Tales from Near and Far

The Mysterious Sadhu

2015-03-20T11:09:00.002-07:00

Image source (Nat Geo Traveller)

Authors Note:

One of my short stories was recently published in a National Geographic feature on “Travellers' Tales Of Ghosts, Ghouls And Things That Go Bump In The Night “. The full feature can be seen here. I am reproducing my contribution for the convenience of my readers.

But wait. Why should you read this spooky account yet again - assuming you are one of my numerous friends and readers who have already sent me kudos message for my first byline in a major publication?

Because I am going to share the insider scoop. The story behind the screens. The things that did not make it into the 250 words that got published.

I must pause here to reiterate to the readers that (almost) all this is indeed a true incident.

Railway Station, Bilaspur, Madhya Pradesh

Sarnath Express was my third home. Shuttling between my engineering college in Varanasi and my hometown Bilaspur, I had spent a staggering amount of time in that particular train.

This fact could be attributed to the temperament of the train more than to the frequency of my travel. The train, when at its best cheerful self, would merrily sprint between the two stations in little over twelve hours. But Sarnath express was not a cheerful train. It was mostly somberly depressed, revolting and lazy. Almost suicidal.

The train would pull up at the Bilaspur station, shy, reluctant and quite behind schedule. It would than start a leisurely stroll towards Varanasi, its destination. Occasionally breaking into a jog it would abruptly start walking to catch its breath before coming to a complete stop to let another train run by. The fourteen hours journey usually spread out to eighteen and sometime even twenty hours.

Today the train screeched into the station ten minutes before schedule. I was happily alarmed by the fact because this had happened first time the last three and half years I had been traveling on the train. I hopped into my compartment, and right as the clock stuck eight, the scheduled departure time of the train, the train jerked forward, accelerated rapidly and zoomed out of the station.

The eternally depressed Sarnath express was on Prosaic today!

(The following piece was published in the Nat Geo feature)

En route Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh

I was travelling to Benares. It was close to ten o’clock on a warm night and I was shuffling restlessly on the upper berth in a three-tier compartment of the Sarnath Express, which was due to reach the holy city the next morning. Sweaty and uncomfortable, I decided to get some fresh air.

Walking to the entrance of the compartment, I unlatched and swung the main door open. The train slowed down a bit. We were going through a dense forest; the smoky smell of sal trees poured into the compartment.

“Alakh Niranjan!” Startled by the salutation, I hurriedly looked back. A young ascetic stood behind me. He had long hair and intense, friendly eyes. Unlike the usual sadhus I've seen, he was clean-shaven and had long, neatly combed hair that fell on the shawl around his shoulders.

“Go and sleep,” he said, unblinking, “You want to see Ganga Maiya tomorrow, don’t you?”

I am not sure what overcame me, but I silently obeyed. Closing the door, I went back up my berth. In less than a minute, there was a loud screech, and amid screams of “Accident! Accident!” the train’s lights went off. Our compartment, already tilted at a very acute angle, rolled over on its side as it toppled down the track.

We were eventually rescued. The side of the compartment where I was standing just before the accident, was totally crushed. I searched for the sadhu but could not locate him among the alive or the dead.

–Prithvi Raj Banerjee

(Continuing with the behind the screen scoop)

On the railway tracks, somewhere near Shahdol, Madhya Pradesh

As our compartment toppled down the embankment of the elevated railway tracks, I was thinking about … well frankly nothing... because, I admit, I was shit scared to even think.

Though I did have a confirmation of my theory about the ‘depressed train’. Today the train had finaly snapped. Sarnath Express had attempted suicide.

I screamed along with the other passengers as finally the coach stopped tumbling, lying on its side, tilted up at a steep angle. Miraculously no one was seriously hurt and eventually (which seemed like an eternity in that chaos), I was able to scale up the aisle and carefully pop out of the main door above me. The space under the door had been packed with the luggage of the passengers who had exited before, providing a secure foothold.

As I dropped down the tracks, I saw several compartments lying toppled along the tracks towards the rear end of the train. Towards the front of the train – or rather where the front was supposed to be – there was nothing! The tracks stretched out and disappeared around a bend in the moonlight night.

The passengers had trickled out of their respective compartments and had started small bonfires along the track, which made the spooky setting even more eerie. I walked down the tracks and was relieved that there were no fatalities. The passengers, huddled around the flickering light of the bonfires, were tending their injured kin.

It was a moonlight night so we were able to see fairly clearly even in the middle of the night. Two tracks separated by a moat stretched around a bend. Sal forests started about hundred yards on the right side of the tracks. On the left were paddy fields, very sparsely dotted with settlements, which appeared as faint flickering lights close to the horizon.

I searched for the mysterious sadhu but could not locate him.

The Comic Tragedy

Some adrenaline pumped passengers, mostly those like myself who did not have any injured to tend to, decided to march up the tracks to find the first half of the train that was apparently missing.

“Sala driver”, puffed a hefty man in his mid-forties as we walked briskly up the tracks, “ he has been speeding since we left the first station “

“As if his rear was on fire”, quipped another “ now look we are screwed...”

I was trying hard not to imagine the driver with flames coming out of his rear end with his hands on the speed throttle of the engine, giving out a maniacal laugh even as one of the compartments swung dangerously around a bend and toppled over, pulling all the ones behind it as a stack of dominos.

The driver gave another maniacal laugh, just like the famed demons of Indian mythology, as the coupling link between the rear section of the train broke from the front section with a loud clang. He paused to give out a long toot of the engine horn before laughing again and sending out a big bellow of fire out of his rear as the engine disappeared around the bend.

“I have already beaten up the Guard”, boasted another proudly, showing a silver flashlight that was apparently confiscated from the poor railway employee whose compartment had also toppled over along with the rest of us.

“Can you turn that on please ?” I requested respectfully pointing to the flashlight. The vigilante reluctantly turned it on no sooner he did, we saw specks of flashlights up ahead on the tracks.

The rescue party from the front section of the train arrived shortly. Unfortunately the train driver was part of the rescue party. I tried my best but could not rescue the driver.

“What do we do now?” the hefty man asked, looking at the unconscious train driver, lying beside the tracks.

“ He is the only person who can contact the railway authorities...” I had screamed trying to save the driver from the mindless onslaught. My plea fell on deaf ears as a misaimed punch, ironically landed on my ear.

The Sadhu

I was alone. I tried not to think about the mindless violence as I jogged in darkness towards the bend, nursing my bruised ear. The front of the train should not be far away.

Right around the bend I could see lights on the track ahead of me. It was the front section of the train! My heart skipped a beat as I started running towards the reassuring lights.

Just then, soft footsteps behind me made a chill shoot up my spine. Just behind me, with a smile on his face was the mysterious sadhu I had met just before the accident.

“Alakh Niranjan!” He said effortlessly, his intense, friendly eyes glowing in the moonlit night. “ You did not get to sleep after all … did you?” I smiled sheepishly.

“Follow me”, he said as he almost floated down the tracks with me scampering after him.

Epilogue: Two of my college friends had planned to receive me at the Varanasi railway station. Of course none of us knew that we would face this unplanned sequence of events. They knew that the train had met with an accident but did not know if I would make it with the surviving portion of the train or not.

It was 4 AM in the morning when the 16 hours late train finally reached Varanasi station. A very delighted accident survivor was greeted by two very brave friends. Two ladies who had their own share of adventure spending more than ten hours on the platform trying to track down a friend on board an accidental train.

This one is for you Anisha and Ina!

Notes from India: How about a raise ?

2014-10-06T17:27:00.000-07:00

Prologue:

‘Storyteller ... tell us the story about your stay in India’

We had just come back to Boston after spending almost two years in India. The twenty two month long roller coaster ride flashed across my eyes. Family, friends, pets, fruit trees, absconding drivers, hilarious house helps, traveling from border to border – the forty plus places we visited, the crowded congregations, the peaceful ashrams ..

But how could I fit in 22 months in one story? There were hundreds of stories. Several for each of the individuals who touched our lives. And even if I tell these stories, it won’t reflect even a fraction of the experience we really had.

But I had to try.

'Do you have time?’ I asked.

******

‘Tsssk’, ‘Tsssssk’, ‘Tsssssssssssssssk’ , the shrill notes got longer and longer as the sound became louder and louder

It happened every morning. Sharp at 5:30 AM. The sound of broom scrubbing the patio bricks. ‘Tsssk’, ‘Tsssssk’, ‘Tsssssssssssssssk’.

There was an explosion of activity, anointed with abundant hissing and tssssking just outside the bedroom window. It sounded like a bunch of rattlesnakes dancing after taking a shot of redbull and vodka.

I opened my eyes and squinted. Got into my slippers to spare my feet from the touch of the cold granite floor. ‘ Oh no ! not again !’ , my wife was also awake now. I managed a nod – my eyes still trying to get a hang of the new surrounding in our relatively new habitat in India. I trudged across the hallway to the main door and then around the house to the patio adjacent to the bedroom.

There was the source of the rukkus. Kaniappa our gardener. He was furiously cleaning up the gulmohor leaves that had fallen on the patio with a noisy broom. Wearing khaki shorts, an old gray shirt and a surprisingly new denim jacket, he was chasing the small brown leaves into a neat pile with a fury that would put Bruce Lee to shame. His head was wrapped in a scarf – which probably explained why he was oblivious to the noise he was making.

My head went into a spin trying to prepare itself for the upcoming conversation. Kaniaappa knew two Indian languages and I could follow five– but unfortunately none of them were common between the two of us. So our usual mode of conversation was a homegrown sign language and a slew of Pictionary poses.

I thought I had mastered the gestures for ‘Water palms’ , ‘ Cut these shurbs’ , ‘ Clean the gulmohor leaves’, ‘cleanup the rotten mango fruits’ .. and such mundane gardening tips.

The conversation also included gestures for “Give me the salary” , “Give me a raise” , from Kaniappa that he had mastered quickly.

But these conversations were not that I was apprehensive about. The challenge was to convey to Kaniappa that he should NOT ‘broom’ the patio next to the bedroom window at 5:30 AM. I had tried to suggest him alternatives in my sign language that would translate (in my head) to something like this –

‘Kaniappa, I understand that you have to start the work at 5:30 AM but can you start with watering the palms in the back of the house and picking up the rotten fruits under the over fruiting mango tree there and THEN clean the patio next to the bedroom ..? please?, Hoping that it would give us another 30 minutes of comfortable snoozing so that we could get up at a respectable time of 6 AM.

Kaniappa would nod his head in vigorous agreement, smiling ear to ear, saying something enthusiastically that I could not comprehend. And would turn up promptly next day at 5:30 with his noisy broom – stirring ups imaginary rattlesnakes outside our bedroom window.

As I walked towards the noise of fighting snakes, Kaniappa broke away from his trance of chasing the gulmohor leaves and looked at me. His expression changed from furious concentration to feigned reverence. He flashed a smile.

I was impatient today. I must admit that it was not entirely because of the noise Kaniappa’s created. We had a wild Holi Party yesterday – which had ended with the merry partygoers – about 30 of them, throwing color at each other, dousing each other with water and eventually rolling each other in the muddy lawn.

The lawn and patio were reeling from shock of frenzied color fights. Beer and wine added to an already intoxicated festive fervor created a heady mix that had left me with a hangover. And in this merriment, I had lost my favorite camera. It was not the camera that I missed than much – but the treasures captured in it. I had spent more than an hour combing the house and lawn after the party but the camera was not found.

Before I could start my Pictionary poses, I realized that Kaniappa had cleaned up the premises from all traces of the party. Everything was spotlessly clean! Kaniappa’s eyes twinkled as he reached into the pockets of his kakhi shorts and pulled out my favorite automatic camera.

‘Found it the neighbor’s yard, must have fallen from the compound wall’, he signaled masterfully using sign language.

‘Lot of work’, he explained using vigorous gestures, ‘Give me a raise’, the sixty year old gardener signaled after a pause, his teeth gleaming in the morning sun.

***

As I turned back to get prepared for my morning yoga routine, I saw that my driver Mani had already reported for duty and was starting to clean up the car.

Mani used to run the laundry shack in our gated community. A twenty year old young man with a perpetual smile was the first one to show up when I had put up a notice in the club house that I was looking to hire a driver. My old driver, my henchman, had started to ply an Airport taxi which was more lucrative than the $250/month salary of a full time driver.

‘How much experience do you have? ’, I had asked Mani.

‘I have a driving license, sir’, he had replied with a shy smile, ‘ I can do it , sir .. I don’t want to be a laundry guy throughout my life .. I want to be a driver’. At least he was truthful.

So Mani was hired. He wanted $150/ month –justifying for his lack of experience. ‘Are you crazy to hire a driver without experience? ’ my friends finally had the confirmation of the fact that I had gone crazy. ‘First the scooter ... now this driver ...’, a dear friend had exclaimed.

The 10 mile ride to office that would be about one hour in Bangalore traffic , took about two hours for Mani. Mostly because of the 30km/hr speed – even without traffic. But also because of the number of times the car stopped after speed breakers due to the lack of diver’s skills to coordinate between the clutch and accelerator a low speeds.

“Grrr.. grrr . Thud” , the car would stop with a grunt followed by re-ignition and an excruciating sound of high revolution of the engine caused by simultaneous pressure on the clutch and accelerator. I tried to go in to a yogic trance not to think about the situation that would arise if Mani released the clutch abruptly.

‘There is no hurry’, I tried to coach him ‘Just don’t bang the car in front of you …'

And then one fine day Mani disappeared. Not for a day. Not for two days. But for whole two weeks.

I began to get worried when after about a week, his family members started to show up at our home trying to get tips about his whereabouts.

‘He left the house without warning .. sir .. do you know where he is .. he respects you ..’, they would talk to me with Kaniappa our gardener as the translator. Kaniappa was getting good at the Pictionary gestures.

‘Of course I don’t … he is not even picking up his phone ...’ I had replied. Followed by a long steam of translatory jargon from Kaniappa. Mani’s sister had left with tears in her eyes.

Mani had shown up yesterday, with a sweet looking girl in tow. ‘I ran away from home for her … we got married sir ... can I start on my driver job again ?’

So Mani was reinstated in his job but only after a solid dosage of work ethics dumb charade. Mani kept on nodding his head throughout my discourse. Even his wife would join the nodding in interesting sections. They would nod individually, look at each other and nod again.

‘One more thing .. sir ...’ .Mani had added shyly after I had concluded, ‘ My expenses have gone up after marriage .. I will need a raise …’

***

The morning had burst into flurry of activity and it was time for my morning yoga practice, before I headed out to office.

I settled down on a yoga mat in a quiet corner of the terrace. This corner is shaded by the coconut tree growing in the backyard. Beautiful, southern-California-style-sunny Bangalore morning. Deep blue skies and a perfect 72 degree temperature.

‘Peaceful … ’ , I thought as I lay down on the mat looking up at the sky through the coconut leaves.

I suddenly heard a rustling sound behind me that makes me jump up. Precariously perched on the coconut tree was our cook, Kamal. He was trying to cut out a bunch of coconuts with his kitchen knife.

‘Mashima (a respectable address for my Mother) has asked me to use fresh coconuts in the curry’, he mumbled half apologetically.

***

‘So you made our cook climb up the coconut tree!’, I confronted my mother.

She looked up from the TV which was ecstatically wild with a stadium full of people doing kapaalbhati pranayam under the guidance of Swami Ramdev. Since the day we had arrived in India, my mother had taken up the serious responsibility of sparing her NRI child from the harsh reality of dealing with house help workforce.

Kamal was generally acclaimed as the best cook in the area. He also ran a catering company on the side. He had delighted hundreds of satisfied patrons with his culinary skills – including myself. But had unfortunately failed to impress my mother.

It started with her ‘fixing’ all the dishes that Kamal cooked. Dash of salt here, garnish of spice there. Then it graduated in detailed instructions that needed to be followed – right to the specification of the how small onions needed to be chopped or how large potatoes needed to be cubed.

‘Mom – we are lucky that we were able to hire this Cook, I mumbled under my breath ... if he quits .. ‘ , I would implore, putting up the best of my take pity on me face.

‘It is your home ... your life … ‘, she would say in a hurt tone,’ I will never EVER talk to that cook again ..’ But her resolve would last for exactly thirty microseconds.

Even before I could heave a sigh of relief, I heard my mother giving instructions to our cook Kamal about how small onions needed to be chopped and how large potatoes needed to be cubed. Kamal listened with feigned patience still panting from his exertion of climbing up the coconut tree.

As I was about to get out of the house for my office, Kamal came to me with a glass of watermelon juice. ‘Dada, your forgot to drink this …’

‘Also Dada, I won’t be able to handle this anymore ...’, he mumbled.

I stared at him with alarm …

‘How about a raise ?' I mumbled.

Epilogue:

When the expats think about life in India one of the first things that comes to mind is the luxury of house helps. In a modest budget of $350 a month, one could hire a driver, two house helps and one gardener in Bangalore!

But managing the home staff is a full time job in itself. Overenthusiastic gardeners, missing drivers and depressed cooks are just a small part of the fun in store.

The bigger challenge, especially for folks who have spent considerable time in the West, is the perception gap regarding dignity of labor. If you have a cup of coffee with Ed, your landscaper who mows your lawn in Chelmsford, it is just another day in life. If you do that with Kaniappa, your gardener in Kasavanahalli, Bangalore, you will be noticed.

Also, I feel that the way that we deal with house staff in India is not just dependent on individual idiosyncrasies. It is a social pattern.

As a contrast to my darling fiery perfectionist mother who featured in this story (and I am prepared for the thirty microseconds that she is not going to talk to me for this public disclosure), my other darling, soft spoken and gentle mother in law (who is also my Yoga guru) also disliked our cook. And I think it was nothing to do with individual preference or the skills of the cook. It is societal conditioning.

I call it the “The Maali Syndrome”.

Maali or the gardener gets paid for maintaining the lawn. All the beautiful flowers, the lush green grass, the manicured hedges – he got paid for that, right? So the credit goes to you for all the good stuff - the person who paid for it.

And if the Maali misses on something: a spot of mud on the patio, a crop of dead leaf, a splash of water on the window. It is his mistake and the Maali owns that mistake.

So Maali gets reprimanded everyday for the mistakes he makes. The blooming flowers are overlooked as being part of his contribution. The focus is on mistakes. And this pattern becomes so natural that it may also manifest itself in our professional life as we forget that creativity (and creation) comes at the expense of mistakes.

I need to conclude the blog now ... time to help the wife to fix up dinner!

Thanks for reading.

Miss you Kamal !!

Notes from India: Operation C.A.T

2014-05-31T08:58:00.000-07:00

A sandy silver beach in Goa.

I am sitting on a white wooden beach chair under a huge orange beach umbrella. A pint of chilled beer stands refreshingly on a shiny white plastic table next to me. John, from the beach shack approaches politely with a plate of grilled pomfret fish. I look up at him and smile.

“O MY GOD”, the words come out involuntarily from my mouth. John vanishes in thin air, along with the plate of pomfret. Poof! The plastic table along with the chilled beer bottle goes next. Poof !

The beach chair, the beach all vanish. Poof!

***

“O MY GOD”, I was kneeling in front of the cupboard in my study.

“There she is”, my son exclaimed with ear to ear grin. In the lower most shelf of the cupboard lay his pet cat Cookie. Next to her, no thicker than her bushy tail, were three kittens. “You are a great grand dad!”, he says excitedly as I tried to wipe the terrified expression from my face.

“She is getting out of hand”, my mother had reported several months ago. “I saw her strolling with her boyfriend”. My mother had strict moral standards that stood firm even for pet cats. Cookie did not return that night. It was only after several weeks we realized that she was indeed goofing around with her ‘boyfriend’.

“She is going to have babies in a few weeks ...”, the Vet had declared, feeling the tummy of the nervous cat. The omnipresent grin on Vet’s face had become even bigger. The doctor had a pet crèche where we wanted to leave our cat while we were out on a vacation. A much yearned vacation to Goa. Sandy silver beach, wooden beach chair, beach umbrella, beach shack …

“So we will drop her in the creche tomorrow morning ..?”

“No Problem”, if the grin on Vet’s face had become any bigger, it would spill out of his face, ”Good timing, because we don’t take pets with small litters .. so you timed your vacation well’, the vet had declared.

Next morning, it was time to drop Cookie to her crèche. But she had, for some reason, disappeared! It took about an hour of collective scouting before my son located her.

“She had three kittens!”, my son beamed as he looked affectionately at his pet who he had cared for since she was a one month old kitten , “ I am a grand dady !”

“We don’t take pets with small litters...’, the Vet’s voice rang out in my head.

“O MY GOD”, the Goa vacation was vanishing in front of my eyes.

We had booked an old Portuguese villa right on Bagha beach in Goa. The owners, a Belgian couple, had insisted on us paying the entire rental in advance. “We won’t be able to refund in case of cancellations – you know it is peak season ...”

There was only one option now. Sonia.

***

It was late in the evening when the maroon Honda City pulled in front of a seemingly deserted tree shaded house in the outskirts of Bangalore.

A confirmed animal lover, Sonia had firsthand experience with a diverse range of pets including ducks, rabbits, birds, cats and dogs. We had left our cat with her during one of our earlier vacations.

“You should not move the kittens today. It is not safe”, the expert had advised to the occupants of the deserted villa, “I will check on them every evening” The occupants had kissed her hands over the phone.

She opened the main door and glanced up the spiraling stairway leading to the upper floor.

“Lock all other rooms”, she had advised “Cats move their kittens several times after they are born – it will be difficult to locate them if they move to an obscured corner”. The villa occupants who were now in a sandy silver beach in Goa, sitting on a white wooden beach chair under a huge orange beach umbrella, had wiped the tears from their eyes impressed by the profound wisdom of their vacation savior.

Sonia tiptoed up to the study and peered in through the glass door. The frosted glass did not reveal anything about the occupants of the room. She gently opened the door and craned her neck in.

She was greeted with a blood curdling screech and a loud hiss. The freshly minted mother cat rushed towards her with her claws extended, puffed up fur and bottle brush tail. Clearly, in the ebb of her newfound maternal instincts, Cookie had forgotten the week she had spent at Sonia’s place. Sonia was summarily chased out of the house by the very angry mother cat.

***

“I need backup”, Sonia sat in her car outside the deserted villa. Her eyes were glued to the dimly lit study window – where the feline aggressor would be prowling around after the recent attack.

She was talking to Nina. The marathon running, working super mom did not have the word fear in her dictionary. Before Sonia could bat her eyelids, Nina’s car materialized next to her. Nina was briefed of the situation. “So we have an aggressive and potentially hostile feline that needs to be fed while their owners are having fun in Goa”. Sonia nodded.

The main door was opened, second time that day. The brave women tiptoed up the stairs. The Study door was opened again. This time it was time for two women to be surprised. There were no cats or kittens in the room! Cookie had moved with her kittens to another place. That meant, danger could be lurking anywhere, ready to pounce unannounced on the hapless victims.

Sonia did a quick inspection of the room. The cat food and water bins were empty. She filled them up using the Whiskas bag left by the owners. Water was replenished from the bathroom faucet. Suddenly there was a sound from outside the study.

“Shhhhh”, Nina put a finger on her lips signaling Sonia to be still. The commando tiptoed to the slightly ajar study door. I thin beam of light was spilling out of the dimly lit study, illuminating the granite floor outside.

Suddenly there was a streak of stripes across the floor, followed by screeching and hissing sounds. Nina managed to shut the study door with a bang. Beads of perspiration formed around Sonia’s brow.

“She is out there … waiting!”

“We are trapped!!”

“Call Goa !!!”

THE END

Epilogue: The vacationers in Goa did get a call. Thankfully and gratefully, the valiant ladies had successfully resolved the hostage situation. When the vacationers returned, they found the cat family snugly cuddled in a corner in the study, well fed and happy. Cheers to the courageous ladies of this (almost) true story!

Three cute kittens are now looking for homes in the Bangalore area. Interested families please drop me a note.

Notes from India : The Birthday

2014-03-25T10:01:00.000-07:00

‘How do we get our Gross Margins up by five percent?”, the dimly lit study was filled up by my CEO’s voice.

It was a global management call and I could sense the rapt attention of all my colleagues, dialed in from all across the world as I prepared myself for the answer.

‘Can you get the ladoos now …’, I looked in horror at the smiling faces of my eight year old daughter and her best friend. ‘… lots and lots of them …‘

I struggled to mute my speakerphone.

**

It was Janmashtami and the kids had a day off from school. The birth date of Krishna was being celebrated across India with reverence and gayety. In our house in the suburbs of Bangalore, however, it was somber corporate quarter ending.

Both me and my wife work from home. We have our own home offices in our tree shaded villa in the outskirts of Bangalore. Her’s in a corner of the master bedroom suite, and mine, more isolated on the first floor.

‘I am bored’, my daughter had come up into my office earlier that day. Born and brought up in the US, she was beginning to build up an Indian accent.

‘Today is Krishna’s birthday’, I had winked at her, ’Why don’t you celebrate it?’, I suggested. A celebration with dolls would keep her out of my way since it was going to be a busy work day for me.

‘I will get you some sweets – you know- Krishna loved sweets’ I made a mental note to pick up some laddos on my way to getting the new ink cartridge for my printer.

Her eyes lit up. ‘But I will need Sammy's help for the party’, Sammy was her classmate, neighbor and best friend.

I had patted my back at the inspired idea as I imagined my eight year daughter staying busy, learning about Indian culture, and more importantly, staying out of my way.

****

‘Sorry..I am having some problem with the phone line - give me five minutes … ‘, I mumbled and muted the phone. The study had now filled up with the chatter of small girls. A LOT of small girls. There were at least twenty five of them standing outside my study

‘We are having a great time, uncle’, Sammy chirped, ‘ We put up Krishna pictures on the walls, sang Krishna songs, even had a Krishna quiz !’, she said pointing at her iPad.

‘I won !' a cute little girl with braids raised her hand.

‘Now we are going to have a dance for Krishna’, my daughter quipped in excitedly ..’ , It is on the song You belong with me by Talyor Swift …. we will be singing it for Krishna not for a boyfriend or anything'

'You have to come down Baba ..’, she added imploringly.

My lips curled into a smile as I glanced down the mezzanine floor into the living room. The room was filled up with more girls. My wife was sitting on the couch surrounded by an eager battalion of six to ten year olds from our neighborhood. She looked at me and rolled her eyes. I had to struggle not to laugh.

‘Give me a second’, I stepped back in the study and unmuted the speakerphone. ‘Guys I will have to dial out now – some unanticipated emergency at home ..’

‘Hope all is well ….’

‘Cannot be better’, I thought as I hung up the phone and ran downstairs with the chattering girls.

Notes from India: The Henchman

2013-09-21T09:18:00.000-07:00

‘Looks like there is no other option’, I declared somberly.

The words had a magical effect on my audience. Some of them started to sway in delight, while others giggled in nervous anticipation.

Sound of silent laughter rang through the house. Laughter that only I could hear.

***

I was alone in the living room, surrounded by my collection of indoor plants – palms, crotons, cactus and ferns. Everyone except the cactus seemed terribly unhappy. The palms were the unhappiest of the lot. The one near the sofa, once beautifully framing the stand lamp and the madhubani painting on the adjacent wall, was wailing aloud.

‘Just look at this’, she extended her frayed branches ‘Look what that tormentor has done to me’. Once lush green branches now hung drooping – the leaves shriveled and dried up. The wailing stirred up the croton sitting on top of a terracotta planter, which rustled its tattered maroon leaves incomprehensibly.

Then the big fern started sobbing from the mezzanine floor overlooking the living room, it’s dried up leaves raining down on the floor that was already strewn with collection of fresh leaves and branches from other plants across the house. It was mayhem!

Just then, a pair of shining eyes appeared across the hallway. The eyes cautiously examined the surroundings – the feline gray form of the owner crouched close to the floor lay camouflaged over the gray grains of the light green granite floor. Then there was a streak of stripes across the hallway as the scream of my indoor ficus was drowned in the collective wailing of all the other plants.

The kitten jumped up and ripped off a perfectly healthy branch from the plant and before I could blink my eyes, it had dashed back across the hallway and into the kid’s room with its kill

***

The trouble started two weeks ago. My son had come back from his science tutor who lives in the same gated community as us, with a four week old kitten. ‘Her mother does not like her’, he had said taking the kitten out of his back pack ‘So I brought her with me’, he was trying to match the cute expression of the kitten he was holding. My daughter shrieked in delight as she wrestled with my son to hold the kitten. Both me and my wife shrieked in alarm.

We later found out from Mrs. Arora, the science tutor, that the mother cat would visit her house every year to lay her litters. She would host the cat in a corner of her backyard until the kittens were grown enough and the new tabby family dispersed. This year, surprisingly, there was one kitten that had apparently fallen from favor of the mother. The kitten was getting weaker – unfed and unattended. So when my son volunteered to look after the kitten, she gladly took up the offer.

I remained apprehensive as I saw the kitten winning over my family. They named her Cookie. My wife, a confirmed zoo phobic who would jump at the sight of any un caged animals (and sometimes even caged ones – to the amusement of onlookers in several zoos), would now sit working on her laptop with Cookie sprawled comfortably across her lap. The kids would return from school, rushing to feed the already overfed kitten who would be cuddled the rest of the day by the doting siblings.

And then it started. A nip on a leaf here. A tug on a branch there. And within a week it was complete mayhem! The feline was killing plants at a rate that would put any man-eating tiger of the yester years to shame.

‘Why don’t you move the plants to the backyard’, my wife had suggested. I had given her a scornful look.

Today my wife had taken the kids out for a birthday party so I was alone in the house. ‘Looks like there is no other option’, I declared somberly. The words had a magical effect on my audience. Some of them started to sway in delight, while others giggled in nervous anticipation. The sound of silent laughter rang through the house. Laughter that only I could hear.

The image of my kids flashed in my mind. ‘I will tell them that that the kitten ran away’, I assured myself. But I would need someone to catch the kitten as she would always dash away as soon as she saw me approaching. I needed a henchman to carry out the task.

Just than the doorbell rang.

****

Manjunath was a dark lanky man around thirty year old. He always wore impeccably washed and ironed dazzling white shirt and white pants that gave eyes a shock from the sheer contrast from his dark face. A crisp mustache cut across his face.

He was my driver, and among his many talents, I would say his driving skills would stand as one of the lowest. His favorite hobby was to bump my car into moving and stationary objects. Bumps and dents would appear around the car at remarkably predictive intervals. ‘I pay to fix, Saar’, he would say apologetically and in the three months he had been employed, he had already raked up a tab that was close to his salary for that period.

But ask him to run an errand – he would complete it at a speed that would put speedy Gonzalvez to shame. Even as one would finish articulating the request, Manjunath’s eyes would squint menacingly. It took me a while to realize that the squinting was his way to assimilate information.

The task could be as simple as catching a six feet viper that had wandered into our compound from the nearby lake-marsh. Or as complex as catching hold of a five and a half feet lineman of the state run telephone company to get our broadband connection fixed. “Done Saar”, he would say and disappear – only to reappear shortly – task completed. Errand done. “Done Saar” , he would say one again to seal the confirmation of a job well done.

Today I articulated my request, silently endorsed by the maimed indoor plants. His eyes squinted menacingly. “Done Saar”

Manjunath was running around the house in hot pursuit of the kitten when a draft of wind opened the front door and the kitten and his pursuer dashed out of the house. I could hear kitty hisses and meows from outside. After giving enough time for things to settle I peeped out of the front door.

****

Manjunath lay sprawled beside our car parked in the driveway, prodding under the car with a stick. The kitten had disappeared under the car comfortably, hidden in a secure nook behind the muffler. The henchman prodded, cajoled, screamed, meowed, purred for one full hour. The kitten would drop down from her nook every five minutes, wave her tail mockingly and climb back again. The henchman was finally tired. He stood up and took out the car keys out of his pocket. There was a wicked grin on his face as he opened the door and put the key in the ignition. I looked at him in horror.

‘Stop’, the words came out involuntarily as I yanked the keys from the ignition. There was a sudden rustle around my legs. The evasive kitty was rubbing herself on my feet looking at me with a cautiously alert gaze. I reached out and picked her up. She was surprisingly light. And small. And kind of cute.

‘How Cute!’, my thoughts were interrupted by the familiar voice of my son’s science tutor Mrs. Arora. ‘And look how much has she grown – the cute Kukkie!’. She was passing by our house, walking her todder son’s stroller. I pasted a grin on my face , my man Friday was standing behind me smiling even more innocently, his white teeth giving his not-anymore-white shirt run for its money.

‘She has become quite n-n-naughty’, I fumbled for words, ’How is the mother cat? I am sure she misses the kitten …’

‘Don’t you know!’, Mrs. Arora’s expression changed from bright and sunny to downright gloomy.

’Two stray dogs entered the colony yesterday – jumping over the fence near the lake’, she mumbled. They then jumped into my backyard’. I stared at her shocked as she described the mother cat’s futile attempt to defend her kittens … and herself.

We stood silently as Cookie lay cuddled in my arms purring softly unaware of the cruel fate she escaped. Twice.

‘We need to get the dogs out of the colony before they do any further damage … I spoke with the association members but they don’t think it is urgent … and the security men don’t know how to catch dogs it seems … ’, Mrs. Arora’s cold voice cut through the silence.

‘Manjunath’, I looked at my henchman.

His eyes squinted menacingly. ‘Done Saar’

*****

Epilogue:

‘Who moved all the indoor plants out into the backyard!!’, my wife rushed into the study, ‘and where is Cookie?’, she asked suspiciously.

I typed in the final line of the story, looked up at her and smiled. Cookie gave a lazy gaze from my lap. Then she got up, stretched, yawned and jumped onto the key boarddddsqtdyaq`5qo zlk

Notes from India: Man-Eating Tigers

2013-04-30T00:37:00.001-07:00

Author’s note: Can any visit to India be complete without paying a tribute to the magnificent Tigers?

‘You mean to say … man-eaters still exist!’, I mumbled, as a chill shot up my spine. I could not believe my ears! But then, there were a lot of unbelievable things going on tonight.

‘Yes, you heard it right, they do exist’, came the reply in a deep baritone voice. Just across from where we were, the silvery outline of Nanda Devi and Panchchuli peaks towered over the landscape in the cold moonlit night.

***

'The deadliest man eating tiger in India prowled around in this region’

We sat around the campfire that lit up the entrances of small wooden cottages lined up along a ledge overlooking the Himalayas. The ledge sloped steeply behind the cottages giving way to several ranges of small Kumaoni hills, framing the majestic snow-clad peaks perfectly.

'The man-eater of Champawat. She killed 436 people', The resort manager lowered his voice, as the crackling fire lit up is face, casting an eerie shadow over the small stretch of lawn behind him. We sat glued to our chairs as we listen with rapt attention.

'She was killed by Jim Corbett - the very first man-eater he shot. My great grandfather was with Corbett Saab during the hunt', Anil's serious face betrayed him by flickering a slight smile before it was dead serious again. A distant clap of thunder rang across, illuminating the valley spread out under us.

'It is not a good sign', he continued in an ominous tone as we all stared at the dark clouds in the horizon that had now hid the silvery Himalayan ranges.

****

We had reached our resort just after dusk, braving a tiring eight hour journey across the mountains of Uttrakhand. The resort was tucked in a village perched on the top of a hill overlooking the majestic Nanda Devi. Our Innova was stopped at a forest check post just outside the village as the forest guard shone his torch inside the car illuminating its occupants - four adults and three kids. ‘Tourists?’, he had asked curtly. I had nodded my head. The check post gate was raised to let us through.

My twelve year old son was thrilled with the rustic setting of the cottage.' It's too bad that they have iron grills on the windows ...", he had complained.

A serious looking man, who checked us into the resort, had approached us as we sat around the bonfire lit in front of the cottage. 'What will you have for dinner, sir?', he asked with politeness frozen in sombre seriousness.

' What do you have ready?'I had asked. 'We make everything fresh', he had replied maintaining an expression as if he was giving us some seriously bad news.

' Can you get us something real fast - the kids are hungry,' the wife chipped in.

'It will take one hour to cook the dinner, madam', again the serious expression.

'Can't you do something? please request the cook ...'

'I am the cook' , he had replied, a slight smile flashed across his face before he became dead serious again, 'And also the resort manager’, he had hastily added.

****

'My great grand father was a very brave man. He was one of the folks who hauled the dead tiger back into the village after Corbett Saab killed it. It was a very khatnaak tiger sir.. she used to come inside the village in broad daylight and run off with a kill’

'Are there any man eating tigers alive?' , my twelve year old son asked hesitantly, trying his best to sound fearless.

' No, no more man eaters in these hills anymore', Anil finally smiled. The rain clouds that were building up in horizon had almost reached our cottages. A sprinkle of rain dissipated the bonfire party as we all scuttled towards our respective cottages.

' Do man eaters still exist?' , my eight year old daughter asked as we ran into our cottage.

I thought about my daughter’s question as I dozed off for the night.

****

It must be just before dawn when I heard a faint sound on the door. It sounded as if someone was scratching the door. The scratching sound got louder and louder as I got up from the bed and made my way to the cottage door.

‘Open the door, please’, the voice had a warm baritone ring to it.

It had stopped raining. The rain clouds gave way to a bright full moon. I cautiously opened the door and my jaws dropped when I saw the visitor.

It was Sher Khan! The animated cartoon version from the Disney movie Jungle Book that I had first seen when I was a kid. The animated tiger had given me a quite a few sleepless nights in those days.

Here he was - standing in front of me, complete with stripes, mean eyes and the extended claws of his front left paw which he had used to scratch the door.

‘We need to talk’, Sher Khan purred softly, ’It will be better if you come out – I don’t want to wake up the kids ..’

For some reason, the cartoon tiger did not look as threatening and mean as it used to when I was a kid. I guess my perception of meanness had changed over the years -in fact Sher Khan looked kind of cute. I grabbed my slippers and followed him around a thicket. Sher Khan sprawled out on a rocky ledge. ‘Sit’ he said pointing at stone boulder.

‘So … you have some questions regarding man eating tigers?’

‘How did you know?’

‘Tigers have their own sources ...’, he said shrugging his striped shoulders ‘ Just because these days we run around the national parks, posing for wild life photographers does not mean we do not keep a track of what is going on in this world’, he said tilting his huge head and looking at me with slightly squinted eyes.

‘So your question was whether or not man eaters still exist?’ He stared at me. I nodded my head briskly.

‘Well, they do exist’, Sher Khan’s eyes became cold and distant. ‘But these man eaters are not tigers anymore. They are of your species’

‘And even the most ferocious tigers appear as harmless cartoon characters in comparison’, his lips curled into a smile, ‘When in reality - we are not …’, That is when Sher Khan gave out a deafening roar, flung open his sharp claws, and pounced at me.

I woke up with a start.

Or did I?

THE END

Author's Note : Flipping through any news channel one could get the gruesome update of the new person eating species that we have become. Blasts in Boston. Blasts in Bangalore, Girls being molested ... the fierce man eating tigers indeed look like cartoon characters in comparison !

Notes from India: An Authentic Experience

2013-03-10T07:05:00.000-07:00

‘How would you like them cut?’ , my hairdresser had asked politely when I had gone for my first haircut in US many years ago.

I had stared at her uncomfortably because I had never been asked that question by my hairdressers in India.

“Short” , I had mumbled, not knowing what else to say., My wife had squealed in horror after I had come back to our apartment with my commando cut.

“Please don’t make it too short”, I had answered the same question imploringly when I went for my next haircut several months later. Over the years the instructions got more and more refined ‘Clippers on the side – size five and a half please. Scissors on the top. Not too short - just take an inch off. Leave the sideburns long. Shampoo. No gel please’, I would rattle out without having to think and get (almost) the same results whether I was in LA ,Washington DC or Boston.

‘Have you considered trying gray blending’ , I heard this suggestion a few years ago. Gray blending. The word had a nice mature ring to it. It did not have the urgency of hair dying. Or the pretentiousness of hair coloring. My hair had started to gray with a vengeance in the past few years. Especially, after I had started my own business. My mother had just a few strands of gray hair at near sixty. My grandfather had a good crop of black hair at eighty. I had more gray hair than both of them combined. I had somehow let my gene pool down. ‘ It is perhaps the stress’ , I would explain half apologetically.

‘We have a special going on ...’, she continued, blinking her false eyelashes ‘ Tea Tree Treatment - Free shampoo & head massage ..’ . The deal was made. Several degrees of ‘blending’ were tried. The color combination of the one that suited me best was then recorded in the database. I could now go to any Supercuts in US and just tell them my name – they would then pull up my record and blend my grays like nobody ‘s business.

And then we moved to Bangalore.

***

“New Paradise Men's Saloon”, the barber shop is located on the main road, about half a kilometer from our house in Bangalore.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to look for a bit more upscale place?’ , my wife had suggested looking at the crowd of the patrons sitting on wooden benches inside the shop. But what did she know about the pleasure one would get from an authentic experience of getting a haircut from a roadside barber shop.

‘You and your authentic experiences’, she did not like my response apparently as I expertly maneuvered my scooter around a huge pothole. I had bought the scooter despite warnings and threats from my close friends. ‘Authentic experience my foot’ , one had said ‘ You know it takes much longer to heal a broken bone once you are past forty ..’. But I prevailed. My Honda Activa was not only an authentic experience; it was also my companion in looking for other authentic experiences. Like a haircut from a roadside Barber shop.

I parked my scooter outside the shop, glad that I did not get the car which would have perhaps overwhelmed the patrons and owner of the shop. The proprietor – a man with neatly combed hair and smartly trimmed moustache serviced the customers diligently, as I waited for my turn. A television played a Kannada movie dubbed in Hindi – the out of sync dialogs were punctuated by the clicking of scissors. The shop was well furnished with hair products. On one side were different type of hair oils – Himgangay, Jabakusim, Parachute, Navratan . Hair colors were also displayed prominently – Godrej, Revlon, Garnier.

‘Your turn, Sir’ , the hairdresser addressed me politely.

I took a deep breath as I settled down in the wooded chair and got draped by a clean white cotton sheet that was neatly tucked along my neck. Authentic experience.

‘Do you have clippers’, I asked. The man stared at me puzzled. ‘ ..to cut the hair ...’ Still no response. I took my right arm out and showed him how the clipper worked. His eyes shone.”Machine”, he pulled a manual clipper out of the drawer.

‘Clippers on the side – size five and a half please. Scissors on the top. Not too short - just take an inch off. Leave the sideburns long. Shampoo. No gel please’ .. I rattled out. The man stared at me, puzzled.

‘You want haircut? ’, he asked after a long pause. I nodded.

‘Please sit, sir – I do haircut ‘

***

I looked at my hair admiringly. The man knew his job. This was perhaps the best haircut I had got in many years – and he did it without any instructions! I was so pleased that I wanted to try out all the services he had to offer.

Gray blending ? I looked at the hair color products in the shelf in front of me and decided to give it a shot. My man Friday looked extremely pleased that his patron was interested in the most expensive service offered in the saloon. Even the customers waiting on the benches seemed interested. Everyone in the shop watched as our hairdresser got a stepping stool, reached out and retrieved a box of Garnier hair color from the shelf in front of us, mixed it in a dirty plastic bowl and started to furiously applying it on my head with a brush.

I soaked the authentic experience as ceiling fan cooled my wet colored hair. The man worked expertly, wiping the dripping color from my face. I had never got my hair colored facing a mirror. I realized that it was messy. I had been spared of reviewing this mess in the past since there were no mirrors in the coloring booths in Supercuts. You would actually see the results after everything was done. The color washed, hair shampooed and patted dry and the hairdresser giving you well rehearsed compliment as she took you back to your chair. “You look like a new person !’

Today, I was looking at all the mess that I used to miss out in the past. Head smeared with color. Authentic experience. And that is when my communication with my new hairdresser stopped abruptly. I was waiting for him to say or do something to get me cleaned up from the messy hair color. He was also waiting for me to say or do something – what? I was not sure of.

I then realized that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. There was not a single wash basin in the shop. Not a single faucet. No washing station. No towels. No shampoo.

‘Please go home and shampoo’, the guy’s voice boomed across the room. The movie in television echoed an extended gunfire.

***

That day I learnt several things.

That never wear light colored T shirt when you go for a haircut. You never know when you could be subjected to an authentic experience.

That wife gets pretty mad if you ruin a polo T shirt with hair dye.

That people do notice when you drive a scooter with your head smeared with color. Sometimes enough to actually turn back and stare at you. Or giggle.

That the stern security guards of our gated community do laugh once in a while. When they see a new resident riding a scooter with color dripping from his sideburns.

And that authentic experiences come with authentic learnings !

END

Notes from India : The New School

2013-01-08T21:34:00.001-08:00

‘We have an awesome adventure lined up !'

Mom's eyebrows were going higher and higher as my seven year old sister jumped with excitement. I am a twelve year old boy - old enough to be apprehensive about revelations like this one.

“What is it?’, I asked reluctantly, as Mom’s eyebrows were about to vanish under her hairline.

‘We are going to India for a year !’, she said . The eyebrows were heading back to where they belonged.

My sister had disappeared – that girl could sense trouble faster than I could.

‘Imagine – one whole year! Think of the things we could do!!’, Her eyebrows were going higher and higher again. ‘You will go to a new school. Make new friends. See new places...‘, my Mom’s eyebrow’s had vanished under her hairline.

****

“Where did you live in the US?”, my new friend sitting next to me in the bus asked.

’Boston’

‘Cool’

We were sitting in the second last row of the huge School Bus on its way back home from our new school.‘It is one of the best International schools in Bangalore’, Mom had said, ‘It is a BIG school with BIG playgrounds and a BIG swimming pool’

I was not sure about the school, but the school buses was indeed BIG. Much bigger than ones in the US. But this one swayed a lot. And it stopped a lot more – not just to pick up kids for school, I mean it stopped a million times. It was already more than an hour since we had left school and we were not home yet.

I noticed that Ram (my new friend) was trying to duck behind the seat trying to avoid the girl sitting in front of us across the aisle.

‘What is the matter?’, I asked.

‘I will tell you in a bit ... when she is not looking this way’

Ram had saved my skin in the class today. I mean, in a BIG way.

He was in my section in seventh grade and was supposedly a good student or ‘topper’, as other boys teased him. Ram would dismiss these boys casually – ‘Shutup Chakkay !’, He later explained me what Chakkay meant but I am still not very sure I understood him completely - the anatomical description did not make sense. The word was currently the most popular derogatory term for boys in the seventh grade - loosely translated as 'Girly Boy'.

So coming back to the incident in the classroom. It was my first day in the school and the teacher asked me to introduce myself.

‘We have a new student in the class’, She said pointing at me ‘ Why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself’ , I had an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach as the entire class stared at me. Ram gave me an encouraging smile.

And then it happened !

The teacher continued , ‘And after SHE has introduced HERSELF – I want you all to give HER a warm welcome ..’ , her voice echoed across as the class burst out into peals of laughter.

I have shoulder length hair. Something that my mom had insisted to get cut for the last year or so – but I had refused to. Ram looked at me sympathetically as the laughter continued to ring through the classroom.

‘He is a BOY, Mam !’, Ram had stood up and shouted over the noise, ‘ He even has a mustache …’ , he added emphatically. This was the first time in my life I was proud of the thin wisp of hair on my upper lip that I had worn since I was two years old.

The laughter died down. Mam put on her glasses and peered through them. ‘ Hmmm .. how can I tell – half of the girls in this class have mustaches as well …’

This time only the boys burst our laughing. I felt bad or the girls – but was relieved to escape from being framed a girly boy. I joined the boys in their laughter and formally claimed my place in the cohort.

All this happened today morning. Now in the bus I had decided to help out Ram with whatever it was that was bothering him.

****

‘That girl is crazy’, Ram was uncharacteristically nervous.’ She flings her boogers at me !! ’, he whispered as I stared at him with wide eyes.’ … and she does it so discretely that no one would believe if I complained.’ Suddenly Ram's eyes froze in horror. The girl was looking back at him with an evil smile on her face. Then she put her finger inside her nose, pulled it out, and flicked it towards us !

‘Stop it!’ , I said , standing up in the Bus Aisle.

‘No standing in the Bus !’ shouted the teacher who was ‘in charge’ of the bus.

The girl extended her finger to touch me, even as I dodged and ran past her to the teacher.

‘Stop the ruckus, I say ...’ , The teacher shouted.

‘That girl is trying to put her booger on us’, I panted – relieved that I could finally get my new friend some justice, ’ Mam, She does it all the time - ask my friend'. ' He is right Mam - she always does that ...' Ram nodded his head emphatically.

‘Don’t lie’, came the unexpected response ‘Girls don’t do things like that ...’

‘But she JUST DID IT’, I exclaimed.

‘Get back to your seat ...’

‘I can prove it – just look at her fingers …’ I tried to explain.

‘That is the problem with you American Kids ... always arguing … go back and sit quietly otherwise I will send you to the Principal' My American accent had given me away !

I noticed that my little sister was sitting just next to the teacher, looking up at me timidly.

‘Girls cannot do things like that … my foot’, I thought of all the booger fights that my sister had started as I walked back to my seat.

****

“Dadu !!”, I hugged my grandfather who had come to pick us up from the bus stand that was inside the gated community we lived in.

‘How was the day?’, He asked.

‘I wrote seven pages !!’ , my sister chirped in. She seemed to be excited’ I wrote it ALL down from the blackboard !’ she exclaimed.

‘That is my smart girl‘; Dadu smiled ‘What subject was it?’

‘I don’t know .., but the teacher was writing in cursive ! ’

Dadu laughed. ‘How was your day’, He asked me. I did not know where to start.

‘I made a very good friend ...’

‘.. and I need a haircut.’

Authors Note : The Protagonist insists that all the incidences in the story are true. His sister later offered to get him re-introduced to the bus 'in charge' teacher. ‘She likes me – thinks I am cute’, she had said. ‘ I will tell her that you were telling the truth’.

Pratagonist’s dad and mom spent a lot of time analyzing and dissecting the situation and whether or not it deemed a visit to the Principal office to lodge a protest and fight for the rights of the argumentative American kids.

‘Lets not do it this time’, the protagonist suggested , 'After all it was just a booger fight !’

Notes from India: Don’t Angry me

2012-12-20T10:05:00.001-08:00

‘Don’t Angry me!’

My friend had advised me.

The advice was from the context of managing household help in India, ‘You will be surprised how effective it is … Just be stern and bossy and say the Rowdy Rathore dialog from time to time’

‘Don’t Angry me - is the mantra’

***

We were moving from Boston to Bangalore for a year.

‘One full year!’, I was already counting the things to do, places to see and friends to visit. Having lived the USA for fourteen years, our bi-annual India trips were mostly a flurry of short stays with friends and family spread across five to six cities packed tightly in a three week schedule. The pace at which things happened in those trips could put Flash Gordon to shame.

I could almost feel my body relax as I conjured images of a fun filled, laid back pace at which we would get to really experience India.

‘Laid back and peaceful …’,the words floated through my head as I stood in front of the Villa surrounded by Palm, Gulmohor and coconut trees in a quiet gated community in the outskirts of Bangalore. This was going to by our home for the next year.

‘So we have a gardener, two housemaids, a cook and a driver ... all of them working at our place! ’ , my son remarked, ‘ I won’t have to put the garbage out ! ’, he beamed

‘And I won’t have to water the plants!’, my daughter chirped.

‘Yes’, my wife smiled’ that will give all of us a LOT of spare time, isn’t?’

***

‘So let me get this straight - the water is pumped to the house two times a day..’ , I was trying to keep my cool as I spoke with the person managing the water supply of our gated community.

‘Yes, two times – morning and evening’, the man nodded un-affirmatively.

‘We did not get the water in the evening’, I tried to explain.

‘Yes, it is only morning for your block sir’ the man nodded and shook his head again.

‘We are out of water ...’ I implored.

‘Please wait till morning, sir..’

“Don’t Angry me !”, my friends’ words rang through my head as I saw my only hope ride away in his Honda Activa. I had the perfect Rowdy Rathore expression ready for him– only if he had glanced back.

The much awaited water did come in the morning. That is when we realized that the water pump had burned out since we did not know that the water storage was empty and had kept it running the earlier day.

‘No issues ... Electrician is just a call away’, I feigned a smile as my wife stood with a battalion of helpless house helps standing in attention behind her. The gardener had the water hose in his hand to make a point I think.

The Electrician arrived sooner than I expected. ‘ I have been working in this colony for ten years sir..’, he boasted, ‘ The security does not even ask for my ID – they recognize my bike’ , he said taking a strand of his mustache hair out of his nostril. He fixed the pump much sooner than I expected.

‘It is fixed ’, he declared.

‘Can we turn it on?’

‘There is no electricity ..’

‘We have a UPS !’

‘The UPS does not drive 15 AMP circuits ..’, he gave me ‘you don’t even know that !’ look.

‘So how do you know that it is fixed !’, I was trying to conjure up my Rowdy Rathore look even as the electrician started his bike and rode way into the dusty horizon. ‘ I know ..’ his voice seemed to echo across time and space.

The battalion of helpless house helps nodded their head affirmatively - ‘He knows ..’ the silent message threw me out of balance.

I picked up my phone. ‘Mom , we need you in Bangalore. Now! It is urgent!!’

***

It had been a few weeks since my Mom arrived.

I was sitting on my Yoga mat in a quiet corner of the terrace. This corner is shaded by the coconut tree growing in the backyard. Beautiful, southern-california-style-sunny morning. Deep blue skies and a perfect 72 degree temperature.

‘Laid back and peaceful … at last..’ , I thought as I lay down on the mat looking up at the sky through the coconut leaves.

I suddenly heard a rustling sound behind me that makes me jump up. Precariously perched on the coconut tree was our Cook. He was trying to cut out a bunch of coconuts with his kitchen knife “ Your mother has asked me to use fresh coconuts in the curry’, he said half apologetically.

Before I could respond, I head a clanging noise. The society water supply guy stood on the top a twenty feet long bamboo ladder, peering into the overhead water tank. ‘The pump is working well Maaji – there is a lot of water in the tank ….’ I was amazed. I walked up the front of the house and my mother was standing on the Lawn. ‘Make sure that there is enough water in the tank …or else you will have to come again’ she fumed. ‘Don’t Angry me’

“Prune that Branch – don’t cut it !’ , she shouted at the gardener , who is sitting on a branch of the Gulmohor tree , visibly shaking. ‘ Leafs from that branch fall on the car …’either you fix that branch or start cleaning up the car everyday ..’ , she declared. ‘Don’t Angry me’

My attention shifted to yet another person participating in aerial acrobatics – this one was sitting on the highest point of the roof of the Villa. Straddling the top of the inverted V that framed the elegant edifice of the house. It was the electrician, putting Diwali lights. ’ I want the light to go through the point where you are sitting – and make the edge look sharp...do a good job otherwise I will make you climb up there again … ’, mother bellowed her commands. ‘Don’t Angry me’

I could almost hear silence floating across the air, punctuated with a silent ‘Don’t Angry me’ as the four men worked silently from their high altitude work spaces.

Don’t Angry me was indeed the mantra !

Author’s Note:

‘Laid back and peaceful …’ hmmm not really (at least not yet). But helluva lot interesting. Especially for folks like me who have been out of India for some time. Please stay tuned for more adventures and reporting from the old home.

The Tide Adventure

2012-07-07T12:15:00.000-07:00

Prologue

‘The Sea is gone’

‘The Sea is gone ... no , really !!’

The little girl panted as she shook her mother awake. The mother pulled herself out of the bed and drew the curtains, spilling early morning sunshine into the room.

She squinted to look across the backyard that overlooked the bay of Fundy. She could not believe her eyes!

Attack of the Crabs

Once upon a time, long long ago, there was a small little kingdom called Anrock near the Bay of Fundy. The people in the kingdom were happy fishermen and women. They would all work through the day and get together in the evening, sing and dance together.

Then one day, the kingdom was attacked by the ferocious crabs of the underland.

Crabs of all shapes and sizes started crawling out of the ocean. Crabs of all forms - big ones with large claws and small ones with small pinchers and tiny ones with hairy spider like legs. Crabs of all colors –furious red ones, greedy greenish ones, lazy brown ones and the snooty blue ones.

They came out of the ocean in hoards, overrunning the fishing village. They gobbled up the fishing nets. They bit through the fishing boats making them sink into the bottom of the ocean. They even climbed up the roof of the houses and made big holes in them.

The fisher folks had to run away from the villages. The ones those remained had to guard their houses round the clock. The men fought them with swords. Then women joined the fight trying to keep the Crabs away from their houses using pitchforks.

But the creepy, crawly creatures kept on pouring out of the sea into the villages around the bay. The fisher folks were losing the fight. The head of all the villages rode to the King’s castle.

King Pembroke heard the plea of the unhappy subjects. “The Crabs have attacked our villages, please help us …’, they pleaded.

The King was enraged. He took out his deadliest sword, assembled his bravest soldiers, put on his strongest armor and rode on his fastest horse towards the Bay of Fundy.

Prince of Clams

King Pembroke had many friends who lived in the ocean. He knew that he would need their help to defeat the Crabs. So he stopped by the castle of the Prince of Clams.

The prince lived in a castle that was different from all the other castles in the world - it was under the ground! What looked like flat marshy seabed next to the Bay, was actually the roof of the huge castle. Millions of clams stood guard of the Castle, keeping watch through tiny peepholes

‘I am here to see the Prince of Clams’, King Pembroke announced. The section of the ocean floor he was standing in stared to move into the ground. He was greeted by the cheerful clicky voice of the prince of Clam.

‘Good to see you my friend!’, the prince announced. The prince knew about the Crabs. ‘They have come in from the underland’, he said somberly.

‘Can you help me?’, The King asked.

The clam clicked thoughtfully. He then clicked some more. ‘There is one person who can help you ‘ , he finally declared. The king waited expectantly as the clam clicked some more.

‘The God of the Sea – Poseidon’, the clam said after a pause, ‘ the God of the sea can tame the crabs. The crabs need the sea to survive …’

‘But I don’t know how to reach Poseidon …’ , King Pembroke voice had a hint of dejection. He had heard about the legend of the God of sea who lived in deepest oceans – far far away from the bay of Fundy.

‘But I know someone who does! ’, the prince of Clam said with a cheerful click.

The Travelling Salmon

‘Yes , that is correct ‘ , the Atlantic Salmon said twitching his snout ‘ I have met Poseidon ...’ , he wiggled his tail and twitched his snout some more ‘ … met him several times …’ , he said in a calm monotonous tone.

Prince clam had told the King that the Travelling Salmon was back from his ocean trip. ‘The golly fellow comes back to the stream it was born in. Imagine, traveling to all those wonderful faraway places in another continent, only to come back here!’

‘The fish may be nuts, but I tell you - he knows Poseidon. He has surely met him many times’, King Pembroke recalled Prince Clam’s words as he stood near the Chamcook Lake talking to the Travelling Salmon. The lake was connected to the ocean by the winding Chamcook river , which plunged down a huge waterfall before merging into the bay.

‘Seven times ... I have met him seven times – once in each of my ocean trips ..’ , the travelling salmon continued ‘ In fact Poseidon taught me how to jump up that waterfall - all twelve feet of it’ , The salmon flicked its tail in the direction of the waterfall.

‘Can you convey our message to Poseidon to help us? The Crabs are destroying the villages and they must be stopped! ‘ , the King made an earnest plea.

‘But the villagers have fished us to near extinction’, the salmon replied. A tinge of sadness accentuated its monotonous voice, ‘They have polluted the streams and built dams on the rivers that makes it impossible for us to come back to the places we were born in …’

‘Why should I help you and your villagers ...’ , the travelling Salmon stared at King Pembroke.

‘I will make sure you and your kind are protected ‘, The King did not bat his eyelids ‘ Even if you choose not to help me … Travelling salmon, that is a word that I give to you today !’

The travelling salmon glided around the lake as several other salmon joined him. They looked very happy. The salmon picked up speed and headed out towards the river ‘ I will help you ‘, it said jumping over a rapid.

‘How will I know that you have conveyed him our message?’, The king asked .

‘You will know’, the salmon said as it jumped down the waterfall.

The Sea is gone

‘The Sea is gone!!’

The little girl panted as she shook her mother awake. The mother pulled herself out of the bed and drew the curtains, spilling early morning sunshine into the room. She squinted her eyes to look across the backyard that overlooked the bay of Fundy. She could not believe he eyes!

She picked up the pitchfork that was carefully placed beside the door and cautiously walked out into the backyard of the house. The house was perched on top of a cliff overlooking the bay.

The sea was indeed gone! And the crabs had gone away with it!

Tears of joy welled into her eyes as she looked along the coastline which was lined with thousands of men, women and children, waving their swords and pitchforks into the air. A roar of cheer rang across the bay as the woman and her little girl joined in.

King Pembroke stood with the men and women and stared at the empty horizon.

‘You will know’

Epilogue

The sea did come back. In six hours to be precise. The nasty Crabs of the underland did not come back with it. The Sea has been receding into the horizon twice a day since then – perhaps just to make sure that the crabs do not come back and terrorize the small little kingdom near the Bay of Fundy.

The breeding grounds of salmons are now protected in the Kingdom.

Authors Note: Bay of Fundy in the Atlantic coast of North America is known for the highest tides in the world. The sea level drops by more than forty feet between the tides. The coastline recedes almost to the horizon in a lot of places leaving the coastal fishing towns somewhat embarrassed with their docks anchoring boats balanced on the dry ocean bed. Twice in a day, these quaint seaside towns would transform to (just) quaint towns overlooking vast expanse of ocean bed laden with silt and weeds.

I was sitting on the deck of a cottage in one such town, trying hard to get out of an obstinate writer’s block. The cottage (an amazing vacation rental) was perched on a cliff overlooking the Bay of Fundy in St Andrews, Canada. A path wound down from the cottage to the seashore where my kids were busy chasing crabs with enviable enthusiasm. The crabs sought shelter in the receding sea that was fleeing with an amazing pace because of the low tide.

‘Keep an eye on the kids’; said my wife ‘I am going in to fix us some lunch’.

I nodded, fixing my gaze at the two children who were squealing with delight digging out crabs of all shapes and sizes from the ocean bed and putting them into a yellow bucket. ‘We will let them all go after we are done playing’, my seven year old daughter had assured me.

The kids went further and further away from the cliff as the ocean receded, almost as if they were chasing the ocean into a beating retreat.

I had found my story!

Stranded!

2012-03-25T15:54:00.001-07:00

“Stranded!”

The word has an uncomfortable ring to it. A combination of helplessness and uncertainty laced with despair. A few strands of excitement scattered here and there. And the painful attempt of the mind to believe that it is in control.

Yes I know that formula very well dear friends. I should have received an honorary doctorate in getting stranded – if that subject was of any academic interest. If finding holes in illusion of certainty that the modern technological age has been striving to create, was a crime – then I would be behind the bars for life.

You don’t believe me do you? Well, how about I share some of my experiences and then the jury can decide. And before I start , I want to reiterate that all these incidences are true.

****

Train is of course one of the most popular modes of transportation across the world. Especially in India where thousands of locomotives ferry millions of passengers every day, connecting cities and towns and villages to each other, it is a like the lifeline of the country.

During my college days, it used to be my primary mode of transportation between my home and college. Thought it was long ride – fifteen hours if the train was on time, I was lucky that there was a direct train to the city where my college was located in. The scheduled departure time for the train from my town was 9 PM but it used to be invariably a couple of hours late, arriving at the destination early afternoon the next day.The travels would take place mostly during college vacations.

As the train passed through numerous towns, known faces from the college boarded the train - mostly acquaintances and an occasional friend. We used to spend a lot of time standing near the open door of the coach, smoking and chatting, getting off and on the train at all the small stations that the train paused through. Only when the coach attendant declared that it was time to close the door, we used to finally retire, usually sleeping through the rest of the journey.

That day, the train had arrived at the station right on time. This was the first time this happened since had been travelling to college. My coach was in the middle of the train, which was a good location to scout the train from.

Strangely enough I was not able to locate any friend in the train that night. I decided to retire for the night and stretched out on my berth. The sleeper coaches of the train provided seeping berths that were positioned one on top of other. Though it was a bit early for bedtime, I pulled the blanket over my head and dozed off.

I was jerked out of my deep slumber by a rumbling sound followed by loud screeching and a finally a jolt. The coach swayed so much amidst the noise that I had to peep out of the cozy blanket and looked at my watch – it was 3 AM in the morning .Then I heard screams, something that I had never experienced in my twenty odd years of riding the train.

The train swayed dangerously with a deafening sound and came to a screeching halt. I got up, amidst screams of passengers who had been thrown out of their berths. As I made my way to the exit, I noticed that the entire coach was sloping towards the right. I was one of the first ones to jump out of the coach into a dark and still night.

The coach I was travelling in was leaning at an angle on the tracks. It was really dark outside, we were in the middle of nowhere. The only thing that was visible was the faint outline of the tracks next to our train and a broken harness dangling from our coach. The harness was supposed to be attached to the next coach. All the coaches after ours were missing - those coaches, most likely would be lying down toppled somewhere down the tracks.

I glanced down the deserted track and then nervously at the men standing next to me in the dark night.

I was stranded!

****

‘Train accidents happen all the time’, a cynic jury member might say in an imaginary conversation with the author, ‘You just happened to be unlucky enough to be part of one ...’

‘How about a cross country motorcycle journey then?’, I would respond, ‘ Will that make the cut ?’

The jury member might look at me with a skeptical gaze, ‘A motorcycle accident?’

‘No – that would be too easy’, I manage a smile. ‘How about getting stranded on the road – without any of the predictable stuff … accident, falling sick , bandhs ?’

I passed on to the cynic jury member a link to the story – Pulp Fiction Masaala.

****

‘Did it really happen?’ , the jury member asked after browsing through the story.

‘Yes, most of it’, I replied ‘ Of course what is life without a little creative license ?’

‘ I have more stories ..’, I added eagerly ‘ There is one where I get stranded because of the train. And then I head out for a road trip and get stranded again!’

‘Yes I have read that one in your blog ‘ , the jury member gave me a faint smile.

‘Do you have something that is different?’, she asked after a pause.

‘You bet I do!’ , I was eager to be absolved of my crime of finding holes in illusion of certainty that the modern technological age was trying to create.

****

So here is a different story that happens in a totally different part of the world.

Aircraft is of course one of the most popular modes of transportation across the world. Especially in USA where thousands of aircrafts ferry millions of passengers every day, connecting cities and towns to each other, it is a like the lifeline of the country.

‘Don’t tell me you have been in a plane accident ...’ , the jury member interrupted with her eyes betraying her attempt of feigning a detached calmness.

‘No – no usual stuff ...’ , I smiled ‘ Here is how the story goes…’

I fly a lot as part of my work. If you discount the instances of ego induced imaginary levitations, I still flew a lot and was in the elite clubs of most of the airlines. Of course the perks of these travels – beside the complimentary fist class upgrades, glasses of champagnes and access to exclusive lounges at the airports, was my near constant absence from the life of my family. But somehow I had played along with the illusion that elite mileage membership was a more than sufficient compensation for missing out on life.

Because of my frequent travels, I have had the good fortune of experiencing several adrenalin induced moments. Like getting splattered with the barf of my co traveler when our shuttle aircraft plummeted down due to an unusually large airpocket. It was early in the morning and I swear I could have guessed the menu of the breakfast the guy had.

Then there was this incidence where the overtly panicked stewardess asked us to put our head between our knees for an emergency landing. The aircraft landed on the runway lined with ambulances and fire trucks. But that is not when I got stranded.

It was a balmy winter afternoon in Boston (if you know the standards of balmy winter in New England) . The Sun was still shining brightly - the temperature was twenty degree F ( -6 Deg C). I was travelling to Chicago - It was supposed to be snowing and much colder there. My brother lives in Chicago and I would be staying with him for the night and go through a string of official meetings the next morning. It was a simple plan.

The air was unusually chilly when I got out of my car at the central parking of the Logan Airport. I hurried out of the car and rushed towards the terminal building. The flight was on time.

After the usual rounds of in-flight complimentary champagne, I disembarked the plane at O Hare Airport in Chicago. My brother was supposed to pick me up from the terminal. ‘ Call me when your flight lands – I will be there before you reach the terminal exit’ he had said.

I dug into pocket retrieve my cell phone. The phone was not there! Then I realized that I did not recall turning the phone off before the phone took off. My cell phone was in my car that was parked at Boston Airport !

I looked at the eyes of the cynic jury, who did not seem to be impressed by the turn of events.

‘So what – you just forgot your cell phone … is that all?’ , she seemed to be underwhelmed.

That day I realized the extent I had got used to the technological props. I did not remember my brother’s cell phone number. Or his address – I had his address stored in my contact information in my cell phone. All I recalled that he lived in the Lake shore drive opposite to Lake Michigan on the eighteenth floor of a beautiful building that had a swimming pool on the terrace.

A combination of helplessness and uncertainty laced with despair crept up on my mind. A few strands of excitement scattered here and there in the mix. My mind made a painful attempt to believe that it is in control as I called my home from a pay phone.

‘So you got your brother’s address and phone number from your wife ?’ , my heartless jury remarked nonchalantly.

I tried to. There was no one at home as my call kept on hitting the answering machine. I did not remember my wife’s cell phone number - her office had switched over to a new carrier last month and she had a new number which had not registered in my memory.

It was snowing outside and the temperature was minus 15 deg centigrade. I stood on the curbside thinking about my brother who was waiting for my call so that he could come and pick me up at the airport. I could not take a taxi to his place because I did not remember his address.

I was stranded!

****

‘So what is your point?’ , the imaginary jury asked after a long pause , ‘ Is it that the things that you take so much for granted – the safety net – it is a mere illusion ?’

Frankly, I was just hoping for some sympathy. But my jury’s philosophical inference sounded reasonable. I nodded affirmatively.

‘But you did survive all the strandings ... didn’t you ?’ , she asked with a smile.

I recalled that I had walked for about a mile after the train accident when we saw fire from a distance. Several coaches lay toppled on the tracks and the passengers had lit up warning bonfires. Some of the passengers were helping the train staff in attending to the injured. After what seemed to be a very long wait, a train passed on the track parallel to ours – we had stopped that train and made our way to the next station.

I had hailed a taxi at O’Hare. It had started to snow. ‘Please drive towards the Lake Shore dive … by the way do you have a cell phone?‘ I had asked the cab driver. I left a message on the home answering machine ‘Left my cell phone in the car. Stranded in Chicago – please call me at 347 564 3422’. I had my brother’s address when I was a mile away from his home.

I did not want to tell her about the countless other times that I had felt that I was stranded but I had survived the stranding.

‘We all survive the strandings’, I winked at my imaginary jury.

Time Travel with Tintin

2012-02-25T16:52:00.000-08:00

‘How was it ?’ I had asked my eleven year son as we walked out out the multiplex after watching The Adventures Tintin.

‘Loved it !’, he had replied with a grin , ‘Can you get me all the comics, please ! you have read them all, haven't you ?’

It had taken some convincing to get him interested in the blond boyish looking character who had been my favorite comic book hero since I was his age.

The crown jewel of my comics’ collection, Tintin had made his way up on favorite list. Herge’s illustrations would take me to the far away lands – Africa, Tibet, Middle East, America and even to the Moon!

‘How about we read them together?’ I had suggested.

***

A pile of Tintin comics lay in front of us. I had ordered several of them from Amazon. There were a few from my childhood collection - these masterpieces were still clad in the newspaper jackets that I had put on them to save them from the rampage of time.

‘Careful’, I said as my son unwrapped the Jacket to reveal the colorful front page of Tintin and the Picaros – the hilarious plot that was set amongst imaginary Banana republic’s of South America. He settled down into the couch diving into the land of General Alcazar.

The yellowing newspaper jackets lay on the floor. I picked up one which was almost brittle with age.

“Times of India Sunday, June 15, 1986” said the fading letters on the header, just above smiling faces of Kapildev and Ravi Shastri who were popping a bottle of champagne.

I carefully unwrapped other newspaper jackets - they were all within a couple of years.

‘Scooch over ‘ I nudged my son from my favorite spot on the couch and settled down with a cup of tea and twenty five year old newspapers.

‘I thought you were going to read Tintin with me …’ , my son complained.

But I had already set out on a time travel that took me back more than twenty five years – when I was almost as old as my son.

****

I don’t read newspapers. I think that they are the best way to ruin your morning. I believe that if the news is important - it would always find you. Today, news from a Sunday morning about twenty five years ago had found me.

“End for Ron , Blonde for Mikhail predicted” , the international news section had a piece covering an astrologers prediction that Ronald Regan would resign over Iran arms scandal and Mikhail Gorbochov would fall in love with a 19 year old air hostess. ‘Most Astrologers predict that next year would be disastrous ’ the article concluded. ‘Not much of a change there‘, I chuckled.

'Can you turn off the TV please ?' my son requested, his eyes glued to the comic. The TV was showing a documentary on Tibetans and their struggle to get freedom. I turned it off and placed the remote on the coffee table.

My attention drifted to the small section in the Sunday newspaper that said “Today’s TV” with the Sunday morning programs that I used to wait an entire week for. The listing was next to an advertisement for black and white television sets. Mickey and Donald show was at 10 AM, followed by the kids soap 'Ek do Teen chaar' and then the celebrated Rajani at 12:15 PM.

My eyes would be glued to the black and white television showing programs ranging from Mickey and Donald’s show to the feisty Rajani – the vigilant housewife on a mission to fight against social issues under a semi-comical setting.

The Sunday Feature Film was V Shantaram’s Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje – which I recalled even after twenty five years. It had been a painful movie to sit through at that time with its unending string of dances.

“Last ‘Rajani’ today” declared an article just below the listing that said that Mudra Communications would not be making any new episodes of the celebrated TV serial. The last episode of Rajani at 12:15 pm.

I sat up excited. I still remembered that Sunday afternoon very clearly ! My mother had not stopped complaining about the end of her favorite TV program. "Why do they stop the good programs?' . "They should privatize the TV broadcasting", my dad had quipped in.

The time travel was getting real . It wasn't an general day from the past that was reading about. It was a day that I could relate to now. A day that I had memories about !

A quick glance at the weather section which was just under the TV listing – it was 43 deg C (110 F) in Delhi. I cringed recalling the hot June afternoons. Tar roads would burn and almost feel soft under the shoes due to the heat . A blast of dry westerly winds , or Loo blowing from the deserts of Rajasthan could almost vaporize you.

****

The economic section had news about Reliance Industries setting up a new company for a massive petrochemical project in Hazira, Gujrat.

The company was to be named Reliance Petrochemicals. The company went on to become a household name in India and played a key role in shaping up Reliance Industries into an industrial behemoth. The owner of the company is now the second richest person in Asia and ninth richest in the world.

Scattered around the pages were advertisements - relics of commercial art with amusing copy writing. "Visit before or after marriage and regain health vigor and vitality", declared the advertisement of the celebrated Sablok Clinic - made famous but the wall graffiti advertisement campaign along the railway tracks of Delhi.

A huge quarter page advertisement of Siva Computers was filled up with a rate card of PC's with different configurations. The state of the art AT-386 was priced at Rs 1,40,00 (~$3000).

'Times have indeed changed', I thought, as I looked at the advertisement with an amused grin.

'How about some news ?', I opened the newspaper to peek into the inside pages.

This section was relatively well preserved and I shifted my attention to the headlines sprinkled across the pages.

I was Amazed by what I found there !

****

I could not believe that these headlines were from a newspaper that was twenty five years old. These headlines could pass as "News" even today.

Israel, Palestine, India. Pakistan, Kashmir .. the dates had changed but the stories were the same.

'Uneasy calm in Lhasa', said another headline - that talked about the unrest in Tibet.

'Wait a minute .. didn't I see that on the TV just now..' , sat up flicking the TV on. The program was still on - throwing light on Tibetans and their struggle to get freedom.

'Perhaps the times have not changed that much after all ...' I sighed as I fixed my gaze at the television which was showing interviews related to the 2008 Tibetan unrest which had ended in rioting, looting and killing.

****

‘Hey ! I thought you were going to read Tintin with me …’ , my son complained as he saw me watching the television. I switched the television off and turned my gaze towards the stack of Tintin comics on the coffee table. "Tintin in Tibet" was on top of the pile.

A smile spread across my face. Colorful images of Tibet and Himalayas that that Herge had conjured in the comic book flashed in my mind - the monasteries, the levitating monks, the colorful kites and the snow clad landscapes. The images were in stark contrast to the fossilized reality. The fossilized reality that had not changed after twenty five years.

I picked up the Tinitin comic, stretched out next to my son and dived into the land of Tintin. I was happy that things had not changed there as well.

Smart Robots

2012-02-04T12:38:00.000-08:00

Authors Note :

"The strength of your writing is that it has honesty ... but you have to work on the length of your stories", was my writing Guru's feedback. "Cut ruthlessly on multiple reads till a point that you feel not a single word can now be removed", she said.

So I thought of a story that needed a lot of honesty. And tried to communicate it in the least possible words ..

Planet Omega-3 was inhabited by smart robots.

These robots ran on a heuristic program - a program that could learn. The robots became more intelligent over time and started performing new and cool stuff. They even evolved their forms to new cool forms to help them perform new and cool stuff.

One day a robot’s program became over optimized and created a virus.

The virus made the robot perform not so cool stuff, while its program continued to believe that it was performing cool stuff.

The virus spread to other robots and the number of infected robots increased steadily.

***

Then one day a robot downloaded a vaccine program from an unknown source.

The incidences of vaccine downloads started happening at regular intervals. These robots were known as savior robots.

The savior robots cleared the virus from a large number of infected robots they came in contact with.

The vaccinated robots could once see the difference between what was cool and what was not.

***

But several of these vaccinated robots caught the virus back again.

Most of them were the ones who got organized in big groups to set up vaccination camps for other infected robots. These robots relapsed with a resistant strain of virus - vaccine for which had not surfaced yet.

The gap between infected and vaccinated robots continues to grow in the planet Omega-3.

THE END

Mariposa

2012-01-07T18:21:00.000-08:00

‘Can you write a story for me ?’, my six year old daughter asked, ‘An awesome butterfly story ...’

She loved butterflies, ‘ I want to be a butterfly when I grow up’ , she would say.

‘What do you want in the story ...?’, I smiled.

‘An awesome princess. Lots of awesome Monarch butterflies. Not too many words and a lot of pictures…’

So I tried to find out more about the Monarch butterflies. And I was amazed by what I found out !

Once upon a time, long long ago, there was a beautiful princess, who lived in a beautiful palace that was in a beautiful kingdom nestled around beautiful mountains of central Mexico. Her name was Mariposa.

The princess loved butterflies. ‘I want to be a butterfly when I grow up’, the princess would say.

‘You will be a queen when you grow up , my dear’, the King would laugh.

‘No I want to become a beautiful butterfly and fly away!’

***

One day the King got a message from another kingdom that was far far away.

‘Help us ! The mighty tribes of South are going to attack us in the Harvest season ! Please send your army to help ’

‘But your kingdom is so far far away …’, The king said ‘ How will my army reach there in time ?’

The King did not send help.

Next year, the King got a message from another kingdom that was far away.

‘Help us ! The mighty tribes of South are going to attack us in the Harvest season ! Please send your army to help ’

‘But your kingdom is so far away …’, The king said ‘ How will my army reach there in time ?’

The King did not send help.

Next year, the King got a message from the mighty tribes of South.

‘We are going to attack you in the Harvest season !’

The King was sad. The mighty tribes of South had a big big army. He would need help.

‘But I have helped nobody so why will other’s help me ?’

***

‘We can ask help from the mighty tribes of the North’ , the queen suggested .

The King and the Queen were sitting under the royal Oak tree in the royal garden. Princess Mariposa was chasing butterflies that were flying around the garden.

‘You are right my Queen. The Harvest season is only four months away. I will go to them personally and ask for help. ’

‘My princess Mariposa …’, the King said to his daughter, ‘Take care of your mother while I am away’

Mariposa nodded as a Monarch butterfly settled gently on her head.

That night, the King and his sixteen strongest soldiers headed north on their fastest horses.

Two months passed but the King did not return.

***

‘The harvest season is so close!’, the queen thought impatiently, ‘And there is still no word from the King !!'

The Queen and Mariposa were sitting under the royal Oak tree in the royal garden. The oak tree was Marposa’s favorite tree . The tree always had a lot of Monarch butterflies fluttering around it.

Mariposa held her mothers hand gently to comfort her.

‘What if the King does not return with help before the harvest season ?’

‘The Northen Tribes are so far far away …’, The queen muttered sadly ‘ How will they reach there in time ?’

The queen began to sob. She got up and hurried back into the palace, hiding her tears.

Mariposa sat under the royal Oak tree. She was also very sad. She missed her father.

‘I wish I was a butterfly’, she thought as a tear dropped down her rosy cheek ‘ I would fly to the Northern tribes … and find my father!‘

‘You will get what you wish, dear ..’ , a gentle voice came from above her.

She looked up. There was no one.

‘W-Who are you ?’, she asked , looking around her.

‘It is me dear … the Oak tree !’

***

The magical Oak tree told Mariposa that it could turn her into a butterfly !

‘I will give you a magical word..’, the tree whispered, ‘Hold the hands of someone you love and say the word ... you will turn into a butterfly !’

Mariposa’s eyes gleamed with delight.

‘What is the magical word ?’

‘It is - IAM'

Mariposa ran inside the palace to her mother’s chamber.

‘Mother I will be back soon ’, she said holding her mother’s hand.

‘IAM!’, she said softly and turned into a beautiful Monarch butterfly

***

Mariposa fluttered out of the window into the royal gardens. She was greeted cheerfully by all her butterfly friends. The Oak tree gave her a smile.

‘Which way should I fly to reach the mighty tribes of the North ?’, she asked excitedly.

‘That way my dear', said the Oak tree pointing with a branch,' But it will take you many many days to reach there ..'

‘My friends will help you find your way ..’, it said, ‘..the first one is the sun - just listen to what he has to say and you will stay on course.

‘What if the sun gets hidden by the clouds?’ , Mariposa asked.

‘Then listen to the sky. The sky knows what the sun has to say. It will convey its message’, the tree smiled.

‘And what if the entire sky is covered with clouds ?’

‘Wait. Don’t fly’, the oak tree smiled,’ The clouds will eventually go away. Then you fly again !’

***

Mariposa rose up in the warm air. Up and up and up.

She listened to the sun and kept fluttering her colorful wings towards the direction it asked her to.

Sometimes It was a bit difficult to hear the sun as it moved across the sky, getting obscured by the clouds. But then the blue sky conveyed sun’s message to Mariposa.

On the days when the entire sky was covered with clouds, she waited patiently for the clouds to clear – just enough to get a glimpse of the blue sky.

She kept on flying for days and days, resting occasionally to snack on milkweed plants.

‘I have to get back with help before the harvest season!’ , she thought with her eyes trained towards the northern horizons.

Then one day, the Sun told her in a cheerful voice.

‘You are there ! ’

***

The huge kingdom of the mighty northern tribes lay sprawled under her. As far as her eyes could see.

And then she saw her father! He was standing in front of a big group of warriors.

‘Help us ! The mighty tribes of South are going to attack us in the Harvest season ! Please send your army to help us’, said the King.

‘But your kingdom is so far far away …’, A big northern warrior said with a booming voice ' ..how will our army reach there in time ?’

‘We can find a way if we want to …’ , the King appealed.

‘There is no way we can reach your kingdom in one month ... even with the fastest horses ..’, the big northern warrior replied ‘ It took you more than two months to reach here with just sixteen soldiers. We have one hundred and sixty thousand ...’

The king looked down, crestfallen. He recalled the appeal for help he had received from other Kings – the messages he had ignored because he did not try hard enough to help.

‘The Chief is right. How can I get one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers to my kingdom in one month’

Just then he saw a beautiful butterfly descend from the sky. She flapped her wings and settled down on the King’s right ear.

‘Its me father - Mariposa’, she whispered.

***

‘I know a way to get the warriors to our Kingdom before the harvest season’, Mariposa whispered excitedly.

‘Make them hold the hand of the person they love and say the magical word …’, She said settling down on his fingers. She then told her father the story of the Oak tree and how she got here.

The mighty northern tribes believed that the butterflies were the spirits of their ancestors. ‘It is a good omen’, the big northern warrior said to the King, ‘We will help you - tell us what to do’

‘Get your best warriors – along with a person he loves’ , The king said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Soon the vast expanse of the northern plains was covered with the mightiest of the warriors, each with a loved member of their family.

‘Repeat after me’, the King said as Mariposa settled down gently on his hand.

‘IAM!’

***

One hundred and sixty thousand and eighteen butterflies rose up in the chilly northern air. Up and up and up.

‘Listen to the sun’, the King Monarch ‘s voice rang in the air ,’And the blue sky’

The butterflies flew southwards. Sometimes It was a bit difficult to hear the Sun as it moved across the sky , getting obscured by the clouds. But then the sky conveyed sun’s message.

On the days when the entire sky was covered with clouds, they waited patiently for the clouds to clear – just enough to get a glimpse of the blue sky.

They kept on flying for days and days, resting occasionally to snack on milkweed plants.

Then one day, the Sun told them in a cheerful voice.

‘You are there! ’

The people of the beautiful kingdom nestled around the beautiful mountains of central Mexico were amazed to see thousands of beautiful butterflies descending from the sky just before the harvest season.

THE END

Authors Note:

Yes, the butterflies did turn back into warriors and defeated the mighty tribes of South :)

The residents of the kingdom nestled around the mountains of central Mexico still get millions of colorful visitors every year. The migration of millions of Monarch butterflies from Northern US and Southern Canada to central Mexico continues to amaze everyone.

About four hundred million of them travel more than three thousand miles every year to an area less than seventy square miles in central Mexico !

How do they do it ? Well it is still a puzzle, and researchers are trying to figure out all aspects of the migration. Of course, Sun , Sky and sensors in the butterflies are involved (more)

I also discovered some amazing facts like the people in the region have welcomed the arrival of monarchs since pre-Hispanic times. In the language of the native Purépecha Indians, the monarch butterfly is called the harvester butterfly, because they descend from the skies just before the harvest season (more )

So ... how did it all start ? I wondered.

Pulp Fiction Masala – Part 2

2011-12-03T07:11:00.000-08:00

Story so far : Two friends go missing while on a road trip. The road trip was a result of a wager between classmates. The challenge to race Kashi Vishvanath Express from Varanasi to Lucknow becomes a thrilling adventure for the two friends Bunty and Sonu. (Please read the complete story at Pulp Fiction Masala )

Authors Note : This story has been inspired by real incidences that happened several years ago … before the age of cell phones. You will be surprised if you knew which parts of the story are real!

‘Wow! That man was one cool character ‘, Sonu said gazing at the tractor that rattled and puffed down the highway , taking a sharp turn into a dusty road cutting through sugarcane fields.

‘There is a shorter route that cuts across the bend on the highway – It is very convenient, I will be taking that route …’, The good Samaritan tractor driver, Ranjit Singh had said to Sonu during the tractor ride.’ ‘Racing a train to Lucknow … Sir you can take a nap and still win the race’, he had joked.

It took about an hour to repair the flat tire.’ There are multiple punchers ‘, the mechanic had complained displaying the damaged tube which was cut in multiple places. Bunty and Sonu had lost more than two hours due to the flat tire.

‘Let’s take the shortcut’, Sonu said pointing to the unpaved road bending sharply towards the west ‘It cuts across the bend in the highway’

They rode through the dusty road along the sugarcane fields. It was a pleasant ride as they passed quaint mud and brick houses that were sparsely scattered along the narrow road.

The slim hope of making it to Lucknow before the train was dashed to pieces when the bike wobbled.

“No … Not again !’ Exclaimed Bunty. The dejected duo stared at the flat tire. They un mounted the bike and scanned the road which is surprisingly empty, but for a herd of cattle that was crossing about a hundred yard ahead of them. Just beyond the dusty silhouette of the cows was a mud and brick structure. Wisps of smoke hung around the small hut like structure, occasionally blowing across the road and over the sugarcane fields. It was a roadside chai shop.

The deserted Chai shop turned out to be bigger than they expected. The only person there was an old man stirring a big pot sitting on a clay oven in an open kitchen. There was also a small bicycle repair shop down the road !

‘I can fix it – but it will cost you ten rupees’, the shabby teenager manning the shop said in a delightfully gloomy voice. But even the gloomy voice seemed like Christmas Carol to the weary riders.

‘We will catch something to eat and will be back in ten minutes – make it fast‘, Bunty said handing the teenager a ten rupee note. They left the bike on the shop and walked down to the Dhaba.

‘We lost the wager …’ , Bunty admitted with a sheepish smile.

‘Koi baat nahi yaar, Lets relax and enjoy’ , Sonu smiled back.

The boys did not know that it was just the beginning of their adventure!

***

The Chai Shop was totally deserted.

The old man stirring the big pot gave them an ominous glance and focused his attention back to pot sitting on a clay oven.

As they settled down on a wooden bench next to the road , a tall and burly man approached them from behind the mud and brick structure. He was at least six and half feet tall. He had a thick moustache, turned up at the ends.

‘Abe, he looks like a bandit straight out of the Hindi Movies ‘, Sonu whispered as the man stood towering beside them.

‘What can I get S-S-Sirji?’ He asked. The boys were surprised by the choices offered and ordered for chai shop snacks – Maggi , bread pakoda and chai.

The man appeared again shortly. He said that the food was ready and he had made a special arrangement for dining table inside the mud and brick structure.

‘S-S-Sirji, It will be good in there, more comfortable’, he said ‘ It is dusty here’

They followed the man to a room behind the open kitchen. The old man stirring the blackened pot glanced back with a blank expression.

There was a large room with several benches. One bench was covered with a white table cloth with Maggi , bread pakoda and chai laid out neatly on it. The food looked heavenly to the weary , famished travelers and they settled down with their plates , ignoring the burly man who was standing next to them, watching them eat.

A gust of wind blew a bellow of smoke from the open kitchen inside the room.

‘ I will close the d-d-door so that smoke does not come in’, he said , getting out of the room & closing the door.

‘Is it only me ? that guy gives me creeps’, Sonu murmured.

The food was good and famished travelers had polished off their plates.

‘I need to wash my hands’, Bunty said getting up.

He tried to open the door but it did not open. At first he thought it was stuck. He gave it a shove but it did not budge.

‘The door is stuck’, He said to Sonu.

Sonu walked over and tried to open the door, pushing it with all his strength.

‘The door is locked from outside! ’

They rattled and knocked the door but there was no response. Both of them were sweating. They looked around the room. The large brick room had no windows. They continued rattling on the door for some time when suddenly the door opened.

The old man they had seen sitting on the open kitchen appeared on the door. He had a very serious expression on his face and a metallic object in his outstretched arm. It was a homemade Katta pistol !

‘Get back or I will blast your face with this’, he said with a loud croaking voice.

All of this seemed surreal – the words of Ranjit Singh flashed in Bunty’s head. “Sir, please be careful. There is a kidnapping gang active in this area …. “

‘Give me your wallet’ , the old man croaked. Bunty handed his wallet.

‘I..I don’t have a wallet’, Sonu said turning his pockets out.

‘Bike keys …’ , he croaked again.

The old man with surprising agility, gathered all the items and disappeared behind the closed door.

Bunty and Sonu stood there staring at each other.

I did not see this coming’, mumbled Bunty.

All their money , motorcycle and contact with civilization was gone.

***

Every passing second felt like an hour to the ill fated travelers.

‘Do you think these guys are part of the Kidnapping Gang?’ , Sonu asked breaking the silence.

‘We have to get out of here’, Bunty declared standing up.

With a sudden burst of energy, he banged the door with his shoulders throwing his weight at it. Sonu joined in – the duo pounded the door in frenzy. The old man croaked loudly from the other side of the door – threatening to shoot but the boys did not stop.

Suddenly the door broke open from its hinges and fell on the old man, knocking him down on the floor, cold. They ran out of the room and down the road to the repair shop without daring to glance back.

The bicycle shop was closed! As they looked around in panic , Sonu noticed something unusual in the pile of hay next to the repair shop. Somebody had tried to hide the bike in the pile of hay . It would have been impossible to locate but for its florescent blue color!

They retrieved the bike from the pile. ‘They must have been unable to start the bike and left it here ..’ , Bunty said twisting the choke.

‘But we don’t have the Keys’, Sonu panted.

‘The bike starts without a key – its ignition system is broken’ , Bunty said hopping on the bike and starting it.

They zoomed out on the dusty road.

*****

Dusk was setting in and the duo were zooming past the countryside on the empty road.

‘We should go to the Police station’, Sonu suggested.

‘We should reach a safe place first, I am not sure about this area anymore’

Bunty had the bike going at full throttle, zooming at more than hundred kilometers an hour.

Suddenly they saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle. In the dim light of the dusk we could make out it was an open Jeep. When they were about hundred yards from the vehicle, to their horror, another jeep pulled over from behind the oncoming vehicle and both vehicles stopped blocking the deserted road.

It was the kidnapping mafia on their hunt !

The florescent blue Yamaha was approaching the two Jeeps, at hundred twenty kilometers an hour. Bunty watched open eyed, almost as if in slow motion, as their motorbike inched towards the two Jeeps. The motorbike was too fast to brake. A collision was imminent.

Bunty had figured out a few seconds back that braking was not an option. All he could see now was a three feet gap between the two Jeeps parked in the road.

He did not see the two gun wielding men who had got out of the jeeps and standing infront of it on the road. He did not notice a very serious looking (former) good Samaritan Ranjit Singh sitting in the driving seat of one of the jeeps.

The bike, zooming at one hundred kilometers an hour, threaded through the narrow gap between the two Jeeps. The mafia guys stood astonished as the bike went past them like a bullet.

It was after several seconds that Sonu opened his eyes and realized that he was still alive. He was shaking uncontrollably. So was Bunty.

But they kept on driving until they hit the highway.

***

The duo had managed to outrun their pursuers. They were about sixty kilometers from Lucknow when suddenly the bike spluttered and stopped again.

‘We are out of Gas!’, Bunty exclaimed, ‘And we don’t have any money ! ’ His dejected voice was partially drowned by the blaring horn of trucks plying on the highway.

Sonu reached under his belt and pulled out a neatly folded fifty rupee note. ‘ I told you I had fifty rupees when we started ..’ , he laughed out loud as Bunty joined him.

The night sky rang with the laugh of two friends as they took turn to push the bike on the busy road to the nearest gas station.

THE END

Author’s Note: Shortcuts can indeed be dangerous!

The duo did make it to the destination. They were greeted by Aashu & Anita who showered them with choicest gaalis, ignoring the pleas of ‘hear us out’, from the weary but adrenaline laden travelers.

‘Shut up ! You guys will make up some weird story to save your skins’, Aashu had said.

The story is finally out!

Pulp Fiction Masala !

2011-11-26T21:27:00.000-08:00

Authors Note : This pulp fiction masala story has been inspired by real incidences that happened several years ago. I can assure you that you will be surprised if you knew which parts are real!

The story is dedicated to all the *fictional* characters that inspired the story.

‘We have called all the police stations … ‘, the police officer wearing crisp Khaki uniform said with a straight face.

'Each and every station that falls along National Highway 56 between Varanasi and Lucknow, but no one has heard anything about your two friends.'

The two teenagers he was addressing looked at him blankly. The big eyed girl sat down on steps of the police station and started sobbing. The chubby boy wearing a bright red shirt sat down next to the girl, visibly shaken.

'Don’t worry. They are alright ...', The boy said unconvincingly, looking longingly at the lit up entrance of Lucknow’s Chaarbagh railway station .

It had been more than ten hours since their missing friends were supposed to meet them there.

*****

It had all started with a wager.

'The trains in India are so unpredictable ! ', Bunty had declared as they waited on the platform number one of Varanasi Junction.

The college had just closed for Holi and he was in the railway station with his roommate Sonu to see off their classmates Ashu and Anita who were going back to their hometown Lucknow for the four day vacation. He and Sonu had decided to stay back in the hostel and experience the Banarasi Holi. The colors, the Bhaang and infamous Kavi Sammelan that was held at the ghaats where “no bars held” lewd, humorous poems were recited to a cheering male audience laughing ecstatically at the expletives laden punch lines.

'So damn unpredictable' , Sonu had chipped in rolling his eyes, feigning an English accent, as Ashu and Anita laughed. Kashi Vishwanath Express that covered the journey between Varanasi and Lucknow in six hours, was running three hours late.

'It is more predictable than your ... bike', Anita had said casually. It was only last week when Bunty and Anita had skid on the road. Anita was riding pillion on the famous florescent blue bike , on their way to Sarnath for a college picnic. 'There was oil on the road', Bunty had tried to explain nursing his bruises as he had helped the disoriented girl get back on her feet.

The bait had been cast. Bunty took a drag at the wills navy cut cigarette that he casually held between his fingers. 'How about we race you to Lucknow?', he had said without blinking his eye. 'We will be there at the Charbaagh Railway station to receive you - much before your train reaches there'

“We?”, Sonu shifted uncomfortably on is feet, not too happy to be volunteered into the wager.

“Lucknow is 400 kilometers away – its not a joke, yaar”, Ashu sounded a bit concerned as he tucked his bright red shirt into his denim jeans.

Ab Bol diya to dheek lenge!”, Bunty looked at Sonu and smiled. “, he then looked at Anita . “And if we reach there before you, we are going to stay at your place”

Anita had a reasonably liberal family, but having male college classmates stay with the family was a totally different ballgame. But she smiled and extended her hand.

The wager was on!

****

Bunty was driving the Florescent Blue Yamaha wearing his weathered black hemet. Sonu was sitting pillion, crouching behind, trying to keep the wind out of his eyes.

‘You have some cash?’, Bunty asked over the rush of the wind, opening the helmet visor slightly.

“Fifty rupees “ , Sonu replied – reassured by the fact that the amount would be enough to buy enough gas to cover at almost half of their journey, “You do have more, right?” Bunty nodded - he had a rich dad.

It was late March, but the weather had already warmed up and it felt like summer as they breezed past wheat and sugarcane fields. They passed Jaunpur, next town in about an hour.

‘Man, we are doing good’, Bunty heaved, taking off his helmet.They had stopped at one of the roadside dhabas just outside the town. The dhaba served food and snacks, primarily to the truck drivers plowing on the highway.

‘We are quarter of the way there ‘, said Sonu stretching out on a jute cot. They ordered for tea and sat on the jute cot sipping the milky, syrupy liquid out of a greasy glass.

Just across from the quadrangle was the highway. An old man riding a bicycle, tried to cut across the road. He had almost made it, when a speeding motor bike, with an apparently distracted driver, grazed the real wheel of the bicycle throwing the elderly man off . The motor bike wobbled and fell down a few yards down the road.

Bunty and Sonu rushed to the accident site. They picked up the old man, who could walk with their support. The man had managed to survive the accident with a few minor scratches. His bicycle was not as lucky, it lay twisted and out of shape beside the road.

A small crowd was bashing up the motorcycle driver. Even as they started walking up to help him, they saw a few more passerbies, stopping beside the crowd, joining in the bashing.

‘These rich bastards think the road is their father’s property!’

‘Hitting an old man, what does he think he is?’,There were slaps and kicks flying around.

A skinny man passing by in his bicycle stopped, put his bicycle on it’s stand and got inside the crowd. He slapped the driver on his face twice before getting out of the crowd, back to his bicycle and rode off as if nothing had happened !

Sonu ran towards the crowd and wrestled his way in.‘Stop it – He will die!’ he shouted. The crowd dispersed as quickly as it had converged - leaving a dazed and disoriented driver sitting beside the road.

Sonu and Bunty helped the man to the jute cot where the old man was sitting.

The man, had also survived the accident with minor scratches. His face however, was bruised from the slaps and punches of several unknown passersby. He thanked the two friends and offered money to the old man – enough to buy a replacement bicycle.

‘It is time to go !’, Sonu said getting up.

‘Lucknow, here we come ..’ , Bunty reflected upon his mental road map as the motor bike breezed through the road. They had hardly driven for half an hour when there was a loud hissing sound and the bike wobbled.

‘Looks like a flat tire’, Bunty exclaimed.

‘What will we do?, Sonu murmured, as they stood on the empty road that twisted and turned right into the horizon.

***

Bunty and Sonu took turns to push the bike along the road for what seemed like eternity under the hot sun, when finally a fram tractor passed them. The Tractor which had a hay filled trailer attached to it, stopped a few meters ahead of them.

‘Can you help us fix the flat tire’, Bunty asked the driver expectantly.

The cheerful guy on the wheels smiled. ‘No Saab , but I can drop you to the repair shop.’

Their eyes beamed with surprise as the driver and his helper, both six feet tall, effortlessly picked up the heavy bike and put it on the trailer – on top of the hay !

‘One of you sit in the back and make sure that the bike does not slip and fall on the road’, he suggested politely. Bunty volunteered. Sitting on the pile of hay, he anchored himself on the side of the trailer, holding the bike with the other hand.

The Tractor made its way, painfully slowly, to the next town. After about an hour, the tractor pulled into a road side repair shop. The driver and his helper unloaded the bike with equal ease.

‘Please take this’, Bunty pulled out ten rupees from his wallet which was stuffed with crisp hundred rupee notes. His dad was a rich man and he was never short of cash.

‘No Saab .. my pleasure’, the driver said in English.

‘Saab , please be careful in this area. There is a kidnapping gang active in this area …. don’t show that much cash in public’, he said pointing at the wallet.

‘If you have problem, please call me - myself Ranjit Singh’, he said smiling as he slipped a business card into Bunty's hand.

To be continued ...

The Amazing Case

2011-10-15T10:17:00.000-07:00

Story So Far: Pheluda and Thopshe quite accidently (the writer insists!) stumble into Blah Blah Land, which holds a vital clue to the mystery they were investigating. ‘Find me the person who has answers to all my questions’, the case briefing by their client Lord Henry Williams III had been literally, brief. Lot of surprises lay hidden in Bhah Blah land– including an unexpected meeting with a legendary sleuth. Read The Amazing Mystery for more details.

And now the remaining part of the story …

‘Welcome Mr. Mitter! I was waiting for you …’, Sherlock Holmes addressed Pheluda in a deep baritone voice.

‘I am honored to meet you … Sir’, Pheluda responded in a surprisingly reassured voice. Topshe was still staring at the legendary sleuth, with his jaws dropped.

‘And you must be Pheluda’s Watson …’, Holmes’ thin lips curled into a smile ‘ Master Topshe’

‘Follow me!’, Holmes said, turning around and marching briskly down the long corridor. Pheluda gave the attractive receptionist a polite nod and followed the man wearing the ever so familiar chequered overcoat and a matching cap. Topshe followed, trying to keep up with the brisk pace of the two tall men.

The empty, brightly lit hallway extended unendingly in front of them. They walked silently amidst the rhythmic din of their footsteps on the white mosaic floor. The white walls of the corridor were occasionally interrupted by huge silver doors that had big golden signs with embossed letters.

“Conversation in the Park Department” said the door they were currently walking past. It had a closed latch with a huge lock hanging from it.

‘What is that ‘, Pheluda asked Holmes pointing to the locked door.

‘Oh, they have closed that department ‘, he replied with a straight voice,’ There are no conversations in parks anymore’

They walked for what seemed to be at least half a mile, of mostly locked doors – “Chit Chat with Neighbors’ Department”, “Blah Blah with the Green Grocer Department”... closed doors with locks hanging from them – a reminder of a bygone era of blah blah.

‘They have been setting up new departments also’, Holmes said pointing to a row of flashy silver doors. There was a big sign on the door - “Digital Meta-Life Department”.

‘What is Meta Life ?’ , Thopshe asked Holmes with a curious look in his face.

‘Data about Life’, Holmes responded ‘Texting, Tweets, Facebook …’, Holmes said opening a door and walking briskly into it.

*****

They entered a small room that was illuminated by warm, yellow light. There was a lit fireplace on the left, a merrily flickering fire and soft smell of burning wood adding to the warm comfort of the room. There were four chairs arranged neatly around the fireplace.

‘Have a seat !’, he pointed to the chair next to fireplace as he straightened his overcoat and settled down,’ I know you have a lot of questions, but why don’t I start telling you why I am here first ..’ , he said digging into his pocket and pulling out his pipe. Pheluda walked over to Holmes and offered his lighter.

‘Nifty contraption – but does not go well with pipes’ , Holmes said producing a box of matchsticks. He lit up his pipe and blew a big cloud of smoke that spiraled across the room before getting sucked into the fireplace.

‘I was engaged by Lord Henry Williams, perhaps the great grandfather of the person who might have engaged your services’

‘Find me the person who has answers to all my questions’, he had said. He had also said that he will have all his future generations dedicated to this quest until the question was answered.' Sherlock Holmes face became grim as he looked distantly at the flickering fireplace.

‘For the first time in my life, I have not been able to find the answer to a puzzle ... and I have been here for so long …’, he said slowly ‘But time does not exist in this world in the conventional sense – as it does in the world that you come from. Years there are merely minutes here…’

’ So I patiently waited for the next generation of master sleuths who would be hired by the next generation of answer seekers … waited here … right in this world….

…But no one turned up. Apparently they were looking for answers in the wrong places. Several of the master sleuths who were hired for the task - like Killmaster Nick Carter or James Bond, who I believe had an official license to kill , got so fixated in killing that they forgot about the question they has set to answer…’

‘BB But ... how do you know about all this … I mean what is going on in the world?’, Phedua asked , his eyes locked into the intense eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

‘Blah Blah land manages all the communication in the world’, I have access to all patterns of interactions across the world … across the ages. .. from the first phone call ever made, to the latest tweet by Lady Gaga’ , Holmes winked.

‘Talking about the first phone call, in the world ‘, Homes gave a quiet chuckle, ‘ It had confused me when the inventor of telephone had made the first ever phone call - “ Mr Watson , I need you here”’

‘It was Graham Bell’s assistant Watson , not your friend Dr Watson’ Topshe chipped in beaming, apparently happy with his general knowledge. Pheluda's omnivore taste of facts and figures had rubbed off on his assistant apprentice.

‘Good Observation. Yes, Dr Watson must have lived a full life in the other world, happily married to his love … while I continue to pursue my quest in this land – trying to find out the person who has answers to Lord Henry Williams’ questions’

*****

‘ I have listened to millions of phone calls, conversations, books, gossips, news since then ..’, Homes continued his narration as Peluda and Thopshe listened with apt attention.

‘I have scrutinized each and every person that Lord Henry Williams and his following generations could possibly get all their answers from. ALL of the possibilities. But none of options could qualify’

‘When I started this case, It looked like a Mystery to me. But after all these years – I am convinced that it is not a Mystery. It is a Puzzle. A puzzle that I am unable to solve’, Holmes got up and stood near the fireplace.

‘What is the difference? I mean between a Mystery and a Puzzle’ , Topshe asked with a puzzled expression.

‘A mystery has missing pieces of the big picture. These pieces need to be found out. A puzzle has all the pieces in front of you – the pieces just need to be arranged’, Holmes replied empting his pipe in a crystal glass ashtray sitting on the mantel.

Pheluda walked up to the fireplace and lit up a cigarette. He offered Holmes one and the legendary sleuth pulled a stick from Pheluda's packet of Charminar. Pheluda lit up Sherlock Holmes’cigarette with his lighter.

The two detectives stood smoking in silence looking intently at the flickering flame in the fire place.

Mystery – Puzzle … person who has answers to all questions … thoughts ran through Pheluda’s mind at an amazing pace as an imaginary sitar played with an increasing tempo.

‘I think I know the answer !’ , Pheluda exclaimed suddenly, his face lit up with a wide smile.

*****

‘My first lead was the fact that there are no missing pieces of information. ALL the information is right here and now - as you had found out Mr Holmes’, Pheluda said with a twinkle in his eyes.

‘“Once you rule out the impossible, whatever is remaining, however improbable, is the truth”, these are your words Mr. Holmes. Words that have helped me solve so many cases – including this one!’

‘So, if there are no missing parts of this puzzle and if you have concluded that no one that Lord Henry Williams knew, knows or could possibly know would be able to provide the answer to his questions….

That leaves just one person … however improbable … that person is the answer to the puzzle…’ , Pheluda said beaming.

‘Amazing Case! ... Could not have solved this without your help, Mr. Holmes! ‘, Pheluda said excitedly as Holmes looked at him with a blank expression, the cigarette butt hanging from the corner of his lips.

‘Brilliant !! ‘ Sherlock Holmes exclaimed suddenly, as his face lit up.

The cigarette slipped from his mouth and dropped on the wooden floor creating a splinter of small sparks. He stamped out the butt hurriedly and grasped Phelu’s shoulders,’Brilliant!’, he exclaimed again.

‘But ... WW-Who has the answer of Lord Henry Williams’s questions?’, Thopshe asked with a sheepish grin, trying to keep up with the jubilant air in the room.

‘Lord Henry Williams himself! ’, Sherlock said with a smile as Pheluda beamed, ‘Nobody else ... but he himself has all the answers ... however improbable it may sound, that is the answer to this amazing puzzle'

‘Elementary!’, Pleluda added with a wink as three smiling faces looked at each other in the warm light of merrily flickering fire.

THE END

Authors Note:

I have been intrigued by mankind's quest to find out the answers of all our questions. People have generally followed several different approaches to get to the truth.

“Know Thyself” features as one of the less popular and puzzling approaches right above "Find out what is this number 42 after all", approach. Killing people who did not agree to your approach, apparently is one of the most popular approaches.

But I continued to wonder - am I really the person who has answers to all my questions? And then I met Pheluda in storyland !

The Amazing Mystery

2011-10-01T20:18:00.000-07:00

Authors Note: This story is a tribute to the great detectives that lit up my imagination when I was a kid, and to a great extent, still do. And also to Malcolm Gladwell for pointing out the difference between a mystery and a puzzle. And also to … well… why don’t we get to that after we have read the story…

‘How do you know my name?’, Pheluda’s calm voice could not hide that fact that he was surprised.

The charming lady sitting across the counter smiled as the golden panel behind her slid open to show a guilded silver door.

Thopshe’s jaws dropped in amazement as he stared at Pheluda, the lady and the door in quick succession, over and over again.

An imaginary sitar played in the background, with percussions increasing in volume.

******

Pheluda and Thopshe were in England on their latest case.

The pair does not need an introduction in India – the finest private investigators the country had ever seen. The detective scene in India had seen a giant leap, quite a bit of progress from amateur teenage detective duo Rajan & Iqbal and sensationalist macho Colonel Ranjeet.

Thanks to their discovery by Mr. Satyajit Ray, the country could now claim detectives that could give Sherlock Homes and Dr. Watson a run for their money, only if the two duos were not separated in time by a whole generation that is.

But Sherlock Holmes remained an inspiration for Pheluda, who besides picking up Sherlock’s idiosyncratic analytical skills, also picked up his encyclyclopedic knowledge of diverse scientific & anthropological subjects, unarmed combat skills, and of course - affinity to smoking.

It was only last week when Phelu and Thopse got their first international mystery project. A rich heir in England had hired Pheluda for a case.

The case briefing by Lord Henry Williams III was literally, brief.

‘Find me the the person who has answers to all my questions’ , the man with a nasal twang had said slowly, ‘ I am willing to spend as much money as you want to get the work done’ , came the voice after a brief pause.

‘As -much –money- as- you- want’, he had repeated pausing between the words for emphasis.

*******

The duo had headed over to the Dover Cliffs, which Pheluda wanted to visit in his pursuit of a vital clue.

It was a bit windy but they had dressed up appropriately in warm jackets. Pheluda guided Thopshe to one of the cliff trails. Spring had just started and they walked amidst the flora and fauna of the chalk grasslands, enjoying the view of the vast expanse of the channel and continental Europe far in the horizon.

‘How do you know that the clue for this case lies here?’, Thopshe asked Pheluda as they walk along the cliff trail.

‘I don’t, Pheluda said raising his chiseled nose in the air to smell the breeze laden with the salty scent of the sea, ‘ But I am sure the author of this story does…’, he concluded with a laugh as he lit up a Charminar cigarette and trotted briskly down the trail. Thopshe followed him with a puzzled expression on his face.

Just around the bend of the trail, there was a wooden sign pointing inland – “Phones”

‘See ! Didn’t I tell you …” , Pheluda said hopping onto the path leading to Phones , ‘That the author will figure out something !’ Thopse had a grin on his face.

The bumpy path led to a parking lot. There was a large four storied building in the middle of the vacant parking lot. It had a big blue neon sign with Phones written on it boldly. They walked into the building.

It was a bit dark inside. There were a row of phones arranged neatly on a table along the wall. None of them were connected– their chords lay folded neatly next to shiny golden phones .

'Hmm, the plot gets interesting' , Pheluda said with a smile.

He picked up a handset and suddenly out of nowhere, a door appeared in the wall! The white door had a black doorknob. Right in the center of the back door knob was a telephone socket !

Pheluda tried to open the door but the doorknob did not budge.

‘How do we open this door?’ asked Thopshe.

‘Wait, I think I know’ said Pheluda.

Pheluda picked up the cord that was lying neatly folded next to the shiny golden phone . He plugged one end of the cord to the telephone. He took the other end and plugged it into the socket in the center of the black doorknob.

Nothing happened.

He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’, he said softly into the mouthpiece.

The door on the wall opened !

********

Pheluda and Thopshe walked into a huge windowless room filled with white florescent light. It was a bit chilly in the room.

There was a charming lady sitting behind a gilded counter at the other end of room. It was a very long walk to her table and they were a bit winded when they reached there.

‘Welcome to the Blah Blah land!’ she said with a pleasant tone.

‘Blah Blah land ?’, Topshe asked with a puzzled look on his face.

‘Oooh … I am sorry, I should have explained – please don’t go on the words – words can be misleading”, she said with a smile, ‘Just rely on your intuition and use the words as a stepping stone. Get off the words as soon as you get the concept!'

'We manage all types of Blah Blah that takes place all over the world’, she continued ,‘All conversations, phone calls, newspapers, magazines, texting, emails ...all Blah Blah’s’

‘How about conversations with people who have answers to all our questions? ’ Pheluda asked after a pause.

‘Yes even that’, the lady replied without batting her eylids. ‘But that is a very small department, you know. And pretty unused. Those folks don’t converse that much nowadays’

‘C-C-Can I make a call, Pheluda said, staring the lady. He could not believe his luck! A stroll along the Dover cliff had led him right to the answer of his amazing mystery!

‘The author of this story is surely motivated to come the point pretty quickly!’ he thought as an amused grin spread on his face.

‘I-I need make a quick phone call - to a person who wants to talk to the folks who have answers to all questions – the small department you just mentioned … can I make a call from here?’, Pheluda asked the lady.

‘Sure, here you go’, She produced a sparkling golden phone out of nowhere and put it on the counter.

Pheluda picked up the handset and was relieved to hear the soothing dial tone. As he put his fingers on the dial pad, to his surprise, he realized that I did not remember the number to dial!

‘The phone number of Lord Henry Williams III was in the phone book which I left in the hotel”, he said as droplets of sweat formed on his forehead. ‘Topshe, do you remember his number?’ he asked Topshe with urgency in his voice. Topshe shook his head feebly.

The dial tone in the phone ended playing a message.

‘If you want to dial a number, please hang up and try again’, said a lady from the other end. The distant message coming from the receiver filled up that quiet cold room.

‘Oh, did you get the Hang up and dial again department Mr. Phelu?’ the receptionist asked with a smile, “The Poor folks are pretty overworked – for some reason, a lot of people are not dialing the correct number nowadays …” , she said with a sigh. Pheluda nodded feebly, not knowing what to do.

“How do you know my name?”, Pheluda’s calm voice could not hide that fact that he was surprised.

The charming lady sitting across the counter smiled as the golden panel behind her slid open to show a gilded silver door.“Follow me”, the lady said opening the gilded silver door. The door opened into a Inside there was a very long gallery with doors on either side. There was a very familiar figure standing in the corridor.

“Mr. Holmes, Pheluda is here”, the lady chirped in a cheerful voice.

’He asked the same questions that you did when you came here – maybe he is looking for the same thing as you are and you two can work on it together”

Phelu and Topshe stared in amazement at the tall figure with sharp nose, black hair, intense eyes and unmistakable features who was smoking a pipe. Sherlock Holmes was standing in the corridor with a cynical smile on his face.

“Welcome Mr Mitter ! I was waiting for you …”, Holmes said in a deep baritone voice.

Thopshe’s jaws dropped in amazement as he stared at Pheluda and Sherlock Holmes quick succession, over and over again.

An imaginary sitar played in the background, with percussions increasing in volume.

Continued in The Amazing Case ….

The Crossing

2011-09-03T11:20:00.000-07:00

"Welcome sir", the man in crisp navy blue security uniform said cheerfully giving me a polite bow.

He then proceeded to give me a brisk but thorough body frisk with a portable metal detector that would put any American Airport TSA personnel to shame.

Before I realized what happened, the man had done his job. He gave me a polite bow again and opened the door of the hotel as I looked at him bleary eyed and disoriented after my transcontinental flight.

The multistoried hotel was located just across the largest technology park in Hyderabad. I looked out of my room window at the rows of huge buildings across an empty road. It was late in the night but most of the buildings across the road were lit up, their glass edifice shimmering brightly against the night sky.

"The hotel is just across the road from the office park , the HR manager had chirped cheerfully over the phone, " it is verry convenient" she had said rolling the r's in a fashionable south Indian accent.

"We also arranged for an office drop, it will take you right upto the office building. It is a big campus - too many buildings, the cab will be verrry convenient" , the r's rolled again to convey the emphatic message.

Looking across the road I wondered which of the buildings hosted our office."If it is just across the road , I can perhaps just walk to the office" , I thought before dozing off to sleep.

***

"The cab is ready sir !", the cheerful receptionist greeted me. The security guard, who had given me a body frisk last night, approached me with a polite bow and placed my rollon laptop bag in the cab.

“I will just walk”, I had changed my mind. The cab driver and security guard nodded their head in unison and stood still, waiting for me to make my next move. I want to leave my laptop bag in my room" , I said politely. The security guard retrieved the bag from the cab and handed it over to me before I could blink my eye.

I turned back to enter the hotel lobby and lo and behold, our speedy Gonzalvis security guard was standing at the entrance with his portable metal detector ! No one could enter the hotel lobby until his work was done. A polite bow, a blurry flash of the detector across my body, another polite bow and I was in the hotel lobby.

I left the bag in my room and returned back, clutching my iPad, scurried past my speedy frisker, into the walkway leading to the road that separated me from my destination. It had rained last night and I walked carefully avoiding the puddles and stood next to the zebra crossing, when a blast of horn drew my attention.

The road was swarming with vehicles that would speed up just before they approached the zebra crossing.

It was a Serengeti stampede ! Endless rows of vehicles of all shapes and sizes ran across the road. The elephantine bus swaggered as it ran towards the crossing as the warthog autorickshaw wound it's way through the swarm of wilder beast cars. Motorcycles jumped through the stampeding vehicles like gazelles, only pausing to honk as they passed me.

"Look at that silly man !" the striped gazelle honked teasingly to the brown wilder beast, which honked in agreement as it swerved toward the elephant. "Ooooout of my wayyyy !" A long blast from the huge elephant cautioned the swarm of gazelles that overtook it in an attempt to have a closer look at the silly man who stood clutching his iPad on the zebra crossing, with his eyes wide in amazement.

It was a wild ! I stood on the fringe of the road for fifteen whole minutes, hoping to catch a lull in the traffic and cross over to the other side, but the endless swarm of vehicles did not stop. Not even for a second as I looked longingly at the buildings across the road.

Just then a woman strode past me and hurled herself into the traffic - almost with a deliberate vengeance. I gasped as she effortlessly floated through the stampeding vehicles which screeched and screamed as they ran around her. I got occasional glimpse of her long braid between the speeding vehicles, as she floated across the road and reached the other end of the road and merged into the flow of office goers entering the office park.

***

A flurry of emotions ran through me and I surprised myself as I started to chuckle, much to the amusement of passerby’s. "I guess I have lost practice", I was still chuckling as I walked back into the hotel and was being frisked by my familiar security guard, third time in the day.

“Can you help me cross the road?", I asked the security guard. The chuckle had helped to keep my ego at bay. The security guard smiled shyly.

“No I am serious", I said, still unable to wipe off my grin.

The guard handed over his post to a colleague and walked with me out of the hotel. I could see the traffic zipping past us slow motion as he dove right into the flow, grasping my hand in the last moment.

Like little Simba guided by the Lion king through stampeding animals, he strode across the road ignoring their taunting honks. He looked at the speeding gazelle square in the eyes, stared at the elephant, raising his arm and signaling the wilder beast to slow down.

Look, step, stop, look again, trot, signal, step .... We were at the median now. Turning his head to the other side, he followed the sequence again and before I knew, we were at the other side of the road. Shiny buildings stood lined up in from of me.

"Thanks ! " I smiled at speedy . "I guess I am out of practice" I added smiling sheepishly.

****

" Your hotel drop is ready", the HR manager said peeking into the conference room. " It is a short drive, but the evening traffic can be verry bad. But the hotel is so close no ... It is verrry convenient ..."

" Look,step, stop, signal, trot, stop ..." I thought picking up my iPad.

" I don't need the cab .....", I said getting up, " I need some practice !"

I walked out of the room as the HR Manager looked at me with a puzzled look on her face.

Palma non sine pulvere

2011-06-29T15:31:00.000-07:00

‘He is too young for fifth grade’, the bearded priest said somberly.

My parents shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. ‘He is a good
student . He will manage, Father ...’, my mother replied with a
hopeful voice.

‘Do you know what that means, boy?’ father D’Souza had asked me ,
running his fingers through his black beard, looking at the nine year
old boy sitting across the table. I shook my head looking at the
school emblem he was pointing to. The colorful emblem had a shield
with two lions and a banner that said “Palma non sine pulvere”

‘It means - No reward without hard work’, he said in a firm but kind
voice. ‘Are you ready to work hard, boy?’

I gave a fleeting glance to my parents who were sitting in the
principal’s office with me. Then working really very hard not to look
at the three feet long cane lying on the table between myself and the
principal of the school that I was about to join, I nodded.

We walked out of the Principal’s office beaming. My parents much more than me. And it was not without reason - I had just secured admission in St Peters College. The school was one of the oldest convent schools in India. Spread across a sprawling fifty acre campus, this all boy’s school, established in the middle of the nineteenth century, was one of the prominent schools in Agra. The school had hosted visits by known dignitaries, boasting visitors like Prince of Wales and Mother Teresa among several others.

***

My mother had started my schooling much earlier than other kids. As a result, I was much younger than my classmates and invariably the smallest kid in the class.

‘You should try to be like Golu uncle’, mother would say very often. Golu Ganguli was a genius relative, who started his first grade when he was three years old and became a licensed doctor before his twentieth birthday.

I have no doubt that the genius would have been much happier if his parents had given him a lesser academic challenge - and a perhaps less funny name.

Apparently, I had not inherited the genes of my genius uncle and had to spend a large part of my early school years trying to figure out what was being taught in the class. An equal amount of time was then spent suffering the consequences of not being successful in my effort trying to figure out what was being taught in the class.

The only part of the school day that I looked forward to was the mid day recess.

The somber countenance of the campus would erupt into a joyous outburst during the school recess. Sound of laughter, screams and shouts would ring across the school, overflowing from the large campus walls into the roads surrounding the school.

Several vendors lined up in these roads. Chuski Ice Cones, sweetened Suparis, tangy Churans and hot Samosas were in constant demand. While most of the vendors timed their arrival during the break, some had their business open all through the day, relying on the unauthorized trickle of students who dared to sneak out of their class to cater for a food emergency.

One of those enterprising vendors was the Chuski ice cone seller who stood with his hand driven cart lined with colorful syrups in glass bottles neatly arranged along the perimeter. Right in the center of the cart a big slab of Ice lay covered with jute cloth. The Chuski wala would expertly shave a block of ice into a small earthen cups, dowsing the white ice with a colorful blend of syrups before slipping it into one of the several eagerly waving hands.

The hustle and bustle of the recess got vastly amplified during three weeks every year- just before the elections for the school parliament.

***

The members of the school parliament were elected by a secret ballot during the school Election Day. There were three political parties in the school and canvassing was allowed in the school recess time. The parties staged processions through the campus with large banners soliciting for vote.

Students distributed leaflets and shouted ‘ Vote for Labor Party’ , ‘Vote for Liberal Party’, ‘Vote for Democratic’, ending in a friendly faceoff slogan shouting match at the end of the recess.

I loved participating in those noisy gatherings. Rubbing shoulders with the big high school students who seemed larger than life, my loud voice made up for my small stature.

After elections, the leader of the party with majority seats was appointed as the Prime Minister - the face of the college, who made key note addresses and represented the college in all inter college gatherings. Inside the college however, it was the reign of the number two in command - The Law & Order Minister.

The Law & Order Minister, acted as the head of the student body helping in the enforcement of the school’s code of conduct and discipline, acting as the first line of governance before a disciplinary issue was escalated. Escalation usually meant sore bottoms for the offenders.

The Minister had the authority to make an offender run around the school grounds as a punishment for loitering during school hours, coming late for the morning school assembly or coming to school without proper uniform. Often seen taking inspection rounds around the school, walking through the hallways and playgrounds, he was the envy of lesser mortals like me, languishing in the confines of the classroom.

The smallest boy in my class, I always ended up standing in the front row of the morning school assembly, looking with awe at the symbol of authority among the students, standing next to the Principal’s podium.

I could not guess at that time that several years later, I will end up being one.

****

‘You are perhaps the smallest law and order minister we ever had’, Mr. Nath had joked after I was sworn in.

I still remember walking around the campus for my first inspection round. The freedom of walking outdoors during school hours. The fresh air and the distant sounds of the classroom chatters floating through the windows.

And the hot sun!

It was so hot that I was drenched with sweat even as I tried to walk under the shade of the trees that were scattered along the edge of the huge playgrounds. I walked along the perimeter of the school to the side door of the school. The iron door almost singed my palms as I opened it. I peeped out - there were no loiterers. Glad that my work was done, I was looking forward to the cool comfort of the classroom fan.

‘This job may not be as much fun as it appeared to be after all’ , I thought flicking droplets of sweat from my nose.

The chuski ice cone wala who was standing next to the door, smiled at me sheepishly. I smiled back and reaching into my pocket, pulled out a coin.

‘One large cup please’, I said wiping sweat from my brows.

****

‘How is it?’ I asked my ten year old son Rishi as he bit into his ice cone.

We were sitting on the warm sands of Redondo Beach in California. It was a hot day and the cool breeze blowing from the Pacific was refreshing. A pair of seagulls started to hover around expecting tidbits from the lone occupants of the beach.

' The bestest ice cone in California !' Rishi joked and offered me a bite.

‘How about I tell you the story about the bestest ice cone in the world?’ I winked, ‘It was sold just outside the bestest school in the world’

As I gazed at the horizon, I could almost feel the sunny sky above my school in Agra, the fresh air and the distant sounds of the classroom chatters floating through the windows, the hot sun, the sweat, the smile of the chuski wala.

And the taste of the large cup of chuski ice cone.

****

Author’s Note:

As a concluding remark I do want to mention that eventually I started
to enjoy the entire school time in the bestest school in the world.
Not sure why, but classes stopped being boring, the games started
becoming more interesting, and it was no longer just the recess that I
looked forward to everyday at school.

It was perhaps because of Mr.Vashist’s enactment of simple harmonic
motion, where he played the role of the pendulum, running across the
classroom with an excited smile on his face.

Or maybe Dr Gagil’s unique approach of teaching Hindi using English.
‘Write a letter to your friend telling him about the environmental
changes in the neighborhood’, he would say somberly in fluent English.
The students were supposed to translate his instructions into Hindi
before executing them.

Or perchance Mr. Sharma’s jokes on scientific etymology, Mr. Sinha’s
discourse on differential equations punctuated with stories about his
motorcycle, Mr. Anthony’s leisurely approach to physical education,
making boys sweat while he kept an eye standing peacefully under the
shade of a tree twisting his mustache, Mrs. Bhatia’s encouragement
to a small boy to stand up for himself and against bullies or Mr
Edwards diligent coaching in gymnastics that helped me claim the
position of team captain.

Or because of the countless school friends who touched each other’s
life without any of us realizing that we did. Much before our thoughts
were conditioned by the toil of the world.

Several years after I graduated from St Peter’s, I was sitting with my
Thesis advisor in his cramped office at MIT. ‘Are you sure about your
research topic?’, he had asked me ‘ It will be a lot of work’

‘Palma non sine pulvere’ I said with a hint of mischief in my voice.
My advisor gave me an amused grin.

‘How true, isn’t it?’ he replied. I had not expected the middle aged
professor of German descent to interpret the Latin motto of my school
in Agra.

‘No reward without hard work’, he continued, ‘You know Prithvi, hard
work is the reward in itself - isn’t it?’ , he said looking out of the
window.

I followed his gaze. The frozen Charles river shone brightly under the
winter sun. The naked maple trees lining the river stood shivering in
the wind. A branch pine tree ran across the window laden with fresh
snow – like heaps of fresh ice cones!

“Hard work is the reward in itself “

Had I finally understood the motto of the bestest school in the world?

Don’t Tell Anyone !

2011-05-29T12:50:00.000-07:00

‘Are you sure that we have the correct address?’, I could not hide the hint of nervousness in my voice.

“Turn Laafft on Kalapana Road” , the much familiar GPS lady’s voice crackled across the car. On our left was a thin winding road that cut its way through what looked like huge a coal mine spread along the ocean.

Shiny black rocks lined the road and small thorny bushes occasionally erupted from the cracks between the rocks, accentuating the eerie landscape. On our right, the Pacific Ocean was fiercely splashing against the shore adding a somber soundtrack to the surroundings. The setting was quite a deviation from the huge velvety green mountains and lush green vegetation Hawaii is known for.

“Drive 3.5 miles to your destination. On your Laafft” , the computer generated voice cracked again as I took the left turn. On our left was an expanse of ugly black volcanic rocks. On our right were uglier black volcanic rocks that were being incessantly pounded into jagged shapes by the ocean.

Anita had booked the accommodations on the Big Island of Hawaii. “It’s a surprise”, she had said with a mischievous smile. I am sort of a person who does not enjoy surprises - especially on vacations. After great coaxing and cajoling, she had divulged that we will be staying close to one of the best black sand beaches in the world.

And it was indeed a surprise. The drive along the road was like witnessing the geological evolution of the earth unfold in front of our eyes - the big volcanic rocks got small and smaller; making way to black soil that was ferociously claimed by lush vegetation. Mangrove trees materialized near the coast and a lush green evergreen forest sprang almost out of nowhere. The road winded cautiously through dense canopy, as colorful ferns stood guard on the either side of the road and creepers with huge green leaves hung down from the branches of the trees.

*****

“How did you find out about this place?”, the resort manager asked us as Anita elaborated on her goggling skills. “Kehana Beach is just across the road. It is the best black sand beach in the world. ”, the manager said proudly, as Anita beamed a smile at me.

“The kids will love it !” , Anita said as we headed toward the famed Kehana. Rishi and Tanu follows us hopping through the ferns . The kids seemed much more interested in chasing the small frogs that sat camouflaged under the bushes.

‘Hurry up!’, Anita implored as the kids sat crouched next to a Ama’u fern trying to trap a small frog.

‘Why can’t we just play with the frogs?’, Rishi complained as the small hopie frog jumped away , dodging the enthusiastic admirers.

‘Don’t you want to see a beach that is black? Anita said widening her eyes and dropping her jaw wide to emphasize the wonderful new experience we had in store for our kids.

‘Where is the beach?’, Anita asked expectantly as we walked across the small parking area perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. I had no idea. We were on a cliff that was at least a hundred feet over the ocean. Precariously balanced big boulders were scattered along the edge of the cliff, leading down to the ocean which was lashing itself incessantly on the volcanic rocks.

‘Let’s ask’ , Anita walked briskly to a woman who was walking towards her car with two toddlers in tow.

“They are so cute’, Anita pointed to the chubby two year olds, who looked like twins. Not identical though as one was a boy and other girl. We could tell.

‘Why are they not wearing their chaddis?’ , Tanu asked, tugging my arm for attention pointing at the kids walking in their birthday suits. ‘They must have wet them in the beach”, I tried to explain glancing at Anita who was having a conversation with the lady as she loaded the toddlers in her car. The car was covered with decals of all shapes and sizes. After what seemed to be a very long conversation, Anita was back with directions. ‘That way’ , she said pointing to a narrow opening between the trees.

There was a narrow path that led to the beach, the path lead to a trail the made its way down the cliff. I offered to lead the expedition and we made our way down. As we were climbing down the rocky path, the surroundings seemed familiar. And then I made the connection as I recalled a beach Anita and I had visited when we were just out of college.

It was a long time ago and that beach was in Goa.

*******

‘I have to pee’ , ten year old Rishi, declared as we were near the end of the decent.

‘You can go in the restroom on the beach’, I offered.

‘Why can’t I go right here?’, Rishi insisted “ I need to go bad ‘

‘You cannot do that type of stuff in public … in America ... ‘ , I tried to explain.

This was not the first time we were having this conversation. Rishi had this knack of springing this surprise at the most inconvenient locations like the top of a crowded trail end or in middle of the lake on a fishing boat.

’Why can’t I go right here”, he would say on these occasions.

'No indecent exposure... you can get arrested' , I would joke , as we would hurry towards the closest restroom.

My eyes were searching for the restroom as I was the first to step off from a big boulder into small makeshift steps made out of rocks, on to a beach that was jet black.The secluded beach was guarded on all sides by towering cliffs and the only access was the narrow winding trail that we had just descended from. Soft black sand stuck on my toes as I helped Rishi down the rocky stairs.

Then I noticed something unexpected as I glanced along the expanse of black sand. We were on a nude beach.

********

There were several stream of thoughts that ran through my mind as I realized that I was standing on a nude beach with my ten year old son who was desperately looking for a place to pee and my wife and five year old daughter would be joining me in the next few seconds.

‘Look at the black sand!’, I said widening my eyes and dropping my jaw wide. The decoy did not work.

‘Dad there are naked people on the beach’, Rishi remarked almost as casually as he was commenting about a hopie frog.

Anita and Tanu had descended down the stairs. Anita’s expression changed from the feeling of awe (seeing the black sand) to surprise (seeing the bare bottoms on the black sand) to worry (seeing her kids standing next to the bare bottoms on the black sand).

‘The best black sand beach in the world!’, I remarked, smiling sheepishly as Anita stood still, fumbling for words.

‘I cannot see a rest room ‘, Rishi’s voice was surprisingly contained as his sister Tanu pulled his arm and said something in his ears giggling incessantly.

‘Can you see that bush?’ , I asked pointing towards a grove towards the back of the beach – just where the cliff started. ‘Do it there’. Rishi gave me a smile and walked confidently towards the grove to relieve himself. For once I was not worried about indecent exposure.

We took a few pictures of the black sand cinematographically editing out the occupants and headed back up the cliff.

****

Anita and I had climbed down a similar cliff several years ago. Along a winding path through rocky ledges to a secluded beach in Goa in India. One of my friends had recommended this place.

’ Calangut and Bagha beaches are for tourists – if you want to see the real stuff, go to Ozran’, he had said.

‘Where are we going?’ , Anita had asked we drove along the winding roads on a rented Enfield motorcycle. ‘It’s a surprise’, I had said.

We had parked the motorcycle on a parking lot at the edge of a cliff overlooking the Arabian Sea. A narrow path had wound down from the parking lot, makings its way to pristine white sands. That morning, Anita and I had descended down that path to right in the middle of a nude beach.

‘I swear – I did not know about this’ I had tried to explain with a sheepish smile.

‘Who are you kidding!’, she had responded mischievously.

****

The kids were once more busy chasing the hopie frogs as we walked towards the resort from the beach. Anita and I sat down under a mangrove tree watching them. We had not spoken to each other since our recent adventure unfolded.

Anita looked at me and started laughing. I joined her, our laughter echoed along the deserted Kalpana road, interrupted by excited squeals of children who had just caught a frog.

‘We are even now’, she remarked, catching up her breath, ‘and about this Kehana Beach adventure … Kisi se nahi Kehana- OK! ‘

‘Kisi se nahi kehana’: ‘Don’t tell anyone’ in hindi.

A Bullshit Story ?

2011-03-30T11:37:00.000-07:00

‘Are you OK babuji?’ a tight knot of vegetable vendors surrounded Golok Babu as he lay sprawled over a pile of potatoes.

‘Throw some water over his face’, shouted one. ‘I cannot see his face, help me turn him around’, shouted another as he tried to turn Golok Babu, who lay face down on the pile. The heaving sent him rolling down the pile of rounded tubers - the limp form glided down the heap and stopped against the sack of cauliflowers stacked at the back of the mud and straw vegetable shack.

‘Abe Bhaag!! Saand vapas aa raha hai!’ (Run!! The Bull is coming back!) The loud shout ended the humanitarian activity in the busy corner of “Budhwari Bazaar” – the weekly farmer’s market that congregated every Wednesday on an open ground next to the Government Intermediate School of the sleepy little town of Rampur.

The vendors left their wares and dispersed as the big bull charged down the muddy lane of the Bazaar. Golok babu stirred slightly as the sound of the mud squelching hoofs came closer and closer…

****

There were seven farmer markets scattered around the town of Rampur, one for each day of the week. Golok babu sometimes found it confusing as he had to recall what day of the week it was, before heading out the appropriate market. His job as the manager of the busy petrol pump and automobile service station, did not give him time to reflect upon what day of the week it was. Every day was equally mundane and boring – except Sunday, which was his only day off in the week and the day when he partied with his friends.

‘Why can’t they setup a permanent farmer’s market’, he fumed as he waded through the muddy slush from rainfall that occurred last night, clutching on to his big jute bag with bamboo reinforced handles.

‘Bull Shit!’, he muttered under his breath as he maneuvered around a big bull that was sitting calmly on the middle of the muddy road. The black bull with a brown hump on its back, was chewing cud calmly as its glassy eyes gazed into a distance. The Bull turned its head lazily towards Golok babu as he jumped over a puddle, holding up the trousers of his tight Safari Suit, rolling up the big red jute back tightly under his arm.

His wife Savita had bought the bag especially for Golok Babu from Belgachchia when she had gone to visit her sister in Calcutta.’ He always loses his shopping bag ’, she had complained to her sister. ‘Why don’t you get him a brightly colored one – that will be easy to spot … even in a crowded bazaar?’

Golok Babu was bent over picking up medium size Haldwani potatoes from the big pile in front of him when the commotion broke out. Amidst screams and yells, the sound of mid squelching hoofs got louder and louder. Bang! The Bull’s horns grazed Golok Babu’s buttocks, barely missing it, as it’s forehead whacked into its target. Golok Babu went flying head on right into the pile of shiny yellow potatoes.

****

Golok Babu had just turned forty last Sunday. He had a small party at his home, attended by his close friends. ‘You don’t look forty at all’, his best friend’s wife squealed handing Golok a wrapped present. It was a tee shirt that said “It is all downhill from here”. She and her husband had laughed in glee imagining Golok’s face when he would open the gift.

‘It is the black hair’, Golok beamed flicking his dyed hair, ‘I got it from my grandfather’, he lied as his grandfather ashes squirmed in their resting place in the bank of river Ganges. Golok put up his best mock laugh that would put “Gabbar Singh” to shame as he opened the gift and showed the tee shirt around.

‘He was promoted yesterday’, Savita said beaming to the guests, who feigned a polite smile. ‘He is the General Manager now!’. The guests had to try harder to retain their smile – their hosts were really making them work today.

The fact was that Golok babu had been doing exactly the same work for the last ten years which was basically making sure that the workers of the petrol pump did not sleep at work and maintained their fear of getting fired. ‘Bull Shit’, Golok Babu would roar in his squeaky voice to an erring service man.

‘Bull Shit’, he would roar again to a dozing pump operator, before slipping back into his air-conditioned office and dreaming about what he would have for dinner.

Every three years or so, the owner of the petrol pump would come up with an innovative designation and announce it in front of the grumpy staff wearing dirty overalls. The people at work hardly cared about the designation change – at least from the bigger scheme of things about getting work done. Neither did Golok babu care whether these people cared or not. Strangely, the people who he really cared about if they cared about his designation were the guests he met at the Sunday parties.

****

The sound of hoofs stopped suddenly. Golok Babu turned around, the potatoes digging into his aching buttocks. The hustle, bustle and commotion had strangely dissolved into an eerie silence. Then it happened. The big black bull widened it's snout before opening up its lips to show a row of blackened teeth causes by years of cud-chewing. It spoke.

‘Do you even know what Bull Shit means?’, the squeaky voice was grossly out of place. Besides the fact that your don’t expect a Bull to speak, say if it did - you would expect it to sound something like Simba’s dad in Lion King, or in the worst case like the donkey in Shrek. This one sounded like Mickey Mouse!

‘You said Bull Shit when you passed me at the entrance of the farmers market ...’ the Bull continued.

Golok babu looked at the Bull with a dazed expression. ‘It is a hhhabit’, he squeaked ‘I say it all the time…’

‘ But do you know what it means?’

Golok did not know how to respond to that question. His brain told him to answer the question with specifics about the etymological origin of the slang - how it originated in England, its close cousin “Bollocks” and how he had picked it up at college and had used it frequently since then.

His smarting bottom told him otherwise.

‘Let me tell you what it means’, The Bull sat down on the muddy path in front of the vegetable shack and plucked a bunch of radishes that had been neatly arranged in front of the vegetable shack with their green leaves sprawled like a headrest for the shiny white roots. He finished chomping as Golok babu watched in silence.

‘It means saying half truths to impress others’, The Bull gave a quick snort as he wagged its tail to smack an ant that was climbing up his muddy rear. ‘They taught us in Bull Shit 101. Can’t become a Bull until you clear the course …’ , he added with pretentious humility. The Bull then lowered his neck and wiggled his hump. ‘Bull Shit has a significant strategic importance for us ‘, he said in a lowered voice, quickly glancing around him.

‘We the Bulls of the world are really counting on you humans to restore us back to the fame we had in the past. Those were the days - companion of Lord Siva, a whole constellation to ourselves’, the Bull sighed, ‘We are counting on the affinity of the human race for Bull Shit to make that happen again’ the bull looked straight into Golok Babu’s eyes.

“I do it all the time Mr. Bull’, Golok was quick to spot an opportunity ‘Saying half truths to impress others …’ , He boasted offering the Bull a leafy bunch of spinach, ‘I don’t stop even there, when there is no one around … I Bull Shit to myself’, he added in a lowered voice.

‘Good’, the Bull said breaking the eye contact ‘Super. That is how it should be. It starts with you and before we know families, societies, town, cities and countries start bullshitting to each other. The entire world drenched in the sweet smell of bullshit’, The bull grabbed another bunch of radish and started chewing it slowly.

‘Out of all the people that you could have goaded with your wise head – why did you choose me?’, Golok babu could finally muster the courage to ask the question that has been sifting through his mind.

‘I can’t say ... I spotted something …’

‘It is was the red shopping bag – wasn’t it?’

‘No – not that’, The bull replied lazily ‘It was your red underwear that is showing through your ripped suit’

Golok babu sprang on to his feet and examined the big rip in his favorite suit. The suit that had gotten tighter over the years as the dinners he dreamed about during his work piled up in his body. The white suit had become off white after years of work and Sunday parties.

The pant of the safari suit was torn right along his buttocks showing his red underwear !

The End

How does that matter ?

2011-03-10T17:16:00.000-08:00

RRRRRRRRRRRRR-RRRRR!! The engines started and the plane started moving, going fast then faster then the fastest it could possibly go. The plane took off. I thought about my homework, then suddenly, ppppppsh! The plane flew through a cloud so fast that I felt sick. I tried to get my attention off it, so I started to play my DS …

‘How is it?’, Rishi asked his mom expectantly.

‘It is great Rishi …’ Anita said as she browsed through the story her fifth grader son had written.

‘Which part do you like the most ?’, Rishi asked. He was now peering over Anita’s shoulders, breathing down her neck.

‘Hmmm, I will have to go with this …’

When we got to the Emerald bay, I pretty much dived in the water because I was in a hurry to see the fish and when I did I was aghast. The fishes were all sizes; shapes and colors, there were purple fish, orange fish, green fish and any other color fish you could think of!! I saw at least 1,000,000 fish.

‘But you need to fix the grammar in a lot of places’, Anita winked at Rishi. Just then Rishi’s five year old sister who was hovering around the room, decided to jump into the action.

‘I want to read that story too!’, Tanu declared, trying to grab Rishi’s notebook.

‘You cannot even read!’ Rishi responded cruelly ‘besides, I won’t share my story with you – go write your own’

Tanu and Rishi’s ocean of sibling love was currently under low tide. The trouble had started about fifteen minutes ago when Tanu refused to share the candies from the goody bag she got from a birthday party of her classmate. Rishi had been fuming all morning that he was not invited to his sister’s friend’s birthday party. Tanu's refusal to share goodies from the party had pushed her brother over the edge.

‘How about I tell you both a story’, Anita suggested jumping into the couch. The leather couch felt warm as the late afternoon sun shone through the patio door. Tanu and Rishi snuggled around their mother.

Once upon a time, there was a huge lagoon overlooking vast expanse of blue Ocean in the western coast of the island of Oahu. Huge volcanic mountains guarded the sandy beach along it’s coast, their mossy green slopes casting an emerald shadow over the sparkling water.

In the lagoon were white corals and colorful fish. The fish were all sizes, shapes and colors; there were purple fish, orange fish, green fish and any other color fish you could think of!!

‘That part is from my story!‘, Rishi exclaimed, grinning ear to ear as Tanu glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.

‘I told you I like that part ...’, Anita smiled and continued with the story…

But this story is not about the green mountains, the emerald lagoon or the colorful fish. It is about something just across the bay, deep in the Ocean – two little waves. A small wave called Honu and his friend Meha.

‘Was Meha Honu’s girlfriend?’, Rishi interrupted.

‘How does that matter? Shut up!’, Tanu was getting back her pound of flesh.

Anita resumed the story quickly, averting the impending flare up.

Honu and Meha lived with millions of other waves in the ocean. They spent most of their time jumping in and out of the ocean with other small waves, making the ocean look like a giant trampoline.

‘I can’t wait to a become a big swell’, Honu said eying one of the big swells lazily rolling around the surface, not too far from them.

‘They say that one has to learn the language of the winds, and follow them to faraway places before you become big – it that true? ‘, Meha remarked plopping next to Honu.

‘Yes that is true’ , Honu replied ‘ And don’t tell anyone ...’. He added with a hushed splash,‘ I have almost learnt the language of the winds. They say that westerly winds will pass again this way soon. I am going to follow them … ‘

‘I don’t want you leave me alone’, Meha was almost in tears. It was difficult to detect that though because the tears looked pretty much like rest of her – salty water.

‘I won’t. I will take you with me.’

Several waves had followed the westerly winds a little while ago. Honu had watched in admiration as the first wave had set out on the ocean following the wind and as other waves had followed. He had been preparing for his own excursion listening to the incessant splashes of the big old wise swell that ebbed around the little waves, sharing with them drops of wisdom.

‘The wind takes us out on our journey – without it, we are nothing’, the big old wave had said, ‘Never forget that’. Towering over the little waves, the big swell looked remarkably peaceful as it rolled around on the surface of the ocean. ‘Also, it gets a bit cold when the wind gets strong – put on your white caps if that happens’, the old wave had said.

But the words of wisdom were forgotten as soon as the wind had picked up. The waves had scrambled out on the ocean surface with a rush of excitement. Like a giant roller coaster through the ocean – the ones on the front riding under the illusion that they were leading and the ones on the back under the illusion that they were following as the winds heaved them towards their destiny.

‘Why did the small waves forget about the old wave’s words?’, Rishi asked

‘Is the Old wave Grandpa of the small waves?’ Tanu chirped in.

"How does that mater?" it was Rishi’s time to get back at Tanu.

Anita smiled and continued with the story…

So the westerly winds arrived shortly. It was a clear morning and a wise old wave was telling them about stories from faraway seas when the wind had started to pick up.

‘Hey ! I am shining like a diamond!’, a small ripple shouted, basking in the reflected glory of the mid morning sun. ‘Of course you are!’ The wise wave did not want to dampen the enthusiasm of the small ripple, ‘You must see the waves near the emerald lagoon which is just down the horizon though …‘, he continued as he patiently rolled around the restless ripples, ‘ I have heard that the waves there look like red rubies !’

‘How can a wave look red?’ Meha had wondered but she was too shy to ask. Both Meha and Honu were less than a day old which almost made them teenagers in wave years. They had not seen a sunset yet.

Just then the winds picked up again. ‘Follow me’, Honu shouted at Meha as they set out in the open sea. Meha followed Honu and along with countless other ripples, started speeding up towards the horizon.

‘Do red waves really exist?’ Meha asked Honu as they glided through the ocean surface. She had been wondering about what the old wave had said just before they set out, ‘I would love to see a red wave.’

‘You don't believe in the old wave’s stories, do you ‘, Honu laughed ‘He is mad. Blue waves, yellow waves, even green waves I can imagine. But how in the name of floating kelp can a wave be red?’

Honu laughed as he swelled with the wind – he was getting bigger.

They cruised along for a few more hours. The winds were picking up and the waves had put on their white caps. ‘The old wave did talk sense sometimes ... like putting up the white caps ...’, Meha sort of liked the old wise wave - his quiet roll was different from the restless ripples surrounding her.

‘Ha ! everyone knows about white caps’ , Honu shouted above the wind ‘ How about the other rubbish he talks about - like all of us being connected ? You, me and every other wave being just a small part of the ocean … do you remember that ? That old wave – I tell you … it’s time for him to evaporate.’

A faint outline of a shore appeared far away near the horizon, and with it a swarm of pelicans who glided noisily past them. ‘

Watch out’, Meha shouted as a row of Pelicans dived towards Honu. Before Honu could realize, the pelicans crashed through his ebbing form as he watched them in disbelief . His quiet disbelief turned into horror as the pelicans reappeared, each of them flying out with a squirming Anchovy in its beak.

‘The old wave did say that there are treasures hidden in the ocean- just beneath the waves’, Meha said excitedly. A visibly subdued Honu took off his white cap and rolled silently towards the shore.

It was getting dark and the familiar blue sky had started to turn orange. The distant shore was getting closer and closer as mossy green mountains loomed above them. Just then Honu crashed into a big reef that guarded the emerald lagoon. Meha crashed shortly after, creating a big splash of salty water.

The spash of water spilled into the lagoon filled with colored fish- The fish were all sizes, shapes and colors; there were purple fish, orange fish, green fish and any other color fish you could think of!!.

The splash started small ripples in the lagoon. The emerald ripples danced in joy as the sun set across the ocean.

The End

Anita, Rishi and Tanu lay quietly, basking in the late afternoon sun. ‘You used that part again – the part with colorful fish’, Rishi said breaking the silence. Tanu was staring out of the window at the sun which was setting behind the woods.

‘I really liked that part’ Anita replied poking Rishi on his side.

‘Did Meha and Honu Die?’ Tanu asked, still looking out of the patio door.

‘The pretty red ripples in the emerald pool … they were new waves , weren’t they?’, Rishi asked looking at Anita.

‘How does that matter?’ Anita hugged Tanu and Rishi and rolled over in the couch, playfully pinning them down. The room was filled with delighted screams of the two children.

Getting There

2011-01-28T22:15:00.000-08:00

‘Why don’t you ask for directions from that man?’, Sonia suggested, her voice mixed with excitement and frustration.

We had been driving around the Mount Desert Island when I had spontaneously decided to take a detour into a thin winding road close to the entrance of Acadia National Park.

It seemed like a good idea at that time as we travelled down the road, surrounded with lush greenery, Sonia and my hair blowing wildly in the wind flowing across the car windows. Kids were busy watching Jurassic Park 3, clutching on to their headsets to block the wind noise out of their universe they gazed at the ferocious T-Rex in the screen of the DVD player.

Once in a while we could spot log huts tucked deep into the woods, wisps of smoke spiraled out of the chimneys and faded into the twilight sky. The smell of the wood smoke hung in the air for a long time before getting displaced by the misty fragrance of pine

‘I wonder what the guys who live in these houses do for a living?’, Sonia pondered aloud with a smile ‘ Must be writers or folks like that’, she continued ‘ How much I envy these people …’

‘So why don’t you become a Writer?’I joked.

‘If only it was that easy’, Sonia rolled her eyes in feigned protest ‘ I am sure I cannot be a writer in this lifetime’, she said looking out of the window as we passed another log hut that was perched on a hill next to a lake.

Just then disaster stuck. The navigation system suddenly stopped working. The much familiar LCD screen showing the icon of our car winding down an orange road cutting through a tacky shade of bright green- went dark. We did not have any other form of maps in the car. I slowed down as we travelled down the winding road in twilight. The wind was getting chilly so I closed the sun roof and the windows. The romantic woods were somehow magically transformed into a threatening forest conspiring to ambush us.

‘If we head towards north, we will eventually end up around the ocean – right?’ Sonia asked expectantly. We were in an Island – well almost, save that bridge that connected us to the mainland, so we would end up near the ocean irrespective of which way we were heading. But I did not want to point that out to Sonia as I glanced suspiciously around at the pine forests surrounding us.

We had arrived at Acadia National Park yesterday after a six hours drive from Boston. The park was situated in an island which was scattered with pristine glacial lakes, spectacular mountains and granite cliffs plunging into the Atlantic Ocean. We were living in a quaint B&B near Bar Harbor, the largest town in the island. Our host, a charming, garrulous lady in her mid forties had given us a warm welcome and a long overview of the Park’s history and tips on the culture of Maine.

‘Don’t laugh if you hear a Mainer say - You can’t get there from here’, she said with a smile. The old saying in Maine was apparently used in several settings, including providing directions. Many attributed this saying to the old roads in New England, several of which could trace their origins to ancient cow tracks. Destinations that seemed straight ahead in the road, often stood separated by valley or streams.

‘You can’t get there from here’ was an easier alternative to reconcile oneself with, as compared to laborious process of finding another road that goes around the valley or finding a bridge across the stream. ‘You will be surprised if you know how many people actually believe in that sentence ‘, our host had said laughing. I found the concept amusing. I imagined entering a destination in my navigation system and getting a response ‘You can’t get there from here’ – flashing in bold red letters. I had laughed aloud with her.

‘Why don’t you ask for directions from that man?’, Sonia’s voice rang through the car as she pointed at a man who was walking beside the road with a huge Labrador. I was not too fond of huge dogs. I was also not too fond of asking for directions - in fact I detested it. But today was different; I gulped my pride, put up a feigned smile and walked towards the elderly gentleman.

‘Excuse me’, I asked politely, ‘We are a bit lost– can you tell us how to reach the Frenchman Bay from here?’

The man looked at me for a few seconds and replied in a thick Maine accent ‘You can’t get there from here’. I continued to look at the man with a smile ‘Nice sense of Humor’ I thought as I waited for his directions. But the man was apparently not joking; he gave me a polite nod and moved on as his huge Labrador yanked him away from me.

I stared at the old man with a feeling of nervous excitement bubbling through me, as he walked away around the bend of the road. I had just witnessed a ‘You can’t get there from here’ event ! I forgot that I was lost in this desolate part of an island as I trotted back to the car and opened the door excitedly to see a smiling Sonia.‘You won’t believe what that guy said to me when I asked him for directions, I exclaimed flashing a huge smile.

‘And you won’t believe what I just did ‘she said pointing to our navigation system which was apparently working again! ‘I whacked it hard and it started working!’. The tacky green forest in the navigation system’s LCD screen had magically transformed the threatening forest back to friendly woods bathed in twilight mist.

Just around the bend of the road was a spectacular log hut nestled on a grassy patch next to a mountain stream.

‘Another writer’, smiled Sonia. I smiled back at her and looked at the log hut, conjuring up images of the imaginary writer occupant, sitting in front of a warm mahogany table with quill in her hand, staring out of the window at the sun setting beyond the cliffs. ‘I am sure I cannot be a writer in this lifetime’, Sonia’s words rang in my ears breaking my chain of thought.

‘By the way, what amusing thing did that man say to you?’, Sonia asked looking out of the window.

Ten Little Goldfish

2010-09-27T19:34:00.000-07:00

Ten little goldfish scuttled around restlessly in their individual fish bowls as a pack of excited children stood around the table peering at them.

Each of the small fish bowls had a handful of gravel and ten colored pebbles. Ten packets of goldfish food lay neatly arranged next to the bowls.

‘That big one in mine’ squealed Peggy pointing at the biggest fish out of the lot.

‘I call that one’, Baljeet screamed, pointing to the next biggest one.

‘No that one is mine’, Rishi shouted over the din.

‘But it is your birthday’, Baljeet protested ‘ Birthday boys don’t get goody bags – they get all the gifts’

It was our son Rishi’s birthday party. Anita stood beside the excited children with an amused smile on her face. ‘Goody bags with candies and board games are so boring’, she had said yesterday evening as we scanned the toys aisle in Wal*Mart. Her eyes had lit up as she saw the small pet store just across the road from the mall. ‘How about we gift the kids goldfish?’ , she had suggested excitedly.

The gold fish “goody bags” had been the center of attraction in the party. They were more popular than the pool or even the Pokémon cake. Anita and I had to take turns to send the small, wet partygoers out of the dining room where the fishbowls lay neatly arranged on the dining table, back into the backyard swimming pool.

Finally it was time to go home with the new pets. The kids had not only managed to agreeably allocate the goldfishes among themselves , but each of them had a name as well. Rishi provided a small demonstration on how to feed the fish and cleanup the bowl and the guests were on their way, carefully holding their fish tanks even as they were strapped to their car seats.

‘I am glad that you guys did not pick up pups for party favor’, Rohit joked as his wife tried to convince their seven year old daughter Kavita to hand over her new pet - Maya. ‘Just for the car ride darling – you will spill the water and hurt Maya’

‘The kids surely liked their goody bags’, I joked as Anita and I sat in the backyard after the partygoers had left.

Rishi had also managed to get a goody bag for himself and was apparently more interested in Mr. Anderson, his new pet, than any of his birthday gifts.

*****

‘Mr. Anderson is dead’, Rishi’s voice rang across the hallway. It was six am in the morning and I had to literally force myself to open my eyes. A teary Rishi stood next to the bed looking at me.’ The goldfish is dead’, he sobbed. Both Anita and I were still a bit disoriented, probably due to the physical exertion of yesterday’s birthday party.

Anita and I pulled ourselves out of the bed and followed him to his room where the golden fish floated in the fish bowl. The goldfish stirred slightly, as our hearts skipped a beat. It then went quiet and floated lifelessly in the water.

‘Don’t worry, we will get you another one’, I said reflexively, hoping to comfort my sobbing son. Anita looked serious. ‘What happened?’ I asked her.

‘What if other goldfish die as well ?’, she had a scared expression in her face ‘ All of them were from the same aquarium …’, she stared at me blankly. ‘We need to alert others’, she said grabbing the phone and walking down the stairway. ‘ But it is six o clock … on a Sunday morning…’, I protested weakly and followed her.

We called Rohit first and were greeted with the wail of crying Kavita. ‘Maya was dead’ she sobbed into the telephone. It was a goldfish apocalypse. They were dying, left right and center. ‘Don’t worry Sweety, we will get you another one’, Anita tried to comfort Kavita.

In the next two hours, several calls were made to the birthday party invitees. We were relieved that besides one more casualty, all the other goldfishes were alive. We had already Googled for all the different reasons goldfishes could die and had asked the pet owners to take out the colored pebbles and change the water – in case the pebbles had some contamination.

‘ Hey sorry for the trouble’ , I giggled sheepishly as I gave instructions to a half sleepy Rohit. ‘Dude , I am going to gift you folks a kitten AND a puppy as a party favor in Kavita’s next birthday’ , Rohit said yawning loudly as I narrated the instructions on how to take out the colored pebbles and change the water in the fish tank once we got them a replacement pet.

We were glad that the pet store opened on Sundays.We reached the store a little before 10 AM, when it was supposed to open. The owner was surprised to see the waiting customers as she opened the store. ‘It happens sometimes’, she tied to explain. ‘Goldfishes are sensitive to the quality of water – that is why we recommend proper aquariums for them – I can give you some recommendations….’ She continued as Anita jotted down notes. We were out of the store armed with three replacement goldfishes and a small aquarium for Rishi.

We drove to the two houses which had suffered the loss of their newly acquired pets and nervously offered the replacement pets much to the delight of the mourning pet owners. ‘You may consider buying this small aquarium. This store sells water filters cheaper than any other place in Massachusetts …’, Anita summarized her notes for the parents.

‘Well, I am happy that it is over … finally .., Anita yawned as we drove back towards home. Rishi was busy tapping the plastic water filled bag that held the replacement Mr. Anderson.

‘I will call all the others and tell them to get a proper aquarium …’ she said almost dozing off.

*****

We were wrapping up our dinner when the phone rang. Usually we don’t pick up calls during dinner, but today was different. It could be another goldfish emergency. The caller ID showed that it was Rohit. I lifted the phone with trembling hands and put the call on the speaker phone.

It was Kavita. She was crying. My worst fears had come alive. I could almost imagine Rohit standing on our driveway with six pups and six kittens, ‘ I got them specially for you from the shelter …’, I could imagine him saying with a mischievous grin, almost in slow motion ‘ have fun dude !’

‘Raj Uncle, I have a bad news’, Kavita sobbed, ‘Maya got stuck in the filter pump of the new aquarium ... she is dead again…’, her voice boomed loudly across the kitchen into the dining room.

‘There is a reason why the birthday goody bags have board games and candies’, I thought silently as I looked at Anita.

'I have to call the pet store ! ', to my horror, Anita was up on her feet dialing her cell phone!