolling beds were placed at the opposite corners of one room, which we had occupied. Rest of the house was just left unused. The house had a tiled roof. As the house was quite old, we had got it at a very cheap rental bargain. My colleague who stayed with me was a courageous and smart person. I could see that from day one. He was staying there alone before I joined him in a sharing arrangement. Within a month or so after my joining the Bank Branch, this colleague of mine had to go on leave for a week to Bangalore. I was left all alone in this huge bungalow. It was the rainy season. Rains were copious that year. The night after my colleague left for Bangalore, I went back to my bungalow with a stout heart, mentally determined. I stepped in the house, heartily singing, wanting to mask the fear of what was in store for me during the night. The rains had commenced and were very heavy that night as if the skies had opened up. Water was dripping here and there inside the house, in the crevices between the tiles. The owners didn’t want to spend on repairs as the rent was too low. Rains drops were lashing at the windows which was making an eerie sound. I had finished my night dinner at a nearby village restaurant before retiring for the evening. The long night had begun! I could hear the hooting of night owls somewhere in a distance amid the rain sounds. My mind was in a twirl. I sat on my bed opening a book to read. I couldn’t concentrate. I could feel the blood rush across my spine to my head. My imagination had gone wild and was playing all sorts of tricks inside. I had kept the lights on through the night. There were power cuts in between. I lit some candles. The flames were casting long shadows and dancing to the movement of the wind from the gaps between windows panes. I could feel the shivers running along my spine. All the thoughts of ghosts and whatnot rushed through my mind! I could hear the slight creaking of doors as winds kept howling outside. This experience was like a scene straight out of a horror movie! The fear was so intense that I thought I would not last the night! I was fighting with all my strength and tried to keep up my spirits by singing loudly; I was trying to be as rational as possible. I couldn’t sleep the entire night and was totally awake with fear! What a night that was, I could still feel the shivers creep up my spine even now, as I write this! There was no TV or Radio or anything which I could switch on to spend the night. I kept looking at my watch every now and then hoping the morning would arrive soon which would end my nightmare! That was the longest night of my lifetime! When I went back to the Bank the following day after surviving the horrid night, my colleagues at the Bank were waiting to know my fate, if I had survived! They asked me how was my night at the “Booth Bangla”! That was the first I heard of the bungalow being called that. I was kept in the dark. All the colleagues at the Bank were very young and full of spirits. In fact, all of them knew about the bungalow and told me stories of how this “Booth Bangla” had been vacant for a number of years and nobody had dared to occupy for fear of isolation and its sheer size coupled with the poor maintenance of the house! I also later learnt that how a colleague who was earlier staying in that bungalow vacated the place within a week totally numb with fear! It appears my Bangalore colleague was the only one who had the gumption to move into this bungalow and continue to live there for some time. He had taken this up as a challenge and he had won the challenge. Coming back to my story, I did spend the entire week alone in this huge old “Booth Bangla”, I don’t know how I survived. Each night was a terror and nightmare! The toughest week of my life! But here I am, after so many years, still very much alive and kicking to relate the story! Despite surviving the ordeal, I wouldn’t dare call myself a courageous or a brave person! I didn’t stay long in the house after that particular horrendous week. One more colleague of mine offered to share his house which was bang in the middle of the village, where I later shifted and happily spent the rest of my stay in the village. My hero colleague who had stayed in that big old bungalow for may be 6 months or so shifted shortly thereafter. 

The only thing we have to fear is the fear itself!  Doesn't this explanation sound reassuring.   Psychologists have long hypothesized that the fear response have honed human survival skills by generating appropriate behavioural responses. Again evolution. How nice! 

where have all the readers gone?

Where have all the readers gone?

 

Where have all the readers gone?  

This question had formed in my mind recently.  It left me wondering if this is a vanishing tribe. The young people I know, hardly read books.

In the days gone by, it was a common sight to find people waiting at Railway stations and Bus Stations spending their waiting time glued to paperback thrillers.  As kids, we envied these people hoping to catch a glimpse of the book's title with its lovely cover illustration.  We had a huge crush on paperbacks!  Where have all these paperback readers gone?

Not a day used to pass, without a visit to the local library during our younger days. The libraries were full of people. Young and old.  Young people were in a mad rush to pick the popular fiction of the day.  The old were happy to read newspapers and magazines. There was a huge rush in the aisles where fiction used to be kept.  Some of the popular fiction of the day was rarely to be found on the shelves.  If one spotted such a book, there was a mad chase to pick the book before it vanished off the shelves!  Sometimes, the librarian used to keep some of the popular books with him to be issued to his/her favourite customer.  You had to be in his good ‘books’ to become a favourite!  The libraries which were dotted on every street, seems to have closed shutters.  Where have all these libraries with voracious readers gone?

Each Railway station or even Bus Station had a bookstall with wonderful paperbacks stacked away behind sturdy glass walls.  The paperback covers had sizzling illustrations in beautiful colour and was a dazzling sight to behold!  Some of the passengers and passers-by in the stations stood staring at the book covers with a longing; hoping they would be able to afford to buy them one day! Where have all these railway/bus station bookstalls gone?

The street bookseller sat on the footpath with a huge cache of old books with pirated versions of crudely reprinted books spread out before him.  People had to navigate this bookseller to jostle heavily crowded footpaths weaving their way to their destination!  A group of passers-by stood staring at the books displayed, hoping for a cheap bargain for a book of their choice.  Rifling through the books, we had to sometimes settle for a version with few pages missing!  The bargain with the seller would start once the book of choice was selected.  Happy with the bargain, we used to be delighted to take home the book looking forward to read through the book as early as possible.  Where have all these street booksellers with bargain-hunting readers gone?

In our younger days, rich people living in handsome bungalows owned a huge collection of books both fiction and non-fiction.  These books were displayed proudly in gleaming teakwood/rosewood book shelves having glass panes for doors. I have vivid memories of visiting some of these houses and envying the rich people, wondering how they could afford to buy so many books! I could still visualize the grey-haired man of the house living in a handsome bungalow reclining on an easy-chair, with his favourite book in his hand, his glasses perched on the top of his nose.  Where have all these book collectors with reading habits gone?

My memories take me back to my college days where you could see fresh young faces just past their teens perched atop the corridor stairs or door steps reading fiction behind stealthily covered college text books .  More young animated students were to be seen arguing among their peer group defending their favourite authors!  Where have all these fresh young animated readers gone?

In gardens and parks around the city, during the lazy afternoons, one could see people sitting on benches below the green shades of trees contentedly reading away their favourite fiction (Mills &Boons, if they were young women) and occasionally dozing off!  Where have all these happy readers gone?

This brings me to the collection of my books purchased over a lifetime, gathering dust in the book shelf perched in the corner.  Ridden with guilt, I look over and pick an interesting book to read.  I hear an alert notification from my smartphone showing arrival of a whatsapp message!  That is the signal to drop the book, back in the shelf where it originally belonged!

The TV in the living room is showing the Amazon Kindle ad where an old couple is glued to ‘Kindle Reader’, browsing the Kindle in the glare of soft warm light, hoodwinking their partner; signalling the advent of a new era!

If indeed there was no ‘Apple’ that possibly invented the smartphone (to whom we owe gratitude for inventing this time-saving and time-wasting device!) or for that matter the ubiquitous Internet, the dear late lamented “readers” would have been very much present to this day.  What the hell, this is a more exciting world that we live in!  Smartphones, tablets, phablets, note, palm-tops, and what not; gleaming new devices everywhere, what could be more wonderful?

Books, who wants them?  It looks nice on the book shelf, doesn't it?

 

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Radio Times

While driving on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when the traffic was tolerably less engaging, my wife and I were listening to the FM Radio, which was continuously belting out evergreen classic Hindi songs of a bygone era.  My mind was racing towards the golden times of the pre-FM Radio era; an era in which, Radio was the main source of entertainment for many of my generation.  I reminisce on the sweet memories of those times, which had been tucked away in some corner of my brain.

The Radio was an endless source of entertainment and information, in an era, much before the onslaught of Smart Televisions and High-speed Internet.  There was a clash of generations at home, vying for the limited Radio time!  While elders at home, were keen on listening to news broadcast or some other informative programmes such as panel discussions or the commentaries on current topics (e.g., Loksabha Sameekshe); however, the younger me (excuse me, folks, I was also young once:)) longed to tune into “Vividh Bharathi” on the MW (Medium Wave for the uninitiated) or “Radio Ceylon” on the SW (Short Wave, which is, AM / HF band).  Hearing the voice of Amin Sayani on Radio Ceylon was exciting; so was the fun in knowing, which Hindi film song was in the No.1 position that week or which song had been edged out of the top ten or twenty in the Binaca Geet Mala; this popular programme, was aired on for close to two decades, if I remember right.  We never missed listening to this programme, come what may.  The main topic of discussion among the inner circle of my friends’ group was the position of a particular Hindi song in Binaca Geet Mala that week!  

Cricket commentary on the Radio, excited all of us, irrespective of the generational gap (excepting elderly women in the family!).   Whenever there was Cricket commentary on, all other programmes on the Radio were rescheduled or cancelled.  We were so happy that the elderly and other Cricket-haters in the family were edged out of their Radio time; we, the Cricket lovers, had an upper hand over the entire Radio time for days on together; you see, those were the times of Test Cricket and not the instant Cricket, like one-dayers’ or twenty-twenty or IPL.

The ‘24x7’ programming concept was unknown, back then, in India (although some unfamiliar AM channels went on through the night, probably because of the time difference with those countries airing them).  None of the MW Radio stations were up before 6 AM in the morning (I am still fascinated by the Radio stations’ opening tune, which was later adopted by Doordarshan!) and were promptly shut down by 10 PM or so, after the final news bulletin of the day. 

After some years, when I was into my late teens, my interest in listening to Hindi film songs had started to flounder; something more fascinating had captured my imagination.  I had started enjoying listening to western pop music and rock music (compositions by ABBA, Boney-M, BeeGees, Brotherhood of Man, Beatles, Tina Charles, Donna Summer, Michael Jackson, etc., come to mind).  My favourite Radio station, then became, Radio Australia or Voice of America or BBC or Radio Kuwait or Radio Moscow, including so many unknown Radio stations that broadcast western popular music on AM band; incidentally, AIR, Bangalore also used to broadcast western music on Sundays between 12 noon and 12.30 PM, which aired my favourite western pop music based on the requests of the viewers.

How perspectives change!  My craze for western pop music those days, reminds me of the youngsters of the MTV generation, who endlessly watched the music videos on MTV or V channel, all times of the day and night.  The same glitzy, noisy videos which kept on repeating ad nausea, exasperated us no end; forgetting that, we too had created similar ruckus and irritated the elders of our generation, albeit, in a different era, with some bombarding western pop and rock music on Radio stations.  I can still hear my grandmother’s exasperated voice shouting from the kitchen asking me to stop the cacophonous blasphemy blaring on the Radio!

We had a huge Radio at home, named AMZEL.  The Radio was placed on a wooden stand, which was fixed to the wall, in the living room.  I think, this Radio brand was manufactured in collaboration with some US Company in the initial years.  This Radio was one of a kind; very few people had heard of this Radio brand, even then.  As a matter of interest, this Radio was manufactured by a factory named REMCO (Radio & Electrical Manufacturing Company), in which company my father worked as Accounts Controller.  This factory REMCO was later taken over by BHEL (Bharat Heavy Electricals Limited) and the manufacture of Radios and Transistors were abandoned; as the market demand for them had diminished. Even today, whenever I happen to pass the BHEL factory premises on the Mysore Road, memories of my late father envelop me and my eyes become moist; reminding me of the great times, I had with my dad.  This is a topic for another blog post.

Sometime later, came the revolutionary Japanese brand Transistors and the fancifully designed ‘Two-in-Ones’; Transistor Radio and Tape Recorder combined into one unit, which took the Indian market by storm.  The huge funky Panasonic brand of ‘Two-in-one’ comes to mind, which used to be mandatorily carried by people returning from Dubai and selling or gifting them to our people.

Coming back to the AMZEL Radio, I think, may be, my father got an employee discount on purchase of this Radio.  This Radio which was purchased in the year 1963 or thereabouts, served our family faithfully till the year 1980; I think, this item was disposed of as junk (as we did not know, what else to do with it), although still in fairly good working condition.  Sometime in late sixties, my father brought home a much smaller and compact version of the REMCO brand Transistor, manufactured by the same factory REMCO.  This Transistor also lasted until early eighties, when it was junked.  The Transistor had microprocessor circuit and switched on immediately whereas the Radio had some in-built valves and took time to switch on; that was the only difference I could make out in their functioning; being a non-technical person.  The REMCO Transistor had an in-built aerial and was mainly used in our family, especially when the Cricket commentary was on.  We had a choice of Radio and a Transistor in our home, which brought down the friction with in the family.

The most popular Radio of that era was the Murphy Radio.  A cute baby holding a finger to his mouth, was the brand ambassador for the Murphy Radio, which was so very popular, those days.  Jogging my memory, is a huge hoarding, advertising for the Murphy Radio, on the Brigade Road in Bangalore; where a distributor for the brand had their main show room.

During those pre-FM, Radio era, if we loved a song and obsessed to listen to that particular song, we had to wait for days on end, to get another opportunity to listen to the song; much depended on the whims and fancies of the Radio stations on the repeat cycle of a particular song.  I would like to think, that the prolonged wait deepens the pining for the song and keeps them fresh and evergreen in our minds; unlike today when we can watch/listen to any song we wish on the YouTube and you can replay them any number of times (you see, I have realized that downloading a song is a total waste of time, effort and phone/computer memory).  So much water has flown, since then.  There is no longer the obsession or fun in listening to any composition of the present day, Hindi or otherwise. Technology has taken over our lives, we are less ready to appreciate and enjoy what makes us happy.

An order of ‘Vegetable Platter’

Life in Kuwait had its unique blend of myriad experiences; while some of my experiences were downright amusing, others were distinctly, distasteful.  There was an anecdote that made me clearly aware that we were outside India.  Normally, it felt like we were living within our own home country; considering, that there was a large expatriate population consisting mainly of Indians and a lesser mix of Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and Filipinos.  Since we were staying in a part of the City that was predominantly populated with Indians, we never had a feeling that we were far away from India.  Further, the Bank I was working for, though Head Quartered in the Middle-East, had a large sprinkling of Indian employees; more so in the Audit Department, that I was part of.  Other than a few Arab and Lebanese nationals, all of my other colleagues were Indians.  Moreover, the predominantly Indian part of the City, where we had set up our residence, had popular Indian Restaurants (which included an Udupi Restaurant, a few Gujarati and Punjabi Restaurants; all of which, mostly served vegetarian fare).

I was (during the time of this anecdote) still new to the country, having lived there just for over a year.  My wife and I had been invited to attend a new year dinner party hosted by our Audit Department.  The dinner was mainly to celebrate the declaring of year-end bonus to all the staff of our Department.  The dinner was arranged in a nearby downtown Lebanese Restaurant (named Mais Al Ghanim) which had been in existence since 1957, or so; and was popular for its regal ambience and Lebanese cuisine.  Many of the middle-easterners flocked to this restaurant for the variety and quality of the choicest Arabic dishes, the restaurant had to offer.  As soon as we entered the Restaurant, we saw some of the loyal patrons smoking hookah, blowing multi-hued smoke through their mouth and nostrils; and there was a royal look about the Restaurant.  We were impressed with the choice of the Restaurant for our annual dinner.

The Menu consisted of largely non-vegetarian dishes, details of which, I did not bother to read nor even know.  The dinner gathering comprising families of my Audit Department colleagues; they were mostly non-vegetarians; excepting for three of us; my boss’s wife, my wife and self  One after the other, my colleagues and their families started ordering their choicest non-vegetarian dishes, having regard to their palettes.  We, the tiny vegetarian group, were just fidgeting with the Menu, unable to narrow down on the dishes to order.  My boss’s wife had some idea about a vegetarian dish named Baba Ghanoush which, she said, she had tried out earlier and tasted great.  Baba Ghanoush is basically eggplant blended up with lemon juice, sesame seeds, and a generous sprinkling of sea salt.  We went along with this choice, as we did not know much about the other vegetarian dishes (although, the details of ingredients were noted boldly in brackets, against each item in the Menu; however, the Menu did not specifically mention whether the dish was vegetarian or non-vegetarian).

It was the first time that we had savoured this dish, as an accompaniment along with Arabic bread (something similar to the Indian Phulka-roti); Baba Ghanoush tasted awesome.  In order to be safe, our colleagues advised us to just stick with this dish (Baba Ghanoush) and the ubiquitous, hummus; hummus is a vegetarian dish made with chickpeas, olive oil, sesame seeds, lemon juice and salt.  No food order is complete without hummus in any Arabic Restaurants in the Middle East.

Midway through the meal, my mind was in a whirl; how could I stay content with just Baba Ghanoush and hummus, while the rest of company were enjoying their choicest, tasty non veg food?  I had narrowed down on an item in the Menu named ‘Vegetable Platter’, which was without doubt a vegetarian fare.  Boldly in brackets, names of familiar veggies, like, tomatoes, carrots, capsicum, cabbage were clearly mentioned.  I discussed this with my vegetarian group and the other two, nodded.  We were, looking forward to a beautiful salad of fresh, finely cut aforementioned, vegetables, served in style with some dip.  I, promptly, summoned the Waiter and ordered the item.  Some of my colleagues were looking at me with mild amusement; I did not get what was the joke.  As usual, I was a little dim-witted.  I patently ignored their amused looks and waited for the order to be served.  After a while, the Waiter gingerly placed the ordered item on the table in front of me.  Many of my colleagues could not contain their merriment; their laughter echoed through the Restaurant.  In front of me was placed a large basket, containing complete and whole, un-cut vegetables in all its glory; shiny, wholesome vegetables stared at me; a large cabbage, a couple of huge tomatoes; a couple of huge capsicums; two or three large glowing carrots; each item of the veggie weighing about half a kilo.  I was flabbergasted.  I summoned the Waiter and asked him, what is the meaning of all this and how do we eat these?  He was unrepentant.  He calmly said, “Sir, this is the order you had requested, Vegetable Platter”.  Amidst the throes of laughter, one of my colleagues suggested we should take home the vegetable basket and prepare South Indian 'sambar' with the veggies.  We precisely did that for the subsequent few days!

Caffeine rush!

Coffee, traditionally has been served hot.  People all over, love to drink the hot beverage, savouring the aroma of the steaming, freshly ground coffee beans; with coffee beans sourced variedly from Africa to South America; to India.  Cold coffee, generally meant iced coffee and different recipes have been explored for people to savour and enjoy.

There was a time during my school days, when I used to love the cold coffee (or 'cooled' coffee, if you want to crunch the grammar); mind you, not the iced coffee variety, but simply the hot coffee preserved in a steel vessel for a few hours. Just to be clear, coffee meant the South Indian filter coffee added with milk and sugar.

School life then, to me meant, play in the school and more play outside the school hours.  Since attendance at the school was mandatory and some little home-work was unavoidable as part of the school life, I complied without demur.  What choice did we have?  As soon as the school was finished for the day, I ran home with my school-bag, dumped it in a corner; hastily changed my dress from the smelly khaki school uniform and was eager to rush out to play.  My playmates were waiting for my arrival from school. It was a mystery to me, how some of the boys had managed to arrive at the play field early, even before me.

Before I could hurry out of the house, mother shouts from the kitchen.

‘Hari, have your coffee before you go out to play’.

I run into the kitchen.  ‘Where is the coffee?’.

‘Wait a second, I will heat the coffee for you’.

I say, ‘No time for that.  Give me the cold coffee itself’.

‘What is the rush, your friends will wait.  Heavens are not going to descend.  Just wait for a few minutes, I will heat the coffee for you’.

‘No mom, give me cold coffee itself or else I am off, without drinking any coffee’, the ultimatum from me. Mother surrenders. 

‘Ok.  As you wish’.

My mother transfers the cold coffee in a steel tumbler and pushes it across towards me.  I gulp the coffee.  The cold coffee tastes great; there is a lingering sweet, after-taste.  You see, as young boys we did not drink Bournvita or Horlicks or any other nourishing (does it really nourish?) beverages those days.  We simply could not afford them, I presume; although I was not worried or bothered about what we drank.  Play was much more important!  

In those days, in my home, in order to save on milk and sugar (you see, sugar was generally available in Ration Shops; and small, insignificant quantities were allocated to each family; some of the families used to buy sugar in Retail, where the price was double the cost of rationed sugar) coffee used to be prepared by mixing the filtered coffee decoction with milk and sugar only once in the morning and again once in the evening.  If one happens to be late to attend the family coffee-drinking session, the already pre-mixed coffee used to be re-heated in a steel vessel on a kerosene stove.  The coffee tasted of kerosene smoke sometimes when the stove exhibited an yellow flame. 

Coming back to my school days’ story, after gulping the cold coffee, I hurry out to join my playmates, who had already commenced the game, without me.  I was made to wait until the game, which was already midway in progress, had finished.  I was more than determined that from the following day, I would join the game early on; and was firm on having only cold coffee in the evenings. In the mornings, I purposely got late to the family coffee-drinking session by lingering on the 'teeth-brushing' routine; so that I could have my coffee cold.  From that day on, my determination had stayed intact, as I was hooked on to cold coffee, for a long, long time, perhaps, until I enrolled in the Pre-University. In my younger mind, cold coffee tasted great; and was the only way to consume coffee.

Back to the present, when I was narrating this incident to my cousin, he told me that he too had liked his coffee cold during his younger days.  I was surprised; was this a universal phenomenon in young boys of my generation or was it confined to only boys within my family?

Would I, perhaps, care to drink my coffee cold, now?  No, thank you; I just happen to enjoy the steaming hot cup of filter coffee served straight from the gas stove!  The caffeine hit first thing in the morning is the drug that stimulates the bodily functions!

Eating out Bengaluru Ishtyle!

Eating out has almost become a way of life with most Bangaloreans in the present-day.  The notion that Hotels and Restaurants served unhygienic food prepared in a filthy kitchen by dirty cooks, is almost becoming passé.  Home food, however, has always been considered healthy, tasty and hygienic.  As I am a big fan of eating out, I may not agree with this hypothesis and hence, I feel that the truth (or taste), as usual, lies somewhere in-between!

My tryst with eating out takes me to my boyhood days when my dad regularly took me out to eat in small restaurants; the Hotelu (as these were commonly called in the local parlance) were very few and far between.  Hotels were generally meant to cater to bachelors or out-of-towners; men, living with their families hardly patronized these Hotels.  Some of these small Hotels (or even coffee-bars, as they were called) were well known for its tasty Dosa and Idli/Wada preparations.  The Darshini-style restaurants were still a long way off.  The Hotels, those days, had stinky kitchens, which looked more like bathrooms (we carefully avoided looking within); unbathed and shabbily dressed waiters serving us tasty (perhaps oil rich) Dosas and other items.  The general notion amongst us regular Hotel patrons was, dirtier the Hotel, tastier the food items!

The Idli/Wada items served with rich sambar tingled our taste buds.  The rich sambar that was prepared using onions (shallots were also used in some Hotels) was heavily dosed with a variety of spices.  Onions were a strict ‘no-no’ at home, forbidden by my grandmother, who generally had a large say in all matters concerning the Kitchen; so, eating this thick, spice-loaded onion sambar was like having a sneaky ‘affair’; with our taste buds dancing away with delight.  The unique blend of onion and potatoes with the gravy loaded with spices, gave a special taste to the Idli-sambar (dipped and mixed) that was consumed in large quantities by the Hotel’s discerning clientele (including self)! There were some hotels which were famous for their Dosas alone; Udupi Krishna Bhavan, Vidhyarthi Bhavan, New Modern Hotel come to mind, on the South side of Bangalore.   There was this Hotel named Modern Hotel in Gandhi Bazar Main Road which has been closed down a long time ago that was famous for its Khali Dosas.  There was a Hotel by name Gajendra Vilas in Chamarajpet, which served crispy chapattis and sago masala Dosa, that had an extra special taste to it.  They have closed down shutters since a long time ago.  The names of the Hotels that were spread across Bengaluru had common names such as Sri Rama Vilas, Krishna Bhavan, Venkateshwara Coffee Bar, etc.   We do not see such names now, perhaps out dated and out of style.

With the mushrooming of Darshini-style restaurants in Bangalore that caters to a large number of growing patrons (literally vying with each other to have a go at any new offering or trying out newer outlets), it is abundantly clear that the restaurant business is here to stay for a long time to come.   Bengaluru, in my mind has the best restaurants and Hotels and can compete in terms of taste and variety, with any such eateries anywhere across the country or even the world (countries only that I have visited!). This being the case in point, I can confidently say that eating out is the best thing that has happened to us, Bangaloreans!

The love affair with cars

My love affair with cars goes a long way back.  The old-timers in my family, my uncles and aunts, swear to a rather, funny story that when I was a young boy, perhaps, 5 or 6 years old, fervently pleading with my dad to drive home the cars that were parked on the road-side, when the owners of these cars were not around!  Lucky for me that, in later years, I didn’t end up being a car thief!  Another of the family secret is out.  Many of my male cousins are obsessed with cars too.

It was the early eighties.  We had no inkling that a new round of car revolution was just around the corner.  The Ambassadors and Fiats (later Premier Padmini) were on the verge of disappearing into oblivion forever.  As fresh recruits at the Head Office of our Bank, we were awe-struck to watch the spectacle of the Bank’s senior management (or executives as they were commonly referred), arrive in their Ambassador or Fiat cars and walk up the few steps at the entrance of the Head Office to reach their respective Offices or Departments on different floors of the Head Office building.  These senior gentlemen started arriving, one after the other, as if on cue, in a space of few minutes just before the clock struck 10’o clock (the Bank’s start time). The liveried drivers opened the rear door of their cars for these gentlemen and carried an assortment of files, hurrying after them.  This parade of the senior management arriving in their Ambassador or Fiat cars was a great spectacle to us young employees (we were in our early twenties); we stood aside respectfully on the stairs, mutely watching after them.  A few of the fresh recruits, who were slightly brazen enough, threw in a smile and Good Morning salute at them, while some of the timid ones, hurried furtively behind the top executives, avoiding their eye.   After the executive had gone inside the building, we looked pensively at the cars in which they had arrived.  The cars, gleaming in the sunlight, would be lined up in style, in the ample parking space by their respective drivers.

The executive cadre was considered a creamy layer in the Bank hierarchy because each position carried with it many perks and powers.  The allotment of a car was the foremost perk that attracted us, the younger Bank recruits.  The highest aspirations of the younger lot of us recruits those days were measured in terms of being provided a car by the Bank along with driver.   The lure of the Ambassador or Fiat car as a perk drove some of my colleagues to seriously think of taking up the tests for promotions to higher cadre.  There was also a mad rush (considered premium posting) for getting a transfer to such of those branches which had a Bank car attached to it.   These cars were considered branch property and the senior most Manager or Senior Manager was most likely to use it as his personal vehicle!

I remember a time, when the Bank’s Chairman & Managing Director had been provided with a Contessa sedan for his personal use.  Some of us youngsters, had rushed out from our Office, just to look at this car and feast our eyes on the new offering.  We were just used to watching with wide-eyed wonder, a Rolls Royce or some fancy Italian sports car in glossy magazines or posters!  Seeing the Contessa sedan right in front of us, was considered, indeed, our good fortune.  Anyway, for Hindustan Motors, the Contessa sedan was not a success, and bombed badly at the car box-office.

Alas, my biggest aspiration of those days, to drive a Bank car, remain unfulfilled!  Nevertheless, my love affair with the cars has ended.  It is a nightmare to drive a car in good old Bangalore, what with the crazy traffic conditions and parking problems.  Even if, by mere luck, some benevolent philanthropist was to offer me a Ferrari or a Porsche now, I wouldn’t want to go anywhere near it!

The Lord of Learning – Revisit to happier times

We make our way down the main street of Gandhi Bazar on the eve of Ganesh Chaturthi; the familiar sights and sounds, especially the chatter of the people breezily wading through the mad crowds, evoke deep-rooted memories of another era.  Our family was staying at a house in the vicinity some decades ago.  This was the quintessential Bengaluru that has been associated in my mind with its quaint beauty and simplicity of the happier times that I am talking about.  The time was when Ganesh Chaturthi, the popular festival of the South, was celebrated with great pomp and gaiety, amidst my abiding faith in Lord Ganesh, that had characterized my mind as a young boy in the seventies.

The procuring of Ganesh idol by the devout on the eve of the festival day was a big source of excitement.  The first and foremost activity was visiting the different stalls put up by small time Retailers, in order to enquire and settle on the correct market price for the chosen size of the Ganesh idol.   The next activity was to find a Ganesh idol that sported a particular kind of ‘tilak’ that was acceptable to the category of the sub-sect of the devout.  I was told to look for a Ganesh idol that sported an “exclamation” (!) symbol painted in black, on its forehead.   Most of the Ganesh idols exhibited in the stalls had three white horizontal bars on its forehead; which was the most common and popular ‘tilak’ among the devout; but I was told that this form of ‘tilak’ on the idol did not meet with our family’s sub-sect parameters.  I did remember that some of the more enterprising vendors had offered to make some minor alterations to the ‘tilak’ on the forehead of the Ganesh idol instantly from a differently designed ‘tilak’ to the one that we had requested.  The style of the ‘tilak’ was a non-issue to the Idol vendors; but to the devout, like us, it mattered very persuasively.  Buying the Ganesh idol with many other required pooja items and cavorting home was like competing in a marathon; with rain gods, usually playing spoilsport (it invariably rained in Bengaluru; the festival normally arriving at the end of monsoon season).

As the day of the festival dawned, having an oil bath early in the morning and donning new clothes stitched for the occasion (ready-made garments were not very popular back then) was indeed, a great excitement.  After the elaborate Ganesh pooja was over, the sumptuous lunch at home was a huge affair; especially, as the meal was embellished with the soft chewy jaggery and coconut dessert packed inside the fried flour shell (the treat was called kadabu in kannada or modak in Hindi/Marati).  Ganesh Chaturthi was incomplete without this sweet dessert; it was believed that Lord Ganesh loved this sweet treat tremendously.  Lord Ganesh had a mouse as his vehicle. If you notice closely, the picture of the mouse is depicted at the bottom of every Ganesh idol.  How can any human being (Ganesh being three-fourth human) ride on a tiny mouse; wouldn’t the mouse get crushed underneath!  This thought was a source of amusement to younger self.   As the story goes, watching from the skies the Moon also did have a moment of humungous merriment at the spectacle of Lord Ganesh, riding on a tiny mouse with his swollen belly and a huge elephant trunk, fall off from his tiny vehicle (the mouse) while roaming around gleefully after having a hearty meal; this sight, was a source of uncontrolled mirth to the Moon.   The story continues that Lord Ganesh became hugely angry with the merry laughter of the Moon and placed a ‘curse’ on the Moon; and due to this irreversible ‘curse’ on the Moon, the devout are barred from viewing the Moon during Ganesh Chaturthi.  As if by some divine intervention, the Moon would be clearly visible between the passing clouds on those Ganesh Chaturthi nights; I distinctly remember that my eyes would stealthily dart towards the skies (perhaps, as a sort of involuntary dare, especially when you are told not to look at the Moon) and upon sighting the Moon from the corner of my eye, I would soon look away with trepidation, remembering the ‘curse’!

The evenings of the festival day held another great excitement.  A few of us mates had a sort of pre-arrangement every year, visiting and prostrating before the Ganesh idols in innumerable homes of neighbours; and sometimes even outside our familiar locality.  Our target, each year, was to visit 108 homes and prostrate before the Ganesh idols.  Before stepping into the homes of unknown people, we used to look for signs of any dogs in the compound.  We were scared of Alsatian dogs. That was the only breed of fierce dog I knew then and there was this other popular cute dog, the Pomeranian, with all its white hairs, it was only a timid barker!  Once we were sure there were no dogs around, we confidently stepped inside the gate.  As a group, we would step inside the homes and prostrate before the Ganesh idol, one after the other.  Some of the home owners treated us to a small snack or sweet, which was usually, baked chickpea masala or finely ground yellow gram mixed with sugar and coconut. This treat could be one of the attractions for us to venture into this activity.

It was a stupendous task, believe me, going about visiting the homes of unknown people with the target of reaching 108 homes in mind.  However, to my great consternation, I never achieved the target during any of those years.  The rhythm would get broken somewhere between the 20^th or 25^th house visit and I would return back, to my home, citing flimsiest of the reasons to my mates.  Possibly, this could be one of the reasons that Lord Ganesh, the Supreme God of Learning and Education hasn’t blessed me with any great learning or higher education!

cinematic experience!

When I look back on some of those nostalgic childhood memories, what I remember vividly was that cold, chilly evening in Bangalore. It was sometime in December of 1964 or January 1965.  I was all of 6 years of age.  I had accompanied my parents to watch my first movie that cold December evening.  I probably think that this was my first movie because the movie had left an indelible impression on my conscious mind.  The movie was in Hindi, titled “Dosti”.  The movie was being screened in a makeshift cinema tent, located near to my house which, used to be called a “picture tent” or sometimes a “touring talkies” in those days.  The makeshift cinema tent was supposedly a temporary structure covered by some heavy material (to avoid water leakage), that could be shifted easily from one place to another; although this particular “picture tent” never moved from its resting place, that was Tilaknagar (part of Jayanagar T Block now), which was later converted into a theatre, Swagath Theatre, perhaps. The whole concept of the “picture tent” was to provide entertainment to the masses in city suburbs and villages, where there was a dearth of cinema theatres. Inside the cinema tent, at one end, was a white large cloth stretched across a flat surface, acting as a screen; the moving images of the cinema was projected onto the white screen using a projector which, was placed at the opposite end of the cinema tent.  The white screen had become dirty, with large brownish patches, here and there, but still, the movie images looked fairly clear.

The projector operator sat beside a whirring old model movie projector on a folding chair surveying the crowds. In my young mind, the projector operator was some sort of a magician; and the owner of the cinema tent.  The projector operator decided on when the time was right to start screening of the movie and his decision mostly rested upon the size of the crowd; although a definite timing was fixed for the commencement of the show, which was 6.30 PM for the first show; this was rarely followed in practice.  A jarring bell was sounded before the commencement of the movie, which delighted the whistling crowd.  There was a rush of “adrenaline” in the audience, once the screening of the movie commenced.  This was partly because of the excitement created by the whistling and clapping from the crowds.

The main source of entertainment, other than the movies, had been the “circus”, for many of my generation.    The “Gemini Circus” was the most popular “circus” which used to pitch its tent in the Subhash Nagar Grounds (Now the Bangalore Central Bus Station terminus). However, the concept of “circus” which was so popular during my childhood days seems to be fast disappearing.

Coming back to the movie “Dosti”, though a cult classic hit of those times, the movie itself had a lingering melancholic impact on me; the two main characters in the movie, singing on the streets of Bombay to earn a living; had remained deeply etched in my memory for many years.  The story of the movie had a serious depth of intensity and the songs were evergreen classics.  That apart, I hardly remember anything of the black-and-white era movie, now.

The other quite vivid memory, I have, is that the “picture tent” was full of mosquitoes; which were a constant source of irritation to the loyal cinema audience.  However, the people were so enthralled and engrossed in the movie, that they soon forgot all about the mosquito bites. There was also this frequent disturbance happening within the movie tent.  People, who were coming in late to the movie, were constantly lifting the tent on both the sides and leisurely strolling in as if they had all the time in the world.  Every time a person walked in or walked out of the tent, their dark shadows danced on the cinema screen; there were persistent shouts from the people berating them on the disturbance; and every time the tent was lifted, the cold breeze from outside drifted in, making us shiver and huddle inside.

During the mandatory movie interval, the constant play of shadows on the movement of people, lighted up on the dirty white screen, while the loudspeaker blared the popular hit songs of the season.  People noisily rushed out, during the interval, discussing the movie plot and characters.  The interval reminded people to buy groundnuts (or peanuts as it is called these days) to pass the ten minutes of idleness.  Those days there was no concern littering the ground with the peanut shells.  It was a given, that peanut shells and all other food wrappers were left behind inside the tents, after each movie show.   Only once, at the end of the day, I think, the earthen floor was swept clean.  The jarring bell sounded again, signifying the end of the interval and resumption of the movie.

While, we, as a family were seated on the folding chairs in the back of the packed tent, people in the front class sat on the rough earthen floor.  We could see the dust on the earthen floor rise and settle down every time a person stood up or sat down. Some of the people who sat on the ground in the front, lighted a cigarette or a bidi, to the consternation of the non-smokers.  While some of the people objected, the smokers smirked and did not even bother to extinguish their cigarettes or bidis; they exhaled the acrid smoke with pleasure forming smoke rings.

Those idyllic memories of my childhood, watching a movie in a “picture tent” has remained with me, perhaps, reminding me of a joyful time when life was really simple, just black and white; and this brings on a smile to my wry face.

Boyhood Memories

It was a time like no other; the wonderful times that I had, as a young boy, growing up in the sixties and seventies.  Boyhood memories, with all its carefree charm, wondrous, playful, fun-filled life, has a special place in my heart.  Looking back, I was blissfully unaware, of what life had in store for me, down the line, just a few years ahead.

The games, we played as youngsters, had some typically funny names; although same or similar games with minor variations existed all over the country.  Just off the cuff, I remember a few names, (of course, in local lingo) such as, lagory, soorchand, icepies, gilli-dandlu, bugri, goli, tyre aata (typically a motorbike or moped tyre was used with the help of a stick or sometimes even the palm was used to roll the tyre on the streets); and of course, the ubiquitous gully cricket, generally played with tennis ball. Sometimes as a substitute for tennis balls, a rubber ball; or a sponge ball; or a cork ball; or even balls made from the produce of trees that bore red flowers in autumn, were used. You see, the frequent use of tennis balls was a costly affair and moreover, the tennis balls, had a tendency to lose its woollen exterior, very early, and turn into a bald, hard rubber ball.

The cricket bats, sometimes, were just flat wood planks shaped in the form of a cricket bat; cheap cricket bats were available in plenty in sports stores specially meant for playing cricket with tennis balls or rubber balls alone.  These bats, more often than not, broke when played with hard balls. 

For ‘wickets’, three stones were placed as ‘wicket’ markers at both ends; sometimes the three ‘wickets’ were marked on a wall, drawn with red-brick pieces or charcoal pieces. 

We could not afford to buy the 'wickets' or balls and bats ourselves; most of the time, we were dependent on some benevolent sponsors.  Many a time, the balls disappeared into the roadside sewers or drains or even house gardens, from where retrieval was not possible.  The boys who got us new balls, were considered to be important patrons and given special privileges, like batting first.

Playing one or the other games with boys of similar ages, during all times of the day was our main pastime; come rain or hot sun shine; the weather gods, never bothered us.  As cheeky boys, we were in the habit of sneaking away from home, sometimes even during the hot midday sun, away from the prying eyes of the parents.  All that was needed to start a game, was just a companion of similar age to play and an empty street, bereft of traffic.  Each game had a unique flavour to it and all the boys and girls of my generation knew each of the above games, by heart.

I am not sure, if the millennial generation has even heard the names of these games.  I think, many of these games have simply disappeared into antiquity, may be, they are lost forever.  Please don’t get me wrong; I am not making out a case that the games should be revived and the youngsters of today should start playing them.  Each generation of youngsters have their own way of choosing a pastime.  The present-day generation are all for video games and app-related games on their mobile phones and play stations; which are available aplenty and have probably replaced the physical games to a great extent; you hardly see youngsters playing on the streets, these days; the latest craze in the app category, it seems, is the game Pokémon Go.  Sometimes, makes me wonder how the games for youngsters get invented and how they get caught on, in the popular imagination of each generation.

Many of the games we played, required plenty of spare time and open spaces.  Luckily for us, as young boys of seventies, we had all the time in the world and many of the streets in Bangalore were free of traffic; there was very scarce movement of traffic all around Bangalore; most of the vehicular traffic was, just cycles and two-wheelers.  Cars were few and far between; mostly owned by few people, who could afford them.  This reminds me, there were only three major companies manufacturing cars in India.  The regal-looking, Ambassador; Fiat, later named as Premier Padmini and of course, the cute small car of those times, the Standard Herald. All these cars were manufactured in collaboration with UK or Italy.  Japanese cars, which we see, all around us, in plenty, these days, were unknown in India in the sixties and seventies.

As a young boy, I loved the Ambassador car and fervently wished to own the car, some day.  That, however, remained a dream, unfulfilled!  Of course, it never occurred to me, at that point in time, that the Ambassador car, would one day become a relic of the past, soon to be confined to the dustbin of history (or remain only as Kolkata taxis). 

As fate would have it, my boyhood days were soon cut short due to the prolonged illness and subsequent demise of my father; this forced me to grow up overnight and assume the mantle of a responsible adult. However, the wonderful, fun-filled memories of my boyhood days, still remain with me and regale me in my present out-of-work, retired state!