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.

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!