Encounters

So it has happened again. It was not the first time nor is it going to be the last. Returning home, after visiting a very senior friend of mine, at Pettah, it happened.
Just a month ago, I had taken membership in an international club, Toastmasters International, to sharpen my public speaking skill, which continues to be a nightmare even after three sessions. The best thing about this club is that here you have all round encouragement and all your fumbles in your attempt to speak go totally ignored. So there have been very good sessions, so far, all Saturdays from 6 to 8. You will find out later, why I am recalling it here.
All sessions with my octogenarian friend have only been enriching. I had left the meshed entrance door slightly open as I entered. Mr. Menon, noted that and said, ” Narayanan, you have kept the door ajar. That is the word for keeping door slightly opened”. Soon his sister walked in with a cup of hot coffee. It was too hot and as I was busy I began sipping it quickly. Another comment followed, “Don’t gulp, sip”. Meanwhile, I handed over to him my mobile to let him to read my previous day’s short write up. He finished and commented, “Don’t you know the word for keeping mosquitoes and flies away”. I said no. “It is swat”. I never interrupt, even if I knew. I allow him full liberty. Then came the question, “Narayanan, do you know the name of camera, the Americans took to the Moon in 1967?”. I was all at sea. I dumped my lack of knowledge again. “Why I am asking this question, you know, is because, I will forget if I do not refresh it once in a while. The camera taken to the Moon was, Hasselblad, note it, share among your friends, as many times possible, whether they like it or not, then you will never forget”.
So what happened on my ride back home?. A man in his bike, overtaking me, lifted his helmet to spit. I felt as if he overtook me only for this exercise. I honked from behind repeatedly and waved my hands which he saw in his mirror. He slowed down. Then I moved and stopped in front of him. He removed the helmet to show the world his youth and asked me. “Why, what is the matter?”. Setting politeness at its pinnacle, I replied, “You spat just a few minutes ago and I just escaped being smeared on with your saliva. Is it good to spit on the go and with the wind like this? Couldn’t you have done that inside the open sewage rather than on the road or on a rider who is behind you”. There was no semblance of regret in his reply. “OK, I shall take care”, he pulled back his helmet and rode fast. I felt happy that he loved his dear ones. I assumed he was in a hurry to meet them.
Coming back to my Toastmaster exposure, we have a session called Table topics, in which 10 questions are put to the members. They are then called forth to answer questions posed by the tabletopic master. All choose questions for themselves blindly from the shreds of printouts given to them, all in two minutes. The sessions are neatly structured and all are encouraged to take part, to come out of their shells. Last week I was the Tabletopic master.
Due to time constraints only seven questions could be put and among the three that remained unanswered, I experienced, in advance, the answer for it that day. My question was, “How would you react, if a two wheeler rider riding in front of you, spits and spoils your new clothes”.

Then I had an encounter with a man who was unabashedly parking his car on the footpath, while I was on my usual morning stroll. Stung by his casual behaviour, I was not one to let him go scot free for his callousness..

“Sir, this is not the way to park, for it is pedestrians way”, I said to the violator, who was slowly pulling up the windscreen, before coming out of his car. He gave an authoritative look with no expression of any regret over his act replied, “Wait”.
A self imposed activist against parking of vehicles on footpaths, coming face to face with an encroacher gave a fillip of sorts to my efforts.
He came out and ran his eyes over my grey hair and wrinkled face with his specs perched on the brink of his long nose and in the process lifted his eyes to the heights of shrunk forehead. Slowly he surveyed the surroundings and asked, “Where is the foot path? I don’t see any? There is not any demarking”. “You mean the absence of interlocked tiles”, I politely asked him. Arrogance writ large on his face, , came the reply, “Yes. Mark my words, tomorrow also, I will park here only, if this space is available”.
A little taken aback by the reply, but regaining my composure, I furthered my position, “Is it right to park on whatever available space for the pedestrians?”.
I was a bit mellowed when he addressed me, “Anna”, but what followed was, I felt, an assertion of a kind of beadledom. He continued, ” By parking here, I am no way putting people to any trouble. I repeat, I will continue to do so”.
Startled and words difficult to give utterance, I stammered, “Is that right?”. “Absolutely”, he said. “Anna, do one thing, if you can bend a little, please do it now. You will find a huge gap with out a slab and rusted rods sticking out. If somebody stumbles and falls, that would dispose him off one for a minimum of two months of pain and medication. By parking my car over it I am .actually saving people. See for yourself”.
By the time, I had satisfied myself, he had disappeared and I stood like a stone, unmoved. I said to myself, “Sir, this is surely a novel way to save pedestrians!”.

One For Three

Damuu felt as if he were floating in the air, because of the happiness that engulfed him by his voluntary act. It was when one acted voluntarily and not when one was prodded or forced to act that happiness doubled. Damu thought of the instances during which he had been the beneficiary of such munificence.

*************************
Not just one or two but many such instances came to his mind. His memories flocked to that night when it rained ferociously, all of a sudden, years ago. He was forced to take shelter inside a shed while he was returning home after attending the birthday party of his colleague’s son. He would not have ridden on his bike even if the rain the rain stopped as his son was sleeping soundly on his shoulders. It was then that help came from an unexpected quarter. A man volunteered to take him by his car and finally delivered a message that still rung in his ears, as Damu groped for words to express his thanks and wondered how he could ever reciprocate that timely help.

“The best way to reciprocate this help is by helping somebody else and not necessarily me, when such an opportunity arises”.

During his teens, Damu had worked for a newspaper agent. He was assigned nearly 100 homes for delivering newspapers and magazines.The meagre sum he earned supplemented his family’s income. Rain or shine, Damu would finish the task by seven. Rainy days used to be problematic in two ways. It delayed delivery and secondly, despite his best efforts, some newspapers got wet and invited adverse comments.

“Damu”, called his vendor, when he was about to start his schedule, “yesterday, Kesavan Saar in Subhash Nagar 60, called and told me you had thrown the newspaper casually and it was all wet, when he picked it up. He was very angry. Tough nut, you know, most probably, he will be waiting for you today. I am telling you in advance. Tackle him with tact”.

Mr.Kesavan was an early riser; such a strict disciplinarian at home and office that he had more enemies than friends in his circle. How many of his colleagues would have rejoiced at his retirement was no wild guess. A good lawyer will never be a good neighbour, so goes the adage. It was true of Kesavan, too.

It was raining and the hiss of rain when it fell on the roof and tree tops, enthused Kesavan. He switched on his transistor to listen to sweet melodies being broadcast on his favorite FM channel. Just like his preference for short stories, he liked the radio as it provided him the opportunity to read something, while sweet music was playing in the back ground. What never distracted him in spite of his deep involvement in reading, was the ‘chuk’ noise produced by the drop of newspaper.

It was raining profusely in the morning, and the ‘chuk’ noise was somewhat muted by the rattling rain. A bit annoyed at the delayed delivery, but unaware of its execution, he rose from his seat for an inspection. The newspaper was very much there, but soaked in water. Furious at the callousness of the delivery boy, he immediately called the vendor and admonished him and not to stop it there, he resolved to have a face-to-face confrontation with the boy and throw him a few harsh words the next morning. Hadthe boy stretched a bit,the newspaper would have only landed on the top of his car. Senseless fellow; he cursed him and waited for the next morning.

It was raining as usual. Today, Kesavan waited at his door to witness the delivery and deliver a mouthful to the boy. He heard the sound of the cycle slowly reaching his gate. It was dark. The boy was about to induge in his daily exercise. “Stop”, Damu cried and rushed towards the boy. He saw him drenched in rain from head to toe, but all his bundles had been neatly and safely covered with polythene to prevent damp.

Something stirred Damu’s conscience. Instead of harshness, what came out was sympathy overflowing from his heart..
“Boy, what’s your name?” he asked in a mellowed voice. Damu answered.
“Yesterday, you had thrown the newspaper casually and it was all wet. Had you stretched a bit, it would have landed on the top of my car.”His tone was sweet.
“Sorry Sir, it was all dark and the color of the car too is black. I will take more care”.
“Damu, you have covered all your newspapers with polythene; why are you not protecting yourself, don’t you have a raincoat?”.

Damu’s silence spoke volumes.. Kesavan asked him to wait and rushed inside. Soon he returned with a one thousand rupee note.

“Buy a raincoat today; take it”.

His obvious delicacy reflected his self-respect, but the pleasure and gleam emitted by Kesavan’s eyes, made him accept that gift in the early hours of the morning.
Kesavan patted him on his back and disappeared inside his house. That pat on his back felt, to Damu, like the soft touch of a feather.

Another incident happened recently. Caught by the road side which was filled with filthy water due to heavy rain overnight and chances of a fall due to a wrong step, Damu stood surveying the length and breadth of the narrow stretch that led to his house.

All of a sudden, an auto, going in the opposite direction screeched to a halt. The driver stretched his neck out and asked him to get in. Damu told him that he was going in the opposite direction. “Keranum Sir, appurathu akkitharam” (Please get in Sir, I shall drop you off at the other end). Damu politely declined. But the auto driver was in no mood to spare him. May be his un-dyed, all grey new hair style was earning him undue respect from unexpected quarters. “Azhukka vellam. Enikku onnum tharenda, sar keriya mathi. Oru pathu metre alle ullu, sar keru” (Filthy water, you need not pay me anything, only a matter of ten metres, Sir, please get in). He was surprised by his kind words. Damu reluctantly paid heed to his request. He dropped Damu and left taking a ‘U’ turn, without waiting for the formal words “Thanks a lot”. Small mercies do happen.

*********************************

It was an hour ago that Damu helped a young girl, hardly ten, to catch her school bus.

He was in the kitchen making chapatis from the half-cooked ones for his son. For the past one week, life has been like that and was expected to prolong for one more week.

The calling bell rang and he rushed to the door.The mother of the young girl whom he had helped was at the door, tense, grappling for words and an auto was in wait.
“Moley kanan illa”, ( My daughter is missing), she stuttered and she was gasping for breath. The auto driver came out and took a ominous position at the gate.
**********
It had happened just a little while back.
Damu’s son had said, “Acha,(Dad), please go and buy chapathy and I shall get kurma from my friend’s hotel by 9.”

It was only 7.30 am then. Damu decided to go. He normally did not give lifts to unknown faces, because, he always had a nagging feeling of unwarranted risk. So if any stranger asked for a lift,he diplomatically used to avoid that.

A mother, a well-known face, was yelling at her daughter, ” Come on quick, you will miss the bus”. She was dragging her little daughter, to the bus stop. The little girl was loaded with a over stocked school bag on her small back.

Damu stopped his vehicle, asked the girl to climb on tothe back seat. Her mother readily agreed. The load on her back was removed and deposited on the space available at the front.

Just when he was about to pick up speed, the school bus passed. “Bus poyi”, the girl was about to cry.

“Don’t worry, we will get the bus at the next stop”. He assured her. The short stretch of road had a blocked drainage and the resultant filthy water was flowing on the road; so he had to tread cautiously, especially with a school kid riding pillion.

At the next stop, too, the bus eluded them. She became panicky. The next stretch had more traffic, but he was catching up. Two teenagers riding on their bikes, overtook them and recognising the child’s school by the uniform she wore, understood her plight and declared, “We will stop the bus”, and whizzed past.

They rode in front and asked the driver, who was about to take off, to wait. The little one was happy. Damu handed overher school bag and she climbed onto the bus. The happiness that he experienced was beyond words. He was floating two inches, too high.

Damu returned home after buying their breakfast material. His son went to buy kurma. He locked the front door and began breakfast operations.

Then he heard the bell. ” Moley kandilla. Njan pirakey vannu” (Where is my daughter? I was following you). That was Susheela, mother of the schoolgirl.

Damu was rather taken aback. “Susheela, what do you think of me? I volunteered to help her catch the bus. I will never, simply, drop her off at a bus stand and walk away. I saw her board the bus and then came away. In fact, I thought, you would be waiting at your door step, to know”. The auto driver mellowed, hearing those words. “My daughter, too, studied at Cotton Hill, years ago”, he added.

She had no words. Tears welled up in her eyes.

N A R A Y A N A N

“Nice”, he exclaimed, when he saw the alternative regional brand dangling out of the shopkeeper’s shelf.

Apparently disgusted at the display of a brand he despised the most, which he had, half-heartedly, resigned to buy, as the coffee decoction liquid, at home, had become stale. It would take a good half an hour for the fresh decoction to percolate through the minute pores of the upper part of the filter down to the bottom compartment.

Restless, holding the string of ten, three ruppee each sachets, he felt as if he was holding a baby cobra. He badly wanted to get rid of this brand of instant coffee.

Agitated thoughts coming to the fore, he asked the young shopowner, more than a generation younger to him, about the availability of any other pucca Indian brands.

“Yes, Sir, I have some.I shall check”, he told the silver haired, slowly wrinkling, recently turned senior citizen but a regular one, as he inserted his right hand and neck, too, inside the blue colored, plastic moulded storage. When Nanu saw Gopi with another brand in his hand, that he had yearned for, that he exclaimed, “Nice”, from the bottom of his heart.

Atrocious indeed! With plethora of national Indian brands available, Gopi was displaying only multinational brands. Where are the marketing and sales department personnel of Indian brands doing? Nanu was aghast.

“‘Narasus’ is here. But five ruppee satchets”, Gopi announced with delight. This was the one Nanu was looking for. He had been discarding multinational brands for Indian company products one by one. From toothbrush to tea he had shifted. But his ire against this multinational company, in particular, knew no bounds. He had a gentle reprimand for Gopi, “Dey, thooki idadey, pathuperu kanattey”. (Hang it man, let ten people see). Gopi’s notion was no nation but promotion of anything that sold fast.

After the deal, overwhelmed by his success, Nanu wanted to adorn that strip of ten sachets around his shoulder as an anga vastrum and walk home, but it was too short for him and he avoided that as it would invite a curious looks and unsavory remarks from other morning strollers, many of whom he knew.

Narasus instant coffee now at hand and what he dumped in the process was what he had been selling for eleven years and stopped selling and buying from 1995. Bye bye Bru.

***************

“No, that we can put inside the helmet space. No need to buy a carry bag”. I told my daughter just after having finished shopping in the nearby margin free shop. ” Ok then”. she replied.

After settling the bill, we scrambled through the narrow crowded passage to come out of the shop.

Reaching my pocket for the ignition key I found to my dismay, it was not there. I thought I would have missed it in some part of that store and turned back.

Anxiety to the fore to find the key, I was too lost in the thought that I failed to recognize any of my neighbors or friends, who too were shopping.

Yaju, stopped me forcibly, more a friend than our client, to know which scrip to pick tomorrow. I had no mood for any scrips then, that I told him I was in search of my ignition key, which had been missing. Then he began his usual suggestions, which I was in no mood to hear. He was a bit affected by my taciturnity. I rushed to the first floor. I made a silent search.Finding no clue returned back.

Again I rushed back to the first floor and asked the sales girl about my missing keys. I was in this floor, longer. She presented a drooped mouth and she too joined the search in that small area.

Nothing fruitful happening in my efforts to locate the missing key and the bleak possibility of finding it elsewhere, my agony accentuated as I have already lost the duplicate one, six months back.

Anxiety writ on her face, my daughter asked, “Got it?”. I said no. I rolled my eyes on all the bikes that were parked there. My Honda Activa was missing. “God, somebody has got the key and got away.” “No, you parked the vehicle behind that Maruthi”. My daughter added. I rushed near the Maruthi. My priority was now the vehicle and not the key.

No it was not there. I thought, most probably, I would have left the key in the slot and left and somebody had made a killing.

I stood calmly for a moment and closed my eyes and I laughed. “Why are you laughing?”. my daughter asked.

“You fool. Don’t you remember, the rear wheel was punctured and we had walked all the way”.

Events turning sweet, she said, “Yes…..I too forgot”, without feeling any pinch for her short term memory loss.

Relaxing after the unwarranted hiccup, I saw Yaju walking past, taking his eyes off me. Perhaps, feeling annoyed at my cold shouldering his query. I was not one to let him him go that easily, I called him, “Yeju, buy Mutibase a BSE listed company”.

************”

Nonplussed by the shouts from behind he turned. He had just picked his dailies from the regular stand and walked.

Appalled was he by the unusual and unexpected yell from a skinny and swarthy teenaged boy whom he had not seen before, clamoring “Money, money”. He stood akimbo as many pairs of eyes, ears, half opened mouths in as many heads swirled towards him.

Rushing just behind was the owner of the shop, “Hold on Muruka”, was his call.

Astonished by his owner’s slight reprimand for his ‘just action’, he was unable to come to terms.

“You go back”, ordered Shanmughom to his new recruit, who stood confused as to whether he did the right or the wrong.

Assured by the order inflicted, Narendran, bit taken aback by the stupidity of the boy, which invited the attention of passersby, now somewhat regained his composure.

“Narendran Saar, he was not aware of our arrangement. I ought to have told him….but….I didn’t, that is my fault”. Shanmughom stammered.

Apologies give temporary relief and what was conveyed was between them but that yell for money had been stentorian, that Narendran had to endure unsavory looks.

Neither the boy nor those viewed him with suspicion knew, that Narendran paid for the newspapers in advance, every month.

Forgotten munifiscence

Just now, I listened to a philosophical talk from one who has earned the sobriquet, rightly so, ‘Solvendar’ Sukhisivam in FB, shared by a friend. It was thought provoking and an eye opener. He asks, why people celebrate film actors and see them as real heroes while real heroes on battle fields are rarely remembered. He quotes an example of one Arun Kejripal, who was killed on the battle field, while taking on the Pakistan army single handed, during the 1971 war, on that particular day. What made his name great was not that he was a soldier who fought for India or that he was killed in the battle filed, but it was the letter from one Mohammed Khaja Nazar, who was the Colonel of the Pakistan army, to the parents of Kejripal, praising his valor at the time of his death, that made him great. But nobody knows him or about him.

I immediately searched Google for two things. Both were not found. One about our late Jawan and for the book ‘Maruthal Thakumo’. But in vain. I am too hearing it for the first time.

Interesting anecdotes related to Sivaji Ganesan, Kamaraj and and OP Ramaswamy Reddiar who was CM of Madras in 1947, followed. I have shared it, all must hear. Very interesting.

Then he goes on to tell about the hard days of his friend, philospher and guide, Mr. Solamon Pappaiyya. ‘Solvendar’ enquired of his guru, a Christian, how his son got a name similar to that of a Hindu, Thyaga Moorthy..

“When I was studying for MA, i had not even chappals to go to college. I had no money to pay college and examination fees. I had two great friends. One was Thyaga Moorthy and another one was Rama Moorthy. One sold his cycle to pay for my exam fee and the another paid my college fee meant for his own use. How can I forget these two guys, so I combined their names in one and christened my son.” What an answer and tribute.

At this moment, I cannot but recall the munificence extended to me by a friend during my B.Com days. Actually, I had forgotten this long ago, but this speech triggered it. My college was some 8 kilometers away, I used to go by bus availing the student concession ticket or Rs.7.50 for a month. Normal, to and fro bus charge would be around three rupees then.

When one card expired, I got a new one promptly, but lost it immediately. I was aghast. It was lost irretrievably. DTO then was my neighbor and I immediately rushed to his cabin and told him of my issue. A stickler to norms, he asked to report loss of concession card and apply for a new one on the expiry date of the lost one. “Call on me on that day, I shall make the process easier”, that was the only consolation.

One month to endure with out concession ticket and additional expense of Rs.3/- a day sent shivers down my spine. I cannot reveal this at home fearing fierce backlash, for, losing one or the other, including concession ticket on an earlier occasion, was nothing new to me.

For the first time, I took the bicyle, somehow convincing my mother that it was ‘Cycle day’ at college and all my friends are riding their cycles to college today. My mother halfheartedly agreed. “Molla Po Molla Po”, she cried, when I was about to take off. Nowadays, my wife tells this to our son, whenever he rides his Activa.

I ‘luxuriously’ reached my college with a heavy heart. What next tomorrow weighed me down considerably. Whenever some other thoughts, especially beautiful faces of female college mates gave only a temporary respite, then this loss thronged back with a bang, paralysing me.

It was lunch time. We three, one was Dayanandan, used to go to the nearby green area to enjoy cool breeze and exchange sexy dialogues, we were all prone to, those days. Imaginations and college gossips ran riot, sometimes we were enveloped by envy, at the ‘good times’ of others. But I was rather subdued and not at all forthcoming. “Narayananu enthu patti. Kathakal onnum illey”. ” I lost my concession ticket. A new one.From tomorrow onwards how I will manage, I have no idea.” “Come by cycle”. “No chance. Innu ammeye pattichu cyclil vannu. Nale athu nadakkilla. Nadakkendivarum. Ravile oru ettu manikku thundangiyal 9.30 ode etham “. “You tell your mother and get money for bus” another remarked. “I am losing Concession ticket for the second time. I will be thrashed by both”. No solution evolved.

We were slowly returning back for the afternoon session. Dayanandan held me back. “Narayanan, don’t worry. For the next one month I shall bear your ticket”. I declined. But he was adamant and I had to accede.

Returning back, cycle developed a zigzag snag. I slowed down put the cycle on stand to check. Rear tyre puncture. I had to pull the cycle some two kilometers for to find a man to fix it. Those days I had no pocket money. Fifty paise required for the purpose, I borrowed from a friend, who was nearby, luckily.

For the next 20 working days, Dayanandan Raghavan, now Retd Principal of a Government College was my good samaritan. I had forgotten this incident for the last so many years. Today I wanted to make amends. Called my friend immediately. He was driving. Dayanandan promised me to call back.

The rude of Rado

The worst thing that anyone can fail in, is in one’s own effort to forget help rendered. Much in favour of such a notion, what happens really, to me, that too, vehemently is that, it comes ferociously back to haunt me, whenever the beneficiary comes face to face. My subconscious mind, sorry the conscious one, though silently, would bang in my heart ” I was the one who helped you to recover that money, which you had almost written off “. But election times, you know, if my endeavour to put it in a few words, would win two or three additional votes for my Leader and my party, why I should not shout from the roof top,with all the energy hidden in me, declare to the world how our Prime Minister’s office came to the rescue of an ordinary citizen of the country, who helped himself walk into a trap set by a Gurugoan based on line seller and tantalized my friend into buying imported limited edition watches of famous foreign brands at 60% discount. To top it he was offered additional 10% for advance payment.

So my friend, having come under the seler’s spell, ordered for a Rado limited edition watch taking advantage of the additional discount. Within a week arrived his order outwardly neatly executed, but inside, instead of Rado, what was in store, for him, was a rude shock. Taken aback, he went to nearby watch sellers shop to confirm his doubt. His worst fears came true. Confirmed himself that he was TAKEN FOR A RIDE. In a trifle he had lost almost Rs.18,000/-. He had a phone number of one sales personnel who cajoled him into this act. He called him. Response was quick. He apologised for the trouble. The one sent was not meant for him and what happened was simply a interchange of buyers. He asked him to send the watch immediately and guaranteed his order as per the agreed specifications would be despatched soon. Drawing some consolation, my friend repacked it and returned it to the seller.

Then began his waiting for the ‘good’ one. One week passed, two weeks passed, no information. The mobile phone of the sales person was permanently switched off. My friend was in a state of shock. Neither can he divulge this among his friends, who will only immediately pull his legs, rubbing salt into his wounds nor had any clue as how to make good his loss.

One evening, he came and sat near me and told me the story of the “The Rude of Rado”. “Please don’t tell anybody”. He began.I heard him patiently. “May we contact the Consumer protection and grievance office?”. He agreed. A letter was drafted then and there and after a month long wait nothing came out it. He always presented a ready made long face for me, lest I forget his need. “Nothing is happening”, he remarked. “There is another way out. Do you have all the supporting documents like the cash memo and other details”. “Yes I do have. How can that help?”. ” Wait. by 5.30 I will be free. Please scan all the documents, I think I have a way out”. A glimmer hope can do wonders to a hopeless man, for 18000/- is no small money, for one who earns barely 10,000 a month. To a drowning man, even a straw wood appear as a big log of wood.

It was not even 4.45, my friend was at my back, nagging me. “Rajesh, I only volunteered to help you. No need to nag me. Come by 5.30”. I heard an astonishing reply. “I have booked for first show of Mohan Lal movie, so I won’t be able to make it, if I stay here”. I stared at him. “If you want it, come at 5.30 otherwise forget it. I will leave for home pleasantly”. His selfishness came to the fore. “I have scanned it, now you can finish it in ten minutes”. It seemed it is my want and he is doing a favour to me. I was becoming furious but gathered gumption, “We shall do it tomorrow”. “Okay, tomorrow morning”. I corrected him, “No No. tomorrow evening. Are you booked for tomorrow also?”. Disappointingly, he agreed.

That day he was on dot. Presumably, he had cancelled his preoccupations ‘for’ me. I began, “Rajesh, you know, we have a Prime Minister, fortunately, who will listen to our concerns. I have my own experience in this regard. I know your left leanings. But I will help you. But if we succeed, you . must vote for Modi, next time. Would you?. But another thing. Why did you go for this highly priced watch. A decent watch of Rs.2000 would do. You are not a MD of this company.” He simply listened, but not convinced of my words, grudgingly nodded a grim ‘yes’.

I googled and found the link http://www.pmindia.gov.in/en/interact-with-honble-pm, mentioned everything on his behalf and attached the scanned bills and after confirmation from him, sent the mail on the 20th Saturday of Jan, 2018. “Nadakumo entho?” was his refrain. “Wait for a week”, I told him. It was six. Then he began his customary remarks, “Narayanji, ennikuvedi kuruchuneram chilavayi. Veettil ethi chaya kudikkan ulla samayamayi”. “Please stop, Rajesh, what is your programme?”. “Innu oru cinema njan cancel cheythu”.

By eight in the night, Rajesh called me, “Narayanji, got acknowledgement from PMO”. His amazement was very much in his voice. “Yes, that’s Modi”.

It was wednesday the 24th of Jan, around 11 am, Rajesh, ran up from the ground floor and reached me gulping for air, holding his mobile in one hand. “Oru hindikkaran samsarikkunnudu, Narayanji onnu marupadi koduthey.”. Myself very week in Hindi, decided to make it up with English. Sales person of the online business portal was on the other end. “You speak in English, Hindi nahi chalega, I am your client Rajesh’s friend”, I clarified. “We have got direction from the Ministry, to reimburse the amount. Could you please ask your friend to message his bank details. This is very urgent. We are returning all the money, today itself. We are very sorry. After getting the money, please send mail to the Commerce Ministry. Please help us. Money will be transferred to itself”.

Rajesh did the rest and got the money and now he is a Modi Bhakth and tells the story, with out the slightest hint of embarrassment but extremely overwhelmed, even to trees.

Modi hai tho munkin hey.

Fears?

“Glass broken?”, thundered my wife from the drawing room, while she allowed herself, eagerly and voluntarily getting swallowed by the the emotions caused by soap operas, but was suddenly distracted by the noise produced by the fall of a failed clock that was on top of almirah in the bedroom, where I was busy, battling the mosquitoes, resting on the Kargil hilltops, with the newly acquired a bat shaped gadget. ” A glass falling from a height is bound to break”, I said with out meeting her eyes. “I don’t want to hear any comments from you. You are callous”. with a stentorian voice that reminded me, the Inspector of Police in the film ‘Dhrisyam’. Obvious fear in something untoward happening owing to this fall was very much writ on her emotions.

Soon sentimental comments followed, while I was silently picking up the debris one by one. “First day of the month (Malayalam Menam), Friday, and in the late dawn, very very inauspicious”. Rationalist in me added to her chagrin, “A day after Thursday and just before Saturday”. I raised my heads to see my better-half, with a broom in hand and fire and ire to the brim in her eyes. I just looked up like an innocent child, at its wont.

All over, debris cleared with a broom and a wet cloth, she returned to her serials and myself began jotting down for self-satisfaction.

Good Morning.

After 12 days, josh is back. As I walked out, with head held high, I kept my ears open wide to hear the TV news watched raptly in my neighborhood. Everywhere, to my dismay, it was either utter silence or some music programme in full swing. I wondered how people can be that indifferent to a national honour. I wanted to share to anybody on sight, without asking. I saw a old newspaper collection shop. I entered it on the pretext of searching for English short-story books. He had some. I bought two for rupees 30 and divulged the news to his delight. A Tamilian, his eyes sparkled and he commented, “Modi kitte vilayada mudiyathu” (You cannot play with Modi.) That comment filled my heart to the brim.

Next I walked into a provision store. There too, after a brief purchase, I announced our feat in Pakistan. ” Thanne, athu eppo. Ivan marku anne kodukendatha”?( Is it, They badly deserve it. Very much over due. They ought to have been taught earlier). To sustain interest among other buyers, I asked “When?”. “Mumbaikeri korey alkarey vedivechu konnilley, annu?” (When they killed some innocent civilians some time back). One or two buyers too joined the fray.

My appetite to spread the news was not yet satiated. I saw two people painting the compound walls of a house. I did not spare them. “Arinjo?” (Did you know), I asked one of them. But taken aback by a question from a stranger, “alu maripoyo” (Seems you have mistaken me for another), he asked me.

No not at all, I said. “Pinne enthiru?” Then what?), in a typical thrivendhrom slang. ” Arinjilla alle?”( You still don’t know), “Para Sarey” (tell us), I declared, “Pakisthanil Keri menju, munnoru Kali” (We struck inside Pakistan, nearly 300 killed). His happiness knew no bounds. ” Ithu eppo?” Is It? When?), ” Innu ravile moonnu manikka”( Today morning at 3.30). “Modi alu midukkan thanne” ( Modi is brilliant, he remarked). What more needed to celebrate a Good morning!!!!

Yes, it is nice to be nice

“Never do like that. If you are in his place you will realise”, Rajish, admonished his son, when he slammed the door at the hapless courier boy, after he took delivery of his order. Not to end, he continued, “Even with a beggar you have a way to behave. You pay him or not is another issue. But convey a sympathy, to the deserving, in your own humble way. But never slam the door the way you just did.”

Already subjected to a mental torture by the tutoring and feeling a measure of compassion at the boy but still unwilling outwardly to surrender his injured psyche, his son put a weak defense, “I had no intention to do like that. I just pushed the door, well oiled two days back, and it slammed ferociously. I pushed it only gently”.

Confrontation must give way to conciliation. Rajish said, “Is it so? But keep in mind, always. Never injure anybody’s feelings, even when you need not be bothered about another’s feeling .”

My Paulo Coelho Moment.

I read Paulo Coelho’s ‘The Alchemist’, some years ago. To say that it left a lasting impression on me, would be nothing but the untruth. To me, it was more a fantasy tale than a wonderful novel. How I am qualified to qualify a best seller, many may wonder. But my opinion is as simple that. For my limited intellectual and aesthetic bent of mind, it only had that limited appeal.

There were some quotes I had marked, which were more appealing and reveling than the entire book, for my future references. Of the most striking of some golden sentences, one stood out. “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it”. I would add one more word ‘wholeheartedly’ before the word ‘want’, to make it more striking.

Some days back, I was in Salem. During that Monday morning, my friend, who runs a hotel in Trivandrum, called me and enquired about my whereabouts. When I briefed him , he had a request. “Narayanan, my elder brother passed away at my native place and the obsequies will be on Wednesday. I will be returning only on Friday. Could you please manage the cash counter in the evening on Wednesday and Thursday”. Conveying my heartfelt condolences, I confirmed, I will make it on Thursday, as I will be travel weary without sleep, despite having an assured berth.

The problem with me is, I can’t sleep in a moving train. I would keep sitting through out the night munching something, or peeping though the window, viewing the dark moonlit landscape. l used to maintain a small pocket book and noted the stations in between and the running time and compare the time taken during the my down journey. What else can I do? You cannot read, switching the lights on and in the process, earn, co-passengers ire.

During the up journey to Salem, one youngster, observing insomnia, berthed in the upper one, when the train just covered Alwaye, asked me if I can alert him when the train leaves Palakkad, so that he can get down at Coimbatore. Sure, I assured him. But the unexpected happened. All of a sudden, I noticed, the train was halting at Pudur. I hurriedly and promptly woke up the youngster.”Next is Coimbatore, we are at Pudur”. He stared at me. I was bit astonished at the harshness of his stare. He rushed, without a word of usual courtesy. I kept it to myself and casually and innocently, asked my co-passenger, “Coimbatore……..after or before Pudur?”. His answer sent shivers down my spine and unmasked itself, the cause for the youngsters indifference at my ‘timely’ help. I had missed two stations during my sitting slumber.

My Paulo Coelho moment started the day after I landed back at home town. After a day’s rest, I prepared to honour the word I committed to my hotelier friend. My wife was aware of my impending journey and never thwarted my journey to my friend’s place at any time during the last so many years of our friendship. But she was bit hesitant this time. “It is raining”. “So what, I have rain-coat”. I countered. “I know you are still tired, you need more rest” “No, I am not going to do any herculean task out their. Just sitting at the counter and collecting the payments”. Not to leave me at that,she continued, “You forgot that you paid Rs.14,000/- the previous day at the shop. When we went again the following day, to take delivery, you said you have not made the payment and the shop-owner confirmed collection, when you offered the money again. Chithi told me never to allow you to handle cash alone. Now you are going to handle cash with a sinking head”. ” You cannot generalize an one off event”. I told her confidently, about to take leave of her.

About to swing my legs on to the two-wheeler, I noticed another bike just passing me and coming to a halt just in-front. That was my would be nephew-in-law (and not son-in-law), who addresses me only as uncle and not as father, very much to my delight. So I cannot go out leaving him unattended. That took about 15 minutes. When I told him about my commitment and about to reload on to my bike, a car with very familiar number halted. They were my better-half’s sister and husband to invite us for their son’s marriage. Again I had to walk in and spent some time with them. Then they too left and the time was only 7.30 pm. I still have some time.

Soon dropped in the catering contractor, to whom I had promised to meet on Thursday evening, which escaped my memory, the minute I made the appointment, some days back This entailed a longer session, with the whole family joining to discuss about the menu for the dinner and lunch. I hurriedly, concluded the meeting with a qualification that this is not final and got a rough quotation, which was but tumulting, considering the differing views of son, daughter and wife, while I had my own notions. That session was over by 8.10, still nursing my desire to go was deterred by nature when it began raining ferociously.

As my wife’s want was more than a mere desire, Paulo Cohelo’s golden words proved good for her and was seen gleaming at her success of thwarting my journey.

As I walked along, alone, in the morning…..

Morning walk along the same route, gives you the same scenery and more or less the same people who come across and with whom you exchange greetings. One thing I have observed, If there is a slight change in our schedule, while the regulars adhere to theirs, the people on the street are now entirely different and present another opportunity to get to know more people, if you reschedule your walk that way. It may be highly productive for people who are in the business of and in search of prospective clients. I have a friend, who is an insurance agent, who walks all seven days of the week in different locations. When I asked him about this way of walking, he told me this is the best way of prospecting new clients.

On this Monday, I am no insurance agent, nowadays, but never had such an idea as told by my friend, when I was one, then I had a different strategy. Today, I took another route and walked through the streets of First Puthen street, (First New Street), having an antiquity of more than two hundred years of Tamil Brahman settlement, in and around Fort area. The First Puthen street, has approximately 200 row houses on the both sides, with wide frontage and an ambiance of togetherness and friendship in abundance, not to be missed. But this century old street still goes by the same name Puthen street, titled so, centuries ago. There are still antique buildings, many have been remodeled in tune with the change of time, but the name sticks.

The landscape and occupants of the houses on the lanes have changed but it retains the title bequeathed to us. As one born and brought up in such surroundings but at a different location, what strikes you very much is the structure of row houses, more or less, remain the same;  some are wide, some narrow. The normal structure of a house in a agraharam consists of a thinnai (Verandah), ulthinnai (drawing room), Rezhi (common bed room, pooja room combined), a pavul (storeroom) in the corner, thalam (dining hall), edanazhi, (where female spend their  time and take rest during their ‘periods’, and adukulai ( kitchen). And then extends to a space that has a kinar (well), and kottil (where cows are boarded). Toilet, then, used to be in the backyard. Another fature of these houses is that, if you stand at the verandha door, you can have view up to the cow shed and if that door, too, is open up to the end of the backyard.

Privacy is available to the young couple only on the first floor, which goes by the title ‘machil’. And those young- couples who are not so privileged, would yearn for some privacy from the bottom of their hearts. In verandah (thinnai), youngsters spent their leisure time playing cards, chess or reveling and celebrating the victory of their cricket team or discussing, disputing and dismissive of the put into bat decision, electing to bat, sending the wrong man at one down, not introducing spin at the right time and over use of seamers, the vital drop of a simple catch slips or the simple stumping chance that slipped through the keepers glove, a touch and go run out and a dubious umpiring decision that went against the home team. The captain when he is losing,  commits only blunders and in victory, he is very shrewd and awesome. The position of captain is hard-pressed, indeed, if he leads a losing team.

What is life, especially in the eager minds, if beautiful dames, in the neighborhood are not their subject of talk? However, in this, they are very careful to see the brothers of their subject, at that point is not amongst them, sometimes avoid such beautiful girls from their talks due to their mutual respect and a sort of quid pro quo. Gossiping is an art in this parlance and exaggerations run wild, especially when these have no sentimental bearings. This may be true of all agraharams in every part of the country. I trudged along the street, as if a tourist, gobbling up each and every sight and throwing open my ears to hear some comments that I could across, while on the way.

A beautiful morning indeed! Being Monday, all are unusually busy. Women with broom and bucket of water in hand, cleaning their house front, chatting too, with their neighbor about scarcity of water in the morning and ensuring that it was not an isolated issue, by the by, proudly announcing the expected arrival of relatives in the afternoon. They keep, in a small dish, what is called ‘kolapodi’, on the corner of their verandah, with which they draw ‘kolam’ in front of their house. Each day it will be different and has some uniqueness, based on the day. However, depending on the improvisation, while the basic ‘kolam’ remains the same, it will give different appearance in different homes. These drawings attain its pinnacle of its glory on the eve of ‘Pongal” (Tamil New year Day). This is a sight to be experienced anddefinitely, a photographer’s delight.

A man was reading, much to my delight, spreading the newspaper on the ground in the open verandah, we call it ‘thinnai’, and reading more or less bend over it, the way I do. An old man, sitting in the armchair, inside the grilled verandah, watching the world slowly moving around him, with drooped eyes and wrinkles all over, may be thinking of his younger mornings, or was he ruing about that particular decision that caused his present state of affairs, I have no idea, but his face was a writ of sadness.

Many of the  houses offer some service or the other. Priests available, lady cook for special preparations for ‘sradha’(a religious ceremony in memory of parents or brothers every year on the particular date, arrived as per ‘panchangam’, a religious calendar), and related functions, eateries like seva, dosa, idly and hot vada, computer peripherals, DTP services, photographers and what not, are available in this street. Tuition centers, too make its presence felt, with activity in full swing in the morning hours. Doctors of all branches of medicine, Allopathy, Ayurved and Homeopathy too, are available, as too, Advocates. Therefore, this agraharam is not merely a Brahmin settlement but a bundle of economic activity.

When I mentioned about vada, earlier,  an incident narrated by Mr.Pradeep Sebastian, comes to my mind, who, through his column ‘End Paper’ in The Hindu, has endeared himself to the hearts of millions of readers, wrote about his chance meeting, in the January 4, 2014 issue with a celebrity author, way back in 1980, in New York City, in the vicinity of Ramakrishna Vivekanandha Centre. He was accompanying his German friend, who wanted to return a little book, titled The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, to the person who had earlier lent her.

There he met a tall man, to borrow the writer’s exact words, “slightly graying, a little hunched, and holding an umbrella in his left hand, he nodded and walked quickly towards us.” At the time of parting, his friend, Greta invited him to join them for a quick snack at a small South Indian restaurant. While declining politely, the invitation, the author, hastily scribbled on a piece of paper the name of a South Indian dish, a favorite of his, and handed the piece of paper to Pradeep, recognizing the Indian amongst them. The two words scribbled on it, in angular handwriting: Rasam Vada. The author was none other than the celebrated novelist Mr.Salinger, the great recluse, who wrote, The Catcher in the Rye and many other notable works.

Walking along, I over- heard two women, who were walking behind me, discussing their menstural dates and their hope that the probable date of their next period, do not clash with the slated house hold ceremonies, otherwise, they will be forced take in medication for postponing their natural endowment.

I heard a young mother’s yell from inside a house. “Brij, don’t run. You will slip and fall.” I understood that is a command to her young son, fresh from his bath. All most in a flash, a small boy alighted out of his house, naked, water trickling from his supple body, with a mobile in his hand. Raising it, he took a selfie. What a nice photo, it would have been, had I too, took a snap of that moment. But my only base model mobile has no such applications. The boy’s mother came out, delighted at her sons newly acquired faculty, checked it and her eyes were gleaming with happiness and I too joined to see the photo and was enthralled by the accidental perfection of the shot and requested her to upload it in the FB.

I stood in front of a house, now, bearing a big lock on the door, presumably, the occupants have gone abroad, or gone for a short outing. The house owner, an engineer, retired from a public sector undertaking was one of my client, when I was the franchisee of Asianet Cable Networks in the year 2000. Difficult to part money,  he delayed the inevitable on flimsy grounds. What he could have delayed a bit longer, he failed miserably or did he indulge in that deliberately, that happened subsequently, only he knows, but surely, I was caught unawares, at the unexpected turn of events.

He would put unnecessary questions, why this channel is not available, while the competitor provides, why you are coming in the first week of every month, and finally yet importantly, how much I earn in the process. The tragedy is that he repeats the same question every month, that to pre-empt him, I answered all his stock questions, myself at the fag end of this agreement with Asianet, left him flabbergasted.

As if to cut me to the size, sitting on an upholstered chair, gently lifted his right buttocks a bit and parted with élan, a fart with a long and very disturbing noise, leaving me in stupefied at the unkindest and unexpected turn. The obnoxious smell that engulfed the room was beyond words, and this man, without switching on the table fan, took a weekly journal and waved away the smell from the vicinity of his nose, alone. “Subscription please”, I cried from the bottom of my stomach and very much understanding my predicament, immediately, paid me the subscription and with an authoritarian look, that he emitted very much symbolized an attitude, ‘my house, my fart’, forbidding me to behave better the next time.

Of the various noises produced by us, this one is the most vicious and nasty. We yawn, giggle, belch, sneeze, cough and snore and to release this one from the body, that too when you have a visitor sitting in front required a skin as thick as a hippopotamus. As fortune stood by me, I surrendered my franchisee arrangement, the following month, and never has seen this fellow ever since.

Moving on, I saw two women from Tamil Nadu, settled here for the quite some time, coming in the opposite direction, talking about their household chores and one remarked in a very high decibel voice. “Pichu’s marriage has been fixed.” I can hear it at a twenty feet distance.

At this her co walker asked about the venue of the marriage, “Hoer”? (where). I immediately understood she was from Nagercoil, a town in the neighbouring state of Tamil Nadu, erstwhile part of Kerala, from 80 kilometers from Trivandrum. Here, those who studied in a particular college in the 70’s used give stress to alphabet ‘h’ and would pronounce, ‘hoer’ for where, ‘hoy’ for why and ‘wahat’ for what. “Most probably, it will be held here only in Trivandrum, as we have more friends here than relatives, elsewhere”. Rightly said, one loyal friend is better than 10000 relatives are. I was elated that my kindled spirit is working in my alter ego.

An amusing moment in these high tech days, too, has its share in the rock bottom strata of our society. A man who was fast asleep on the parapet of a shop-front, on spread out old newspapers, was seen, on my return, speaking, using his mobile phone, shouting to his female voice at the other end, “moll pesu, molla pesu” , little realizing that he has kept the handset on the speaker phone mode.

Two more Puthen streets, hope, will give more tonic to my pen, sorry, to my fingertips, for typing.