Category: Anecdotal

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The Meek Shall Inherit the Roads

I used to love driving in Delhi! The broad smooth roads, with well-laid out footpaths and cycle tracks, made every drive a glorious experience. As the years passed, I graduated from a Lambretta scooter to a Fiat 1100 to a Maruti 800, then quickly to a Zen and several years later to a Swift Dzire, till I reached my current Maruti Ciaz. The roads of Delhi, meanwhile, deteriorated from being the smooth cheeks of you-know-who of Bollywood to the smallpox-pitted face of that character actor of the same celluloid vintage.

Over the years, driving in Delhi became a torture for me because of the potholes and misleading signage. I feared the large number of lunatics speeding recklessly as if their daddy owns the road. I was terrified by the truck and bus drivers who are congenital disregarders of traffic signals. My blood boiled when some rowdy nouveau riche overtook from the left, his big car rocking like a boombox. I became neurotic about the traffic jams on the Gurugram road. I had nightmares about being the victim of road rage or getting shot in a parking dispute.

Last year, things came to a head when a brat who was scarcely out of kindergarten almost rammed his behemoth into my humble Maruti. The close shave left me shaken, and I resolved to hire someone else to risk his life driving for me.

So we got Bassa Ram aka BR, who has proved to be a godsend! He knows the roads, lanes and bylanes of Delhi like the back of his hand. He can reverse the car for a mile and a half and squeeze into the tightest parking spots. Above all, he is as uncouth as any trucker and can curse louder and faster than anyone on the roads of Delhi since Sher Shah Suri constructed the Grand Trunk Road. It is BR’s capacity to cuss, rather than his driving skills, that for the past year has given us the greatest sense of security while commuting.

With the advent of BR, I almost completely gave up driving except for short sorties to the neighbourhood shopping centre. Then, a couple of months ago, BR needed long leave to attend a wedding back home in his village. In the normal course, during his absence, I would have driven the short distances for petty chores, and we would have used taxis for the odd trip to Ghaziabad. BR would have returned from his village with a box of sweets for us and status quo ante would have been uneventfully restored. But that was not to be, because Sudha, a dear friend of the missus, invited her to a kitty party. I offered to drive her there, but she refused.

“Where will you wait? I don’t want you hanging around in Sudha’s house, ogling other people’s wives, and I won’t tolerate you waiting in the car outside, just to make me feel guilty.”

I then suggested she take a cab, but that only annoyed her. “Why should I, when there is a perfectly good car sitting in the driveway? You are to blame for this sad situation because you never taught me how to drive!”

So all of a sudden it was my fault! In our small world, even the slightest ruffling of feathers causes violent storms; therefore, before our disagreement escalated to hurricane level, I thought it prudent to capitulate.

“I am sorry my dear,” I said. “I will start teaching you tomorrow.”

Next morning, I pasted a large ‘L’, cut from red paper, on the car windshield, to warn other drivers that a learner was at the wheel. The wife and I then set off for lesson number one. I tried to explain the functions of the brake, accelerator and clutch but the missus was too impatient.

“Just teach me how to drive! Don’t give me a lecture on automobile engineering, dammit!” And with that she turned the ignition. The car lurched forwards and shot into a shallow ditch by the side of the road.

After that, we both simply sat there, with steam billowing from under the bonnet and oil leaking from the engine below.

“You don’t even know how to teach!” she burst out. “You are useless.”

And that was the end of her car driving lessons. Nevertheless, I let the red ‘L’ remain on the windscreen because the missus could change her mind, as she often does. She never did, but I discovered a miraculous phenomenon over the next few days. When I drove to the bank or the veggie market, other drivers gave me a wide berth. Even the boldest of pedestrians did not try to test my reflexes. Motorcyclists, who earlier zipped past from the wrong side, now slammed their brakes when they saw the learner sign and my grey hair.

I jubilantly realised that they were all scared of getting hit by me!

Now, even after BR has returned, I feel quite comfortable driving—armed as I am with my grey hair and the red ‘L’ on the windscreen. Who knows, other vehicle drivers might even start making space for me to park? Who knows, I might even altogether dispense with the services of BR?

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The Cruellest Season

I hate Delhi in all its seasons.  I hate it in summer because of the scorching winds and temperatures in the high ‘40s. I hate it in the clammy winter with its smog and freezing cold. But, above all, I hate it in the wedding season, with the noisy processions, traffic holdups and assorted miseries. 

In peak wedding season, even fairly antisocial people like my wife and I receive invitations to a whirl of functions, sometimes as many as four in a week. This number isn’t too large, considering that on some so-called auspicious days as many as fifty thousand weddings take place in a single evening in Delhi. 

Earlier we got letters or simple cards inviting us for weddings. But now we get bulky folders with pullouts and several sheets and QR codes and even meal tickets for drivers! Each invitation presents a profound conundrum for me and the missus. From simple mysteries like: ‘Who are these people?’ and ‘Why have they invited us’ to more complex dilemmas – ‘Should we attend or not?’ ‘Should we give cash or gift something to the newlyweds?’ ‘How much ‘shagun’ would be appropriate’?’  And for the missus it is often an existential stumper, ‘What should I wear?’

I meticulously respond to every invitation. I make a note in the calendar and always warn the missus a day ahead that on the morrow we have a wedding to attend. And I prepare as if for some battle. I get my good suit ironed, seek out the bright red pocket square that goes so well with it, polish my shoes and, on the appointed date, I am ready much before my planned departure time. But the missus, born and brought up in Delhi and quite familiar with the laid-back attitude of the natives, leaves just then for the beauty parlour. She returns an hour later, by which time I am fretting and fuming because we are getting late. When at last we leave, I am usually seething, and she is sullen because of what she terms as my nagging.

We drive through the evening smog in hostile silence, which is broken only when we reach the wedding venue. “See, smarty-pants? We are the first to arrive!” says my annoyed darling. 

My assertion goes unheard – “We are on time. Everyone else is late. Again!” 

Having reached early, I have to park in a remote dark corner.  As a matter of principle, I never entrust my fourteen-year-old Maruti to a valet service. I don’t want some scamp masquerading as a driver to scratch the paint on my as-good-as-new car, even though it is just one year away from the Supreme Court mandated euthanasia.

No matter whose wedding it might be or where it might be – from shabby community halls to classy luxury hotels – there is an eerie predictability about the events that follow. The moment we enter the venue, we are ambushed by a photographer. Since neither he nor his sidekick know our unimportance, we presume he clicks us for some sneaky purpose. It could be to identify us as the culprits if some thief pilfers a silver spoon or someone filches a wedding gift. 

Our mugshots taken, the old girl and I bash on to the ‘stage’ but must join a serpentine queue of guests waiting to bless the couple and dump whatever gifts they are carrying. This queue isn’t just a line – It is a test of one’s patience, bladder control, and one’s ability to indulge in small talk with complete strangers who have nothing in common with them – except an invitation to the same wedding. We finally reach the dais, where the newlyweds stand with a rictus of a smile. The proud parents of the groom or the bride (we never know which; not that it matters) wear a fatigued, bemused expression and are too polite to ask us who we are. I start to mumble something about love and togetherness to the new couple, but we are pulled and pushed into position for the obligatory photograph and then jostled off the stage by those waiting behind us. 

The rest of the wedding reception is a familiar blur. Heavily made-up matrons with coiffed hair kiss the air above dowagers dripping faux diamonds; portly men slyly pull their jackets closer to hide bulging beer bellies and nubile fashionistas display vast expanses of alabaster backs – sufficient to land a helicopter on if needed. Unidentified brats, wearing improbable bow ties, chase each other, screaming and shoving and pushing, causing a doddering uncle to drop his chaat-papri in his wife’s lap. And all the while, instead of the dulcet notes of a shehnai, we are blasted off our feet by bhangra music blaring from the amped up DJ.  

After tolerating the torture for an eternity, my wife and I slip out inconspicuously, eager to return home.  We reach our car only to find that it is hemmed in by cars of other guests who are nowhere to be seen. So we sit and fume in the dark for an hour or more, bickering and quarrelling till we, once again, resolve never ever to stir out from home in the wedding season. 

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The Learners Will Inherit the Roads

I used to love to drive in Delhi! The broad smooth roads, with well-laid out footpaths and cycle tracks, made every drive a glorious experience. As the years passed, I graduated from a Lambretta scooter to a Fiat 1100 to a Maruti 800, then quickly to a Zen and several years later to a Swift Dzire, till I reached my current Maruti Ciaz. The roads of Delhi, meanwhile, deteriorated from being the smooth cheeks of you-know-who of Bollywood to the smallpox-pitted face of that character actor of the same celluloid vintage.

Over the years, driving in Delhi became a torture for me because of the potholes and misleading signage. I feared the large number of lunatics speeding recklessly as if their daddy owns the road. I was terrified by the truck and bus drivers who are congenital disregarders of traffic signals. My blood boiled when some rowdy nouveau riche overtook from the left, his big car rocking like a boombox. I became neurotic about the traffic jams on the Gurugram road. I had nightmares about being the victim of road rage or getting shot in a parking dispute. 

Last year, things came to a head when a brat who was scarcely out of kindergarten almost rammed his behemoth into my humble Maruti. The close shave left me shaken, and I resolved to hire someone else to risk his life driving for me.  

So we got Bassa Ram aka BR, who has proved to be a godsend!  He knows the roads, lanes and bylanes of Delhi like the back of his hand. He can reverse the car for a mile and a half and squeeze into the tightest parking spots. Above all, he is as uncouth as any trucker and can curse louder and faster than anyone on the roads of Delhi since Sher Shah Suri constructed the grand trunk road. It is BR’s capacity to cuss, rather than his driving skills, that for the past year has given us the greatest sense of security while commuting. 

With the advent of BR, I almost completely gave up driving except for short sorties to the neighbourhood shopping centre. Then, a couple of months ago, BR needed long leave to attend a wedding back home in his village. In the normal course, during his absence, I would have driven the short distances for petty chores, and we would have used taxis for the odd trip to Ghaziabad. BR would have returned from his village with a box of sweets for us and status quo ante would have been uneventfully restored. But that was not to be, because Sudha, a dear friend of the missus, invited her to a kitty party. I offered to drive her there, but she refused.  

“Where will you wait? I don’t want you hanging around in Sudha’s house, ogling other people’s wives, and I won’t tolerate you waiting in the car outside, just to make me feel guilty.”

I then suggested she take a cab, but that only annoyed her. “Why should I, when there is a perfectly good car sitting in the driveway? You are to blame for this sad situation because you never taught me how to drive!” 

So all of a sudden it was my fault! In our small world even the slightest ruffling of feathers causes violent storms; therefore, before our disagreement escalated to hurricane level, I thought it prudent to capitulate.  

“I am sorry my dear,” I said. “I will start teaching you tomorrow.”

Next morning, I pasted a large ‘L’ cut from red paper on the car windshield, to warn other drivers that a learner was at the wheel. The wife and I then set off for lesson number one. I tried to explain the functions of the brake, accelerator and clutch but the missus was too impatient.  

“Just teach me how to drive! Don’t give me a lecture on automobile engineering, dammit!” And with that she turned the ignition. The car lurched forwards and shot into a shallow ditch by the side of the road.

After that, we both simply sat there, with steam billowing from under the bonnet and oil leaking from the engine below.  

“You don’t even know how to teach!” she burst out. “You are useless.”

And that was the end of her car driving lessons. Nevertheless, I let the red ‘L’ remain on the windscreen because the missus could change her mind, as she often does. She never did, but I discovered a miraculous phenomenon over the next few days. When I drove to the bank or the veggie market, other drivers gave me a wide berth. Even the boldest of pedestrians did not try to test my reflexes. Motorcyclists, who earlier zipped past from the wrong side, now slammed their brakes when they saw the learner sign and my grey hair.

I jubilantly realized that they were all scared of getting hit by me!

Now, even after BR has returned, I feel quite comfortable driving – armed as I am with my grey hair and the red ‘L’ on the windscreen. Who knows, other vehicle drivers might even start making space for me to park? Who knows, I might even altogether dispense with the services of BR?

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Born to Die

Life was uncomplicated when I was young. If we did not have something, there was no fear of missing out. If we did have something, it was ours to enjoy, cherish and safeguard. For ever.

We never threw away a toy, a watch, a radio set or any other possession merely because it became old, or a newer model was available. If something did not work properly, we fixed it. If it broke, we repaired it. We were expected to value everything till the end of time. Thus, if the strap of a chappal broke, we changed the strap. If a pen stopped working, the ink cartridge was changed. One bag saw me through seven years of schooling, with no more than three trips to the cobbler for repairs when it got torn.

Most products lasted for years and years and sometimes even generations. Long ago, my mother owned a pair of scissors on which was etched, in Urdu, the legend ‘Dada Kharide, Pota Barte’. Translated, it meant that the scissors were good enough to last for three generations or more. In that age and time, any person who had the impudence to suggest that his product had an expiry date, or worse that obsolescence was built into it, would be called a swindler and a crook. Today, we are inured to the manufacturers of expensive telephones informing us matter-of-factly that their product will stop working after a certain date. Imagine the outrage if one fine morning the Rolex company were to declare that all their watch models older than five years would stop working from next Monday!      

For families on the cusp of the middle-middle and upper-middle classes, cars were the ultimate validation of the belief that every effort must be made to repair something before it was junked.  Middle Class car owners in Delhi knew that corner shop in Bhogal which specialised in retreading tyres. Chunnu Mian, who ran his poky little workshop behind the Jama Masjid, could refurbish any broken shock absorber. And the Janata Batterywala in the lane behind Moti Cinema in Chandni Chowk sold the best reconditioned batteries this side of the Khyber Pass. The Gen Y and Z shall never exult in that rush of dopamine when a dead engine comes to life after you, your brother and the neighbourhood chowkidar push-start the car on a wintry morning. No one will talk to these generations knowledgeably about ‘reboring’ the engine, about oversized pistons, about universal cross joints or about the use of soap solution as brake fluid –  because they replace the old car before it is not even half old.  

When life was uncomplicated, refrigerators, air conditioners and scooters were once-in-a-lifetime purchases, the same as cars. Appliances such as sewing machines, ovens, irons and washing machines lasted for years and years and were called ‘consumer durables’. We had a table fan at home when I was a child which, years later, I took to my college hostel. Had some burglar not stolen it, I would probably still be using it today, sixty years on. Even items with a defined lifespan lasted longer than they were supposed to. Wall calendars lived beyond the years – as covers of books, framed as pictures or pasted on windowpanes to block the sun. 

Sadly, nowadays things are born only to die. It is no longer a question whether something will die. It is a question of when. To increase sales, manufacturers deliberately shorten the lives of their products. Sometimes these become obsolete with the arrival of newer models and sometimes due to nonavailability of key components. Consumer durables no longer endure. Television sets and microwave ovens self-destruct almost immediately after the expiry of their two-year warranty, and appliances like vacuum cleaners and geysers refuse to abide with us. Clothes that were deliberately stitched a size too big so that a child would wear them for two or three years are now discarded in a few months because of changing pret lines.  Earlier we ate anything that was not visibly spoilt or smelling to the high heavens. Now we look for a best before date. Even honey is marketed with a shelf life of one year, and salt comes with an expiry date!

The plumbers of today junk a whole faucet fitting if it leaks, rather than trying to repair it. In contrast, their fathers used cotton thread and zinc oxide paste before sheepishly suggesting that a new tap be bought. Not to be left behind, the electricians now visit our homes as if they are senior consultants rather than maintenance guys. They grandly announce the fate of various things – every fitting or appliance that might be defective is sentenced to death, to be replaced with a new one. The modular concept ensures that no effort is ever made to repair any electrical or electronic gizmo.

We certainly live in an evanescent age now, in which nothing lasts. This age demands that everything old must be discarded, to be replaced by the new. This philosophy has been gradually extended to all spheres of our existence. Pens. Watches. Shoes. Jackets. Tables. Computers. Cars. Houses. Maybe even relationships? 

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Superman Bites the Dust

When my granddaughter Kim was about three, I often took her to play in a nearby park. Each time that we left home, her mother would ask, “Kim, are you wearing diapers?” And she, in turn, would ask in her cute lisp, “Nana, are you welling di-apples?”

“I don’t need to wear any,” I would say each time. Possibly for this reason, Kim thought I had superpowers and regarded me as a lovable combination of Superman and SpongeBob SquarePants. Since I had no inkling who SpongeBob SquarePants was, I did not know whether to be flattered or ashamed. But my granddaughter reassured me that SpongeBob was a friend, so I assumed that, overall, to be a combination Superman-SpongeBob was not a bad thing.

Besides the mysterious independence from diapers that I enjoyed, there were other things too that Kim was in awe about. She was impressed that nana was allowed to put ice in the bitter medicine that he had every evening and that he could drive a car. She was puzzled by the long hours that nana spent playing cards on the computer. She also wondered why nana and nani went for parties so frequently, even when it was no one’s birthday. Quite naturally, she regarded me as weird; but in a good way.

Time has this deplorable habit of passing by too fast and cute three-year old granddaughters become argumentative teenagers within a decade. Argumentative as well as rebellious! When Kim was a child, I could keep her entertained for hours by relating events from my childhood.

As every grandparent knows, narrating anecdotes to the young ones is actually creative retelling of the truth to arrive at an improved version of the past. My stories certainly made me remember the past more smugly. At the same time, they also amused dear Kim and convinced her that nana was “better-er than Superman!” Now Kim has grown up to become the quintessential argumentative Indian. She has also developed a robust sense of fair play and natural justice, marinated with healthy scepticism. This combination kills any hopes of mine to be mistaken for an extraordinary person. It is off putting when you expect your anecdote to evoke exclamations of joy and all that you get from a disinterested grandchild are indifferent ‘umm’s’. The ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ah’s of baby Kim have been replaced by ‘whatever!’ of the young teenager.

Once when I told her that we were made to bend over and got whacked on the rump in school, she was shocked. “But that is physical assault!” Then, even as I knew I should not, I shared with her the nugget of information that our school principal rewarded serious transgressions with ‘six of the best’. “You mean caning!” Kim asked incredulously, her eyes as big as saucers. “How could you tolerate such abuse? You should have sued your school!”

On yet another occasion, I regaled her with the story of how my cousin and I, both then eight years of age, had once undertaken an overnight train journey quite unescorted from Ajmer to Agra. Instead of admiration, all I got from Kim was a horrified gasp. She blurted out, “That is so random! That is child abuse. That is irresponsible parenting! You should have sued your mom and dad!”

She was livid when she first learnt that I did not have a cell phone of my own as a young boy. “Not having a cell phone of your own is an infringement of your fundamental rights. It is against the law! Haven’t you read the Constitution of India?” she screamed. She laughed loud and long when I told her that many of my friends and I had never flown in an airplane till we were in our twenties.

For all these reasons, the grown up Kim’s contempt for not just nana but for his whole generation knows no bounds. “What kind of wimps were you and others of your generation that you suffered all these indignities and deprivations without rebelling? Why did you not protest? Why did you not sue the whole world?”

I now realise that there are many aspects of my childhood that Kim can never reconcile with. Sadly, I am no longer friends with Kim, though she still regards me as weird—but certainly not in a good way. It is quite depressing to have to accept the fact that my granddaughter no longer thinks I am Superman. It is still more depressing to discover that I have lost that special superpower, and sometimes wish I were wearing a ‘di-apple’. Maybe if I wear a red coloured diaper on top of my trousers I would look more like Superman; and maybe that would also solve the problem of the occasional incontinence.

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Uncle Ji at the Barber’s 

“Isn’t that so Uncle Ji?”

I must have been meditating because I did not hear the question. I had been vaguely aware of the passionate exchanges between my barber, his assistant who was shaving another customer in the adjacent seat, and some companion of theirs who was seated where I could not see him. In fact, after sitting down for a haircut, I had tuned out completely from their meaningless chatter.

The barber repeated with greater vehemence, “Isn’t that so Uncle Ji?

I did not dare nod, because he was holding his scissors close to my head and I was not keen on being poked in the eye or ear with those. So I grunted – a neutral kind of grunt which could be construed to be a borderline ‘yes’ or a borderline ‘no’, depending on which side of the argument one was on.

That seemed to satisfy him for the nonce, but a short while later, he again sought validation, “Isn’t that so Uncle Ji?”

Now I am a fairly tolerant sort of blighter but I sincerely believe that for the twenty minutes for which one pays a handsome amount to receive the services of their barber, one is in a state of grace. One expects to remain undisturbed in order to be in communion with their Maker, or agnostic equivalent. It is in poor taste for any barber to keep derailing the train of thought of his patron. And it is indeed an abomination for the said barber to keep goading the said patron to answer asinine questions on pain of being poked in the eye or ear with the business end of his scissors.

When the barber asked for my endorsement yet again, I had been deliberating on matters of great import.  Matters like whether the ladies’ salons too were afflicted with the problem of pointless arguments. Did the lady hairdressers argue as passionately about profoundly stupid matters and then seek the approval of their elderly patrons?  And did they have the impertinence to address their ageing patrons as Aunty Ji? I was certain that this could not be the case, especially when the salons advertised that their mud packs and other mysterious ministrations would make ‘didi’ look ten years younger. On the contrary, here the barber, his assistant, and their disembodied companion were all revelling in calling me ‘Uncle Ji’. I sighed. One has to indeed pay a disproportionately high price for being a man!

The barber’s rude insistence forced me to divert my thoughts to the discussions of the plebeians. Very reluctantly, I started paying attention to their animated conversation. The disembodied voice at the back suddenly became aggressive, but I did not dare turn to see the speaker – again for fear of getting poked by the barber’s scissors.

“Uncle JI would know best! Don’t you agree Uncle Ji that the young are a generation of sissies? Your generation ate real desi ghee. We never got to eat desi ghee. Even our butter is full of chemicals!”

“Yes!” lamented the barber’s assistant, “We eat only pesticides, while your generation ate real food and real ghee, Uncle Ji!”

I did not know whether to apologise or claim superiority on this account. I decided it was best to maintain a lofty silence. But like an ill-tempered Rottweiler, the barber was not willing to let go of the issue. With great authority he announced, “Ask any really old man and he will tell you how good desi ghee is. Look at Uncle Ji. He is simply bursting with good health. You eat a lot of ghee, isn’t that so, Uncle JI?”

So I was not only being dragged into an asinine discussion, I was also being made an exhibit for the prosecution. “Uncle Ji, you must be at least sixty? Am I right?”

I grunted a reply, hoping that he would let the matter go. But the Rottweiler was not to be denied. “So how old are you?” he persisted. 

Confronted directly in this manner, I had no option but to confess. “I am seventy-five.”

“See! See!” chortled the barber. “Uncle Ji is seventy-five! See the result of eating desi ghee? See how healthy he is? And how luxuriant is his hair? Desi ghee is indeed a miracle food. Isn’t that so Uncle Ji?” 

I thought the virtues of desi ghee were being overplayed, so I kept quiet. But he persisted. “So, what do you say, Uncle Ji? Isn’t desi ghee a miracle food?” 

I hummed and hawed for a while but then I realised I could no longer hope to respond with a few grunts. So I said gruffly, “Don’t you think you have left the hair at the back a bit long?” 

The barber was immediately contrite and thereafter kept silent for a full five minutes; till he finished cutting my hair. He brushed off my neck and face and removed the sheet from my shoulders. He accepted the money that I handed to him. Then just as I was about to leave, he once again asked, “Don’t you think desi ghee is a miracle food, Uncle Ji?”

I gave him a wan smile and stepped out of the salon. I just did not have the heart to tell him that, on the orders of my cardiologist, I have not had even a spoonful of desi ghee for more than thirty years.  

(The Week – August 18, 2024) 

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Nicking Napkins and Black Magic

Had Phulwanti, our maid, not taken leave, I would never have known that I am a kleptomaniac! Yes, I do look so innocent, but kleptomaniacs don’t necessarily have to look like thugs, do they? The shameful discovery that I am a klepto came about with events that started on Monday morning. When the missus opened my wardrobe, she saw three square pieces of black cloth lurking among the handkerchiefs. She let out a scream and dropped the two shirts she was about to place inside. I rushed from the study and found her standing transfixed, mutely pointing to the evil black patches.

“Where did these come from?” she asked in a frightened whisper. I looked at the black pieces of cloth. Each measured about four inches by four inches, with a neatly stitched border. They looked quite harmless to me, but the little woman was alarmed. “Where did these come from?” she repeated. I did not have the foggiest and said so. The missus feared that some voodoo skulduggery was afoot—an effort by my enemies to put a hex on me. I proudly declared that I had no enemies, but that cut no ice. She grabbed the three bits of black and warned me not to move. She then did some mumbo-jumbo around my head with a worn-out slipper and a broom. I ridiculed her belief in all this evil eye stuff, but she said, “Shush”, and I had to shush.

In the afternoon, she called a pandit to perform something called a maha mrityunjay jaap and also a shaman to do more jhaad phoonk. I was astonished when I heard what they would charge for their services, but the little woman had made up her mind. “We can’t be too careful in such matters, can we? Is money more important than our wellbeing?”

The pandit soon started his chanting and the witchdoctor made elaborate preparations. “Do you have a chicken that I could slaughter?” he asked. That charlatan claimed that sprinkling the blood of a freshly slaughtered chicken around the house acted like a wide spectrum antibiotic against evil. Now my wife is a Gandhian, a pacifist and a true believer in nonviolence (except of course when it comes to lizards). But so great is her dread of black magic that she almost acquiesced to the bizarre proposal. I, however, stubbornly opposed the idea till the rogue conceded that sacrificing a pumpkin instead was just as effective.

“But you know, it somehow lacks the drama; the colour; the theatre quotient!” he said lamely.

Had my wife not been so terrified of those pieces of black cloth, I would have shown that rascal what real drama and theatre quotient could be. I would have proved that the blood dripping from the nose of a crook was equally effective in checkmating the occult.

The whole night, the two exorcists continued their exertions to rid my wardrobe of evil spirits and any ghoulish spillover to the shoe rack. While the pandit mumbled complicated mantras, the jhaad phoonk guy danced around a large pumpkin cut into two. He burnt foul-smelling resins and merrily scattered cow dung in every room.

On Tuesday morning, Phulwanti walked in, all sweetness and light. In her Bengali accented Hindi, she demanded to know why the two ‘adbhut manush’ were spreading dirt in ‘her’ clean house. My wife explained excitedly that she had unmasked the sinister plans of my enemies just in time and stymied all conspiracies with the jaap and mumbo jumbo. As proof positive, she held up exhibit numbers one, two and three—the three black serviettes.

“But sahib only brought these,” declared Phulwanti. “They were in sahib’s trouser pockets, so I washed and ironed them along with the other clothes and put them in his wardrobe.”

That surprised the little woman, and I was stumped. Then I remembered! On Saturday, my wife and I had attended the gala opening of a new avant-garde restaurant. Black was the theme of the reception, with the walls, curtains and even the furniture being painted black. The tapas were served on black platters, with those small black serviettes.

“I must have inadvertently put those in my pocket,” I said.

Phulwanti chimed in, “Yes sahib, and not for the first time. Whenever you attend a party, the next day I find a napkin or two in the pockets of your trousers when I put them in the wash. After ironing, I always put such napkins in the linen drawer. These black serviettes were small, and they fitted better with your kerchiefs.”

An unfortunate fallout of this sordid affair has been my wife’s declaration that henceforth she will make me empty my pockets before we leave for home after any party. She has also had to promise a handsome bonus to Phulwanti at Diwali for keeping quiet about my being a klepto—a klepto who filches napkins at parties.

(THE WEEK 29/09/24)

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Vindictive Technology

There was a time when it was not too difficult to gain admission to one of the five IITs in the country. One needed only a modicum of intelligence to be selected, with no need for extra classes, or coaching and certainly no swotting in any Kotah factory. There were some who, after being invited to enter the hallowed precincts of an IIT, contemptuously declined. I was one of them. With supreme stupidity, I had declared that there was no future in technology. Alas! I had no premonition of how much technology there was to be in my future!

Instead of maligning women, Shakespeare should have declared, ‘Hell hath no fury like technology scorned!’ I have discovered the hard way how vengeful technology can be. It has been striking back in a variety of ways over the years even though, quite naively, I had hoped that its wrath would mellow with age. But no, it has continued to exact revenge.

My wife and I live in a multi-storeyed building where technology keeps tormenting us. We are held hostage by the myriad apps that are an intrinsic part of condominium living. Would you believe, we frequently get locked out of our apartment because that villainous electronic lock pretends to malfunction? That wicked smoke detector scares us by going off without any provocation, sometimes in the middle of the night. The electricity gets disconnected on its own. Our maid is randomly refused entry into the complex. And once, we were trapped by the malicious lift! For all of ten diabolical minutes!

When earlier this month, my wife went to our daughter’s place for a couple of weeks, technology saw it as an opportunity to drive a wedge between us. I had not been aware, but technology keeps me under surveillance! I discovered this only because some sneaky apps kept sending alerts to my wife’s phone each time I left our housing complex. And she telephoned each time, “Where are you going? It is well past dinner time! Surely not to that no-good Gopu’s place?”

The nefarious plot to make us quarrel included communicating the names of all the visitors to my wife’s phone. The presswala, the newspaperman and the courier were meticulously listed. Every pizza, every kebab, each and every calorie was counted and reported to the missus.

Now you must understand that my wife and I are no longer at the coochie coochie honeymoon phase of our marriage. In fact, we are at that stage when most questions are prefaced with, ‘Where the hell?’ or ‘What the hell?’  Even then, I was surprised when my wife cut short her visit and returned home early this morning.

“Who the hell is Heerabai?” she fumed.

I got jolted to total wakefulness from my sleepy state. Heerabai? I had no idea. No idea whatsoever.

“She visited you last night at ten!”

“Oh, that was Heera Bhai, the Blinkit delivery guy. I had ordered bread and eggs,” I said and showed her my phone payment app. “See! I paid Rs 150.”

My wife gave me a withering look. “This … this Heerabai charges Rs 150! How low can you sink?”

The implied accusation was so preposterous that it deserved a really absurd response. “See?” I said. “I never splurge money. Always scrimping and saving! That’s me!”

My wife did not find my attempt at humour at all amusing.  So I repeated, “Darling, Heera Bhai is a man.”

But she didn’t believe me.

This incident has shattered me. I surrender. I give up! I just can’t afford to upset the missus! Can someone please help me tender an unconditional apology to technology for holding it in contempt 60 years ago? 

(THE WEEK _ 5/8/24)

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Love in Tokyo

Love in Tokyo

Friends are horrible people, don’t you think so? The fewer friends you have, the happier you will be. Take my word for it. I know. I am so so unfortunate to have a large number of friends. They say they wish me well, and therefore they have to be frank. The fact is they are not just frank, they are brutally frank. It is they who puncture my ego the most. On the other hand, my greatest victories have been gifted to me by those I consider my detractors, if not my enemies. .

Let me share with you what happened a few years back. I had gone on a business trip to Beijing. Luckily, I was able to negotiate a full day’s stopover in Japan, which I had never visited earlier. I was put up in an hotel at the Narita airport, and I decided to venture out to Tokyo as I had the whole day to myself. On the advice of the concierge, I decided to take the train to downtown Tokyo, rather than an expensive taxi.

At the train station, however, I was totally bewildered. I could not make out how to buy a ticket as I saw no booking office. I could neither understand the language, nor could I make out the value of the currency notes. I requested help from those passing by, but no one understood English.

I must have looked quite lost, because an attractive girl approached me, bowed low and introduced herself. In broken English, she told me to use the ticket machine, and rapidly explained how to use it. She said she had to hurry; otherwise she would miss her train. Somewhat shyly she explained that she was going to meet her boy friend. She turned and ran away, even before I could thank her.

I now addressed the ticket machine. The staccato instructions given by the girl proved useless and I could not coax a ticket out of the machine. I stood there helplessly, defeated by the Japanese, their language, their machines and their currency.

Suddenly, the same girl came rushing out of the station gate. She said she had missed her train, and that the next one was not due for another seven minutes. She had come back to make certain that I had got my ticket. She made me put money in the machine and punch some buttons, till a ticket popped out. I took the ticket and my change. She gave me the most beatific smile and hurried off, because she said she did not want to miss her train again.

On the train to Tokyo, I glanced at myself in a mirror. With the silver in my hair, I looked handsome and quite distinguished. It gave me a nice warm feeling to think that a young beautiful girl, on the way to meet her beau, had found me attractive enough to come back a second time to help. It might not count as a conquest, but it was also nothing to sneer at. I must have been smiling to myself, because many Japanese on the train smiled back. Even in the stores in Tokyo, other shoppers returned my smile.

The day after I returned to Delhi, I shared impressions of my foreign visit with my colleagues in office. I especially wanted to impress the new executive, the cute one who always wore high-heels. With a smug smile, I shared the pleasant memory of the girl at Narita station. I wasn’t gloating, but yes, I definitely conveyed that I, more than my middle-aged friends, had retained a certain youthfulness and charm. I also looked pointedly at high-heels.

That is when this friend of mine piped up. He said, “Oh the Japanese are such a polite people. The girl would have come back to help someone even a lot uglier than you.” Everyone burst out laughing; and high-heels laughed loudest.

Did I not tell you that it is one’s friends who deflate your ego the most? I concede that this guy knows a lot about Japan, but could he not control his urge to show off his knowledge about that country? At least he could have chosen his words with greater circumspection. Could he not have said that the girl would have come back, even for someone less handsome than me?

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The Secret School for Spy Catchers

There was a time when the training establishment of MI5, the Security Service of the United Kingdom, was located at a place named Mount Pleasant. It must have been somebody with an overweening sense of loyalty to the Crown, or a weird sense of humour, who decided that the Intelligence Bureau (IB) of India should also locate its training establishment at some place with a similar, if not identical, name. Unfortunately, there was no Mt. Pleasant to be found in Delhi or its vicinity. After searching high and low for some place – any place – with a name resembling Mount Pleasant, the powers that be zeroed in on the area called Anand Parbat in the western part of Delhi. And it was on this Mt. Pleasant aka Anand Parbat that the IB established its training centre sometime in the early part of the 20th century.

One would really need to stretch one’s imagination to consider that molehill called Anand Parbat to be a mountain, for it was nothing but a pimple on the landscape of Delhi – infested with shanties and miserable huts. The Karol Bagh road ended at a paan shop at the foot of this hill, and taxi and auto rickshaw drivers refused to go up the lane that curved its way to the top. If one trudged uphill for a quarter mile or so, one was rewarded with the sight of the Ramjas School that had boasted of a proud campus in the distant past. Unfortunately, all that remained were dilapidated buildings, with broken glass panes. As there was no land or other accommodation available, the IB hired a portion of that rundown school to impart training to its new recruits and police officials of different states.

The training centre was an IB establishment and, therefore, it was deemed necessary to keep its location secret. No sign boards were put up to show the way, and officials assigned for training were instructed not to reveal to anyone that they were headed to the IB training centre. Instead, if needed, they were to ask for directions to the Ramjas School.

Most officials who came for training to the IB were unfamiliar with Delhi, and after getting off a taxi or auto rickshaw at the end of the Karol Bagh road, they needed to ask for directions. The most accessible person was the paanwala, who soon got curious about so many grownups enquiring where a particular school was located. He cottoned on after some time and he then started referring to the training centre as the Central CID School. And for many years thereafter, that paanwala directed people to the IB training centre whenever they asked for the way to the Ramjas School. Gradually, a few thousand residents of Anand Parbat, and many thousand more residents of Karol Bagh, came to know that a Central CID training establishment was located atop Anand Parbat.

But no one knew the location of the Intelligence Bureau training centre! That remained a secret!

Tribune – July 15, 2024