personal diary

My daughter’s gift

Two days ago, I was headed to my office. I only had one thing on my mind – to reach there before 10.30 AM. A meeting was scheduled and we were told not to be late. Since the day is celebrated as the Tamil New Year, there was not much traffic on road. There was no relentless honking, as it would have been on any other day.

I was nearing Purasaiwakkam when a motorbike caught up with me. It was not speeding and the driver wore a helmet. Although it should be avoided, time constraints often force a driver to over speed. On this occasion, I did not. I let the other vehicle move ahead and in that instant, I dropped my glance. Written on the rear mudguard, in yellow colour and moderately sized font, were the words ‘My daughter’s gift’.

I smiled. I thought I’ll write a blog about it before the day passed. That night, I slept. The next day was the same as the blog remained just an idea.

Sunday is not a typical day of the week and when I woke up today, I was determined to write.  There was a fear that I would forget the finer details. But then, this post does not concern that motorcycle’s brand, rather it was about the words written on its rear.

In the past, I have come across such stickers but the words were different. They were written as ‘My dad/mom’s gift’. The driver of such bikes, as experience tells me, were in their youthful years. The vehicles were invariably a high speed model, usually a Pulsar or an Apache.

Hence, the encounter on Friday was different. The moment I read those words, I took interest in what the driver wore. The man was dressed in a cotton pant and had put on his leather chappals. Although it may come across as stereotypical, the driver  was definitely from a middle class background. Probably in his sixties or late fifties, the bike must have been a gift from his daughter. The words in yellow could not be fake. There ought to be no other reason for the sticker, other than the fact he was proud of his child’s gesture.  I would like to believe in this and I’ll tell you why.

In his younger years, the father must have worked hard or smartly to save money for his family. There is no savings of a man which does not fulfill the needs of his child. The daughter must have been educated and thus given the means to dream. Post her education, I would like to think she got a job, which is really an unforgettable moment for any parent. After all, the purpose of education is to help self and others to a much better position in life.

Gratefulness is a virtue, and the daughter must have saved money. When the time came, she must have used all or part of her earnings to gift her father the bike. The father might have used public transport for commuting or probably his old bike could not take it any longer. The proud father must have then got the sticker to show the world that his daughter had given him the bike. Alternatively, it is even likely the daughter must have added the sticker herself, before delivering the bike to her rather surprised Appa.

It is possible that my hypothesis is wrong. But again, there is no reason for it to be not true. This idea was spinning in my head for the few minutes I was riding behind the bike. It was then I noticed that he was carrying something. A large box was kept on top of the fuel tank. Was the father taking a present to his daughter, on the occasion of Tamil New year? After all, being grateful is a virtue.

 

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personal diary

“Sorry to have kept you waiting!”

Back during undergraduate days, my routine would be to catch a bus/share auto to Nungambakkam railway station, followed by the train ride to Tambaram. Also part of the routine, I must hasten to add, was the often delayed start on my part, which would then keep my friends (two of them) waiting at Nungambakkam for a little longer than they could tolerate. So much so, one of them had enough of it. He told me, towards the end of the third year, “If I had studied during the time that you kept me waiting, I would have become an IAS officer by now.” Although I would like to think that it was said partly in jest, I understood his point. There is nothing more annoying than to be kept waiting.

Not that I changed my ways any soon. I was still late to the cinemas, especially. I once came to PVR a good twenty minutes late to find my friend, with clenched teeth, waiting outside the auditorium. I had the printed tickets. M-booking was still in its infancy stage. Didn’t know what to say, I mumbled an apology and together we rushed in. Fortunately, the movie hadn’t commenced. As I found out on several future occasions, PVR start their shows late. They still do and may god bless them for that!

Now where was I? Yeah, what is it like to be kept waiting. I didn’t know, for I was the one who kept people waiting. That, however, is no longer the scenario.

There seldom passes a day without me waiting outside officers’ cabin, primarily IAS, waiting to be ushered in. I slip in the visiting card, bearing the name of my organization, through the office attendant. But before that, I am usually offered a piece of paper on which visitors are required to write their name and the organization they represent. But no thanks, I say. “Here, take my card!”

There are days, of course, when the waiting period is considerably short.
However, you can’t be counting on your lucky stars every now and then. You need to wait, I am often told. “Sir (yes, it’s always sir) is very busy. He is in a meeting with office staff”, to which I reply, “No problem. I shall wait (as always).”

Office staffs come and go but we (visitors) continue to sit on the uncomfortable bench kept outside. The wait is seemingly never ending. It is during such occasions when I am left to think, “Why couldn’t he (officer) just spare some time and then off I’ll be gone!?” An alternate voice soon resonates in my mind. “Why couldn’t you just go to Nungambakkam a little early and then off we’ll all be gone?!”

An important thing to be mindful of while visiting officers is to know their schedule. There have been several instances when I returned back without success. “Sir just left for the secretariat/high court. He won’t be available today.” In such cases, I try to retrieve my visiting card. However, on most occasions I just don’t because the effort makes you look silly. “Sir, can I atleast have my card back?”

A couple of days ago, I was waiting outside the cabin of transport department officer. An hour had passed but I was still not called for. On either side of me, there were two gentlemen. One was talking over the phone, the other on my right dozed off. In hindsight, I should have fallen asleep myself, as it took another half hour for the internal meeting to get over. Instead, I expectantly looked up every 10 seconds, wondering when the door would open and take me in.

EOM

PS: I put in EOM, as a matter of habit. After every copy, reporters do that to signify there ends the matter!

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personal diary

Present washed away, but hopefully not the future!

A mini-van carrying relief material for flood affected persons had just arrived at Moovendar Nagar, situated along the bank of river Cooum, in Annanagar. In no less than five seconds, the vehicle was surrounded by youth, women, the elderly, as well as a bunch of ever chattering children. The youth, dressed in jeans, offered to identify the most vulnerable residents for whom ‘relief’ was imperative. The women, on the other hand, narrated their sordid tales of misery and pleaded for help. The elderly, often, and quite rightfully, the most sought persons by relief teams, barely spoke. But, with hands folded, they managed to convey their message. The children, in their dirty attires, eagerly peeked inside the van to find out what ‘material’ awaited them. In the end, though, relief did reach to a majority of them.

In the midst of all this stood Sushanth, a sixth grader. He was neither with his friends nor was he anywhere near the van. He preferred to stand quietly in the background and observe others. Casting a glance over the mad rush for the relief material, he shrugged a little. A fellow volunteer (we had gone as a team to distribute aid) indicated me to Sushanth’s presence. “Venkat, he speaks perfect English!” Subsequently, I decided to engage him in a conversation. “Hello Sushanth, my friend tells me you can speak good English. That’s wonderful!”

“Yeah, I can,” he said, a little timidly. By this time three of his friends had gathered around and started giggling. “When I grow up, I want to become a policeman.” When asked on his choice of career, Sushanth said, “They have immense power and responsibility. They can ensure order and peace in the society.” As our conversation extended, Sushanth’s confidence grew. My friend then interjected. “That, and I mean his confidence and the dream to achieve big in life is what education can do to children,” he said. I couldn’t agree more. Notwithstanding any economical or social constraints, quality education should be made accessible to all our young minds. This and this only will ensure upliftment of the poor and disadvantaged. If Sushanth were to realize his dream, he will definitely move out of Moovendar Nagar and out of the gloom that surrounds his present life. He will set an example for other kids in the neighborhood. However it was getting late and hence I wished Sushanth very best for his future and saw him hopping off to join his little gang.

 

The next stop was the Kotturpuram housing board slum, which is located at the very end of a very posh Ranjith road, which stretches along the Adayar River. Lined up on both sides of the road were individual bungalows, too splendid to describe, and occupied by the affluent. Yet, nature spares no one. One of the residents said to me, “I have lost lakhs in damages due to the floods. My three cars have been consigned to the scrap. One of them was carried along by the raging waters. It will take more than six months to return to normalcy.” The man, nevertheless, was obliging enough to let us access the housing board slum through a back gate of his house.

We then stepped down to earthen reality. The scene we encountered can’t be described in words. But let me try. Sewage, flood water, human feces and silt all were mixed up to present a scene that is just too gross. In the middle of that brackish mess live more than 5000 residents of the housing board. “We have been living in this area for the past 30 years and this is where we belong. The last time we had encountered floods were in 1970’s but 2015 has left a new benchmark,” one of the residents said.

The damage caused by the ravaging Adayar to this neighbourhood was too obvious to be missed. It is right there in your face. Heaps upon heaps of slush were being removed from the tiny huts, even as damaged furnitures and home appliances were thrown to the dumps. Property damaged, belongings lost, lives ruined. It will undoubtedly take months to clean up the mess, but even then it will not quite resemble a decent habitat. The government will do well to resettle these people elsewhere with livelihood and education opportunities. Proceeding further inside the slum, I saw a young man exchanging words with his aunt. Sounding exasperated, he bellowed, “Fine, fine! I will go to work from tomorrow. Happy?”

After finishing up our work, I returned to find Naveen, a 4th grader, bending down and examining something in the brackish sand. I went closer with keen interest. He was fishing, for just beside him lay a container containing half dozen tiny fishes. Giving up after sometime, he joined two other kids in having a splash in a nearby pond. “When will your school open?” I posed. “Well, someone mentioned it will reopen by the month end. But I don’t know,” Naveen said.

Upon reflection, however, I feel that question of mine was the most mindless considering the circumstances.

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personal diary

We miss you Kai pati!

It’s been six days since my grand mother passed away and we have missed her since then. But, make no mistake she led a near complete life that it just falls short of a perfect century. She was 96 when she left us. Married off at a tender age of 12, she had the god given opportunity to see the birth of three great-grandchildren.

I still remember the other night on Monday, which turned out to be her last night, when I had the urge to write about her. I didn’t, because writing is tiresome when you have the momentary option to pay an oral tribute instead. But at this moment, when I am at my office with my editor expecting my story to be in her inbox within the next one hour, I need to fulfill the unstated promise that I have made to myself.

Whenever a person leaves earth, it should always be the case when their good qualities are spoken about and very highly too. I firmly believe that. My grandmother had a lot of good qualities.

It was ten years ago, when my grandmother came to live with us. Fondly called ‘Kai pati’, by my sister and me, there are many personal memories of her that we shall cherish forever.

‘Kai’ in Tamil means vegetable. She knows how to cook and that simple statement is understated. All of us in the family relish well cooked delicacies and she was a wonderful chef. With my mother off to work, it was often left to my grandmother to prepare the ‘kai’ for me. She would always prepare just before I come to house after attending undergrad college (it got over by 1.30 in the noon), and ensure it was kept hot. Furthermore, my mother’s cooking improved, however marginal, because she was always offered guidance. Mother’s recipe they say, but on this occasion, let’s prefix the word ‘Grand’ before mother.

Among her standout qualities is her strict adherence to cleanliness and orderliness. Not one to be disorganized, she made sure our house was well run and well kept. She would regularly clean the dust that settled on appliances, especially on the television, with she used to say ensured her sanity. A day back, her big Godrej was searched. With her love for sarees well known (She could well give Nalli’s a run for their money), we found all of them pressed and arranged neatly in an order. Just today, my school ID cards (believed to be long lost), was found safely preserved in one of her packages.

On top of it all, it was her determination to be independent and be courageous, even when in frailty, that stands out. In her nineties, she washed her own clothes, walked without support, helped mother in arranging utensils. Maybe, she derived that strength from her husband, who happened to be a proud military man. Just as I am writing this, a friend and a colleague walks in and by chance, talks about his grand mother. “She lives by her own and swears by her right to be independent,” he says. Guess, all grandmothers are the same.

 

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personal diary

Can you smell what the rock is cooking? Coz, I can’t!

If, perhaps, we consider our capacity to smell, or Olfaction, to be among the least significant sensory perception endowed in us, human beings, then trust me when I say that we couldn’t be more wrong. For, waking up these days, I only have one wish. That I regain my sense of smell.

It so happened that I somehow contracted flu with related ailments like cold and cough promptly setting in. My mother, who usually would say, “Well, you asked for it. How many times have I told you to resist ice creams…?”, on this particular occasion was very much on my side. But then, like never before, I couldn’t smell the odors of everyday life. Couldn’t be worse, right? You can only imagine my plight.

We aren’t short of people who absolutely relish fish delicacies, but I also know there are those who can’t stand the odor emanating from dried fish. While in the past, I have had to hold my nose as tightly as I possibly could while crossing a fish vendor, this Monday though, I didn’t even flinch when faced with the prospect of walking past an entire fish market! There were others who tied kerchiefs over their noses but I wasn’t, for I could smell nothing.

Forget dried fish, even the aroma of freshly grounded coffee eludes me. No perfume fragrance and more importantly, considering my appetite, not even the smell of spicy dishes. On Tuesday, remembering the popular Gujarati Mandal in Broadway that my father used to take me to for a sumptuous meal, I covered quite a distance on foot to have my lunch there. My exhaustion for the day required a lip smacking meal, but sadly though I couldn’t relish any of the dishes served.

A mild burp (also heard by those sitting in adjacent chairs) indicated that I had eaten to my stomach’s content, but only I knew that the food was tasteless. I dared not to mention it to the chef, who looked every bit a guy who could throw a punch or two.

So, maybe, come tomorrow, I will wake up with the same wish yet again.

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personal diary

The ‘unspoken’ conversation with an auto-driver

Even as the train slowly chugged into the platform, I couldn’t wait to see the city. Had the city’s landscape changed since my last visit? What happened to that construction in my neighborhood? Is it the latest upscale restaurant or is it Amma’s restaurant? No matter what I did to constrain it, the excitement and suspense kept building up all the time and, not to forget, I made a mental note to drop in by the mall that’s got everybody talking.

With the train finally screeching to a halt, I got down spiritedly. Upon recognizing my dutiful father, who had been waiting patiently for the past half-hour, I walked towards him, towards the city that I have always looked out. Making our way out of the crowded station, we crossed the road and flagged down an auto. “Annanagar West, Thirumangalam.” “Yes sir, 250.” “Meter?” and to my immense surprise, the auto-wallah acceded. Wow, what a change over mama! With the luggage firmly in tow, I managed to get one fleeting glimpse of the regal Chennai Central building. “Appa, it’s good to be home.”

It so happens that the just- retuned person has much to talk about, and the driver who ferries him home, invariably, becomes party to the conversation. This blog post is dedicated to that chap, who listened into the conversation with my father, and though he didn’t utter a word throughout the fare, I felt he would have been compelled to offer his piece of mind…

As we went past the Ripon Building, the seat of the city’s Corporation, huge machines and cranes dotted the stretch. “Appa, I tell you… these guys are taking ages to complete the metro. Back from where I just came, five phases are operational and the city (Delhi) just can’t survive without it.” My dad was only willing to offer his take on the subject. “Yes, I am yearning for the day when the Metro is up and running, for I can ditch these autos and travel on them. If everyone takes the metro, the autowallahs will buckle up.” (No sooner than my dad said this, the autodriver, whose name for the convenience of this post will be Raju, glanced at us through the mirror, and mockingly said, “Oh yeah? I am pretty sure the metro won’t drop you at your doorstep. We are here to stay, after all!”)

Flying past the Harrington road subway, I whipped out a hankie to wipe out the sweat. “Appa, you know, it was raining in my place and not so long ago, we had a hailstorm. Hail storm! Can you imagine that?!” “First things first, what on earth is a Hailstorm?” “It is heavy; no monstrous rainfall accompanied by ice pellets the size of a small pebble.” (The astonished Raju stopped by the wayside and turned back with incredulous eyes. “Are those the ones we get to experience in Abhirami Snow World?” “No, those guys are deceiving you Raju.” He turned back grudgingly, and started the ride, while uttering curses that are only too pleasant to recall.)

After few minutes, I again raise the topic of the weather. “Appa, how has been the temperature like, here?” “So far, bearable but the dog days are not far away.” “Phew, I don’t want to think about it!” (Raju, negotiating a signal countdown, was at it in an instant. “Switzerland returnee, are you?”)

With the house merely blocks away, I saw the unfinished construction nearby. “Appa, are they ever going to finish it? It seems that ‘under-construction signage’ has been there forever.”

(“Are you ever going to finish your conversation? Tell me, when was the last time you were here? I mumbled, ‘four months.’ ‘Four months?’ you sound as if you were away for a long time!”) 

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personal diary

Metro Travails

I travel by the Metro on a daily basis (Well, so do others), and I happen to get these sudden blog ideas (Well, so…), this post is one such manifestation.

(They say in Mumbai local trains, you don’t need to enter or exit the compartment. The maddening crowd pushes you in and out with un-patronising force. In Delhi Metro, I witness scuffles and heated exchanges between X and Y, all in the surrounding hustle and bustle. l keep count of the familiar Gaali shabd. However, my thoughts go to Chennai. My city too is scheduled to have a metro in a year or two and I can only imagine the chaotic crowd and the slurs in the local dialect.)

Here, I am at Rajiv Chowk and this is where it all begins. The trick is to enter the compartment unharmed, verbally and physically (May I add ‘extensively’).  As anticipated, the mob crowd behind pushes me inside and I manage to hold onto the overhead handle. Before the doors firmly shut, I see one of the glittering advertising spaces proclaiming, “Want to advertise? With footfall of more than 6 lakhs, indisputably the busiest metro station in all of Delhi, this is the best spot for you.” (I have taken the liberty to paraphrase the ad)

I couldn’t agree more, but my immediate concern is to find a seat to rest my ***. “You have just got in and want a seat right away?” asks the incredulous inner voice. That rests my case.

The train approaches the next station. Patel Chowk. Hmm. I don’t think these people would want to visit the Metro Museum. Pass.

Central Secretariat is one station which is worth looking forward to. Government employees! The violet line to Badarpur originates from there, as well. The station arrives and I see a silver lining but unfortunately so did another person. We both stared at each other, I indicated him to sit, he proved equally hospitable. In the ensuing stand-off, a middle aged man walks in calmly and takes the seat. Worse still, he stretches his leg. I relapse into my grumbling state.

Udyog Bhavan? Nothing to say. Pass.

The announcer bellows Race Course and I am extremely optimistic. This station is bound to be popular with commuters! I mean, who would want to pass up on an opportunity to visit 7 RCR and take selfies in front of the official residence of the Indian PM? Certainly not me, alas, my destination is elsewhere. To my dismay, however, not a single soul exits the compartment. That was disappointing.

AIMS next up and I casually throw a glance at my co-commuters. No offense, but here is the best hospital in India. It is only natural that ailing people get down. I make my way through the crowd and position myself directly in front of an elderly couple. The station arrives and the couple duly walks out through the doors. I take the cue and sit down with a sense of worldly achievement and a strange glee in my face. Whoo! I have atlast got a seat. But that exhilarating feel is about to end momentarily. A young lady with an infant in her arms walks in, followed by her husband carrying the luggage. She looks beseechingly and I, well versed with the drill, promptly made way.

INA is fast approaching. My friend once quizzed me; “what does INA stand for?” Indian National Army! He was silenced. (My familiarity with this station largely centres around Dilli Haat, and the nearby markets.) So, there is a scope after all.

I also noticed that INA was frequented by our friends from Africa and so, when I see one such guy about to disembark, I make my move. Just then, he receives a call. “What? You want me to come to Saket? Okay..”

Green Park. Pass.

The next station is fast approaching. Haus Khas. I see a couple of young students (presumably belonging to IIT or JNU, a little further up), not to mention the odd working professional (undoubtedly living in one of the sarais- Ber, Katwaria, Jia etc) getting to the exits. I have a split second decision to make. But then, never mind, this is where I get down.

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