Retentive memories!

Retentive memories!

I am sure most of us would wistfully look back on our childhood years with a sense of longing. The wonderful times that we had, as children, would be stored as a beautiful memory somewhere with in the inner recesses of our brain. Some early memories are more likely to survive than others say researchers. As examples, the researchers cite, is a memory that carries a lot of emotion and the other is a memory connected with the injuries sustained during childhood. I believe my brain has stored similar such memories from my childhood as I can recall the exact sequences of such events, to this day!

One such incident from my childhood that is still fresh in my mind is related to the injury mark that I sustained on my right temple.  I may have been around 10 years of age, when this incident occurred. One evening I was waiting for my playmates, leaning on the front gate of my house watching the street for signs of any boys who would be interested in playing with me. Meanwhile, my attention was caught by an ass ('donkey' for the uninitiated) munching some newspapers strewn around the garbage bin. Those days a concrete circular garbage bin (with the marking B.C.C) used to be placed on the footpath near the houses. One such garbage bin was placed on the footpath near to my house. As was usually the case, the garbage had piled up and was overflowing, spilling on to the streets. The ass looked quite happy investigating the contents of interest thrown around the garbage bin. There was this naughty boy living next door who was also a half friend of sorts. What I really meant was that this boy was an on-and-off friend.  He was friends with me when no other boy was around.  When others friends were there, we largely ignored each other. This was the extent of our friendship.  This on-and-off friend was standing near the gate of his house watching the ass munching away, as was I. This was the scene. This boy was not interested in playing with me. He was more interested in the ass. You see, this boy was something like the legendary Arjuna.  While Arjuna the warrior was an expert archer, the boy I am referring to was adept in throwing pieces of rock (or stones in the local parlance, let us not get into semantics here) at animals and other inanimate objects. He considered himself the present-day Arjuna.  But most of all what he loved best was aiming the rock pieces at animals; this gave him immense joy as the animals scampered away in fear.  

I digress.   Coming to the point, this boy looked at the ass and the ass looked at him askance rather non-chalantly while munching on his favourite snack, the newspaper.  This evening, as was his favourite pastime, while looking at the ass, a bright idea had stuck this naughty boy.  He was determined to make the animal feel miserable. There was a piece of rock lying nearby.  The rock was beckoning to him "pick-me". He could not resist the temptation; he promptly picked up the piece of rock and aimed it at the ass and hit it squarely between the legs. Our modern day Arjuna's aim had struck home.  However, our ass had thicker hide; it did not flinch. The ass did not mind the rock thrown at him and made no effort to stir from its place. This infuriated the boy further.  The boy was anything, if not made of stronger mettle.  His next unflinching aim was directed towards the head of the animal to wake it up from its languorous stupor. Spoiler alert.  This time his aim faltered slightly and the rock missed the intended target. How could he miss such a simple target, he thought.  If Krishna or Dronacharya were to look upon him at this point, they would have been sorely disappointed in him, their foremost disciple missing the target by a wide margin.  However, the rock had hit another unintended target.  Only instead of striking the animal's temple region, it had hit my right temple region. narrowly missing my eyes.  The angle between me and the ass was just a few degrees apart, you see. That was what the boy had miscalculated or calculated (I am not sure, may be, he thought I was another animal) while taking his aim. A sore point for our modern day Arjuna, indeed.  I screamed instinctively as I was bleeding profusely. As soon as the boy saw the damage that was done, he immediately disappeared quietly inside his house. This was not what Krishna had taught Arjuna; running away from the battlefield.  But our boy, remember was not the great archery warrior Arjuna was!  

My screaming continued vociferously as the pain had become unbearable. My mother heard my screams and came out. Amidst the hullabaloo, I explained as best as I could as to what had actually transpired pointing out to the boy next door. Without much ado, I was immediately rushed to the nearby clinic. Some stitches were required to seal the cut on my right temple.  The wound on my right temple had left an indelible scar in its wake which is visible clearly to this day. I heard a funny jibe from one of my Uncles that the naughty boy next door had mistaken me for the ass that I was and had aimed it quite well!

It is funny that one can remember the bad times more than the good times. I had to bear the responsibility (at least I thought so at that point of time) thrust upon me being the eldest child of my parents. I remember it was my job to carry out minor purchases (buying green chillies, coriander, curry leaves, lime, tomato etc.) from a nearby retailer, which was always a source of irritation to me. There were similar mundane tasks assigned to me in my younger days as I was the only young free 'male' in the house. The other task was going to the 'flour mill' carrying rice and wheat for grinding into flour, which I literally hated to my bones. This reminds me of an incident that is still fresh in my memory. As usual I was given the task of going to the 'flour mill' and getting wheat grains ground into flour. I insisted my sister also accompany me. We were both very young. May be I was 8 years old and my sister younger to me by 2 years. While on our way, the bag of wheat which I was carrying unfortunately slipped and much of the wheat grains fell on to the ground. My sister and I salvaged as much wheat grains as we could from the ground. In the process we had picked up some sand grains too. We were shocked and scared of what had occurred, accidentally though. We decided not to go back home with the unground wheat. It was the feeling of guilt and cowardice in my mind and I was not ready to face the consequences of my actions. So we trudged our way towards the 'flour mill' hoping that the mill worker would not notice anything. We were lucky, indeed.  The mill worker did not notice anything amiss. I think he was plain bored because, he had just ground the wheat along with the sand particles that had been scooped up from the ground, into fine sand dust mixed with wheat flour! The resultant flour was darkish brown in colour. We went home and delivered the bag of wheat flour, all innocent, without a word on the incident! Nobody looked into the bag of wheat flour immediately. May be after some time, my mom should have transferred the contents on to the big container in which flour is usually stored without suspecting anything. Being scared and ashamed of the incident, I told my sister to keep quiet and not to disclose the incident, ever. We were anxiously waiting when the wheat flour would be next used for preparation of chapattis. Luckily for us the whole week passed without chapattis being made. We thought that the incident was behind us.  How wrong we were.  Nothing goes wasted in our household.  The dreaded day had arrived. Even while mixing the chapatti flour my mom suspected that something was wrong.  She was murmuring that the flour was grainy and overly brownish dark. My sister and I looked at each other with mixed emotions;  guilt and fear, writ large on our faces, but we kept our cool; quiet and apprehensive. Once chapattis were prepared and served, the ensuing scene is a blur.  Being children, my sister and I were the first to be served with the sand infused chapattis. We ate it without murmur though the chapattis were grainy and tasted of sand. When it came to my dad's turn, just one bite was enough for him to guess that something had occurred. He inquiringly looked at me. I looked at him askance without meeting his eye. Feeling guilty and finally ready to face the consequences after the long drawn out suspense, I had decided it was time to come clean. I blurted out the incident masking that it was my fault all the way, trying to pin in it on my innocent sister! The chapattis that had already been prepared went into the dustbin! My parents were angry that all the good wheat flour was wasted. This incident appears silly and naïve now. But as kids, we felt ashamed and guilty; we tried to hush up the incident without taking our parents into confidence. However, as a lesson learned the hard way, my sister and I had to eat those grainy sand infused chapattis; the price we had to pay for trying to hush up the incident!

Looking back, it appears that my childhood days were numbered right from start. The period was a turbulent one, as my father (I was very close to my father) was very sick with many health complications plaguing him from his fortieth year onwards. My childhood recollections are mostly filled with memories of accompanying my father to clinics and hospitals for his treatments, in the hope that there would be a turnaround in his health condition. This was not to be. His health deteriorated and the biggest disappointment came when my father passed away soon. He was around fifty at that time. I was barely 16 years old. I felt as if the whole world had come crashing down on me. That was also a turning point in my life that made me realize that my childhood days were over and I had big responsibilities to fulfil. It had taken a while coming but the price was too steep to pay!

A Class Reunion

A Class Reunion 

A School friend of mine for over 6 decades (you read it right!) got in touch with me and invited me for breakfast at a nearby eating joint along with another School friend of mine (we were mutual friends for over 6 decades!).  Well, long story short, we three friends decided to meet.  This was not very unusual.  We had been in touch off and on;  only that we were busy with our own lives and had never found the time to meet at regular intervals.  Only the breakfast meet did not materialize due to some indeterminate reason. But there was a huge promise in the air.  Spoiler alert.  There was some backchannel talks going on to rope in more number of School mates for a reunion of sorts.  Presently, lo and behold, a firm date and time was set for the grand reunion of a dozen or so School mates.  The venue was proposed by a senior arranger and agreed upon by all the reunion group members. There was an unanimous chorus that the Hotel agreed upon would be well suited for the purpose.  

The time: 4 PM

The Venue: Hotel Anantha, Jayanagar 4th Block 

Directions: Click on Google GPS link

All set for the grand reunion of Class mates of Holy Christ School batch of 1970.  

Finally, the  propitious day of the grand meet arrived. It was early November and good old Bengaluru was getting cooler by the day.  There was a nip in the air, announcing the onset of Winter.  Weather was glorious. The weather gods had smiled down upon us.  The azure blue sky was spotless, not a speck of cloud anywhere in sight.  The school mates started arriving at the venue.  Hello, said the first mate to arrive and warm greetings ensued.  More and more mates started arriving.  There were firm handshakes and few warm hugs going around.  The School mates had not seen each other for 54 years, to be precise.  Were there any surprises.  You bet, there were. All the cute, sweet baby faces of yore (I mean the School days) had wizened out; the smooth and flawless skin had given way to signs of ageing.  Truth be told, many of the class mates had become grandfathers and grandmothers.  I couldn't recognise a few of them.  But this was par for the course.  Few of the mates had stayed in our School for only a year somewhere in between the middle school years.  There was a flutter and our main star attraction had arrived.  I wouldn't dare say the name of the person.  It is anybody's guess.    We all moved in a file to the inner seating area of the Hotel.

The chattering of the school mates continued unabatedly after they were comfortably seated in the cool Hotel climes.  The old School mates had becomes young boys and girls once again reminiscing on their past memories.  There was the customary round of introductions; and each of them talking about themselves revealing their life stories.  Many of our mates had achieved high degree of success in their lives with extraordinary achievements to their credit.  We toasted them, applauding their hardwork and perseverance.  

The appearance of a latecomer to the gathering created a palpable excitement in our midst.  The mate turned out to be a handsome gentleman with impeccable manners.  He had brought a sweet and snack packet along with him, which he meticulously went on distributing to each member of our group.   We were all excited and the latecomer forgiven.

In between these beautiful interactions between the old boys and girls, there was the enquiries and small talk; and the unavoidable cross talk; What happened to this person, where is that person, where does this person live/stay; the incessant chatter continued on into the late hour as the dusk set in.  

Meanwhile, the waiters were hovering around the tables, waiting patiently to note down the food orders.  Many of us, were not forthcoming on what to eat/order. Although, there were a few firm food orders.  The waiter who was initially assigned to our tables (a probationery waiter, perhaps) was completely dumbfounded.  He appeared flustered. Acting on a cue from the management representative,  he confabulated with his senior waiter colleague looking for clarity.  The conversation with the waiters took predominance. There was a lull in our conversations.  Waiters' doubts were completely addressed.  Finally, food orders were taken and food distribution ensued.  

Was the food that was served on the menu, the highlight of the evening.  Not really.  I can conclusively and vehemently say, 'NO' to that my dear sirs and madams, it was not.  The highlight was, of course, the afterglow of the warmth and the camaraderie that had set in amongst the mates; that was slowly forming into a deep, abiding and beautiful friendship.  Will this last.  That, my dears, is a million dollar question. 

As good times cannot last forever, things have to come to an end, so did our meet.  We ended our conversations on a very happy and pleasant note promising to keep in touch with each other and to have more such meetings.  This was an event to remember for all concerned .  Will the promises made on that eventful evening be remembered.  Only time will tell.  And that my dear readers, is life!  In all its glory and mysterious ways. 

Oh! Vanity, spare me?

The weekend supplements of many newspapers carry the news and photographs of the people having great parties in upscale hotels and restaurants or pubs; the photographs of some of these people holding a drink in hand or swinging away their blues on the dance floor, set me thinking.  What could be the reason that newspapers spend so much of resources on publicising the news and photographs of the partying men and women.  Many of these people partying hard are not even celebrities like movie actors (well, who doesn’t adore cinema idols!) or cricketers or some sportspersons (famous for their exploits on and off the field!) who need attention and publicity for their survival.  Seriously, do the newspaper editors really allow these rubbish materials to be published; fortunately, or unfortunately, it appears so!

Going through these news snippets in question, I saw that one of the photographs mentioned about the partying exploits of some DJ or RJ with their band members in tow.  The families and friends of such wonderful people would, of course, love to read and feast their eyes on the jovial camaraderie of their kinsmen/friends in the newspapers. If, on the other hand, these people are unknown to the readers, what interest would these news and photographs generate?  Don’t you think, reading snippets of partying information of unknown shenanigans or looking at some random photographs is sheer waste of time.

Made me wonder, who would benefit from the published news/photographs of some people having a nice time in upscale restaurant or pubs.  May be some of these partying people are wannabe actors or professionals in their respective fields who bribe the newsmen and photographers to publish them to further their careers;  Or is it that the newspapers need some juicy titbits of information for the financial survival of their newspapers;  Or the upscale restaurants and pubs would pay the newspapers handsomely to get publicity for their businesses; Or could this be some remnant colonial practice left behind by the aristocratic (or is it autocratic) British genteel customs.  We would never know, unless the newspaper publishers or the concerned newsmen spill out the truth behind this practice.

Whatever be the reason, it stuck me that if I were to visit one of these upscale restaurants or pubs during an exciting evening with my lovely and graceful partner in tow, maybe we could be lucky enough to be photographed and published in a popular newspaper!  Oh, dear vanity!

Short Pants - the sartorial statement!

I have always wondered how the fashion trends in men’s clothing department has evolved over the years.  Time was when, during my boyhood days we were sick and tired of wearing shorts or half-pants (as we called them, then); we wanted to grow up fast so that we could start wearing trousers or pants (as we used to invariably call them); what can I say, the shorts have now come onto the fashion scene with a bang; not only for young boys, but for men of all ages!  Older the man, more his new-found love for wearing the shorts.  I recently saw an old man, touching eighty, I would say, wearing beautiful chequered shorts and lovely beachwear T-shirt too.  He looked really smart with Nike sports shoes and a walking-stick swinging in his hand!  Shorts or half-pants, so to say, has really caught on, with great aplomb, in the minds of style-conscious men; young or old, alike.  It is considered the new-age ‘cool thing’ for men, to be seen wearing shorts!

Well, ruminating on my boyhood days, I had felt, rather ashamed of being seen, wearing shorts in public; I was ever so eager to enter manhood, mainly to show off wearing full length classic terry cot pants and growing a moustache (or rather, start the process of shaving).  I remember, I was so embarrassed of buying half-ticket in city transport buses.  I used to persuade my parents to buy me full ticket in buses; more than anything else, to feel the pride in being called a man, rather than a boy eligible only for half-ticket.  As a young boy, when travelling alone in buses, I was stealthily buying full ticket, away from the prying eyes of my parents; though, I was entitled to half ticket, according to my age, then.  When I asked for the full ticket, during those half-pant days, the bus conductor, used to look me up askance, weighing the options, whether I was eligible for half ticket or full ticket; but finally, the conductor used to issue a full ticket; giving in to the profit motive of the Bus Corporation!  In those days, the bus conductors had a way of assessing the boys’ ages, based on their attire; whether the boy was wearing half-pants or full pants.  Full pants warranted a full ticket and half pants were eligible for half-ticket.  It was that easy!  I don’t know, how it is, with the present-day BTS bus conductors.  It may not be that easy, considering that most men wear shorts or half-pants as their casual attire. Or else, do they even have half-tickets now, I am not so sure!

It was standard attire with the villagers of those days, to wear striped shorts; with a pocket sewn on the inside to keep their currency notes safe.  These striped shorts were made of pajama cloth material and all the village tailors were wonderfully skilled at stitching the pajama-based custom shorts.   I am not sure, if this village dress code was confined to South Indian States alone or was used widely in all other villages of India.  Striped shorts combined with inner vest (or banian, if you will) was a regular attire for village men.  Recently, when I passed through some of the villages, I could observe from the road-side that these village men too had radically evolved into wearing vibrantly fashionable shorts and colourful T-shirts.  It appeared to me, that the India I knew, had changed; had indeed, moved ahead on a swift path; fast catching up with the wealthy nations, at least, from a sartorial perspective!

Considering the current fashion trend in men’s casual wear department, young boys of the present day need not feel ashamed of wearing shorts or half-pants.  Most of the men’s population is wearing them too; men of all shapes and sizes; loving the comfortable and trendy short pants.  It may not be too far-fetched to assume that in the very near future, we may see most Indian men wearing shorts and T-shirts to their work places and offices in lieu of the formal shirts and trousers.  The only downside of older men wearing shorts, is the amply visible hairy ankle, which may not be such a pretty sight to most people, after all!

The aspirational Bangalore!

The aspirational Bangalore!

My memories flash back to the days when we were young and full of lively spirits! Bangalore was the most beautiful place to live in during my growing up years (through the seventies and eighties). I would love to call Bangalore of yore, a veritable heaven on earth! There were lovely parks, gardens; and lakes; streets were lined with lush green shady trees. Change of seasons were hardly recognisable; except for fallen dry leaves and flowers from trees signifying coming of autumn; the weather was cool and pleasant throughout the year. Summers were fleeting; temperatures hardly touched 32 degrees centigrade. The local houses were built keeping in mind the circulation of fresh air and Bangaloreans preferred to keep their front doors open through the day; there wasn’t any need of ceiling fans or ACs. Youngsters played cricket on the streets, during all times of the day. The City had few localities with medium class infrastructure. There were very less potholes on the roads as the vehicular population was low; People mainly owned two-wheelers. Owning a two-wheeler (the ubiquitous Bajaj scooter and Jawa Motorcycle) was the ultimate aspiration of young office-goers, those days. Young men were addicted to watching movies, listening to Radio and of course, the ubiquitous street-cricket (gully cricket in local parlance). Showing signs of rebellion, as students we used to bunk classes and sneak off to watch movies or play cricket surreptitiously avoiding getting seen by teachers and more importantly parents! Being sanctimonious with one’s parents was expected. Most of the young people were wary of their parents, especially dads; not that the parents were harshly critical or didn’t shower love or affection towards their children occasionally; but as parents they were supposed to exercise their right of judgement over their children and have strict say in their upbringing. Social mores demanded so. Luckily my parents were very protective and rather naïve; and didn’t want to believe that their son had a streak of rebellious nature in him too! Bunking classes to go to movies and Hotels. Though I don’t remember having ever taken undue advantage of their gullibility (small transgressions here and there are acceptable)!

Over the years, Bangalore has transformed into the garbage-ridden, stinking city that it has now become with interminable traffic movement during all hours of the day and night! This fundamental environmental aspect apart the culture of the City has changed drastically over the years. There has seen a major shift in the composition of people. Information Technology boom of the nineties and later years, brought in huge influx of young people from all over the country; while the earlier employment opportunities were limited to Public Sector Industries and few Banks, that had their Head Offices in Bangalore. With the founding of ‘Infosys’ which became synonymous with Information Technology and Software boom, many more IT software companies opened their Offices in Bangalore. Call Centres and BPOs came with a bang in a big way. The incoming people brought in their own culture which gradually became part of Bangalore culture. Youngsters were exposed to Western culture as part of their Companies’ outsourcing technology efforts, largely catering to US or European clients. The expression ‘Bangalored’ came into being, synonymous with outsourcing in US. More number of pubs and restaurants came into existence to cater to the demand from young people. High-rise apartments became the norm rather than individual single-storey houses built on ‘30x40’ or ‘40x60’ sites as was the culture earlier.

With the boom came the aspirations of the young people. Travelling to US and Europe by International flights was becoming the norm among younger generation. The Bangalore HAL Airport had hardly any flights outside of India in our younger days. I recall that I had visited HAL Airport as a young boy by bicyle to watch the take off and landing of Aircraft; this made me bloat like a baloon for days, it was as if I had landed on the moon. The IT software Companies sent their young smart people to various centres in US or Europe where they were headquartered to service their large clientele base. The aspirational middle-class Bangaloreans had now begun their journey onwards towards the World scene!

Pardon my saying so, it is nice to hear when my circle of friends and a large family of uncles, aunts, their children, relatives acquired through marriage, etc., wonderfully roll out the names of cities and towns in US, UK, Canada and Australia, pronouncing the names exactly like it is spoken in US or UK with the lovely accent rolling off their tongues like Americans or Britishers. I think that their knowledge of World Geography has increased amazingly, thanks to their children! Many a time, it had prompted me to google the place in question and look into the maps of US, Europe or Australia, searching for the exact location. Most of the people I know have either a son or daughter (includes son-in-law or daughter-in-law) in US or UK or Europe studying or working there. How things have changed! Wonderful!

As proud parents of an aspirational generation, it is but natural to talk of their childrens' achievements when they make it ‘big’, both in terms of educational qualifications as well as earning incomes in Dollars, Pounds or Euros. We are proud of children acquiring highly coveted technical qualifications, master degrees, doctorates from well acclaimed Universities in US, UK or Australia or employed on H1B, L1 visas, Green Card etc., in client locations in US! Some of my friends even know the various stages of Visa processing in US. Not so, in our younger days, our chief pastime was confined to listening to Hindi film songs (on Radio) apart from playing cricket at all times of the day! In our minds, studying and acquiring educational qualifications was just incidental and not important. Studying was a waste of time (in my mind at least!) as more important things like cricket or movies was on the top of our minds!

Now as parents, it makes us feel that we have finally ‘arrived’ in society on aspirational terms. When we meet our friends or relatives in marriages or some social functions, the natural topic of conversation would no doubt end with toasting our children and their wonderful achievements (conversations would also alas, include immediate transport arrangements using ‘Uber’ or ‘Ola’ app and reaching their nests!); Great! It is nice to hear proud parents speak with self-importance on their newly-acquired elevated social status, thanks to their wonderful children.

My thoughts turn to the issue the present generation of the parents would eventually have to come to terms with. Like they say, with every change there comes some pain too, which is inevitable! What would eventually become of us the parents when our children who go abroad, settle down comfortably in those wonderful places, never to return to India! Staying away from beloved children, pining away for them; would our thoughts rue the aspirational society that created this mess in the first place? Certainly not. I am sure our present day generation of parents are much smarter and wiser. We would think of new ways to deal with the situation as and when it arises. It is in nature’s way of things that children grow up and fly away from their nest; eventually they have to make their own futures. I think it should make us extremely happy and proud that our children have a very bright future ahead of them, with the World literally their playground! We should be proud that our children would eventually make a difference to the Society that they live in (be it in US, UK or Europe or Australia); when they rise to the top of their professions, wherever they are! Some of them may even get to be CEOs or Astronauts or even MPs or Prime Ministers/Presidents in their respective countries, who knows! Aspirations and achievements never cease to amaze!

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.