Memoirs of an early life - When the flashbacks start...

I used to think I was born in a train…. Some of the earliest memories that I have are that of the dusty sleeper compartments of the Howrah Chennai mail winding through the hot sun, like a long snake, its large diesel engine of a head chugging in a loud noise, screaming in between and spitting out dense clouds of smoke. I used to look out the window, with eyes open with wonder at the long bridges, heaps and heaps of black Cuddapah stones piled up, large mountains, hillocks , grass lands and dry arid landscapes rushing past backwards as if they don’t want to come along with me..

“ Why are they running back when we are going in opposite direction” , I used to pester my dad, who sat silently near my mother who lay on the lower birth. She is not well, suffering from chronic asthma and breathing problems. In fact we we had started from Calcutta in haste. I vaguely remember my father bringing my mother from the Barasat District Hospital with strict advice from the doctor that we can’t stay in Calcutta any more. The city, beautiful as it is with all its proud traditions, culture and architecture, was equally polluted as well even in 1981. My mother could never withstand that environment and used to fall ill every now and then. The final straw came on that day when the doctor sternly told my father “ Mr.Purushotham.. You can’t have her in Calcutta any more”..

I remember when Mom was brought home to our little 2 bed room on the first floor of the housing board apartment in 24 Parganas..

They brought her in a stretcher and carried her up.

“See Daddy.. Mom is coming home like a queen.. Riding a palanquin.. “

Someone shushed me… “Keep quiet.. She is not well..”

Daddy did not say anything ..He just went inside and started packing..

We were leaving the city of joy behind…

“ Why are they running past Daddy.. ? Why are they not coming with us to Mom’s house ? “ I continued to pester him.

He did not say anything.. Just a tired smile.. The two nuns in the opposite seat smiled at me.. The older one took me on her lap..

“ They are not running past, my boy.. You are running ahead of them… See you are winning the race.. You are gonna be first..”

I thought I felt happy at that moment.. Can’t remember..

We had met them in the railway station… It was going to be a long haul for Dad to take Mom home on a 4 day journey in a train. They were part of a Christian charity mission and employed as nurses in Calcutta. Mom had to take regular injections on time, administered drips when needed and all that was going to be difficult in the lower berth of the railway coach…

If we had not met them..

I don’t remember their names.. I don’t think Daddy does too.. But angels are always like that.. They come , do their part and go.. No one remembers them..

The train was running at its full speed… It would make a big rumbling noise when it climbed on to long bridges on big rivers.. I would clutch the window rails and look outside at the passing landscape..

Obviously, I was winning the race.. Running towards where I would spend the rest of my life, leaving behind a city whose memories would slowly fade in to darkness.. Just a bit of the sweet taste of the Sandesh lingering behind. Dad would buy one small piece for me every day from the sweet shop near my school. Just that and nothing else.. Running, racing, towards a new life… New people.. New hopes.. Life , would change forever…

The Middle Class saga

When I was born , God did not find any gold or silver or brass spoon to put in my mouth. Hence he thought that let’s try how one boy survives in the world without any such spoons and pushed me down to earth on one fine morning on the 14th of August.

My parents accepted me so happily. Obviously if I had a spoon , I would have gone to some other parents. But believe me I got the best in the world. I got my first lessons of honesty, integrity and how to lead a good life from them. More than anything , they taught me how to survive without spoons, and fulfilled God’s will.

There used to be a Mr.X in the village where I grew up. Of course he had a name. But for the sake of anonymity
let us call him X. He is not the villain of this story, but just represents a cross section of the society. He had several businesses, one of them was a timber mill. I remember the mill because of the sound of the whirring machines, which ran through out the day, and the smell of wood. That was a large place that we saw daily while on the way to school. He also used to be in financing , he had stores selling different wares. Overall he was one of the richest men around.

Mr.X used to own couple of luxurious cars. In fact , cars were not much of a sight in that place. In fact my own dream those days was to ride in a car one day. The maximum my Mom could afford was an autorickshaw , and that too was a luxury. We always used crowded city buses to travel. And that increased the intensity of my dreams to ride in a car one day. It would be the nicest things to happen to a kid, I thought.

My Grandpa (whose trophy I lost on the grounds of Nattassery - read http://sultanofutopia.blogspot.com/…/grandpas-cup-and-crick… -
knew Mr.X very well. He used tell that business was in trouble always and he never had much of an earning. “Thirumeni, I am doing this because I don’t know anything else to do ..”, he used to say, “and my family needs to have Kanji (the Malayalam term for simple food) atlas twice a day.”

But on the ground facts showed something different. Mr.X enjoyed the best things in life. His kids studied in the best school, wore the best clothes, roamed around in cars. Not that I am a jealous person, but remember that these were thoughts from a 10 year kid’s mind who wished to have everything in life.. I was even stupefied once when his daughter got a merit and means scholarship as her father earned only Rs.500 a month. My Dad who used to earn around Rs.2000 and still struggled to make ends meet, apparently was a rich person according to those standards.

Mr.X never paid any taxes, Grandpa used to say. Obviously , he had not much income, atleast not on paper. But he also used to say that X earned a lot. But government did not know what he earned, or sometimes just ignored it. And X also used share some of his earnings with government officials. That not only made him gracious, but made the government to again and again forget any earnings that if it all he got.

Since we were rich folks, we used to walk to school and back, rain or shine, around 5 miles every day.

Years later when I had travelled back to India after having stayed back in US for some duration, the IT department said that it too needed some amount from the meagre allowance that we used to get for onsite trips those days.

“But why..?” , asked I.. “ I have paid tax for this amount in the US too”

“That’s true.. But since you are from India, we too need tax amount from that”

“But that’s double taxation”. .

“Yeah.. We do this kind of cruel jokes on salaried employees..” (“We spare Mr.Xs though)

So I paid up.. Just in order to protect some of the remaining savings, I decided to put it in a simple FD in a nationalised bank.

“ You will have to pay 15% or more tax on the interest “ said the lady sitting behind the desk without a smile. (If you have noticed, 99% of the nationalised bank officials do not smile.)”

“But why, I have already paid two times tax for this”..

“Yeah.. But interest is income.. And you need to give something to the government”

The ride home took a long time due to the perpetual traffic jams that the broken and congested roads were responsible for.

But the government is investing all this money on the uplift of the poor - thought I while dropping some coins into the hand of a beggar who knocked consistently at my window during one of the traffic blocks…

See the GDP is breaking all barriers and growing..

Every budget session, I usually pray hard to the Gods Lord Vishnu and the FM - may be they will both discuss together and raise the income tax slab a bit..

The usual middle class man’s dream..

But they never did.. In taxation, FM is above God, and decides the fate of the people of the nation.

Those days, they put a lot of advertisement in TV on mutual funds.

“Invest in Mutual Funds..Don’t spend your money eating samosas or bajji ..Once you put in MFs, it just grows and grows and grows and makes you a rich man..”

So I stopped eating samosas and bajjis .. Even stopped and evening tea and started investing in MFs.

Till in the beginning of the year, the government again came to the scene and said..

“We will tax LTCG”.. It took me a bit to figure out that it was Long Term Capital Gain, meaning any profit that I make out of my investments more than a year will be taxed at 10%.

I am sure one of these days they will come to my home with a gun..

And ask me to pay up whatever I have..

The TV was running .. Seems Vijay Mallya is in UK and will come to India only if a villa style arrangement is made for him back home.. And NiMo is somewhere in Europe or US or Fiji or somewhere .. Enjoying the 11400 crores he usurped from common men like me.. And the Rotomac guy and the Choksis are also having the fun of their life.

IT minister Ravishankar Prasad said in Parliament that there were 25600 cases of fraud last year alone.

And the government needs to increase taxes, petrol & LPG prices and anything that the middle class uses to rake in the money lost. Who else can save India - the vote banks won’t and the corporate class doesn’t need to.

I am sure Buddha is smiling.. “ Gracefully let go of things, which are never meant for you.. “

But yes.. Next time, I should ask for a spoon.. Atleast a brass one.. By then, it might be hard to survive without one..

Thug Life :)

I had stopped using Facebook much during the past few weeks. Not that the fear of FB leaking my data to Cambridge Analytica has shaken me.. I have realised eons ago that my data is as worthless as myself. So if Zuckerberg is selling my data to global data mining companies thinking that they will use it to earn billions or topple governments and the sort.. Well.. guys.. you’ve been taken for a ride…

Its just the stress of FB that I stopped getting in to it. Its like opium, you know.. It just gets on to your nerves…Hearing that “pong” sound of a new notification at 0100 AM in the night, start rubbing my eyes to see what was newly posted in the Mullet Mafia group, I knew that it had gone far beyond.. And then when I started getting into dangerous zones like forgetting wifey’s birthday and even beyond like forgetting the anniversaries ; I knew they were already picking up the last few nails in the coffin..

So I have deleted my FB app on my smart phone. My dear friends… If I do not wish you Happy Birthday or post Congratulations or Happy Anniversaries on time online, please be sure that you are all in my heart, but my heart is not in my phone. And yes.. If I don’t post pictures of myself, I am not dead, am just onto myself..

Things changed a bit today.. It was a cow that made me pick up my laptop and write few lines again in my status box. Cows and me go a long way.. There was another cow which made me reflect for a whole day few years back.. I had written about it at that time..

https://sultanofutopia.blogspot.com/2014/03/holy-cow.html

This was not that one.. It was a lonely, lazy cow , that strolled across the road, unmindful of the crazy traffic and blaring of horns all around.. It’s just the visualisation of that dream many people have in themselves.. Just being lazy, unkempt, ignorant of the world, roaming around in their own world - being that lazy cow.

I was there on my two wheeler, while wifey had gone around to get her stuff. I saw the cow wandering across. It slowly crossed the road and came near me, and looked at my face.. I too, unashamed ,looked at this cow squarely in the face..

It looked at me for some time and then took its eyes off. Then came bit closer, presumably with a bit of doubt in mind. I would never imagine that there would be a cow in the middle of a busy street, trying to flirt with me.. So when it looked at me again, I looked back. We gazed at each other for few seconds..

Then it dawned on me that it might try resort to its animal instincts at some point in time.. Graceful as it was, it had two visible horns on its head.. And it might be painful to get jabbed with them. So I decided it might be better that I push the vehicle back a bit, by a few hundred feet if I had the chance.. So I pushed back, and stood watching..

Well.. The lazy cow didn’t want to do anything much different .. As soon as I moved, it just lay down on the space I was standing turned its head lazily towards me and looked at me..

Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps I was standing in its bedroom or something.. Just back from a hard day’s grazing , no cow or buffalo would be glad to see one humanoid occupying its personal space.. So it was kinda watching if I would move out, persuade me a bit…

Wifey came down, growling.. Apparently she didn’t get something she wanted.. I tried to tell her the cow story.. But she didn’t seem amused… Just wanted me to push the button and drive off home..

I guess that’s what the lone cow wanted too.. Have the humanoid vacate its bed.. Spend the evening lying down by the side of the pavement, gazing at the wilderness of traffic moving by, sneering at those humans who did not want to rest…

What a life… ! Nirvana… !

Aylan Kurdie, a bed time lullaby...

My dear kids.. Today I will tell you the story of a little kid, like you.. He was 3 years old, may be a tad younger than you.. But believe me, he was as pretty as you as he was naughty.. He was such a cutie pie 3 year old… His name was Aylan Kurdie..  Now that is a different name, but beautiful, right.. Yes, it is.. That is because he was born in a different country called Syria.. Yes , there is a country called Syria.. And in Syria , little children had such beautiful names.. 

So Aylan was a happy kid… Now, why should he not be happy.. He had a brother, who was about 5 years old who would play with him.. His father used to run a business.. Whenever he came back home, he used to pamper Aylan with love.. And Aylan’s mother.. She was one of the most beautiful mothers in the world.. Not that Aylan knew so many mothers.. But nevertheless, he knew that his mother was the best of all..

Aylan’s brother would go to school in the morning. As he was a small kid, they would not take him in school. So he would play with Mommy till his brother came back..By evening he would wait for his brother to come back.. They would play soccer in the yard.. Aylan loved that. His brother would slowly push the ball to him. And he would run like a rabbit behind the ball and catch it and throw it back to his brother.. They were such a great pair.. And like his Mommy, Aylan knew that he had the best brother in the world too.. In fact , he had the best parents.. Aylan was such a happy kid..

Now, in Syria, the streets are not very wide, but not as narrow too, with houses on both sides.. Every house in the street had a nice garden in front. There were flowers ; Aylan did not know the names of those, the little kid that he was.. But he could see that there were such beautiful flowers.. And through them, in the middle of the street, Aylan could see his brother coming from school..As soon as he saw him from a distance, he would just scamper in to the yard, unaware of his mother calling from behind, just to reach his brother, so that they can play soccer.

And then one day, instead of his brother, he saw a lot of new people on the road.. They were all dressed in black, had black flags with something written on them. They were carrying big, big guns.. Aylan had a gun too. But it was a toy gun.. It would sing and blink in different colours.. But these guns were much bigger than his. Aylan wanted one such gun.. He went to the window, curiously watching the people dressed in black..

That day, his father came home early, closing his shop.. His brother was inside and they did not play soccer. His mother was weeping.. Aylan had never seen mothers cry.. Not that he had seen many mothers.. But he was sure that mothers never cry.. And he wondered why.. 

The next day , Aylan’s father did not go to the shop. His brother did not go to school.. They all huddled inside their home.. And there was a knock on the door.. Not like when his Daddy knocked when he came back home.. It was heavy, and felt as if the door would break. “Open the door”.. Someone was shouting.. And for the first time in his life, Aylan thought he was afraid..

They came through the door, some 15 of them.. They kicked Aylan’s Daddy, beat him up for a long time.. Aylan felt like crying and hot tears were running along his cheeks.. And Mommy was crying too and so was his brother.. And a while later they left, leaving Aylan’s father curled up in a corner..

The next day, Aylan’s father takes them out in to the car.. Aylan saw that they had packed suitcases.. He was very happy again.. He was wearing his red shirt.. He loved that one, as it had those mystery space riders cartoon all over it.. He loved them.. And it had been a very long time since Daddy took him in is car. He loved car rides, through the beautiful streets, in the slow moving car, Aylan would see other kids playing. He would see tall buildings come up on the sides.. Sometimes the trip would end up in the circus.. Aylan loved them.. His Daddy was the best.. Not that he knew many Daddys, but his was surely the best..

But Aylan now sees that the buildings on the side of road are all gutted half in fire.. The beautiful lawns are gone.. So are the kids on the streets.. Aylan wondered where everyone went.. And who damaged those beautiful houses.. Was it the people dressed in black ?

After a while, the car runs out of petrol.. Everyone has to walk.. Everyone , but not Aylan.. His Daddy carries him on his shoulders.. Aylan was so happy. It has been such a long time that Daddy carried him on his back.. He used to ask him many times , in his kiddish tone.. Daddy would always say something else and change the topic..But today, Aylan felt he was on the top of the world.. Sitting on Daddy’s shoulders, he could see so far in front.. He could see a lot of people walking.. But there was only Aylan, sitting on his Daddy’s shoulders..

And then the walk ends near a beach.. Aylan had seen pictures of the sea and the beachesin books which his Mommy used to show him. He had never been to a beach himself. He is sure that Daddy has brought them to the beach to play, to make sand castles , to run in the waves.. Daddy is so good.. He just wants to get down and run.. 

But Daddy tells that there is no time.. He takes them to a boat. It is a small rubber dinghy with a motor.. Now Aylan has never been in a boat. Daddy is taking everyone for a boat ride..There are a few others in the boat too and the boat drive.. They all get in and the boat sets out in to the sea..

Aylan wants to touch the sea sitting in his mother’s lap.. His Mommy does not allow him to, lest he might fall in. But he is so happy.. Today Daddy brought them to the beaches and then has taken them for a boat ride.And Mommy is keeping him on his lap while they are floating in the big , big sea.. Aylan has the best parents in the world.. Not that he knew many parents, but…

And then there are BIG waves.. BIG BIG waves.. The boat sways up and down.. Sea water pours in.. Aylan is so happy.. He was not able to touch the sea, but the sea has come near him..He bents a bit and touches the sea water, while his mother holds him tight.. His brother sits next to his Mommy, and is holding her close..

And then the final wave.. The driver is afraid and jumps out... Aylan could see that he wore a yellow jacket..

The boat topples.. Now the sea is all around Aylan.. His mother is still holding him.. But she cannot hold on.. His brother is nowhere.. Aylan is a bit afraid as he cannot see his Daddy and brother.. But he is happy.. Now he is playing in the sea…  He can see all the sea animals and the treasures inside.. It would be the same as the story his mother had read him sometime back..  Aylan is so happy.. And water is all around him.. And he just splashes his way in to the bottom of the sea, to see all wonders that it holds..

The next day morning, on the beaches of Turkey, a police officer sees a kid wearing a red shirt sleeping on the beach .. It seemed as if he was just tired of making sand castles, and just slept there, splashing his hands in the waves.. He was just sleeping on the beach, peacefully..

“Onun bir cocuk (Its a kid)”, he shouts.. “ Onun bir cocuk, guzel bir tek (a beautiful one)” .. He runs and lifts Aylans body in his arms..

“Bir cocuk..(a kid ) !! “ shouts his colleague, baffled and shocked..

But Aylan has not done playing.. Just that his body is there with the Turkish officer.. He is still playing on the beaches in heaven, splashing in those beautiful waves and making sand castles.. After that they would play soccer.. Aylan loves soccer so much doesn’t he..  Aylan has the best family in the world.. Not that he doesn’t know.. He knows , now..

And the streets of Syria are still black, with black people moving around with black flags and blacker guns.. 

But Aylan wouldn’t be afraid of them , would he.. He is not in Syria anymore.. He has a lot of fun, at a place, where there is just happiness..

Note : This was an attempt to tell Aylan Kurdies story to the kids in the way of a bed time story.. May not be completely correct.. But just to tell them so that they too, would know Aylan, and Aylan , would know them..

The mantra to cheat death..

When I was a small boy, I used to be terrified of death..

I used to pester my dad, about whether everyone in this world would die some time.. And to me in those days, the world meant by parents and grand parents and my toys, which included one wooden bus, one plastic auto rickshaw and a car, which when wound up , would go round and round with blinking lights.. Those were the good old days before  the GATT and the multinationals came. And they were the best toys any boy from a small middle class family could really  wish for...

Of course my brother was not born then, and it was just me.. And I was too young to learn about the wider, machiavellian world..

My father tried to explain me about why people die.. Why they grow old, just like plants and animals and why they should cease to exist.. At first he tried to explain me about heaven and earth and the magnificent paradise we would go to once we die.. I was not convinced.
To my little mind , paradise was here., with my parents, and grand parents, the wooden bus, auto rickshaw and the car.. So I did not want to go to another place after death, when paradise was just here, all around me..

And then he tried to explain population explosion.. He asked me what it would be like if my great grandpa, their parents and grand parents and their parents and grand parents were alive ( Kunchan Nambiar, Kaalan illaatha kaalam)., and I felt so happy.. The macro economic theories of how you would feed all these people or the break down of basic amenities and agricultural systems in such a society would not find entry in to the mind of a six year old.. To me that would have meant so many people to play with..  My father used to be always busy with his long trips and to my mother , the kitchen was all her life. In such times, the thought of having grand parents and great grandparents and great great and so forth to play with, bought immense joy to any kid..

He then told me one day... " I will tell you one mantra, to stay alive for ever..."

And I wanted to learn that..

He told me to come near and whispered in my ears.. " Om Namo Narayanaya ".,

I was very happy.. Finally I had an answer.. My wishes were granted without needing to summon any of the greatest Gods..

He also told me.. " The mantra itself would not have any effect, unless you use it with at most devotion.. And most of all.. You should be a good boy... Only then it would be useful.."

I think I obeyed him very closely for the next many years, till the reality of life and death and the holy spirit dawned upon me... Until I realized that life is more complicated than worrying about death...

But even then,  I did not stop chanting the mantra every day, so many times... " Om Namo Narayanaya".. And the goodness of his words, remained, with me..

It was not because I believed it would protect me from the inevitable. It was more of a belief, a strong faith in some one or something , that we could hold on to , when nothing else worked.. It was just like the strong feeling , that my dad would catch me if I jump, lest I fall.. Not that the God Almighty came around every time when you chanted.. But that belief strengthens our mind, so much,  that it helps us succeed, come what may..

When nothing else works, faith does...!

Years later Sid told me one day.. "Will every one die sometime.. ?"

I said "Yes, they do.."

" I don't want to die, and I don't want you to.."

Then I told him, "I'll tell you one mantra , to stay alive forever.."

The Children

It was the news in the second page of The Hindu that attracted him.

" Two little children meet death under the wheels of a truck on the highway. They had gone to pluck mangoes in the nearby mangrove and had taken a lift on a bike while returning. The speeding truck had hit the bike from behind, instantly killing the children. The biker had escaped with minor injuries. "

It had all the aspects for a story... Reality, life, tragedy and horror.. All ingredients for the next column..

He imagined the punch line..

"If you see two kids asking for a lift after midnight on the highway, stop at your own risk.. They are waiting for you, around the corner , to join them, in death.."

The clock chimed 11 times, and after an unsure pause , once more.. Looking out of the window, the roads were empty.. The highway lay like a large black serpent bathed in halogen lamps.. Time had flown so fast like a vulture carrying away it's prey.. It was time to call it a day and go home and relax with a scotch on the rocks.. And may be Maya is home today.. He felt a strange sense of excitement.. Time to go..

The security had gone to sleep. He eased the car on to the sleeping serpent and vroomed away towards Adayar..

It was a bit of surprise the the car coughed to a stop after a few miles.. It was a new Honda and as Hondas go, they are mostly defect free...  He got out, cursing.. Maya would have gone to sleep now, and then, so would the scotch..

Then the board on the side of the road caught his eye.. It read "Semmenchery" ..

Wasn't that the same name he had read in the Hindu ?

Then he notices two little forms on the side of the road.. And to confirm his fears, he notices one of them is clutching few mangoes in one hand..

Panting and sweating, he gets in to the car.. Surprisingly , it starts without a problem.. As he accelerates off, he looks at the rear view mirror for a second..

The two little forms are in the back seat.. Eyes red and one of them has trickle of blood oozing down his forehead..

"Adi Pettirichu.." said a little voice...

And then everything went black..

The Hindu read the next day..

" Fatal accident near Semmenchery. A speeding Honda City lost control and veered off the road , and over turned. The driver, a senior reporter , was instantly killed. No one else was injured. Police has filed a case of accidental death. It seemed that the victim was not under the influence of alcohol. Investigation is on . The victim was driving his new car which he brought after his bike was involved in an accident few weeks back.. "

..............................................................................

I complete the blog and close my iPad.. Eyes are becoming heavy and sleep is round the corner.. The clock chimes 11 times, and after an uncertain pause,once more..

My door bell rings..

I look through the peep hole.. In the darkness outside, do I see the outline of two little forms..?

And one of them.. Is he clutching a handful of mangoes.. ?

...................................................................................

Holy Cow...

Today, while driving back home on an emergency, saw an astonishing sight on the road. Couldn't stop writing about the same..

In front of Sholinganallur Infosys office normally there are a lot of cows (No pun intended :) ). Today, as it was just 0645 pm, there was only one.. And this one was waiting to cross the road..

The cars and buses and trucks whizzing past( as I had written sometime in the past, no one has courtesy, even for cows), the poor creature could not do much but wait on the side..

But when the signal turned red and we were waiting for the cross traffic, to my surprise, and to many others probably, the holy animal came forward to the zebra line. It stood for a minute , looked towards right, and then looked towards left and slowly ambled across. Reaching the median, it again stood , looked left, and then right, crossed the road and was gone.. !!

Blistering Barnacles.. Or Holy Cow.. !!!

Pappu alias Pappu

I think I've told this to few people.. Anyways it does not harm another time.. To my dear friends from Telengana and Rayalaseema and Hyderabad, it's just a real story, nothing intentional..

The first time I was at an Andhra mess, I had carefully searched for a table and sat down.. Then came the supplier who placed a large plate in front of me and poured a mountain of rice, with just enough space to see my friend across the table..

And then came this one guy in shorts and tee, running around and calling "Pappu, Pappu".. Then couple of people at the next table also started calling "Pappu".. And that made the first guy very furious who began shouting looking at the kitchen and couple other folks.. "PAPPU,PAPPU"..

Well, looked like this guy Pappu was missing.. And looked like he was some important guy too,  as people sitting on the tables were also looking for him... I looked at my friend, Raghuram Pappu across the table.. Is it you who they are looking for..? 

And then a grand old man in an old faded dress emerged from the dark smoky kitchen, holding two steel buckets full of dal curry.. And the guy in shorts and tee made a victorious war cry.. "Pappu!!!"... 

And all the guys at the tables chorused .. "Pappuuuuu"..

And my friend raised his voice and said "Pappu"..

At that, the wise old guy placed one of the buckets at our table, and said "Pappu"..

And then realization dawned.. And everything was alright ..

PS: Pappu is the term for Dal Curry in Telugu, which is one of the most important part of luncheon meals..

Grandpa's cup.. And a cricket story...

The English had brought cricket to India around the year 1782 and records suggest that the Calcutta  Cricket club existed as early as 1792. Possibly it has been one of the oldest games in India after the Kabaddi. In those days the white gentlemen from the far west played cricket in dusty open grounds, donned in pure white (safed) tees and trousers, to get the enviable tan , while the madaams (extra 'a' intentional) watched from covered stands sipping tea and biting on arrow root biscuits. The normal "kaala" public who were no supposed to be around, watched from behind bushes and trees to get an idea of the game and tried to create their own version with twigs and waste wood. (Anyone who has watched 'Lagaan' would get the context). The modern day Dhonis and Rainas and Kohlis evolved from those Neanderthal villagers..

To get over with all the intros.. I had also done something which was in theory, similar to the achievement of the English men. It was not so much in scale, but considering the landscape of a laid back village during mid eighties in rural Kerala where I grew up, and the simple mind set of the villagers, and keeping in mind the enthusiasm of a fourth grader, this was surely a comparable one in achievement.

I had brought the game of cricket to the village of Nattassery.....

In the year of 1985, when he returned from town on a rainy day in May, my Grandpa came back home in an auto rickshaw instead of his Hercules bicycle.  He had brought home a new item. It was a small 14 inch black and white Dyanora TV. At 0900 clock on Sunday mornings, it would show the Mickey Mouse show. Two years later, it would show Ramayana at the same time and another four years later, Mahabharata. But what fascinated me was not any of that.. It was something special, a drama enacted by 11 icons, that kept people at the edge of their seats..

In the afternoon, around 0200PM , it would show cricket highlights. Gavaskar , Kapil Dev and Mohinder setting the blades of grass in the stadium on fire.. Binny and Madan Lal physically ravaging the batsmen... It was a treat to watch....

Life had changed from then on... I used to sit awake in the nights and watch cricket matches played abroad.

It was then that the passion of actually playing the game became uncontrollable.. There were two main issues. One was the playing gear..  That was solved by Kuttappan Nair, who helped fashion a bat from the branches of a coconut tree and grandma who gave me two rupees to buy a rubber ball. The second was a team.. Though initially I tried to teach the game to my four year old brother, it did not work out.. He was just not strong enough to hold a bat..

"C'mon.." I used to think.. "You are a four year old bugger who cannot even lift a cricket bat.. What are you going to achieve in life, man..."  Anyhow, he used to run after his toy car, in the relief that practice session is over, sometimes even crying for my ball..

This would not work out... And so there was to be a solution soon.. It came in the form of the boy who used to bring milk at home... Appu, his name was, and was almost my age; may be a bit more.. But he used to be very busy.. He had to take his goats out to feed and then had to look after the cows at home.. Not sure if he attended school.. But then, determined was I, and managed to pull him out for some time every day to play cricket..

It was soon that we formed a team.. Though not 11, we had 8-9 boys of similar age and different heights and weights.. We used to play in the fields in the open sun.. It was autumn and the paddy fields lay bare after Kanni Koythu ( first harvest season in Kerala).. It was the perfect ground.... Lots of grass, enough to complete with the Lords.. The pitch was perfect for spin, spotted with small mounds of mud..

We were the first cricket team in Nattassery ..

And then, like any other great discoverers, I wanted to make it big.. That was when the thought of organizing a tournament set in... The acceptance was unanimous.. We were the only team in the whole village and were sure to win.. The thought of impending glory was too much to resist..

Organizing a tourney had its own up hill tasks.. We had to print notices.. Certificates needed to be printed for the winning team members.. But most of all, a trophy was required.. For one fourth standard kid along with his four year old sibling and few shepherds and few village kids, this was an uphill task... But when you face challenges is when innovation beams upon you..

Grandma used to say that Grandpa had participated in the famous Meenachil boat race in his younger days and won the first place.. He actually had won a trophy and the old , dusty brass artefact lay in one of the boxes in his small cupboard... I had heard that he used to treasure it a lot, as a reminder of his young and actives days.. But for me, that was the solution to the most difficult part of the puzzle..

It was not difficult for me to pick the trophy up from its resting place and clean and shine it as much as possible.. It still had not regained its original sheen, but certainly looked like the apt ever rolling trophy for the Nattassery World Cricket Tournament.

What remained were the certificates, which finally got printed in Nambiar uncle's electronic type writer in Mumbai,  which my father sent me by post.. To think, how much encouraging that was to a seven year old; may be that was the best I had...

The tourney was on a wet Saturday in November.. The challenging team was a gang of warlords from across the river..  As usual the match was postponed by an hour due to incessant rain.. Those were the days before the Duckworth Louis methods.. So both teams had to play the full 10 overs for a decision..

I, the self proclaimed captain of the host team won the toss and decided to field... No.. Don't think that I had anticipated the benefit of swing or capitalizing on the wet outfield. It was just the logic of the fourth grader..

The war lords came to bat.. The opener was a hefty, dark fellow in whose hands the simple bat looked very small..

Then came the rain..

The swing and wet outfields certainly did not help.. It was not raining ... It was raining runs.. None of the balls touched the ground.. Every one of them flew outside the paddy field, across the boundary.. The umpire did not have time to rest his hands..

Then came the opportunity.... The ball had flown high and was around 10 meters from me.. The seven year old ran... And jumped... His chest took a hit.. When he stood up , there were drops of blood on his elbows.. But, in his palm, safely held, was the rubber ball..

"Out!!!!!!" Proclaimed the umpire !!!! His finger had risen..

The match continued and at the end of 10 overs, the warlords had made 120 at the cost of 5 wickets.. Now was our turn..

We did our best.. Wickets fell.. But the kids persisted.. And then came the final over.. It was 12 runs,  3 balls and it was the seven year old facing a gangster..

I couldn't touch the first ball.. The second one came short pitched and rose to my chest.. The kid heaved, the bat connected, and the rubber ball flew off..

There was a cry in the gallery.. I couldn't open my eyes.. The cry had muffled.. It was time to see the result.. The kid opened his eyes..

The ball was safely in the hands of a gangster.. Caught just on the boundary.. The umpire had risen his finger, proclaiming the bitter truth..

Mine was the last wicket to fall.. The warlords had won by 12 runs..

And then, I cried...

The tears came, not because we had lost.. But thinking what would I tell my Grandpa.. The gangsters had taken the trophy, threw away the certificates and were doing the victory run...

Grandpa never found out.. Or he did not ask me... I had thought my kid brother would do me in.. But he did not..

Years later, when Grandpa was bedridden with intestinal cancer, one day, I told him..

" Pa.. I lost your trophy.." He did not say anything.. But smiled, even in the bitter pain..

Did he know.. I never found out...

I have never played cricket since my fourth grade... I did watch a lot of matches..  Slowly the interest wore off as work and life became complex.. Only the love for the game persisted..

I don't have my statue erected in Nattassery.. Nor do the people remember me as the father of cricket.. But, when I see kids playing cricket in paddy fields when I visit my native, the tingling feeling sets in..

And I see the seven year old amongst them, smiling and crying..  And an image of Grandpa's trophy in a haze...  May be, he is trying to get it back, after all these years..

Pongal Musings

The one aspect that myself and my co city dwellers have lost in the past few years is the basic instinct of courteousness.....

I remember Madras or Namma Chennai, in the earlier part of this century.. At a time when IT highways and McDonalds and Subways did not exist, pizza was a delicacy , and the largest Mall in Chennai was the Spencer's....when we were able to walk on the roads without getting lost in the heavy rush of automobiles, when the best vegetarian hotel in the whole of Adayar and further south , was the Vasantha Vihar , and when a filter coffee had the warmth of love than fire, and more than anything, when people used to smile at each other.. 

It was not so long ago, may be a decade and a bit more..I remember waking to MSS and Suprabhaatham, the walks we used to take on the roads of Adayar, the weekly visits to the Padmanabhaswamy and Kapaleeshwar temples and the countless sambar idlies dripping with ghee that we used to eat at Rs.10 each.. When we used to stand in queues patiently without pushing each other or trying to get ahead, and tried to give way to those who had emergencies (except when in Tatkal queues..:) ).. Those days we had enough space for others..

Those were the days when life was simple....

I have seen that Madrasees or Chennaites, including me for that matter , have forgotten to smile these days and lost that extra space , or rather grew selfish and took that for themselves... 

I am on the road, the traffic is heavy... And then that indica squeezes in, scraping mine on the side.. I honk and look at him and he shows me one of those nasty fingers.. He doesn't smile, but does he have a cheeky grin ? 

The toll plaza is a bottle neck and the hundreds of vehicles with different types and counts of  wheels honk and push to get past.. And then that poor guy who got stuck as one of the lanes close.. He tries to request for some space to get through the next one.. Nobody gives way.. I think for a minute, does the same and push through.. Can still remember the look on the hapless guy's face..

Patiently waiting for my turn in the long line at the coffee shop.. Couple of smartly dressed dudes and a dudette comes through and directly goes to the counter... " Master.. Naalu tea, moontru coffee.. Randu tea chakkara jaasthi.. Oru Coffee koncham strongaa.. Innoru coffee koncham lightaa..." Apparently he found one of his friends standing in front.. My blood boils while one of them looks at the other fools standing on the long serpentine line , and smiles..

The kids' school sends me a New Year message at midnight on the 31st..

"Wish you a Happy New Year 2014. Please do not forget that the last day to pay the fees for the third term is 10-Jan. Late comers attract a fine and the kids may not be allowed to sit in the class. "

Could have avoided the second part.. My New Year has gone sour at the thought of raising 40k by the next week...

Happy New Year 2014

Spectacles are becoming a fashion these days.. It's not about actually wearing them, but it is more fashionable actually not wearing them properly.... People put them on top of their heads probably using them as a rear view mirror, use them in place of hair clips, or dangle it from their VIP or Rupa brand underwears... I've even seen one guy just managing to balance it on his forehead, just above the eyes.. Must've been quite an effort to keep it that way throughout the day... And there was another guy on the road, dangling a pair of sun glasses from the hip pocket.. Guess he had some difficult time sitting down...

Guys..and gals too.. This is the problem with our nation.. We don't use things the way we are supposed to use them.. For eg. our brain... If we had put it to the use God had intended for it, we would have been in a better place...

Anyways, hoping the year 2014 would make things right, and people would learn to keep their glasses properly and use our brains for the right purpose.. The year 2013 had been the year of the common man, closing with aam admi and, it would be an injustice not to include the aam aurat, starting to get a taste of their rights.... Hope the coming New Year has more in stock and will not be yet another episode of the dynasty.. Hope the currency goes up to 50 dollars for one rupee ( as I am not getting many onsite chances), SUV prices decrease, God creates more land in Kerala so that real estate prices go down (and once I've bought enough, buries the extra under the sea), more than anything else, hope onion prices go down( I've seen everything from  veggie prices to the sensex and nifty being dependent on onion prices).

May be, I am too greedy.. I would just wish for some more time with family, being able to play with the kids, being able to exercise bit more, eat good food, find more time for my passions and more than anything sleep peacefully..

Am I being greedy again.. May be not .. !!

HAPPY NEW YEAR...