Stories are forever

A cat calls

2011-10-29T22:19:00.003+05:30

That meow again. Shikar got up from his study to investigate its source. Through the window in the living room he saw a cat sitting in the balcony outside. Sitting on its hind with the two front legs upright, it stared intently at him. Then it let out a meow. Shikar tried to shoo it away. The cat backed off two steps but did not turn its back. It took a firm foothold at its new position and meowed again, straight at Shikar. Shikar was puzzled at its behaviour. Cats don't come calling like that. Yet here was a full grown white and light brown feline visitor. There was no trace of fear in its meows. Beyond that, Shikar could not decipher its purpose. He stepped out into the balcony and the cat bounded away.

The second time, Shikar's wife Shruti noticed it. It was there again, meowing. Maybe it was hungry she thought and tossed a piece of bread through the window. The cat ate it promptly. Shruti returned with a full slice convinced that cat just wanted to be fed. But the cat only nibbled at the new slice and soon left it alone. It returned to face Shruti on the inside of the window and continued its bi-syllabic chant. Could it be asking for a drink? thought Shruti. She thought of placing a small bowl of milk but then she didn't want to endear herself too much to the cat. She didn't want the cat to harbour any hopes of a long term relationship. On the other hand, the whole situation was kind of cute- a stray cat persistently seeking the attentions of a stranger couple at their house. And it was a fairly attractive cat. Shruti fetched her camera and captured the cat in the act of conveying its message to her. She left the cat alone after that. After about a hundred unheeded meows, the cat also left. Temporarily.

That night, Shikar and Shruti were intrigued to find the cat back outside their window, calling out steadily again. Was she asking to be admitted inside? Shikar opened the balcony door and left it ajar to see if the cat would come in. The cat took a couple of steps forward. It seemed to be in two minds. Shikar started calling it in. The cat wasn't so sure. Neither was Shruti about letting it in. "Manjari, what do you want?" asked Shruti. "Is that her name?" asked Shikar. "It is now." replied Shruti.

Manjari was quietly taking stock of the young couple. Did they really mean to let her in? Would they harm her? Did they know her secret? She took a couple of tentative steps in the direction of the door. The couple just watched. That was encouraging. She proceeded to lay one paw on the threshold. No trap sprang shut. "She wants to come in. Maybe it is the cold outside.", said Shikar. "She has more fur than us.", said his wife. Manjari then placed another paw on the threshold. She was very alert, ears bolt upright, her lithe body ready to escape at the slightest hint of danger. Shikar started making what he thought to be a welcoming sound for Manjari. Manjari locked her eyes into his frame. He advanced. She bolted away. "Why did you approach her?" reproached Shruti. "I was only trying to be friendly. Wanted to pat her head and ease her in.", said her hubby.

Early next morning, Shikar spotted a cat as he woke from bed and entered the living room. In an instant, it leapt onto the window sill and was off through the balcony. Was it Manjari? He could not recognize her in the dim first light. This was getting spooky, he thought, a stranger cat stalking his house. What was it after?

Shikar noticed more meows emanating from the region of his closet. These were feebler, maybe it was Manjari on the other side of the wall. As he went closer, he realized they seem to be coming from inside the room, close to the floor. He cleared away a laundry bag, ironing stand and guitar to reach a cabinet behind. He used it for storing rags and old clothes. It had a sliding door that he never shut fully. He slid open the door. Four pairs of half open eyes stared back at him and unleashed a flurry of meows. Here was Manjiri's secret. She had been desperately trying to reach her kittens.

Shruti was full of questions. How did the kittens get there without their knowledge? Did Manjari deliver them in her rags cabinet? Had she looked carefully, she would have seen that the cabinet shelves were not soiled at all. Nor did they smell of the juices of labour. Manjari must have brought them there after birth. It was indeed a safe and warm place. Being inside a house, it was also free from the attentions of other birds and animals. And humans. Until now.

But Chunnu, Munnu, Chintu and Pintu - as Shruti named them promptly, could not be allowed to continue living there. The house wasn't exactly spotless as it were and she could do without feline waste in her closet. No, the kittens had to be evicted. Yes, it was terrible asking a nomadic mother to take her new born elsewhere but where was the alternative? Mama cat had to be found immediately. They looked around from the balcony, over the roof and in the adjacent alleys. No sign of Manjari. They would have to wait for its return. In one day, Manjari had changed from being an unwelcome visitor to being most eagerly awaited.

Chunnu, Munnu, Chintu and Pintu were moved into a card box lined with some of the rags from their cabinet nest. The box could not be left unattended in the open balcony - crows would spot them. So they kept it in the room, below the window that Manjari used for its forays. The kittens were flustered by sights and smells other than that of a warm underbelly with juicy nipples. Under the spell of their agitation, the room sounded like it was being invaded by children wearing squeaky beeping shoes. After what seemed like an eternity waiting for the mother, they heard a familiar meow from the balcony. Shikar made a few urgent welcoming noises through the window, opened the balcony door and slid the box of kittens over to the balcony floor. Manjari, waiting at a distance, did not understand what the box was for. The kittens were also being unhelpful. Just moments ago they had ceased their racket and fallen asleep. Shikar gently tipped the box over on its side so that its contents became visible to Manjari.

Manjari stooped and strained her eyes for an instant trying to understand what the box held. Her eyes grew wide as her face registered the shock of recognition. She took a few gingerly steps towards the box, turned to make sure it wasn't some trap, licked her babies as if in passing and then just like that, picked one of them by her mouth and bounded away into her world of alleys, ledges, rooftops and secret closets. The three remaining kittens registered their confusion with an assortment of feeble meowish sounds. Shikar and Shutri waited expectantly for Manjari to return and claim the rest of her offspring. But Manjari did not return.

"Great, we get to babysit three kittens until mummy returns.", said Shruti as they began to wonder if the kittens needed feeding. They tried taking small bowls of milk near the kittens' mouth. But a few days old kitten knows only to grope for warm nipples. "We might have to get a small feeding bottle.", said Shikar. The shopkeeper at the local medical shop smiled knowingly as Shikar asked him for the smallest feeding bottle he had. This was a sign of a new father. Soon he would need baby formula, diapers, baby cream, the works. A long term revenue prospect in short. "I have all baby products, sir.", he said. Shikar nodded and started to walk. "And you get 10% discount for purchase above 500.", added the shopkeeper for good measure.

Two of the kittens got it. In turn, they sucked hungrily at the silicone nipple bearing skimmed buffalo milk. The third kitten rejected it. We don't know if it it was Chunnu, Munnu, Chintu or Pintu. The four names had been assigned to the collective of four kittens, not individually. Shikar tried feeding the third kitten again after some time but it just wouldn't take to the bottle. He asked Shruti to try but she could not bring herself to hold the kitten in her hands. Evening came and still no sign of Manjari. Shikar narrated the incidents of the day over phone to his father. Shikar's father was raised in a village and Shikar wondered if he might have something to say about Manjari's apparent un-motherly behaviour.

"She will come back.", father said. "But you have disturbed her nest. She may eat them if she can't protect them." Expectation for Manjari's return turned to dread. What had she done to the first kitten? Had she finished him off? Was she just resting after making a meal of her own baby? Was that why she hadn't returned? Then they came to the inevitable questions, "What do we do if she returns? Do we just let her pick another one? What else can we do? We can't care for them till they grow up. Can we be sure she is killing them? She could just as well be searching for a different nest." As they prepared to retire to bed with these questions still weighing heavy, Manjari called. Same spot on the balcony, same meow. Shikar and Shruti looked at each other and decided that the best course of action was to not judge Nature's ways. They placed the box of three remaining kittens in front of Manjari. Manjari picked another and left.

They left the living room window wide open that night with the box of two kittens just under the window. It was an invitation to Manjari to claim the rest. Leaving them in the balcony would expose them to the cold air and to other possible predators like big rats. Shikar and Shruti woke up the next morning to find the box empty. And Manjari has not called on them ever since.

The Bank Robber

2010-02-16T13:33:00.006+05:30

Amit had gone to the bank to get a demand draft (DD). He had to pay 50% advance for registration to some course. He got a token from the token vending machine and waited for his turn. It was a busy day at the bank. When is it not?

The clerks behind the counters had their hands full. They had to process at least twelve tokens in an hour. That meant five minutes on average per customer. In these five minutes, they were expected to help customers with incompletely filled out forms, be courteous, answer unrelated questions from the customer, key in all details accurately into the temperamental banking software application and not frown at its often sluggish response. If this wasn't enough, every once in a while, their phone would ring.

Of course, the typical customer couldn't care less about all this. As far as he was concerned, the bank was almost hopeless. First, they made him wait ten odd minutes with token in hand. Once at the counter, all they cared about was getting rid of him in a minute. How outrageous.

Sitting on a chair waiting for his turn, Amit noticed that all clerks wore an understandably harried look on their faces. All except a lady at a table called 'Enquiry'. She seemed to be very composed, almost serene. Not that she wasn't busy. Her table was besieged by customers. You didn't need a token for enquiry you see. Everyone had something to enquire.

"Can I have a pay-in-slip form?"
"Here you go sir."

"Do I need to take token for depositing cash?"
"Yes sir. Over there."
"Arre, but I am giving money to the bank. Why make me wait with token?"
Smiling, "Many customers today, sir. It will only take five minutes."

"Can you update my pass book?"
"Over there sir."
"But she is saying that the system is down."
"Sorry about that sir. Maybe if you can wait for ten minutes, the system will be back up and running."
"This is happening to me third time. Every time I want to update pass book, your system is down. You think I don't have other work?"
With a sympathetic look, "Sir why don't you give me your pass book and come back after finishing your other work. I'll keep it updated."

"Madam, yeh application zara dekh lo na. Muje loan milega kya?"
"Wahan, us counter pe jaaiye."
"Aap zara dekh ke bolo na."
Glances cursorily at the papers, "Salary slip laaye ho kya?"
"Han Madam", hands over salary slips.
"Lagtha tho teek hai, par confirm wohi batayenge."

Amused and impressed, Amit was taking in the scene when the speaker announced, "Token number 203, counter number 5." Amit's token. He walked over and gave his form and cheque for the DD. The clerk punched some keys, waited a minute and said,
"Its okay sir. It needs to be signed by a manager. You can collect it after ten minutes from the enquiry counter."
Amit was prepared for this. He knew that a DD would take some waiting. He had brought a book along, Tarun Tejpal's 'Alchemy of Desire'. He walked over to the calm lady over at enquiry and said, "Excuse me, I am expecting a DD for ten thousand. Please give me a shout when it reaches you." Miss.Equanimity nodded and said "Sure sir." She motioned him to sit in a nearby vacant chair.

Amit promptly took the seat and opened his book. The bookmark indicated he was halfway through. He placed the bookmark at the end and started reading. As he got immersed in the story, the world outside began to fade. Two pages later, he felt someone patting his shoulder. It was the enquiry lady standing beside him with a coy smile on her expressive face. Handing him a DD, she asked, "May I know what you are so engrossed in that you didn't even hear me calling?" Amit was caught between the story in the novel and the pleasant surprise of seeing Miss. Enquiry beside him. "Thank you". He handed the book for her to see.

"It is his first novel. Do you read?"
Miss.Enquiry glanced at the cover. "Tejpal? Is he the Tehelka guy?"
"Yes. It is quite good. You should read it sometime. I could lend it to you when I am done."
She smiled.
By the way, asked Amit "May I know your name?"
"Komal."
"I'm Amit. Nice meeting you."
Amit turned back realizing that he was holding her up and the soon-to-be-irate customers waiting at enquiry would not tolerate their chit chat any more.

The ride back was a pleasant one for Amit. He couldn't take Komal off his mind. She was like an angel of peace in a noisy bazaar. Damn, he should have asked for her phone number. After all, she had walked over to him. What a smile! She was interested in what he was reading. Maybe he could ask her out for coffee and talk about their reading interests. For a start. No worries, he had to get another DD in a month's time for the remaining 50% course fee. He would surely ask her then.

The month went by and Komal faded from Amit's mind. It was only when he went back to the bank after a month did he remember her again. But where was she? The enquiry counter had a different face. He glanced around. There she was, behind one of the teller counters. Counter number 2. Oh oh. It wasn't going to be easy now. There was no guarantee that their paths would cross in the course of his DD transaction. He would still get to collect his DD from enquiry but that was not his girl. If only he got assigned to counter number 2 for submitting his DD application. There were six counters in operation that day so he only had about 17% chance.

Amit took a seat and nervously watched the token display system. It said token number 185, counter number 4. And then it changed in front of his eyes.

Token number 188, counter number 2.

Amit looked at his token. 197. This was going to be a game of roulette. There was no way to predict what his counter was going to be. First, the token numbers had gaps in them. For what reason, he couldn't figure or bother to think about. Second, the assignment was not in sequence. Each clerk pressed a 'next' button when she was done with the current customer. The token system simply assigned the next token to her counter.

Token number 190, counter number 1.

Amit bit his nail.

Token number 191, counter number 2.

What the heck? Komal was already onto her third customer while the other counters were still processing the first. After what seemed like an interminable wait, the display flashed again.

Token number 193, counter number 5.

And again.

Token number 194, counter number 4.

This wasn't going to be his day. Surely he was going to get counter 3. Miss by one. Maybe he could take another token if this didn't work out. But what would he do? Update his pass book maybe. No that won't do. Pass book update was another counter that did not need token. Maybe he could just deposit 500 cash. Try his luck at getting counter number 2.

Token number 195, counter number 3.

Hope hung by a slim thread. But no, it looked like counter 6 was just finishing with her customer. "Thank you sir." The man turned to go but realised that he had forgotten to ask something, "Err, excuse me, he started off again at the harried lady behind counter 6." God bless him, thought Amit.

Token number 197, counter number 2.

Jackpot! What luck. Surely this was a sign. He trotted off to his beloved counter and said "Hi, Komal". Komal seemed to recognize him. The angelic smile was back. "Hello sir.", she said taking his papers. Amit didn't like this 'sir' business. Had she forgotten his name? Or was she just sticking to protocol? Heck, did she even remember their little chat the other day? Or was it just another random conversation from an automatic politeness machine? The glass partition between Amit and her didn't help. He had to speak through a small hole. What perfect setting for courtship. Amit wanted to remind her of their chat by the enquiry counter.

"Have you got promoted?", he ventured. "You used to be at enquiry na?"
"It is regular rotation sir." That irritating 'sir' again. He noticed the lady from counter 1 glancing at him. That 'promotion' word had alerted her antenna. What a rotten setting for small talk. He was still thinking of how to extend the conversation when Komal handed him a slip and said,
"Sir, Please collect your DD from enquiry in ten minutes"
This was his last chance. "Very busy huh?", was all he could manage.
"As usual sir"
He had to go now. Shit. Lady luck had handed him his 17% chance on a platter and he clean blew it. Marbles in his mouth. He trudged back to the waiting area to wait for his DD. Opened his book. The same one. He had been very busy last month. This book was meant for idle time reading. He hadn't progressed much. Then the bulb lit up. He had offered to lend this book to her. She hadn't said no. This was his excuse to go to her counter again. So what if he hadn't finished the book. So what if it was very interesting. He'd rather hear the rest of the story from her.

He went over to counter 2 with the book and the DD receipt in hand.
"Excuse me", he said to the customer at the counter. "I just need to give this book to her."
Before the customer could make up his mind he slid the book under the counter to Komal.
"Hey I got this for you. Take your time to read it."
Komal wore a knowing smile on her face, "Thank you. Sir"
"Please call me Amit." he turned the DD receipt over on its blank side and asked,
"Could you please write your phone number here?"
Komal looked at him for a moment. Amit could sense the clerks at counter 1 and 3 staring at him. Their antennas were highly sensitive to such lines.
"Err, just in case I have to remind you to return the book", said Amit.
A grinning Komal scrawled her number on the now precious DD receipt.
You wouldn't call Amit a bank robber, but he certainly thought he was on his way to stealing a banker's heart.

Rags to riches

2009-11-16T01:15:00.006+05:30

Chintamani lived with two other bachelors in a rented apartment in Gurgaon. He used to sleep with his wallet under his pillow because he didn't trust the maid who came early in the morning to clean the house. One night, sleeping as usual with his wallet under the pillow, he had a strange dream. The notes in his wallet were chatting with each other. "What's going on here?” Chintamani wondered. To his amazement, the wallet started speaking in a leathery voice:

Welcome to the nightly meeting of the notes.

Chintamani asked, what do you mean nightly meeting? I sleep every day with you under my pillow. I have never seen anything like this before.

Ah. That's because your PAN number never matched.

What's my PAN number go to do with all this?

You only get to witness this meeting when your PAN number matches with the serial number of one of the notes in your wallet. You can verify it in the morning.

Huh? OK, whatever. Can you tell me what this meeting is about?

Ssh, replied his wallet. You are only meant to be a silent observer. I'll give you a heads up but no more questions or comments.

It's like this. Every night, the notes in a wallet tell each other their stories. How they came to be there, where they have been before, story of their travels. They also announce their net worth to the other notes. In the society of notes, net worth adds up every time a note is involved in a cash transaction. For example, a ten rupee note has a face value of ten but its net worth increases by ten every time it is used a cash transaction. These stories are exchanged to convey social status. The richer notes get priority for further transactions. Although wallets like me are warm and cozy, these notes don't like to remain stuffed in one wallet for long. They like to keep moving. Among several notes of the same denomination, net worth decides who moves out first. You may now follow the rest of the meeting in silence.

An intrigued Chintamani turned his attention to the conversation among the notes. A crispy fresh ten rupee note was introducing itself. I joined this wallet when a mithaiwala returned balance money to Chintamani after his purchase of Agra petha. The mithaiwala got me as part of a fresh bundle from the bank. My net worth is twenty. Judging by the condescending expression of the other notes, Crispy Fresh was able to understand that he was probably the poorest of the lot - a below-poverty-line ten rupee note. Another ten rupee note started speaking. This one looked like he had been around some. Hiya, I also came in with Crispy Fresh. But that's only because a Mrs.Mathur handed me to the mithaiwala five minutes before our Chinta dude walked in. Mrs.Mathur got me from the auto rickshaw fellow who got me from a Shalini for her office ride. Anyway I've been around for a year and my net worth is seven thousand three hundred and twenty rupees. There were murmurs of approval for this middle class ten rupee note. Yet another ten rupee note rose to speak. This guy was badly soiled.

Don't we have any female notes? asked Chintamani, unable to contain his curiosity. The wallet looked cross eyed at him. That will happen the day your government issues notes with pictures of Sarojini Naidu. Now please stay silent. One more word and I will have to remove you from this meeting.

The filthy note continued. Hey janta, listen, my net worth is eighty seven thousand five hundred and eighty. There was a chorus of oohs and wows. Amidst looks of envy, he added, I have been exchanged so many times last evening I am already beginning to forget my travels. The middle class tenner muttered to himself, these filthy rich guys have the most colorful stories to tell but they are so full of attitude. Filthy rich continued. Just before this stinking hole, I was at a paan-ka-dukaan. Before that in the pocket of a chain smoker. Enough said. Now if you please, I'd like to catch some sleep because I know I am going to be the first out this wallet tomorrow morning. That was a filthy rich tenner indeed. Next, a hundred rupee note started to speak. And the stories went on. Crispy Fresh felt serious inferiority complex hearing these stories. He couldn't contain his tears. His sobbing disturbed the filthy rich tenner who had just begun to doze.

What's the problem bachhe? You are just two months old. People tend to keep notes like you longer in their wallets. Wait till you get a little soiled. Then you will also start accumulating net worth much faster. By the way, don't think you are the most wretched thing in this wallet. Look at that piece of plastic on the side. It has been around for two years but you know what its net worth is? Zilch. Anda! Crispy Fresh stopped sobbing and looked to the side at the piece of plastic. Oh you mean this credit card? he asked. Hah, that's just a fancy name for a piece of junk, said Filthy Rich. They just pretend to be money. They never go anywhere by themselves. Like the women of a male chauvinist society, they only step out of their homes (wallets) briefly, that too under the watchful eyes of their owners. One swipe and they are sent back home.

Crispy fresh tittered at this analogy. Thanks. That does make me feel better. But how do you explain your HNI status? After all you are only two years old. 87k is a lot of wealth for a two year old tenner. Filthy Rich sneered. Kande pe bithao tho kaan mein ..beep.. Anyway, I am in a generous mood today so I'll let you in on my secret. You won't believe it but just until four months ago, my net worth was hardly 20k. Then one gentleman, god bless him, forgot me in his pant pocket. The pant was put to wash in an automatic washing machine. What a wonderful spin I had. Even the best theme parks don't have such thrilling water rides. Safe inside the pant pocket, I was tossed this way and that, washed with cold and warm water, cleaned with good smelling detergent, rinsed and dried. It was a luxurious spa like experience. When it was all over, I smelt really good but was crumpled all over. My dye had faded a bit and I was no longer a firm usable tenner. People started giving me away as soon as they got it. No one wants to hold on to a tattered note. It does wonders to your net worth. Now see if you can slink into the back pocket of Chinta dude's shorts. Good night.

Ding Dong. Chintamani wondered who in the wallet was making this noise. Ding Dong. Ding Dong. His sleep weakened a bit and he realized that the door bell was ringing. It was the maid. As he returned to bed to snooze for a while, he felt an urge to check the pockets of his shorts. Sure enough, he found a crispy fresh ten rupee note in the back pocket on the right. He hesitated to put it back in his wallet. But then what the heck, it was only a stupid dream. So he put the note back into the wallet but made a mental note to use it first even if it meant he had to hold on little longer to that dirty note he had got from the paanwala.

The Kite Ruiner

2009-08-26T20:14:00.010+05:30

Image courtesy of MeanestIndian

It was the year 1990. Mumbai was still Bombay. Ten year old Satish had just returned home from school. His mother gave him a little snack to eat. As was his habit, Satish went to the balcony, kept his little snack plate on the railing and scanned the building compound for signs of his playmates. His was a suburban Bombay flat on the third floor. He spotted Shefali and Pinky playing some girly games. He wouldn't care to join them. His eyes drifted to the rooftop (terrace) and to the skies beyond. Three kites were bobbing in the wind. Two were red and one dark blue. One of the red kites had a big yellow circle in the middle. Satish followed the lines (kite string) to see who was flying them. Someone from the adjacent building was flying the red and yellow kite from the rooftop. The plain red's line dropped below the level of the rooftops to somewhere behind his building. Perhaps someone was flying it from the street. The blue one seemed to be coming from his own building. Satish felt a sudden desire to start flying kites. "Mummy, buy me a kite." he screamed. Mummy thought he was too young to go the rooftop alone to fly kites. "It's dangerous to fly kites from the rooftops. Ask Papa when he comes." That evening, his Papa agreed to let Satish fly kites under his supervision, "We'll make a kite at home this Sunday. Then we'll go to the rooftop and fly it." Satish was satisfied.

Papa and Satish made a sturdy kite that Sunday. Satish did not know that good kites were made of light paper and bamboo strips. Papa was all for making use of materials available inside the house. He used soft paper from a old newspaper supplement for the kite skin. The frame needed bamboo strips but there was none in the house. There was a broom used to clean the bathroom floor. Out came two long firm sticks - a slightly thicker one for the spine, the other for the bow. Papa made it a point to attach a six feet long tail to the kite. "This Hanumanji ka shayput will keep your kite safe against rough winds", he told Satish. All that was needed now was about twenty five meters of string, nowhere near enough for serious flying but enough to convince a kid that he had flown a kite. Those days, you didn't have organized retail in India (even liberalization hadn't happened yet). Your only option for groceries was the local kirana shop. They used to pack provisions in brown paper bags with plenty of string to secure. The bags and strings weren't immediately discarded at home. One kept everything around for some later use in those days. Papa joined a number of these strings together with knots and asked Satish to wind it on a reel. The wooden reel had held tailoring thread once. "Now let's tie the kanni (harness) and we are all set", said Papa.

Up they went to the rooftop. It was the month of August when monsoon winds blow from the south-west. "I'll show you how to get the kite up in the air. Then it's all yours. OK? Now help me with a good lift-off.", Papa asked Satish to stand some distance away facing the wind with kite in hand. Satish heaved it up in the air when a gust blew. The kite shuddered against the wind for a second, then rose smoothly as Papa pulled the line. Soon Satish held the line and Papa asked him to give deel (release more string). With six feet of shayput (tail), it was a very stable kite. It wouldn't twist and turn or dive as other kites. Easy for newbies. In a few minutes, Satish learnt how to prod the kite upwards with a tichkie (twitching the string back), how to give deel to a rising kite and how to ghaseet (withdraw string) a drooping kite back to its height. Satish was thrilled. He kept giving deel. As it flew further, Satish's kite came within striking range of other fighter kites. The boys flying them from neighbouring rooftops smacked their lips as they saw this sitting duck of a clumsy kite. A cow caught unawares amidst a pack of hungry wolves. Before Satish or Papa could realise it, a red kite swooped down and cut their line.

Losing a kite in a pecchh (kite fight) is not unlike experiencing your loved one die in your arms in the middle of a dance. One moment your kite is alive and throbbing in your hand. You feel its life as it pulsates along the string. Your spirit soars along with its altitude, your body in step with its movements. The next moment you find yourself clutching a limp string. Absoultely lifeless. You can only watch in despair as you see your kite drift away. It sways this way and that, responding to every little whiff that touches it and you have absolutely no say in where it finally drops and rests. Young Satish didn't understand what just happened. How could his beloved kite simply float away? What had plucked at his line a second ago? "Papa, I want the kite back." he started crying. It was time for Papa to explain the facts of life as it pertained to kite flying in Bombay.

That evening Satish learnt what survival of the fittest meant. Bombay skies were one lawless space as far as kite flying was concerned. You didn't have to consent to a fight. You either fought back or tried to escape by withdrawing the kite out of reach of your predator. Escaping meant having to live with the title of darpoke (coward) for the evening. Papa told Satish about manjha (special abrasive string used for flying fighter kites). Manjha - the fangs of the fighter kite. Manjha came in different varieties - badami, gulabi, ghasleti, kala jadha, kala bareekh, pista bareekh. A good kite flier usually swore by his chosen variety. Lore had it that the best manjha came from Surat. Papa also told Satish about the dangers of manjha - cuts on the fingers, birds getting injured and accidents on the road caused by careless kite fliers running their lines through busy streets. But Satish would have none of it. His kite had been nonchalantly severed by a boy on a neighbouring rooftop. Satish had to have fighter kites and manjha now. He had to learn to fly them without a shayput. He had a score to settle.

And thus it was that Satish became a decent kite flier over the next few kite flying seasons. It wasn't an even playing field. Some rich kids would buy a dozen kites at a time. They would be back in the sky in no time after losing a fight. Not so for Satish. He was only given enough pocket money to buy two kites at a time. His lot was to sulk away after losing two fights in a row. Sometimes his kites would get tangled with trees or TV antennae (no cable TV then) and bring an ignominious end to his evening of flight. His manjha situation did not help either. The rich kids used to have entire firkis (bobbins) of Surati manjha. Satish had to do with five rupees worth of local manjha per month. After much wrangling and promises of studying well etc, Satish finally managed to purchase a real firki full of decent quality manjha and a half a dozen kites as a birthday gift. He had to dominate the skies that evening. To dominate the sky meant to be the only kite flying in the vicinity.

Image courtesy of MeanestIndian

Within two hours of flying that evening, Satish won three fights and lost four. There were still three kites in the sky and Satish had two of his own left to take them out. By the time he flew his fifth, the other three were already involved in a dance of death with each other. Fighting one kite at a time takes skill. A three way fight is nerve-wracking. Satish watched mute as the threesome sorted it out. A blue fighter was on top waiting to strike on the other two that were flying below very close to each other. A gust of wind hastened a curving maneuver of the red kite and it cut the kanni of the green one which began spinning out of control, rapidly lost altitude and soon got entangled in a TV antenna. Before the red kite could recover from its victory, the blue one swooped on it and set it free. It was now Satish's turn to take the blue kite by surprise. He gave deel full steam and got right under the line of the blue kite but far away from its body. This was a very dangerous pecchh position - the blue flier stood to lose a lot of manjha if he lost this fight. Mr. Blue wisely tried to get out of the way with an outward looping manouvre. But Satish's full speed deel caught the blue's line on its way out and the momentum of his kite did the rest. Satish had cut Mr. Blue some thirty metres deep. This type of pecchh victory called for bringing home the head of the victim. An ustad kite flier would go after the dead kite and try to loop its limp string into his taut line. Capturing a dead kite this way and bringing it home to safety as a trophy was the ultimate mark of a ustad. Satish had never really succeeded at this but he decided to go after the departing blue anyway - after all it had barjhol (lots of) limp string. The dead blue was rapidly losing altitude and Satish had to quickly get under it and try to tangle its limp string into his own line. In one swift move, he turned, dived and rose again, just under the kanni of the blue kite. His line caught and lifted the blue kite a little. But the blue kite was heavy and it began to slip. Satish had not accounted for so many meters of manjha slipping over a single point of his line - a marela (dead) pecchh. It was like dying under the weight of the corpse of your kill. Satish lost his fifth kite.

In a span of five minutes, the skies over Satish had claimed four kites. A burst of activity in the middle of a routine evening of kite flying. The skies were clear momentarily. The spinning green kite was still stuck on the antenna, its flier still trying to untangle it with a combination of tichkies, pulls and releases. He could have just given up on it by pulling hard enough to break the line. But he did not have another kite to fly and the evening wasn't dark yet. The blue kite flyer was in mourning at having lost so much manja to Satish. He didn't seem in the mood to fly another kite. Satish began flying his sixth and last kite , a chequered one - red, blue, red and yellow. This was the moment he had dreamt of. To be the only kite flying after an evening full of fights. It would have been nicer had it been a victorious kite rather than a new one but Satish wasn't thinking of such niceties now. He kept giving deel, letting his four-square soar away, no challengers in sight. The breeze was in his favour, allowing his kite sail far without losing height on increasing deel . Satish wanted to see how much manjha his firki held. How far would his kite go if he gave full deel i.e. exhausted all the manjha in his firki. The manjha began to unwind rapidly from his firki. Some fliers have a companion who holds the firki. This guy winds the manjha back onto the firki when appropriate and keeps the manjha from twisting all over the floor. Satish had no such companion. He had just stuck one end of the firki into a flowerpot of dried mud. Someone had once tried a bit of gardening on the terrace and abandoned it after a while. The firki stuck out of the pot like a well thrown javelin sticking out of the ground.

Manjha uwound from the firki rapidly. You couldn't follow the unwinding with your eyes. All you could notice was fresh thin gashes appearing on the bob of manjha as the unwinding string exposed fresh string underneath. Satish watched triumphantly as his kite became a small red dot in the sky. Still no challengers in sight. He was having a good birthday. He could now see exposed wood from parts of the spine of his firki. A little more deel and he would be flying at full deel. He quickly glanced around to check there wasn't anyone trying to sneak up on him. All clear. Satish went for the last lap of deel - chik chik chik - the manjha went as it came unstuck from the firki. Color drained out of the firki rapidly as the last of the manjha went out. Satish hurrahed "full deel" and immediately gasped with shock as he realized that his hands no longer held any string. The last of the string was drifting away in front of his eyes, just over the edge of the roof. He rushed to the edge and lunged at the parting string desperate to get a hold. Missed. His chequered kite was so far and high that it did not even register loss of anchor on the ground. It just kept sailing taking the manjha along with it. Satish kept looking for where it would descend. He hoped to run across the streets and retrieve it then. But he had flown too far and high and that too in a stiff breeze. Satish kicked the firki out of the pot as he realized what had happened. The manjha had not been secured to the firki - it had just been wound without a securing knot. Satish had no clue if all firkis came this way or it was the fault of his local make. He had never flown full deel from a real firki before - only homemade reels. He always used to secure manjha to his reels by tying the first couple of windings in a knot with the start of the string. Only then would he wind the rest of the manjha. Wasn't that common sense for everyone? How could you simply wind it on a firki like that?

Dusk was falling. He had lost sight of his kite. He went out on the streets and ran in the general direction of his kite for ten minutes. He glanced at the sky in between buildings to see if he could detect limp string stretched across rooftops. A drowing man in the middle of a sea looking for signs of a lifeboat. He knew that his chances were zero. Kids on other rooftops would gleefully capture such an orphaned kite with a mile of new manjha. He would himself do the same. But he had to do the rounds today. He had to hope that no one else had seen it yet. He had to hope that he would magically come across its limp string. Hope died out after an hour of wandering. He also remembered that he was supposed to go out with his parents that evening. "Uncle, time kya hua?", he asked a passing man. The answer, "7:30" sent cold shivers down his spine. He was to be back home by seven. He could be grounded for a month for this violation. He faced the expected barrage of questions as he limped in home with an empty firki. "Where have you been? I thought you were flying kites from the roof. Where are your kites? Did you lose them all? What happened to all the manjha?" Papa was dismayed at hearing his tearful story. "Let it be. At least you flew them for two hours. Come, let's get ready to go out." Satish was too afraid to bring up the topic of a fresh supply of kites or manjha. His fears were confirmed a few days later when Mom put her foot down. "No more kite flying for you. You are becoming uncouth like the jhopadpatti (slum) kids. You need to focus more on studies. And try decent games like table tennis or cricket." Papa also got the ultimatum from Mom. "I warn you not to give any money for kites."

That was the end of Satish's childhood of flying kites. He vowed to resume his favourite hobby when he grew up and started earning his own money. Time flew. Satish went through school and college, graduated as a mechanical engineer and began working for a private airline as a maintenance engineer. He had forgotten his childhood dreams of uninterrupted kite flying. Doesn't this happen ever so often in life? You think you have to be somewhere in ten years. But the goals change during the journey. The original goals seem ill informed at the end of ten years. You now have a new idea of where you want to be in the next ten years. And so on. Satish hardly had any leisure, which he used for trekking in the Western Ghats and chasing girls. Occasionally, he would read a novel or two. On one such occasion, he happened to pick up Khaled Hosseni's Kite Runner. Childhood memories came rushing back as he read the vivid descriptions of kite fights in Kabul. He remembered that fateful birthday - relived the momentary joy of having flown at full deel and the immediate shock of losing it all. He had to do it again. Just for fun. It would be a fitting way to close the chapter on a childhood aspiration.

A few days later, Satish was back at his rooftop - six kites and a brand few firki of Surati manjha in hand. They cost much more now but hardly pinched a man of his means. The roof seemed much smaller than what he remembered. It looked shabbier. Satish marked the spot where he had desperately lunged at his last kite. All around him, new taller buildings had come up in place of the old ones. They stifled the breeze. Just this once for old time's sake said Satish to himself as he tried to get his first kite of adulthood up in the air. He was barely airborne for a minute when his kite got tangled in a cable TV cable running from a tall neighbouring building to his. He hadn't noticed these cables earlier. Now he saw the spaghetti in the skies above his building. They ran all over the place. Taller buildings acting as hubs and radiating out to the lower ones and from them to their neighbours. How could he ever get his kites through this maze to the skies beyond? He was reminded of crisscross burglar alarm laser beams guarding a precious exhibit in a crime thriller movie. These rooftop cables should be banned, thought Satish to himself, they should be asked to lay it underground, just like telephone and electricity. His evening of reunion with a childhood dream was ruined. Perhaps I'll try again when I am able to afford a house in one of those tall towers. No cables would interfere with his flying then. And thus was added one more reason to dream the dream of millions of Mumbaikars - to own a shiny new apartment in the metropolis.

The Private Pact

2009-08-13T20:18:00.006+05:30

Rock Solid Ltd. was in the real estate business - building houses (sorry, homes) for the burgeoning SEC-A consumer segment of India. Jatin Mehta, CEO of Rock Solid Ltd. was meeting with his marketing head, Piyush Mishra. Piyush was presenting his plan for the year. This was a year in which they planned to go public, marketing was critical. So far they had mainly focussed on selling dreams to the retail consumer ("Enjoy your life out of a Rock Solid home"). This year, they had to please investors as well. Their media advisors (an ad agency) had suggested increased visibility in business magazines, financial newspaper supplements, business TV channels and some CSR (corporate social responsibility) spending to complete the mix. This in addition to the regular retail spend on billboards, FM, internet, popular dailies and general news channels. Needless to say, it was a plan for spending serious money. Jatin understood the importance of a carpet bombing tactic for a good IPO. But he wasn't sure of the efficacy of the suggested approach. After all, it was only natural for an ad agency to suggest a grand multi-pronged campaign. "Piyush, do we have options other than committing all this spend upfront?", he asked. Piyush was prepared, "Well it is a long shot but we could explore a private pact with the RoI group".

RoI was a media conglomerate. Its eponymic daily newspaper ('Reports of India') enjoyed a massive circulation. It had significant ability to shape the opinions of India's upwardly mobile aspiring class. No serious advertising campaign was complete without buying ad space and/or time at RoI. However, with the explosion in new media and media businesses, the supply of media inventory had shot up. As a consequence, even premium brands like RoI were under pricing pressure. To counter this and to leverage their position in the market, clever minds at the helm of RoI had devised a new line of business. It was called private pacts. Instead of parting with hard cash, a pre-IPO company like Rock Solid could sell a small stake to RoI in return for assured media coverage in the form of advertisements and other corporate branding services. Upon successful IPO, RoI was free to sell its stake in the open market thereby making a decent pile for itself. Depending on RoI's ability to pump up market sentiment in favour of the IPO, it could end up making much more than what would have by charging for the pre-IPO advertising.

Jatin was cautiously optimistic on hearing Piyush's explanation of private pacts. "What do you mean by corporate branding services?", he asked, "Surely, they won't give us editorial coverage, will they?". "It is all handled very subtly", replied Piyush in a soft tone and went on to explain a modern day avatar of subliminal advertising. "Any blatant editorial coverage will be gleefully seized upon by RoI's competitors waiting to tarnish its image. So they'll do the occasional advertorial in the main newspaper. But that is routine. Here is the subtle part. They will feature your interview in their real estate supplement. They'll call you for comments on market trends and start name dropping Rock Solid. Imagine a potential IPO time investor reading a real estate supplement article about demand for premium housing in one of the localties where we have a project. The article might say 'Reputed developers like Rock Solid report full bookings within a week of opening.' You can't get that kind of credibility through advertisements. Besides RoI has the right incentive in place to do this right. They typically try to book profits within a year of the IPO." Jatin nodded slowly.

After a couple of months of negotiations, a deal between Rock Solid and RoI was in place. For a seven per cent stake, RoI would promote Rock Solid across all its channels. Rock Solid was to go in for an IPO within eighteen months and RoI had the option to sell its stake any time after the IPO. The coverage began, first a trickle and then a steady stream. On the RoI group owned FM station, during a music show, one would hear a DJ have this one time scripted conversation with a staged caller. "Hi Rakesh, where do you live?". A fake Rakesh would reply "Patagonia Heights". DJ exclaims "Wow you mean the one by Rock Solid constructions? You must be a rich guy. What can I play for you?" On the RoI media website you might stumble upon a reader poll that asked, "If there was one thing that would make a big positive difference to your life, it would be: (a) Own a Ferrari (b) Own a posh Rock Solid home (c) Spend a day with your favourity celebrity". Bull's Hit, RoI's business supplement would say in the middle of an article talking about property prices, "Jatin Mehta, the astute CEO of rising star Rock Solid Ltd. says there is no near or medium term price stagnation in sight for residential for commercial properties." You get the drift. Retail and institutional investors were being steadily informed about the virtues of Rock Solid Ltd.

Rock Solid Ltd. went public in a year. The issue was oversubscribed four times even though the stock was priced at a premium. It seemed like a win=win pact between two business executed to perfection. It was time for RoI to offload its stake and realize a well deserved return on investment. Except for a chance cafeteria conversation between Iqbal Dalvi, the RoI account head for Rock Solid and a stock analyst, Anthoy Dias. Anthony wrote stock recommendations in Bull's Hit. He had been tracking Rock Solid for a while. Iqbal asked Anthony if he thought Rock Solid had peaked. If so, it would be a good time to book profits. Iqbal replied, "Oh no, sir. Rock Solid is just experiencing some temporary resistance at current levels. I'll bet ten thousand bucks that this stock is going to almost double in six to eight months." Startled by this reply, Iqbal asked Anthony to make a formal presentation on the matter. Anthony knew that he was sitting on a potential jackpot. If he could convince Iqbal of his analysis and the company made a much bigger profit selling later, he was sure to get a much better job with the private pacts team. No more mind numbing research and churning out stock recommendations. And he was quite sure of his analysis. He marshaled all the facts at hand into a compelling presentation. "Good work Anthony", said a convinced Iqbal, "I'll hold out for six months. If it goes as you forecast, you might find a place in my team."

This was June 2008. By end of August, Rock Solid had gained nearly seventy per cent over its IPO offer price. It looked like even Anthony's bold forecast had been conservative. Iqbal decided to sell Rock Solid in a month's time. Then came the news of the shenanigans of certain investment banks in the United States. Rock Solid lost its momentum and dipped ten per cent. Iqbal and Anthony concurred that it was a temporary blip and the Indian market would resume its rise during the festive season. However, the bottom fell out of the market by end of October. Rock Solid was now trading at a 20 percent discount to IPO levels. Iqbal came under fire for the decision to hold on to Rock Solid. He had to do quick damage control. His bonuses were linked to the profit he could deliver out of his accounts. Iqbal decided that it was time to inform the retail investor about bargain deals. He summoned Anthony.

"You know how your forecast about Rock Solid has turned out."
"But Sir, who could have expected this madness on Wall Street?"
"Ok, are you still willing to stand by your analysis that Rock Solid is fundamentally a great stock?"
"Yes Sir. Absolutely."
"Great. Then you should have no qualms doing this. I want you to advise a strong buy on Rock Solid. You will do this on Bull's Hit every alternate week for six weeks."
"But Sir, three recommendations in six weeks is unheard of. Besides, from a retail investor's point of view, there are other stocks that are much more attractive right now."
"Anthony, you got us into this mess. Don't whine about doing a little clean up. After all, I am only asking you to inform our readers that Rock Solid is a must buy at current levels. Don't you agree that Rock Solid is undervalued right now? One more thing, that vacancy in my team may go away soon. I have to go now. Talk to you in six weeks."

As the recommendations began appearing, retail interest started picking up. Most retail investors have a herd mentality. They buy when the market is on the rise and sell when it tanks. But there are quite a few cowboys with enough money in hand to indulge in bottom fishing based on recommendations in the media and other hearsay. These cowboys started picking up Rock Solid. Their actions created minor ripples on the radars of technical traders. These canny traders soon realized what was happening - the Bull's Hit recommendations weren't hard to miss. They sensed that a big mover was playing games. They sensed that there would a steady stream of retail purchases and a sudden bunch of huge sales. They knew they could make money in Rock Solid by buying now and selling as soon as they saw the first installment of big sales. Seeing the momentum, a few unsuspecting sectoral mutual fund managers decided to go a little overweight on Rock Solid.

By middle of December 2008, Rock Solid was back to IPO levels. Iqbal heaved a sigh of relief and started offloading tranches of Rock Solid. The technical traders joined in the party. In a matter of two weeks, before the cowboys could even blink, Rock Solid was back to rock bottom levels. Iqbal's boss was happy that he had managed to save the profitability of his account. Iqbal inducted Anthony into his team. Jatin Metha of Rock Solid thanked Iqbal for RoI's support during difficult times. Retail investors who were gullible enough to believe the recommendations were left carrying the Rock Solid can. They posted messages like the following on market watch websites:

"I bought Rock Solid in November but it has fallen since then. Do you think it is a good buy-and-hold stock for the long term?"

Antaakshari

2009-05-16T14:10:00.009+05:30

"Isn't she gorgeous?" Sid was gloating over his shiny new Swift. He liked the shape and copper hue of his first car. Rita, his fledgling girlfriend, wasn't so sure. She had never thought highly of the Swift's looks. "Ridiculous", she said to herself that Sid should direct his compliments of good looks at his car and not her. Her monopoly on Sid's attention (this being the early stages of girlfriendship) was under threat. But a man with a new first car doesn't need much reassurance. As he took Rita for their first long drive, he couldn't help observing aloud the various highlights of the machine. Rita developed a sudden liking for the song on FM and turned up the volume on the car stereo. "Hmm, I didn't know you liked RnB." came the remark from Sid. "I guess it's my wonderful JBL speakers that make it sound good." Rita realized that she had to give it some time. So when Sid suggested they do Nandi Hills as their next trip, Rita thought it wise to suggest company. "Let's call Hemant and Sheetal as well." Sid said it was a great idea. Hemant was Sid's college batch mate and buddy. A year ago, Hemant had bought a second hand Maruti 800 and Sid had shared many a ride in it. "Hemant keeps moping around in his 800. It's time he got a feel of cruising in a Swift."

In a few days, the two young couples set off to Nandi Hills in Sid's new Swift. Sid was playing his favourite songs. "Nice sound", Hemant observed. "Yeah.Thanks." said a visibly pleased Sid. "Did you notice you can actually hear the fingers on the base guitar?" Rita noticed Sheetal rolling her eyes and suggested, "Hey, let's play Antaakshari". Sid did not relish the prospect of switching off his speakers but the girls had made up their mind and besides Hemant had already attested to the quality of his sound system. "Ok. Hemant shuru kar." suggested Sid. But Hemant was given to a bit of daydreaming. Cruising along in a car that he wasn't driving made for a good opportunity to get lost in his own world. He loved the sound of certain words and had drifted at the mention of Antaakshari.

Antaakshari is a compound of 'anth' (meaning end) and 'akshar' (meaning letter). The 'i' suffix gives it a meaning '(game) of ending letters'. How beautiful and sonorous, thought Hemant. That led him to consider his own name, which also had an 'anth' in it. He knew that 'Hemant' meant winter. But he had never analysed it as 'Hem' plus 'anth'. That meant 'end of gold'. Perhaps, mulled Hemant, it described winter as the end of the season of golden rays of the sun. Thankfully, it didn't mean end of money. Funny, he thought, to have both him and Sheetal (meaning "cool") to be named after cold weather. Historically, most of hot tropical India has so eagerly awaited the cold season that even children were named after it. You don't find Indians named after the summer season (actually, he did know a Gujju girl named "Grishma", meaning "hot" but perhaps her parents were alluding to her potentially hot looks). In the middle of these ruminations, he heard a voice in the background, "Hemant, shuru kar". He recognized it as Sid's voice. Sid was short for Siddharth, boy name of the Buddha. And Siddharth meant one whose goals were achieved. Certainly apt for Sid today, thought Hemant, if one set the goal as owning a new Swift.

Hemant was jolted out of his reverie by a laughing Sheetal shaking him by his shoulder. "Quit dreaming dude, start singing." Ah Antaakshari, remembered Hemant and started off singing a sixties song: "ठण्डी हवा ये चाँदनी सुहानी ..." keeping with the theme of celebrating cool weather. He liked the lyrics as much as the music and often sang all the antaraas (verses) of a song as the game went on. The others were quite impressed by Hemant's ability to sing the entire song. "I wish Sid had ten per cent of your memory" complained Rita, "he can't even remember what my favourite songs are." Sid joked at Hemant, "Now I know why you don't upgrade your tinny car speakers. You just turn them off and sing the complete song yourself." Hemant smiled and thought to himself "Sid is too busy worrying about tinny sound and base guitar sounds to notice the obvious melody and lyrical beauty of a song." The vauge outline of a short story by Tagore came to his mind.

Three children were at play in a village on the outskrits of Calcutta. Two of them were from poor families, the third was well off. They were enacting a kingly parade. One of them (the king) was seated in a barrow pushed by the other while the third doubled up as vanguard and flower-showering-welcoming-maiden. The three were having a blast. The king was bouncing up and down on the uneven ground waving his flag made of leaves and branches to an imaginary crowd. The charioteer (barrow-pusher) was a trying a dance that kept in step with the undulation of the barrow, announcing the arrival of the mighty king from time to time. The child leading the processing alternated his expression from that of a grave looking, spear wielding guard to that of a welcoming maiden showering lotus petals on the king's train. It was a picture of mirth. Then the father of the rich child arrived on the scene. He had just returned from a week long business trip to Calcutta and had bought a gift for his child. A bright gleaming tricycle. After he left, the children resumed the game upgrading the king's chariot from lowly barrow to gorgeous tricycle. But the dynamics of the game changed. Everyone now wanted to be king and enjoy the tricycle. Tagore observed: "The toy had overshadowed the game".

"The games and toys have changed but the story has stayed the same." said Hemant to himself as the car drew to a halt at Nandi Hills.

Lord of the dogs

2009-01-03T17:44:00.003+05:30

Sethu let out a satisfied burp as he made his way out of Adyar Anand Bhavan. The delicious aroma of sambar rice (with a dash of pure ghee) was still lingering in his nostrils. If only the lunch at his company canteen were half as good.

His thoughts were interrupted: “Ayya, two rupees please. My child hasn’t eaten since two days.”, a beggar woman clutching a baby started pleading with him. Sethu cast a disdainful look as he tried to dodge her; she was the usual sort, dishevelled with dirty clothes and a ragged child on her hips to complete the appearance of a BPL (below poverty line) citizen.

The beggar woman didn’t care for his disdain. At least he had reacted. That was the sign of a potential donor. The seasoned never-give-money-to-beggars type would have walked straight on as if she did not exist. This bloke had made eye contact. Time to move in for the kill – she tugged at his shirt and let out an even more plaintive 'Ayyaaa'. The move backfired. Sethu gave her a stern look, “Don’t touch me. Don’t you feel ashamed standing outside a restaurant and begging like this? Why don’t you take up some construction labour? You have two hands and feet, there are so many buildings and roads coming up all around. People like you spoil the image of this city.” The beggar woman retreated, muttering to herself “Ask for two rupees and you get a lecture.”

The next day, Sethu set out for office. He lived a few kilometers away and generally took his car but as it was out for servicing, he decided to take an auto. He started walking the couple of blocks to the auto stand. The narrow by lane was littered with garbage. He started making his way through gingerly.

Suddenly he froze in his tracks – a pack of street dogs had started barking furiously a few meters in front of him, blocking the way. They were excited by a passing buffalo. Sethu was terrified nevertheless. He despised these street dogs. He would have happily strangled the animal rights activist who was responsible for their proliferation. But for the misplaced priorities of the activists, the local municipality would have controlled their population by sterilization. He waited for them to calm down, wondering if he would have to abandon this route and take a more circuitous one to reach the auto stand. He was nearly late for a 9am meeting.

His predicament was cleared by a shrill call, “Rajaa”. The dogs immediately turned back and ran in the direction of the caller. Relieved that his path was clear, Sethu hurried towards the waiting autos at the stand. He cast a sideways glance to check who it was that controlled this troublesome pack. It was a disheveled figure with dirty clothes and a ragged child on her hips. Sethu recognized her as the beggar woman he had encountered the day before. She was throwing bits of food at the dogs, calling each one by her chosen name, delight writ large on her face. The dogs lapped it up, wagging their tails excitedly, the distraction of the buffalo all but forgotten.

“Its funny. Had she been busy doing productive construction labour, I might have got late for my meeting”, thought Sethu to himself as the auto sputtered to a start.

A cup of tea

2008-12-01T00:17:00.006+05:30

(inspired by Kalyan Varma)

Geeta worked for a technology company. It was a good company - bright people and an environment that afforded some intellectual stimulation. An enterprising colleague once decided to invite bright people from other fields to give talks at the office. On one such occasion, a wildlife photographer was invited. The photographer began to talk about conservation. He used his stock of photos to tell a story about conservation. Contrary to popular perception, he said, the biggest threat to our wildlife did not come from criminals like poachers and sandalwood smugglers. The biggest threat came from the common man - people like Geeta, you and me. How so? The photographer told the story of a cup of tea.

A lot of Indians drink tea. The basic ingredients for typical Indian tea are tea leaves, water, milk and sugar. Tea grows very well in hilly climes like Assam, Kerala and places like Ooty and Kodaikanal in Tamil Nadu. Forest land gets cleared to make way for tea plantations. Even though the forests don't get wiped out, they definitely get fragmented. Many kinds of wildlife cannot survive in fragmented habitats with sterile tea plantations between fragments. Their numbers dwindle. No single person can be blamed for this. Drinking tea is now part of our culture. Tea corporations merely fulfill society's need. The workers on the tea plantation toil hard just to make a living. As demand for tea increases, more land has to be brought under tea cultivation. In a country where unforested, uncultivated, fertile land is scarce, the casualty is the forest. No criminals here. Onto the next ingredient, water. Water, that giver of life.

Dams are built to quench the thirst of cities, irrigate fields and generate hydro-electric power. These artificial reservoirs often flood thousands of acres of pristine forest land to hold water. Widlife again suffers a double whammy of direct loss of forest habitat and severe fragmentation of whatever is left. An elephant that is used to ambling along a certain path in the forest now finds its track inundated. One can try putting up a sign that reads "Please use diversion. Nation on the move.", but as you might guess, the elephant won't be impressed.

Let's talk about milk. Milk comes from millions of small houses in villages each owing a few head of cattle. Milk co-operatives collect and process this milk before supplying it to the cities. In India, we don't have designated pasture lands for cattle grazing. The villagers have no choice but to herd their cattle into nearby forest or semi-forest lands for grazing. These limited lands get depleted by the grazing of ever increasing numbers of cattle. The soil gradually degrades leading to eventual loss of forest.

Sugar comes from sugarcane fields. Same problem of needing to put more land under cultivation to meet increased demand. Widlife does not give up these lands easily. Big cats (e.g. lepoards) move into the tall, well wooded sugarcane fields for hunting. There they come into contact with humans and get killed. No criminal activity here - it is natural for farmers to protect themselves and their family from these hunting cats.

So there you go. A simple everyday cup of tea has far reaching effects when sipped twice a day by a few hundred million people. So is the case with almost every other aspect of our consumption. Clearly, there are no easy solutions. This story was only meant to elucidate the problem.

That day, Geeta went home with a disturbed mind. Her dreams so far were built upon greater consumption. She liked to shop and dine at many of the upscale malls and restaurants. She was saving to buy a new car. Eventually, she had plans to settle down with a suitable husband in a nice comfortable house near the city and raise a couple of children in due course. She realized that millions of other young people like herself were dreaming similar dreams. Based on what the photographer had told, the realization of all these dreams would have a severe cumulative impact on the ecology. And humans would not be insulated from the impact. But then, maybe the photographer was being alarmist. Surely, human ingenuity would find a way out. Genetically engineered tea might increase yields hundred fold. Cheap desalination technology could solve water problems. Artificial milk substitutes could be developed just like artificial sugar substitutes that are already available. Geeta wasn't satisfied with these thoughts. She needed reassurance. She talked to her friend Deb about it.

Deb was a researcher in artificial intelligence. Over the years he had built a fabulously capable bot. He called it Debot. Debot was capable of natural language and speech processing. Over the years, Deb had fed it with nearly the sum total of human knowledge - scanned copies of important books from his university library and the output from a spider that crawled the internet. Deb asked her to come over during the weekend for a chat with Debot.

Debot listened to Geeta's story. Geeta explained her dilemma and asked Debot if it saw technology being able to solve these problems. "A lot of people are under the delusion that technology can rescue mankind." replied Debot. "All technology can do is to make things cheaper or more efficient. e.g. an automobile that can go 100 miles per litre of petrol. Technology cannot help if you fritter away the savings by consuming even more. This effect has been observed in the past and it is called Jevon's effect. Basically the savings from better technology are more than offset by increased consumption. There is no escape unless you limit consumption. But then, modern economic models would fail because limiting consumption means limiting production and thereby economic growth."

Geeta took a while to digest this answer but it did seem to make sense. On the other hand, it's implications were wholly unpalatable. "You don't mean that the only way to survive is to put a cap on human progress, do you? For over three thousand years, human civilization been marching steadily along. We used to be hunter-gatherer savages until we invented agriculture. We have made great advancements in science, medicine and the arts. Where we are today is an inevitable progression from where we started." Geeta paused. Debot surmised, "Hmm, since it is difficult to lay a finger on any single event (e.g. invention of the steam engine) and say that is where humans screwed up, one could say that the situation today was inevitable given where you started long ago." "Hah, that's utter rubbish." came the retort from Geeta. "You seem to be implying that hunting and gathering is the only sustainable way of life." "No. But it is certainly unsustainable to live at odds with the laws of nature." said Debot, and over the next two hours, went on to explain Ishmael's teachings about the law of limited competition.

Of course, these teachings were completely new to Geeta - she sat as if she had just heard a fantastic tale of Sindbad the Sailor. Then she said, "Hey Debot, I am feeling depressed and helpless. Say something nice." Debot thought for a few hundred milliseconds and said, "I'll try but it is up to you to feel good about it. You know this collective rape of the earth by humans is going to stop soon. On an ecological time scale that is. Humans are accelerating towards their own extinction. Once humans are fully extinct, the earth will begin its journey of recovery. In due course, the earth will be restored to its natural splendour. Until the next catastrophe that is. The rise and fall of modern human activity will be an invisible blip on earth's timeline. After all, what is a few thousand years of madness in a lifetime of a few billion years. It is something like 0.0001% of the time. The earth will be fine, don't worry." concluded Debot. "You are heartless." sighed Geeta. "That is a fact." quipped Debot.

"I'm not in the mood for your stupid jokes. Is there a switch somewhere that will make you a little positive?" pleaded Geeta. "Ok. Here comes constructive advice. Limit consumption. Try going carbon neutral. A lot of nouveau-riche people in the BRIC countries think that it now their turn to lead the hedonistic life. Such thinking will only accelerate your downfall. Rediscover local self-sustaining community life. Centralization may be efficient but it concentrates power, reduces visibility to real problems and makes common people feel helpless. Local communities are a great way to decentralize. Reduce your dependence on government and corporations. Break free of the shackles of modern economy. Breathe easy. Save the world. Good luck." At that moment, there was a power cut and Debot went to sleep.

The fiddler of Kodihalli

2008-10-19T11:03:00.005+05:30

Bangalore was once a sleepy town. There were many small villages around the centre of the city. 'Halli' is the local term for village. So you had names like Jalahalli, Marthahalli and Kodihalli. With the IT boom of the 1990s, the area around Kodihalli developed rapidly. Big glass-skinned office buildings sprung up along the main road. Young people from all over the country migrated to Bangalore to work in these offices. They rented rooms in the nearby 'Hallis'. The Hallis were ill-equipped to deal with the migrant boom. But the rent was high, so everyone who owned a house on a tiny plot of land built hapazard extensions on top, overhanging the sides etc. By the early 2000s, nearly every house had tenants. These young high earning tenants and their nouveau-riche landlords soon purchased bikes and then cars. Labyrinthine roads of sleepy villages now became bustling, noisy streets, full of shops, vehicles, people and houses jostling for space.

Kabir was a tenant in one such house in Kodihalli. He worked as an engineer in one of the new software companies. Not having much to do on weekends, he began taking violin (fiddle) lessons from a nearby tutor. His dream was to be able to play semi-classical Hindi film songs such as 'Mohe bhool gaye saawariya and Man tadapat Hari darshan ko aaj (Baiju Bawra)' on the violin. That was a long way off. He had to begin by learning to play single notes without making a screechy sound. Then the elementary lessons - sarali varsai, janta varasai and so on. He practised whenever he got time, mostly in the evenings, amidst the honks and beeps of the vehicles passing outside.

His house was particularly ill-suited for undisturbed pursuit of music, situated, as it was on the edge of a turning road. The road may have been less narrow in an earlier age, but now it was hemmed in by shanty settlements on the other side. The turn was effectively a blind Z turn. Even so, it became a popular short cut route for drivers desperate to escape the madness that was traffic on the main road. Kabir's practice was punctuated by shrill horns, angry yelps, long impatient beeps and a whole variety of other driver moods. There wasn't much he could do about it except get his skill to a level where he didn't have to wonder if a note came from his violin in his hand or the Santro passing by.

The days went by and Kabir's fiddling became a little more tolerable. His bowing acquired vigour. Kabir wondered if the passers by outside or even his landlord on the ground floor (he himself lived in the house extension on the first floor) ever heard and appreciated his efforts. He actually wanted to ask his landlord but felt shy to ask directly. One day he brought it up tactfully, "I hope my practice doesn't disturb you." The landlord wasn't quite the type that one would characterize as a patron of the arts. His concerns were much more down to earth. This is what he replied:

"Kabir, I am glad you brought this up. See there is a small problem. You know as it is there is a lot of vehicle noise because of the blind turn outside this house. Car drivers always honk as they approach the turn to warn any vehicles coming from the other side. However, this honking used to die down in the late evenings as the traffic diminished. Half the car owners are US-returned engineers and they generally have the good sense to not honk in residential areas at least in the late evening. But of late, even late evenings have been very noisy. Kabir, you may not be aware but this is actually because of your fiddling. I am not saying you don't play well but when a car approaches and you play a strong note like Paa, the driver assumes that it is a honk from a vehicle on the other end of the turn. In turn, he also lets out a strong honk. I have experienced this first hand when I come home in my car. The result it gets very noisy and my wife has to turn up the volume on her TV to watch her soap. "

Kabir's face fell. He could not have dreamed of a more unenthusiastic response to his eager quest for approval. He tried to mumble an apology and said something about shutting all windows and practising from an inner room. The landlord then suggested "Why don't you practise in the morning instead? Say 6 to 7?" "How will that help?" asked Kabir, clearly hurt "Won't it spoil everyone's morning sleep?" The landlord replied, "Ah. but that is exactly what I want. I have to coax my son to get out of bed in the morning and get ready for school. You know Bangalore weather is really pleasant in the morning and what with all the peace and quiet - one doesn't feel like waking. If you practise in the morning, then all vehicles will start honking back and my son won't feel like lolling in bed."

The next day there was an advertisement in the free classifieds accommodation wanted section, "Budding violinist seeks accommodation in a tranquil area, far away from public roads, landlords from a musical background preferred. Willing to pay a premium on the rent. Please contact directly (brokers excuse) at ..."

The Power Cut

2008-10-09T10:48:00.005+05:30

If only the Sastry family had purchased a second TV during the Diwali promotional sale, this Sunday morning would have been more cordial. Shivarama Sastry wanted to watch "The week that was" on CNBC. His wife Seetalakshmi was equally intent on watching Rasikapriya, a musical show on Podhigai. She prevailed after a five minute argument that started off with an explanation of the need to keep oneself abreast of the movements in the market in order to invest wisely, and, a retort that the point was moot in a situation where there wasn't any money to invest. And so Shivarama Sastry went back to his chair in the balcony, sulking behind his Sunday newspaper.

His son Satish was trying to land a date with his colleague and muse, Suma. The last forty five minutes of wooing over his cellphone had merely yielded "Can we do it some other time? I have guests coming over today." Satish knew this was just a way of checking how badly he wanted to meet her. He was ready to woo for another hour if needed. His battery was running out. So he ensconced himself near his bed, got the charger running and continued, "Hey Suma, you'll get bored with relatives dear, I'll be so much more fun, don't you think?" Swathi, his sister was tapping away on her laptop, responding to scraps she had received on her Orkut page.

And thus it was, that Sunday morning. An urban nuclear family of four - each absorbed in splendid isolation. Until the power cut, that is. Unable to satisfy the burgeoning demand, the troubled power company had initiated a load-shedding programme. The communication from its PRO had been printed two days back in a two inch by one inch block on page seven of the daily newspaper. The Sastry family had missed this nugget of information. Disquiet descended on the house as the TV screen went blank, Swathi's budget laptop popped up a futile notification saying "attempting to reconnect" not realizing that the modem was dead, and Satish's cellphone emitted a plaintive beep suggesting that it was very low on battery as well.

In about five minutes, after uttering their respective curses, mother, son and daughter found their way into the living room, the father joining in from his newspaper reverie to assess the situation. For about fifteen seconds they generally looked at each other not sure how to deal with the sudden interruption of their activities. Then son picked up the newspaper that father had temporarily set aside. The marooned father decided he'd go have his bath. Mother went to the kitchen hoping to finish cooking before power returned. Then she could watch her channel in peace. Suma was the only one left without a plan of action. Why can't the modem run on a battery like the laptop, she thought? Then she remembered, "Hey brother, I want to buy a wireless internet card, which one do you suggest?" The reply came from the kitchen, "Swathi, you are addicted to internet. Come help me a bit with the cooking."

An hour later in the Sastry home, power supply was still not restored. Satish was practising chords on his year old guitar. Shivarama Sastry was sorting books on his antique book rack. Swathi was adding ground spices to the brewing sambar under the tutelage of her mother. In due course, lunch was ready and the foursome settled down to eat. Father noticed that daughter wore a new hairstyle. "When did you change it?" "Oh, its over two weeks old." replied Swathi. "Amma's hairdo is way more stylish." teased Satish. Swathi ignored him. Then came the suggestion that comes with unfailing regularity when an Indian family with a grown up son sits together to lunch. "Satish, I want you meet this girl. Very nice family." "Please amma, I am not going to marry for another five years." "Don't be silly, your father will retire in two years. We are growing old you know." "Don't worry", replied Satish "I'll take care of myself."

At the back of his mind though, he was a little disturbed. He knew that his father was going to retire, he did not realize that it was only two years away. Not that it mattered so much. They were decently off, both he and Swathi had jobs and his mom had recently taken voluntary retirement from her bank officer job. But still, it seemed like some responsibility was being put on his shoulders before he was quite ready. "Appa, how is the sambar? I made it." beamed Swathi. "Really? Very good. Just like how your mom makes it"..As the luncheon drew to an end, Seetalakshmi concluded "Thanks to the power cut, we all had lunch together like a real family. Otherwise each one will have it at their own time and along with a cellphone, laptop or TV."

Lights

2008-08-16T15:28:00.003+05:30

Ravi sat at his desk, writing an email on his project’s status. Outside the shaded windows of his sixth floor office, the skies had turned a trifle dark. He could see a bank of clouds gathered together as if conspiring to decide the most opportune moment to jettison their watery burden. Ravi got up from his seat to turn on some lights.

The switchboard was a large panel of piano key switches, each identical to the other with no marking to indicate which light it was for. He flipped a couple; they lighted a corner of the office quite opposite to where he sat. So he started from the other corner of the switchboard hoping that the layout of the board would bear some correspondence to the position of the lights on the floor. This time he managed to bring to life a gay circle of lights around a pillar near the printer. Muttering a silent curse to himself, he decided to try a methodical approach from top left to bottom right; at least he wouldn’t miss his light that way.

Five tries down the line he began to realize that this was some variation of Murphy’s Law at work – “No matter what sequence you choose, the light you want: you will reach last.” He played with this thought as he went along in his quest for the light when it occurred to him that it wasn’t so much of a law at all; after all, he would stop experimenting with the switches once he had the light he wanted, so it had to be the last one. A little bit of dressing was all that was needed to state a simple truth as a cunning law.

Coming out of these thoughts, he suddenly noticed that the light above his desk was shining in all its sixty watts of glory. Which switch had done the trick, he did not know; it had happened during his ruminations. Not that he cared to backtrack and find out; his desk was lighted, that’s all he wanted. He could now finish off his email and go home in time to avoid the plotting downpour.

Coconut gunpowder

2008-07-29T16:01:00.008+05:30

Vivek had assigned a special ring tone on his Nokia mobile phone to warn him of calls from his mother. He recognized it instantly amidst the drone of his manager’s talk in the conference room. Wondering what it could be, he nevertheless cancelled the call making a mental note to follow up later.

At lunch time, he called her. “What is it amma? I was in a meeting when you called earlier. Is everything alright”? “Oh! Nothing to be alarmed. I just remembered that your father’s shraddam falls on the 26^th. I thought I’ll let you know well in advance so that you can plan your leave. We should do the proper rituals at least for the first few years.” Vivek tried to think if he had any important engagements on the 26^th. “It should be okay I think. Prema and I will be there on 26^th morning. Have you informed the priest?” “No, I haven’t. But I’ll do so now. Good to know that you can make it. Your father will be pleased. Hope Prema is doing fine.”

Vivek and Prema were a dink couple, married for about two years, working in Bangalore. They were not particularly religious but at the same time they did not want to offend the sentiments of their elder generation. Vivek’s mother Meenakshi had been widowed shortly after Vivek’s marriage. Despite Vivek’s offer to live with him and Prema in Bangalore, she had chosen to continue living in Madurai, her hometown and residence of sixty years. What would she do in an unfamiliar city at this age? In Madurai, at least she knew her neighbours and the beloved Meenakshi Amman temple was just a short distance away. Besides, she knew too well that it wasn’t the wisest thing to live with a newly married son.

On the morning of the 26^th, a pot-bellied priest and his two assistants in tow performed the homam to the accompaniment of vedic chants. How do they remember all these verses, wondered Vivek, sitting beside the holy fire, wiping his smarting eyes with his angavastram, his wife standing behind him draped in a nine yard podavai. This being the second anniversary, he too was beginning to remember parts of some verses. The oral tradition was playing itself out, etching the verses into Vivek’s mind. The hired cook had prepared a sumptuous shraddam feast, after eating which one could not help but fall asleep.

Later in the day, he chatted with his mother, enquiring about the local affairs and her general well being. Meenakshi wanted to ask Vivek if they were planning to start a family but then she thought the better of it. “We’ll have to leave at 8pm to catch the train to Banaglore”, said Vivek. “I’ll prepare dosai for palaharam. Don’t go on empty stomach”, offered Meenakshi. Vivek and Prema were only too happy at the prospect of home made dosai. It was the perfect light meal after a heavy lunch in the morning. Prema offered to prepare chutney for the dosai. “Don’t bother” said Meenakshi, “I prepared some thenga milagapodi (coconut gunpowder) while you were asleep. Have chutney in your Bangalore hotel. Here you have it with my preparation.”

Prema was pleasantly surprised. Thenga milagapodi was her favourite side dish for dosai. The fine blend of powdered lentils, chilly, spices and grated coconut was a rare delicacy these days. It is best eaten fresh, the coconut loses flavour after a couple of days. It was one of those little delights that hadn’t yet been vacuum sealed and marketed as ready-to-eat food in Bangalore’s up-market groceries. Prema ate six dosais. She enjoyed the taste and aroma of thenga milagapodi laden dosai.

Isn’t it curious that the taste of native food can bring back native memories? Prema remembered her carefree days in school when she would return home to similar fare prepared by her mother. “Quite remarkable people,” Prema thought to herself. “They have so much energy and zest to do these things. I wish I could bring myself to prepare this stuff in my kitchen. But then I have a 9 to 6 job and gym in the evening. Besides its too much work. And who’ll do the cleaning?” And then it struck her that her boss had once fondly referred to tasting thenga milagapodi on his visit to a friend’s house in Chennai. It would be quite cool to be able to demonstrate her culinary skills to her boss. “Amma, how did you prepare this?” she asked her mother-in-law, ready to add this recipe to her meagre portfolio. “Ah. Looks like you liked it. You eat. I’ll tell you.”

Vivek gave Prema a wry smile as they left the table, “You are terrific!, you are hardly interested in preparing sambar and here you are asking recipes for exotic side dishes.” “So what?” asked Prema, “you can have all the sambar you want at the local Darshini, will you get thenga moligapodi there?” Wishing Meenakshi goodbye they left in the evening, ready to resume their routine but quite gratified to be touched by an enchanting slice of culinary nostalgia.