Category: Whimsy

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The Simple Life

In this journey called life, I believed that it was possible to keep learning for ever. A pearl of wisdom here, a nugget of information there. It all added up, I thought. It was for this reason that I listened carefully to what the resident guru of our jogging park had to say. For those who do not know him, I must make it clear that I considered our Jogging Park Guru (JPG) to be wise beyond compare, for he has an opinion or a recommendation on every subject under the Sun. He has scores of hangers-on like me, who blindly follow his advice.

“Simplify! Simplify! That is the mantra! And it is simplest to start by simplifying simple things. You will become a self-realised oneness only when you try it. Start with something small – like not combing your hair.”

I thought this advice was eminently sensible. So one fine day, I did not comb my hair. But, just to be on the safe side, I wore a cap the whole day long. Even then, the very thought that the unkempt hair under the cap had gone undetected was liberating and self-realising in a strange way. It felt as if I had cheated without actually cheating.

Having got away scott free in this escapade, I decided something bolder was in order. So I confronted the process of tying my shoelaces and the need to simplify it. Only those with a girth like mine will understand when I say that stooping to tie one’s laces is a bit of a bother. It strains the back and the paunch has the awkward habit of coming in the way. I therefore simplified the procedure by switching to shoes without laces! Even then, pulling on my socks required considerable effort. I posed this problem to the JPG and sought a solution from the wise one.

“Did anyone ever compel you to wear socks? Yes or no? Simply stop wearing them. Simple!” he advised. I must have looked horrified, because he added, “Try it sometime. No one will notice. Everyone is so wrapped up in themselves that no one is concerned about or has an interest in whether you are wearing socks or not.”

And he was right! I did not wear socks to the very next party that the little woman and I attended. I must have talked to a good twenty people and not one noticed that I was missing socks. Not even the little woman! That really emboldened me, and I did not wear socks to the next seminar of my favourite think tank. Though I felt naked, I strutted around confidently and no one noticed that my ankles were bare. The cool breeze circulating around my calves created a great sense of self-realised oneness!
Quite logically, I decided to extend the simplification process to every manner of dress. While I did not altogether stop wearing shirts, I certainly stopped bothering about a broken button or two. I also stopped caring whether I had worn the same outfit for three consecutive days. No one noticed. The next step was to stop bothering about similar trivial matters like ironing clothes, polishing shoes and shaving. Again, no one seemed to notice. The sense of liberation was truly intoxicating.

I must declare that I became very good at simplification and self-realisation. Hair, clothes, shoes, socks, nails, shaving and even washing and bathing were subjected to the simplification process as suggested by the JPG. I became so good at it that I decided last Sunday to have a small celebration by myself in the club, as befitted a simple evolved oneness.

I was stopped from entering the building by the combination major-domo – guard- steward, who stands at the main door and whose only job is to salute members of the club.

“Excuse me, Sir, but are you a member?” I looked at him wonderingly. This was the same guy who used to salaam me till a few weeks ago and he now had the temerity to stop me from entering my own club!

“Of course I am a member! Don’t you recognise me?” I asked irritably.

“Well Sir, since you are a member, I need not remind you about the dress code that we follow,” he said, with a butter won’t melt in my mouth expression, and using the pronoun ‘we’ as if he were an equal member!

A bit miffed, I was about to turn back when I saw the unkempt figure through the glass window behind the major-domo. I pointed at the bedraggled hobo, hair all tousled and unkempt, wearing rags that I would never be seen dead in.

“What about that guy there? You seem to have allowed him entry in violation of the dress code.”
“That Sir, is your reflection in the glass window,” said the flunkey frostily.

Disgusted, I wended my way to the jogging park to meet the guru and ask him if I had carried out this simplification thing a bit far. The JPG was seated at his favourite bench and I greeted him with the usual “Guru ki Jai!” But he absolutely refused to acknowledge my presence! When I persisted, he turned to two of his acolytes and said irritably, “Can’t you guys guard against such riff raff gaining entry to our jogging park? Throw him out!”

I was then unceremoniously escorted out of the park – the same park where JPG had taught me the basics of simplification and self-realisation. I have now simply decided to stop simplification. I have decided to stop any further pursuit of oneness. I have also decided against any further accumulation of wisdom. Now I simply want my life to become unsimpler.

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A Feast – The Greatest Of All Time

News of the impending visit of a VVIP to Manipur caused a flurry of activity in Imphal in early 1979. A communication from Delhi specified that the VVIP, known for his idiosyncrasies, needed to have fresh milk of a black goat every morning. This caused great consternation among government officials because in those days there were no goats in Manipur — black, white or of any other colour. So, a week before the visit, a police officer was despatched to Guwahati with a 5-tonne truck to buy a goat. Within three days, he returned with a fine milch goat of the specified colour. The animal was handed over to Raj Bhavan staff to feed and to milk.

As scheduled, the VVIP arrived in Manipur and stayed at Raj Bhavan for a couple of days, and presumably enjoyed the goat’s milk for breakfast. The state government spared no effort to make the visit a memorable one; and it passed off uneventfully to the collective sigh of relief of all officers responsible for the arrangements. After the VVIP left, the officers who had toiled decided to celebrate with a grand dinner. Many who were present remembered that banquet for months afterwards, especially the delicious mutton curry. Some even called the feast the ‘greatest of all time’.

The VVIP visit saga would have ended with that dinner, but that was not to be. The police officer who had bought the goat claimed reimbursement of the amount that he had spent. This led to a veritable war among different government departments. The District Magistrate’s office said it had no budgetary allocation for the purchase of a goat. The Animal Husbandry Department declared that it could do the needful, provided the purchase was shown to be that of a pig or a cow. The Protocol Department refused to approve the purchase in the absence of three quotations. The Governor’s Secretariat distanced itself from the matter, observing that it had never placed an order for a goat. The Finance Department said since prior approval had not been sought, reimbursement of expenditure was not admissible.

Ultimately, it was decided that the officer should take the goat back to Guwahati, 500 km away. So, the police officer went to Raj Bhavan to fetch the animal. But the goat was missing! Someone recalled that it was last seen on the day that the officers had the celebratory party. But it had not been seen after that day. In fact, no one ever saw it again.

Published in The Tribune – February 23, 2023

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The Bhadralok and the Boor

This small town that I was posted to as the Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) was not even a one-horse town. It was but a huddle of huts and farms, bestowed with the status of a sub-divisional headquarters for no good reason. It was a village really, which had never seen the finer things in life. No stage plays, no musical soirees, and not even a satisfactory cinema hall. Unfortunately, I fancied myself to be a cosmopolite, a connoisseur of the arts and music, and an epicure to boot!

My life soon fell into a rut. My duties left me with little spare time, but to spend even this became tedious. My cook could prepare only tasteless dishes, which hardly evoked a desire to live. I had nothing to read, except old newspapers, and I missed books, music and intellectual company that one could enjoy only in a city.

Then one day, I met this amazingly soft-spoken person, who I shall call Mr Bhaduri. He practised criminal law in the local court and was the epitome of the Bengali bhadralok. He was an anachronism living in this small town, possibly because his ancestor zamindars never thought of moving to Patna or Kolkata.

The Bhaduri home was full of books, stacked in innumerable wooden almirahs, all carefully dusted. There was also an ancient gramophone in working condition, with a huge stack of records, ranging from Chopin and Rabindra Sangeet to Kundan Lal Saigal. And the pride of place in the very Bengali drawing room was occupied by a veena — one that Mr Bhaduri could actually play!

I was mesmerised by this oasis of culture and learning in the otherwise drab town, and over the next few months, whenever I felt like it, I invited myself to his house. Here, I enjoyed a bit of music, a stimulating discussion on current events or some philosophical concept, culminating in a dinner to tempt the gods.

But it was too good to last! One day, quite sheepishly, Mr Bhaduri requested me to stop visiting his house. Seeing my confusion, he explained that it was a small town that we lived in, and people knew that I, the ASP, was a frequent visitor to his house. He said for this reason, he had started getting such criminals as clients who he did not want to defend. Quite disappointed, I acceded to his wish and stopped visiting him. For the rest of my posting in that god-forsaken town, I missed the refined company, the books, the music and the food of the Bhaduri home.

It is now almost 50 years since I last visited Mr Bhaduri. In these many years, I have wondered more than once whether he really started getting undesirable clients or did he find me too much of a boor — and in his bhadralok fashion, he had got rid of me!

(Carried as a middle in The Tribune – under an incorrect heading – Banished from Bhadralok)

 

 

 

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The Oil Well That Wasn’t

The mid-1970s were a testing time for the police in Bihar. Besides controlling crime and managing difficult law and order situations, considerable effort was required for bandobast for examinations, conducting raids to unearth hoarded essential commodities and enforcing collection of levy foodgrains. I was posted as Assistant Superintendent of Police at Madhepura, a backward area with erratic electric supply and poor roads. Even the water, drawn by a hand pump, was not potable. It had a distinct metallic taste and accumulated a thin film of oil if kept overnight. People ascribed this to the presence of iron and oil in the ground.

In the summer of 1974, a murder was committed in Rampur village, about twenty kilometres from Madhepura. I visited the village twice; Inspector Jha and other police officers visited the village more frequently for a fortnight. After one such visit, a very excited Inspector Jha came to my office and declared that oil had been discovered in Gangapur, a village near Rampur. He said that villagers had found natural oil seeping into a well and he had himself seen hurricane lanterns being lit with water from that well.

I was dumbfounded. I thought of sending messages about this oil strike to Patna, to bring it to the attention of the government. But I wanted to see this miracle myself first, before informing the world. So Inspector Jha and I proceeded to Gangapur. On the way, we happily discussed the impact that the discovery of oil would have on this backward area of Bihar.

It was quite a scene that met my eyes in Gangapur. The villagers were milling around a well, while some police constables tried to keep them away. The whole area smelt strongly of oil. I had a bucketful of ‘water’ drawn from the well. The liquid smelt of kerosene and burnt readily. The only suspicious aspect was that the liquid was too clear. Even with my rudimentary knowledge of petroleum, I expected the oil to be cruder, to coin a term.

I decided to investigate further and directed that more ‘water’ be taken out of the well. The villagers gleefully started taking out bucketfuls. By evening, the smell was not as strong as earlier, and the water stopped burning when lit. It became clear that there was no seepage of natural oil, but it was kerosene that was being taken out of the well.

The truth emerged after some enquiry. The fair price shop licensee of Gangapur, one Sahu, had hoarded kerosene for black marketing, instead of selling it to ration card holders. Spooked by the frequent visits of the police to neighbouring Rampur and fearing a raid, he and his henchmen had dumped about one thousand litres of kerosene into the well the previous night. With the mystery solved, Inspector Jha asked whether a case should be registered against Sahu under the Essential Commodities Act. I advised him to let Sahu go because the case would be difficult to prove. Moreover, Sahu had already suffered substantial loss!

We returned crestfallen to Madhepura, deeply disappointed that the first oil well of Bihar had turned out to be a dud!

 

(Published with minor editions in The Tribune on 1/2/23)

 

 

 

 

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Pushing The Envelope

Indian weddings and associated ceremonies are terrifying things – they are a cause of anxiety for the bride and groom, they terrorise the parents and they often create frightening complications in the lives of sundry relatives who have only a tenuous link with the dramatis personae. Weddings can be daunting for the guests too, even those who are merely acquaintances at the workplace or those that might be called ‘revenge invitees’. At many a reception, it is difficult to distinguish between relatives of the bride, the relatives of the groom, the guests of the aforementioned parties and habitual or unwitting gate crashers. The parents, who pay for the hoopla, remain under murderous pressure to conform and compete. Thus if the Khannas had a five-cuisine spread, the Nayyars must arrange live streaming of the proceedings shot by drones and the Trivedis must have a destination wedding. Hardly anyone enjoys themselves and even repeated playback of the reception video fails to identify all the Aunty Jis and Uncle Jis who attended the do.

As if to prove these postulates, my Damyanti aunty telephoned from Nagpur last Saturday. “Arre beta! Will you go to Chhotu’s wedding reception at the Taj tomorrow?”

“Who is Chhotu?” I enquired with some justification because it was the first time that I had heard this name.

“Haven’t you been invited? How many times have I told you to be more sociable? Chhotu is your cousin, don’t you know? He is your father’s cousin’s son from his second marriage.” I was confused. I am no more antisocial than the next person. I had never heard of Chhotu. Whose second marriage? My dad’s? Or his cousin’s? I had never heard of anyone in my family having the courage to marry twice. And I was stupid enough to so declare to Damyanti aunty. This led to a long and trying telephone conversation, at the end of which Damyanti aunty ordered me to attend the reception on Sunday, whether I wanted to or not.

“Put twenty-one hundred rupees and one, in a shagun lifafa. Use one of those fancy envelopes, okay? You are bound to know lots of relatives there. I will text the venue and time to you. Okay?”

So okay it was and my wife and I trundled off to the Taj Mahal hotel on Sunday evening. The entrance to the reception lawns was beautifully decorated with a board announcing ‘Pritam weds Komal’.

“Ah, Pritam must be Chhotu’s name,” I said to the love of my life. “Are you sure it isn’t Komal?” she countered, deadpan.

Assuming an innocent air, we sauntered into the vast lawns. Guests milled around and a longish queue snaked its way to a dais on which the bride and groom were seated; one of whom – either Pritam or Komal aka Chhotu – was said to be my cousin. Or second cousin.

“Do you recognise anyone?” I asked the little woman.

“Why would I? They all are your relatives!”

“Supposed to be,” I corrected her.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“Let us dump the ‘lifafa’ and get the hell out of here,” I said.

“Now that we are here, let us at least have dinner,” said my wife, ever the practical one. “I am not in the mood to cook when we return home. And it seems silly to go out for dinner when we are already out.”

“Let us first check if we know anyone,” I said. But there was no one who was even vaguely familiar. On a sudden inspiration, I decided to get technology to help me. I made a video call to Damyanti aunty. “Do you recognise anyone,” I asked, pointing the camera at a group of guests.

“I am not certain, but those three there, they look like Bunty and Saurabh and Goldie”.

“Is that from right to left or left to right?” I asked. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “How can the extreme right be Bunty? She is clearly a girl.”

“So what’s wrong with that? Bunty can be a boy too, no? It is such an androgynous name.”

“Shut up! Names can’t be androgynous. People are,” Interjected the little woman.

“Oh for the love of God, will you two stop quibbling about semantics?”
One of the guests gave me a weird look, as if pointing a camera at someone at a wedding was some prohibited activity. I quickly put away the phone in my pocket.

Meanwhile, the queue at the dais had dwindled, so we went up the few steps to the brand-new couple. There was a bevy of girls crowding around the seated pair, but the parents of Pritam / Komal were not in evidence. I did not recognise the groom. He did not recognise me. None of the girls looked like a cousin to me. Not even like a second cousin. At the same time, I confess I do not know what a cousin is supposed to look like.

I handed the fancy envelope with money to the bridegroom and murmured that the gift was from Damyanti aunty, who lives in Nagpur. “Who is Damyanti aunty from Nagpur?” he asked.

“Isn’t she your aunt?” I countered.

“My Chachi lives in Nagpur. I never knew her name was Damyanti.”

“Well it is and we are cousins. Or, umm, maybe second cousins.”

The groom looked at my grey hair and was about to protest. Then he thought better of it and turned to the sweet young thing standing behind him and said, “Nagpur Wali Damyanti Chachi has sent Shagun.”

“Who is Damyanti Chachi?” demanded the SYT. But before she could pursue this line of questioning further, the photographer intervened. He asked us to stand closer together, asked us to smile, said ‘One more please’ and then with a wave of his hand suggested that we should move along so that others standing in a queue behind us could dump their gifts/lifafas/flowers and proceed to the dining area.

So we hied thither. The little woman proceeded to the buffet and I to the bar. The two of us could well have been visiting Earth from another dimension, because no one spoke to us, no one greeted us and if perchance someone saw us, they looked through us. If I was related to any person here, they were as ignorant about the fact as I was. Only the bartender smiled at me.

An hour later, with three large ones under the belt, I let the missus drive us back home. ‘Mission Envelope’ accomplished, I decided to report compliance to Damyanti aunty like a good soldier. I again video called her and informed her it was a grand function even though we did not recognise anyone, I had done her bidding. I added that this was the last time that I was going out all the way to some place like the Taj Palace hotel for her or for anyone else.

“What did you say? Taj Palace? I had asked you to go to the Taj Man Singh, Stupid! The reception wasn’t at the Taj Palace!”

“Anyway, that’s the place we went to. Let those blighters spot us in the wedding photographs and try to figure out who we are!” I giggled.

“You are drunk, you incompetent fool! I should have known that you can’t be trusted to do even something as simple as handing over a ‘Shagun’. You and your wife!’”

Suddenly piqued, the better half said, “Now aunty, don’t drag me into this. But even then, for your information, the matar paneer was delicious.”

“The whiskey wasn’t bad either!” I added.

With a snort, Damyanti aunty disconnected the call.

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The Bungled Drug Operation

Drug laws permit pre-trial disposal of seized contraband; it is an exceptional provision to prevent malpractices. Law enforcement agencies strive to destroy dangerous drugs periodically, with the least environmental damage. Sophisticated facilities for safe destruction, however, are not available everywhere. Such facilities were not available in Manipur 15 years ago, when, as the chief of the Narcotics Control Bureau (NCB), I was confronted with the problem of destroying about five truckloads of ganja and substantial quantities of charas. Reluctantly, I decided that the cannabis would be destroyed by burning it in the open, on a deserted hillside about 30 km from Imphal.
I supervised the operation myself. Officials of the bureau transported the ganja and charas early in the morning, along with firewood, wastepaper and old tyres to facilitate burning. The cannabis was arranged in three heaps, doused with diesel and set on fire.
That is when we ran into the first snag. The ground was damp, and the moisture content of the cannabis was high. The ganja refused to catch fire. We soon had three smouldering mounds, sending spirals of smoke to the heavens. Even through my mask, I could smell the acrid smoke. With great difficulty, the local officer and others managed to get the drugs to burn evenly, but then it started to rain!
The drizzle almost killed the tentative flames. That is when we hit the third snag. Curious villagers came from near and far and stayed to inhale the smoke. Word spread to other areas, and soon more than a thousand men and women collected around the burning heaps. The handful of NCB officials had a difficult time trying to keep the reluctant biomass burning, shooing away the villagers to prevent them from inhaling the smoke and chasing away some intrepid ones who tried to surreptitiously take away fistfuls of half-burnt ganja.
In the afternoon, the hillside resembled a bizarre battlefield. Some 50-odd villagers lolled around the burning drugs in a stupor. By nightfall, they stumbled home and only the masked NCB personnel remained. It was almost midnight when we returned to Imphal after the cannabis turned to ash.
I reviewed the fiasco in the NCB office the next morning and remarked that we were fortunate that no one from the media had reported the ignominious happenings. The local officer corrected me, ‘Sir, a reporter had indeed come and declared that he would write a story about the botched destruction of drugs. But you can rest easy. I let him take away about 5 kg of ganja from the burning stacks. I know he won’t be writing that story!’

(Published in ‘The Tribune’ on January 12, 2023)

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The Dirt-Cheap Billiards Table

In the 1970s, the 13th Battalion of the Bihar Military Police, Darbhanga, had no campus of its own. It was housed in the disused stables and garages in the palace compound of the erstwhile Darbhanga Raj. I was posted as the commandant and my residence was a sprawling Raj kothi, which used to be that of a ‘British tutor’ in the days gone by.

My wife and I loved that house, with its enormous drawing room, spacious kitchen and wide verandas. We hired a maid to help clean and cook, but we had no place for her to live. My driver informed me that behind the bungalow, there was a servant room, locked and under the custody of the Estate Manager. I asked the quartermaster subedar to request him to let our maid live in that room. The subedar returned crestfallen and told me that the Estate Manager refused to spare the room, claiming that ‘royal’ property was stored there.

The next day, I had a close look at the locked room, which seemed to be no more than 10 ft by 10 ft. The door was covered with dust and the rusted lock indicated that the room had never been opened in recent years. I decided to make another request to the Estate Manager.

‘No, sir, the room can’t be vacated!’ he declared bluntly when I met him. ‘But why not?’ I persisted. He explained that a lot of property of the Darbhanga Raj was stored in various rooms and godowns all over the palace compound. ‘So, what is stored in that room?’ I asked. He did not know and fetched a thick musty ledger. He ran his finger down various columns and then declared brightly, ‘Ah! It is the British tutor’s billiards table!’ A billiards table? In that tiny room? He must be joking!

‘Well, sir, I have no other place to store a billiards table, so I can’t empty out that room,’ he said. Then he perked up: ‘But if you buy the table, you can do what you like with it!’ What a preposterous idea, I thought. More to humour him than with any intention of buying the table, I asked how much he would sell it for. He took out another bulky ledger. ‘The depreciated value of the billiards table is Rs 9.’

I was dumbstruck! I quickly paid the man Rs 9 and he sent a lackey to remove the lock. The room indeed contained a billiards table, broken in pieces and stored so many years ago that termites had eaten away almost all of it, except the slate slabs. I had the slates moved out and the room cleaned of cobwebs, dust and termites.

And thus it came to pass that our maid got a room to live in, and I acquired the right to brag that I once bought a billiards table for all of Rs 9!

(The Tribune – December 16, 2022)

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Big Bang Small Bang

Like the Queen of Hearts, I too have often believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. And sometimes as many as sixty! The count of sixty, however, is reached only if you permit me to reckon the middle of the night as ‘before breakfast.’ My ability to willfully suspend my ability to disbelieve is phenomenal in the wee hours. My imagination, too, is most active when I awaken with a start from some deep dream in the middle of the night. Let me make it clear here that I am a fussy sleeper. I wake up if a mosquito flies past too fast. I wake up if there is a distant roll of thunder. I wake up if the headlights of a car shine too brightly through the curtained windows. I wake up if some passing angel sneezes or swishes her robes too loudly. I wake up if a neighbour decides to grind batter for idlis and dosas at dawn. I wake up if some distant train whistles before steaming off into the night. And I wake up if my phlegmatic phone clears its throat preparatory to ringing, even though it decides to put off ringing – at least for the nonce. 

Then I lie in bed, tossing and turning, and imagining the sixty impossible things that I need to believe in before breakfast! 

It is in the days before Diwali that my imagination gets taxed way beyond its batting average, because I awaken more frequently with the blast of crackers. There was a time, long long ago, when crackers burst all night long right from Dussehra onwards till Diwali. And we managed to sleep through the noise night after night as peacefully as any innocent babe. But with the frequent bans on fireworks and crackers in these past several years, loud explosions during the day or night have become rare. Each cracker that goes off with a bang is unexpected and startles the birds sleeping in the trees and me sleeping in my bed in equal measure.  

In our time, we were normal children. Naughty, noisy and a nuisance for everyone. We badgered our parents to buy huge quantities of fireworks which we lighted in the days approaching Diwali, till a certain ennui set in. Then we looked for ways to add zest and excitement to bursting the remaining crackers. Indeed, we found many ways to spice up our fireworks. Throwing a ‘bheel patakha’ that exploded on contact at an unsuspecting passerby often added that extra thrill. Rudely startling Ramu Kaka while he was dusting bookshelves was guaranteed to evoke a howl of protest. Exploding crackers in ‘matkas’ and enclosed spaces like a stairwell added an interesting whoomp to the blast, but that too became monotonous after a while. So we explored still newer techniques of bursting crackers to add excitement with a dash of the forbidden – what the cooks these days call ‘tadka’. A friend once burnt his fingers, trying to burst the cracker while holding it in his hand. On another occasion, my friends and I tied a ladi – a string of crackers – to the tail of a stray donkey and lit it. The cheeky devils that we were, we derived great pleasure in seeing that poor animal jump in fright and confusion. Of course it was an evil thing to do! Of course we deserved a good hiding for it! So of course we were thrilled because we did it! 

The children today are a fortunate lot. They don’t have to search for more exciting methods of bursting crackers. Crackers themselves are the forbidden fruit. The bursting of the banned crackers requires no additional ‘tadka’! The children have to only find ways of bursting crackers without being caught. It is for this reason that children sneak around in the middle of the night to light the ‘atom bombs’. The result is the random explosions that I hear in the night, startling me in much the same fashion as Ramu Kaka used to be. I then lie awake, trying to anticipate the next desultory explosion. But there is never a succession of blasts or a plan or a design. Even the direction is not the same and I am left imagining the different possible and impossible things that I want to believe in. My imagination keeps running riot, simultaneously in different directions! I wonder whether the solitary bomb that exploded was lit by a child or an adult. I wonder which diabolical child stayed awake till half past two in the morning to light the fuse of that one cracker that he had? Was it a young boy who exploded that last cracker? Or was it a young girl? Or was that blast nothing but the sound of a motorcycle engine misfiring? I wonder whether the crackers were set off by some stragglers of some wedding procession.  I wonder if that mousy woman living next door had finally gathered enough courage to shoot dead her philandering husband who had come home past midnight with lipstick yet again on his collar?

 

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Olloo The Puttar

It must have been sometime while I was not looking that the frightening new world arrived. A frightening new world designed for nerds and software engineers. A frightening new world in which old fogeys like me have no space.  They call it the digital world. But I didn’t dig it. No Siree, I didn’t dig it at all!

In this new world, the fact that I am digitally handicapped was brought home to me not just occasionally but repeatedly. Day in and day out. And sometimes at night too. I was regularly proved to be a digital dunce by some things called PINs and OTPs. I always thought that PIN stood for Pain In the Neck, and OTP is the short form of ‘Olloo The Puttar’ – a term I now use for any cocky youngster. 

In the frightening new world, I was confronted by the dreaded PIN or the OTP at every turn. I needed one or the other or both for getting a blood test, for permitting a friend to enter my residential complex, for getting my car serviced, for hiring a cab, for receiving a parcel in my own home that was clearly marked for delivery to me, for receiving a pizza that I had ordered and paid for and even for taking my own money out of my own bank account for my own use!

I found it galling that I needed an OTP for paying my phone bill. Why should the phone company bother to confirm that it is really I who was paying the bill? If someone else wanted to pay my dues, he was most welcome to do so. Why should I have any objections? And why should the phone company object as long as they are getting money? But no! The phone company wanted to be absolutely certain that it was ‘Dear Mr 99 XXX 123XX’ who was paying the bill. My name was certainly not 99 XXX 123XX. Yet I was, and am, addressed in this manner quite often. I really fail to understand where the ‘XX’ comes from.  I have seen the XXX on rum bottles and fully appreciate that. I have also seen the XXX on video films and dare not confess that I fully appreciate that too. But does my name contain any X’s? Not when I last looked at my birth certificate.

It is the same with the income tax guys, except that they address me as ACXXXXXX3X which, if you noticed, is a different set of X’s. Earlier I used to think that these blighters’ sole objective in life was to somehow make me pay tax equal to or more than my income. But then I knew better. They not only wanted my money, but they also wanted to make my life miserable by insisting that I provide them OTPs – for paying tax as well as for submitting a statement that I had paid the tax. This pricey behaviour in the olden days used to be called looking a gift horse in the mouth.

The creature called OTP ambushed me every so often, and sometimes unexpectedly when I had, mistakenly, thought I was on the straight home stretch and that life was uncomplicated. But there it was, the OTP lying in wait – even for stuff like registering a complaint about my fridge. Worse still, sometimes there was not one but two OTPs! The fridge repair company sent two sets of OTPs or PINs or whatever to me, with instructions that I should give one number if I were satisfied with the work and another if I were not. I consider this practice to be bloody sneaky! Furthermore, it is presumptuous on the part of the service company to think that I am incapable of yelling at their mechanics if they render less than satisfactory service. 

There was a time when the Phoenicians’ greatest invention – called money – could buy you anything. No longer – not in the frightening new world! The cable guy, the airline people, the cooking gas company, the online sabziwala as well as his cousin – all demand a digital transfer for which I have to use something called a debit card. This is a fairly uncomplicated exercise for the non-digitally handicapped. But for someone like me, it was as difficult as the labours of Hercules and the labours of Hercule Poirot combined. I did not understand how it was humanly possible to squint at the telephone screen, key in the hundreds of digits of the credit card, expiry date and something called the cvv, all in a minute or less without fumbling. With my stubby fingers and shaky hands, I sometimes hit ‘7’ in place of ‘8’, or 1 in place of 4, and sometimes the screen got ‘timed out’. Sometimes I needed to change screens to read some OTP but then I could not find the earlier screen. After several futile attempts, I usually gave up. 

I often wondered whether there was any activity or field of human endeavour that might remain immune to the dreaded PINs and OTPs. I got convinced that it was unlikely when I received an invitation to a wedding reception in which the card included an OTP for the driver’s dinner. 

This ubiquitous nature of the OTPs and PINs made me wonder how my presswala managed. I did not know who helped Ramu Kaka, or his aged uncle in the village. I know Ram Bharose, my night-blind driver, has not renewed his driver’s licence in the past ten years because he does not know how to apply online. My maid lived in constant fear of being accused of being an illegal immigrant because she never could apply for an Aadhaar number. I soon realised that I was not the only person terrorised by the OTP and the PIN. There were others too out there, equally if not more grievously suffering.

Then one day, out of a deep sense of empathy, I asked Badar Mian, the cobbler who sits at the crossroads, whether he too was a victim of the OTPs. He gave his crinkly smile and declared that the OTPs had provided employment to his son, Babboo, who he said now runs a cyber-cafe. Except that Babboo’s ‘cafe’ consisted of nothing more than a small table and stool that he placed on the pavement by his father’s side. With a laptop and something called a dongle, the youngster offers a variety of services ranging from updating Aadhar numbers to renewing driving licences and other complicated manoeuvres which no doubt requires an unending procession of OTPs.

In a flash, I solved all my problems! I appointed Babboo my ‘OTP Adviser’. Babboo and I have worked out a cosy system according to which he is paid a retainer plus a piece rate, without my needing to feed any OTP anywhere. He is happy and I am ecstatic. Now whenever I need Babboo’s expertise, I just lean out of my window and shout OTP (for Olloo The Puttar). And the OTP promptly comes to my apartment and slays all the demons that come a swarming after me for OTPs and PINs. Once in a while, I need to go to his ‘cyber cafe’ because his computer and Wi-Fi connection are faster than mine. So, if you find me squatting with the Olloo The Puttar by the roadside – half on the pavement and half off it – do not worry. It is me just filing an income tax return or paying my house tax or ordering a masala dosa or renewing my subscription to some old-fashioned periodical like the Reader’s Digest. 

 

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A Journey of Great Discovery

Oh, it was exhilarating! I wish it could have gone on for ever and ever! I have never had so much fun! I am grateful to God that I do not have any job or any other commitment, otherwise I would never have realised the raw power that resides within me!

My great journey of self-discovery started on the second Monday of the month of Saawan, when I and other members of the West Club decided to carry ‘kanwars’ – or holy water from the river Ganga to our neighbourhood temple. It was not easy getting to Haridwar, because no private vehicles or buses were being allowed to ply on the highway to Haridwar. We took the train and I was happy to note that no one dared to ask for tickets because we were wearing the uniform of invincible superheroes –  saffron coloured vests! With such vests, it did not matter whether one wore denims or pyjamas.

In Haridwar, there were tens of thousands of people milling around – some from here and some from there. But that was not impressive. What was indeed impressive was the fact that we were  served breakfast free of charge!  And lunch too! And free tea wherever we wanted to have some! We got the essential kanwar paraphernalia at Haridwar for which the miserly shopkeeper insisted on payment. The bloody so and so!

After a night spent roaming around the streets and lanes of Haridwar, my friends and I started back. It was pure joy that I experienced, hitchhiking on a truck, or a motorcycle or one of those three-wheeled contraptions. The places and their names are now a blur – but how does it matter? One place looks like any other. At one small wayside stall, the teaseller had the temerity to ask for payment for the few cups of tea and pakoras that my friends and I ate. We were in a good mood so we did not beat him up too badly. At another place, a rude kid threw a stone at us and he got a well deserved thrashing. Even though the road had been clearly marked for use by kanwariyas, their was one stupid guy who tried to ride his scooter in  our lane. He almost killed one of our brother kanwariyas and we had no option but to beat him to within an inch of death. On the long journey back, we met just one ignorant policeman who thought that trucks carrying kanwariyas should not be driven on the wrong side of the road. He too was taught a lesson. 

The most mind blowing experience was at one of those toll plazas, where an arrogant clerk wanted to charge a truck carrying devout kanwariyas. There seemed to have been some dispute and those in the truck attacked the tollbooth. My group joined the rumpus and soon we had broken the glass panes and computer terminals available there. Good clean fun! In the exuberant mood that we were in, we also invited some girls travelling in a car to join our gang. They refused to be persuaded, even after one of my friends grabbed a girl’s arm to invite her to dance with him. I thought it was quite unsporting of the girls not to join our jolly band. An old man who had nothing to do with the proceedings remonstrated when one of us whistled. These old fogeys just can’t mind their own business, can they? I had to tell him to shut up. After all, what is wrong with a bit of harmless whistling? 

Ours was a vibrant procession indeed. For part of the journey, we travelled in a small truck that had a very powerful music system. With that music blasting away,  all of us were really amped up. When you have such gloriously loud music, it is easy to be in the zone! We also added a dash of patriotism by displaying the tricolour in all shapes and sizes. It was exceedingly empowering to assert that – justified or not – only we were entitled to fly the national flag and mere mortals could not do so. On pain of being bashed up by us. Incidentally, the flagstaff is a very useful thing to have around in case someone picks a quarrel with you.   

I loved the considerate wayside camps set up by various charitable organisations and local political leaders. We could not only rest here but enjoy tea, snacks and meals. I heard that at some of these wayside camps, policemen were assigned to wash and massage the feet of the kanwariyas!  Even the District Magistrates visited some of these camps and massaged the feet of weary kanwariyas. Such an experience would have certainly given me a buzz! But I missed this good stuff. The administration should make certain that more policemen are deputed at every wayside camp so that no kanwariya is denied the right to have his feet washed and massaged properly. The only consolation that I had was the rose petals that were showered on us from a helicopter. But this was just once. I think the government should also arrange more helicopters. 

It has been truly said that travel broadens one’s mind and one learns so much more. On my journey, I met this simpleton from Bihar who was carrying gangajal in two pitchers slung across his shoulders. I was intrigued by the fact that he was walking barefoot and I got into a discussion with him. He insisted that the true kanwar yatra is from some place called Sultanganj to some place called Baidyanath Dham. In its pristine form, this guy insisted, the carrying of jal or water to the temple is a matter of great devotion and many bhakts travel great distances, singing bhajans and raising cries of ‘Bol Bam’. I found it such a quaint idea – imagine walking miles and miles just to offer water in a temple, and barefoot too! But it is a free country. People are free to do whatever weird thing that takes their fancy. Nonetheless, it seemed such a perverse idea – to fritter away the opportunity of a kanwar yatra on mere piety and prayer! 

It is a bit embarrassing for me to admit it, but I enjoyed myself so much that I forgot that I was to return with a potful of gangajal for the neighbourhood temple!  So I decided to go to Haridwar again. After all, it would cost me nothing and  I could whoop it all the way back once again. In any case, I had nothing else to do. But then  someone told me that the period in which the water had to be carried was over. That is so unfair! I had no option but to fill a bottle of water from the nearest tap and offer  it at the temple.  

Even as the priests in the temple do not know that I got the water from the tap, in my heart of hearts I know I have sinned. To atone for this, I will launch a movement demanding that the government declare it to be kanwar carrying season round the year so that people like me are not forced to cheat and can also remain busy for some days in the year.