An Exercise in Gluttony

‘Mission Mandarin’ commenced on a bright afternoon on the 29^th

A typical buffet at Mandarin!!

of last month; triggered by the need to break out of my current spartan existence. Surfing the net, I came across the welcome news of restaurants and eateries of the province of Ontario now declared open to walk-in patrons after a long period of close to a year. My friend, Google, helpfully pointed out that ‘Mandarin’ – a Chinese-

Canadian cuisine chain – had only recently restarted their fabled buffet service and I jumped at the chance of sampling a spread comprising 150+ items at a (comparatively) low cost of $24.99. So, I called up the Mandarin outlet nearest to my home on 29^th only to be told that the reservations for the week had been exhausted already. Well, I must say that I wasn’t surprised by the evidence of how my fellow people are striving to normalize their lives, one plateful of food at a time! Undaunted, I made a reservation for the next week on 8^th of October and started my groundwork to make Operation ‘Conquer Mandarin’ a resounding success.

My friend, Google, came to my aid again, directing me to helpful content on how to prime my constitution for the mayhem to come. Again, I was not surprised by how many of my fellow people have fine-tuned gluttony to a fine art, perfected by painful attention to sleep, exercise, water and fiber intake for the days leading to the final battle. Experts of countless buffet battles have devised their own strategies to come out on tops at the battlefield, comprising diverse elements as to the choice of clothes on the D-day (loose-fitting, mind you, to accommodate your expanding girth), arriving early to the scene and doing a quick but perceptive recce of the spread, chalking out a pecking order(!) of the gluttony to follow, staying away from carbs, et al.

Armed with the information and having carried out some of the preparations, I couldn’t wait for 8^th October to dawn and dawn it did, with a muggy vengeance. The skies were overcast, there was a constant drizzle, and the winds made a late but telling entrance. The dedicated foot-soldier that I am, I ventured out into the drizzle and the wind nonetheless, with but one objective in mind – total annihilation!

Arriving at the comfortable environs of Mandarin and being welcomed by the ever-solicitous staff there considerably bolstered my confidence. I was first comfortably seated at my table and the rules of the new-age ‘socially distanced’ buffet dining experience having been explained, I placed a ‘spirited’ order for a glass of Bellini – a concoction of rum, schnapps, and peach puree – and then strode into the buffet hall with the air of a seasoned veteran. Looking at the vast expanse filled me with delight and no small sense of wonderment – there was a salad bar, a soup counter with breads, a live grill, a sushi bar, a wide selection of hot entrees, calories-laden desserts, ice cream, frozen yogurt bar..

The first to be taken prisoner was a steaming hot bowl of soup with chicken wontons, accompanied by crackers and breadsticks. It was delicious and immediately filled me with a warming premonition of how glorious the day would turn out to be. I turned my attention next to the occupants of the salad bar who were colorfully turned out amidst bunches of merry periwinkles - a few button mushrooms, a sweet and tangy Thai chicken salad with thin mango strips, a chickpea salad, a wonderfully fresh shrimp salad, a creamy surimi salad, a basil-sprinkled mussel rounded up as my targets from that section.

My further conquests included golden fried wings, Kung Pao chicken, salt and pepper shrimp, lemon chicken, honey-garlic spare ribs, General Tao chicken, baked salmon, stir-fried vegetables, grilled chicken, torpedo shrimps, barbequed pork ribs….well, suffice it is to say that I tried to overpower as many of the opposition as I could. I partook of the sushi bar as well (only the second time in my life that I have had sushi!), the smoked salmon and cream cheese sushi just impressing me with its melt-in-the-mouth quality. Throughout it all, I had the able assistance of Vinh, my host for the day with his charming and helpful manner. Vinh is a Vietnamese student who is currently doing an internship with a company and working as a server at Mandarin during the weekends.

I hope it is not haughty on my part to admit that though I made short work of all that I chose to come to arms with till then, I was secretly conserving a significant part of my armory for the most delectable of all food – the desserts! And the desserts bar at Mandarin’s made for a very worthy adversary, with its varied arsenal of cakes, cookies, flaky parties, puddings, sinful cheesecakes, ice creams, yogurts, and what-have-you. I was pleased to try out the usual suspects – macaroons, crème brulee, butter tarts, etc. but I was exhilarated to encounter certain confections like pecan pie and lemon meringue pie, of which I have heard lots but never come to face with. The child in me couldn’t resist finishing up the day’s conquest with a small helping of that ubiquitous white and pink ice cream (called ‘two-in-one’ in India), the vanilla and strawberry combination ice cream.

Well, there’s nothing left to do now but tell the powers-that-be, “Coming in for ‘Mission Mandarin’. My work here is done. Over and out!’

Cycling Away

 

When I was in school, I pestered my father to get me a cycle, but I could not close the argument with him. Beyond the plain metal frame and two wheels, my vision of a cycle was unshakably tied to the notion of ‘freedom’, a devil-may-care attitude and the capability to simply pedal away from life’s problems. Unfortunately for me, my father too must have arrived at the same calculations as I and forcefully shot down this puerile and feeble attempt at a rebellion. Added to my father’s reluctance, was the very real problem of terrible traffic and road conditions with so many vehicles jostling for space, absence of cyclist lanes, and a general insensitivity towards cyclists on the road. So ended my initial attempt at cycling.

Now, two decades later and with the wind ruffling through my hair, the sunlight on my face, the steady roll of the twin wheels under me accompanied by the satisfied sound of rubber on asphalt and gravel, I am living out my cycling fascinations of yore.

Working from home for the past many months, stuck to a seat and rivetted on the computer screen for hours at end with only a small window to look out of, I was starving for any real interaction with the outside world. Being in a new country was becoming a strange, exciting but ultimately, unfulfilling experience with the global pandemic raging outside and multiple lockdowns coming into effect. As winter descended into spring, I could start seeing the natural beauty of my newly adopted town but could not touch and feel it. I could not walk over the great distances in this vast, open landscape; neither could I drive anywhere since I have no car presently. It seemed I was consigned to the prospect of looking at the blossoming spring beauty through a window.

Then, I got me a cycle – a used one – with a crude silver paint job, iffy brakes, a hard-as-stone (it seems!) seat, a paralyzed side-stand and non-functioning shock absorbers which deliver a truly tactile experience.

So, after my daily shift ends, I cycle out into the unknown streets and lanes of my town, sometimes using my phone navigation but mostly, just venturing out with no destination in mind. In this way, I have acquainted myself with some pretty parks and trails nearby which offer the joy of being under great trees, passing over bubbling brooks or sitting on the newly-sprout green grass. Dandelions with their bright yellow faces are growing all over like weeds, birds noisily chirp from their nests among dense shrubs and thickets, squirrels and hares happily trot everywhere. It is like a symphony of nature and my cycle affords me a ringside view like nothing else. I stop wherever I feel like for however long I feel like; I rest my cycle alongside a tree or just lay it over the grass while I contemplate my place in these surroundings. I have started to take out my cycle for grocery trips too, though there is the constraint of riding back fully weighed down by my purchases which does not make for very smooth or enjoyable riding. Sometimes I also ride through quiet neighborhoods with kids playing or cycling outside while their parents engage in more mundane tasks of mowing the lawn, clearing out deadfall or planting new bulbs out in the garden. My cycle is helping me in slowly exploring the place I call home now.

My experience is also aided immensely by the conscientious and generous attitude of people here on the road. Pedestrians and cyclist have right of way on most crossings, there are designated cycle lanes, sidewalks and pavements are well-maintained – all these go a long way in making my ride easy and pleasurable. I can imagine how if I were growing up in this country and my younger self would have asked my father for a cycle, I hear my father happily saying ‘yes’.

Forever Young & Free!!

This is July again, and therefore, Simi’s birth-month. Caught up in my own life, I had completely forgotten about the significance of this month until only a few days back. Simi would not have approved – either of how so full-of-activities our lives have become or, of how easily we seem to gloss over the importance of relationships. As I look at my own unorganized life, I recall the words of Sissy Spacek playing Loretta Lynn in the film ‘Coal Miner's Daughter’ as she gazes over an expectant audience and says; “Things is moving too fast in my life...they always have….. Patsy always told me 'Lil girl, you gotta run your own life', but my life...it's a'runnin' me."

I feel that way a lot these days, and I am sure it is not a good feeling to have. So, I shall hunker down here and attempt to talk of Simi again. Our existence perpetually throws us onto paths of newer experiences and fresh acquaintances; it becomes difficult to recall our past ties and hark upon the memories of days gone by. So it is through my own words and borrowing the words of our batch-mates that I shall essay another pen-picture of my dear friend.

You come across this character in many a movie – the loud, absolutely energetic guy or girl who exults in the present, laughs off worries and starts waltzing at the slightest sound of a trumpet. While doing so, this character of course, teaches the others in the movie (most of them inevitably complicated and too caught up in life’s little problems) a thing or two about living. As movie characters go, this guy or girl is nearly omnipresent in all narratives, sometimes passing off as the protagonist’s best buddy, or a bubbly parent or sometimes even as a stranger from a chance encounter. In real life however, such characters are very, very difficult to come across – life instead chooses to burden us with acquaintances more reminiscent of the afore-mentioned complicated and calculative kind. So, it is a classic case of real not following reel. So, it is with some amount of self-pleasure I declare that my life has been populated by atleast one sample of this rare breed. This blog calls Simi the ‘the confetti girl’ not without reason; so many of us were desirous of being like her. Geetika our batch-mate announced this in the testimonial that she wrote for Simi in our year-book. Another batch-mate Aman, unabashedly credits her with changing the way he lived his life. All our batch-mates were thrown onto the wondrously shining path of Simi for only little less than a year and yet she has managed to cast her unique magical perspective onto our minds even within such short a time.

It is in very recent times that I have unearthed yet another realisation about Simi that pains me slightly in my more unaware moments, but is a secret source of glee in my more contemplative thoughts. Since I have left IMI – that wonderful place which remains and shall remain the harbinger and old steward of so many full memories -   I have loved and lost, have fell and rose, have started and discarded so much that the signs of all those times have left their mark upon me. Similarly, when I see my friends, I see them as they actually are today – some are happy, some are not so happy – but every one of us manifests the toll that time has taken upon us. But when I think about Simi, I still see her in that green top of hers, and always with that smile on her face. She looks so young!

As we go on through life, we will inevitably be marked and scarred with the passage of time. But Simi will always be that beatific, smiling angel which she was and still is. Perennially grinning, making friends everywhere she goes and cocking a snook at life’s complexities with a mischievous glint in her eyes – we shall always see Simi in this wondrous light.

Trader Comes to Town….

It is clear that upbringing, education and social surroundings shape a person’s belief system and influence greatly how he conducts himself and relates to others. This is a piece on the more questionably-held beliefs that people repose their faith in – that set of beliefs and practices which are explained by supernatural causality or just unexplained at all – that stuff commonly referred to as ‘superstition’.

I realised quite recently that the occupation of a person does contribute just as significantly to some of the most unexplainable beliefs. Traders both big and small, are some of the most superstitious people I have ever encountered; the term ‘trader’ used here being a broad term for the ‘mom-and-pop’ stores or the neighbourhood grocers. Your neighbourhood grocer is the trader with whom you are most likely to have the maximum transactions; the one who provides you with everything from soap to pulses to bulbs to tidbits about the goings-on in your locality. A big part of being a trader or a grocery store-owner (I feel) lies in adequately propitiating the pictures and miniature idols of gods and goddesses installed at the shop in the morning, and completing the intricate set of activities at lockup time in the late evening, and keeping an active eye out to ward off any possible incidents of covetous customers casting the ‘evil eye’ anytime in between opening to closure.

When I was a student of commerce, we learnt about the unpredictability of trade – the risks involved and the keen business awareness required to offset the losses possible from unforeseen causes. The tools you need to have are myriad; a competitive edge, the meticulous skills needed to plan and anticipate, a reasonable appetite for risk, an agreeable relationship with stakeholders, etc. No scholar or book ever advocated a keen sense of holding questionable, unexplained beliefs as one of the pre-requisite for doing business well. Apparently, our traders have acquired an entirely divergent skill-set of managing business which while appearing unconnected with any aspect of commerce, is being practised overwhelming by those in the profession.

Most traders simply avoid big transactions on Saturdays (which is a common belief among most Indians), which means that they will not make big purchases or plan any new launches on Saturdays. Some of the traders stagger their stock schedules so that they make most of the purchases on Tuesdays and Thursdays (considered auspicious for some reason, I guess). Invariably all traders have the ubiquitous lemon-chili-garlic totems dangling at their shop-front to keep off the ‘evil eye’. Knowing how many lemons there should be in a such string, the ability to identify when to change the old, discoloured totems are essential elements of the traders’ competencies, as is knowing which god’s picture/ idol is supposed to be installed on the right and who goes on the left side.

A recent conversation with my local grocer revealed that

rats gnawing away at flour or rice sacks in a grocery is actually considered auspicious for the business because it is supposed to drive up profits and unfathomably, make the flour tastier. I must explain here that the humble rat is revered in our society as the trusty consort of the much-loved god, Ganesha. I suppose that such a belief is very convenient for the grocer because it liberates him from the need to actually undertake the efforts (and the expense!!) to keep his stock safe from pests. Most of the beliefs we profess to hold are the ones which are expedient for us at that moment. Our beliefs originate, evolve and get discarded as per our situation because at the very basic, they are meant to serve our interests - their purpose in our existence.

Like a few weeks back when I undertook a new venture, my father consulted some astrological almanac to decide upon the date of launch, mother organised a small puja on that day and another member of the family took it upon himself to apply vermillion streaks for prosperity upon the attending people and on our business paraphernalia. I do not believe that there are specific days for starting something new, neither do I hold much store by random dots of red colour on people’s foreheads or on machinery, but I acquiesced. It is not my place to object to the good intentions of other people who are willing to invest their energies and time to secure my well-being. Their way to ensure this is different from mine, but their hearts I feel, are in the right place.

There is another trader I know who post shutting down his business for the day, always proceeds to burn scraps of paper before the storefront to ward off any bad karma accumulated during the day. Ultimately the beliefs we live by and the practices we train ourselves in, are merely meant to provide us some security and a certain peace of mind amidst so much incomprehensible stuff that life throws at us. 

So Much for Oranges and Lost Keys!

I was pathetic at math when I was a kid. “If an orange costs Rs. 4, then how much would a dozen cost?” The answer was very apparent to most of my classmates then, but all I could see behind such

math problems was dense fog. Many a time my father would sit beside me patiently attempting to explain how to unravel such complicated-looking math. He would rarely lose his temper as tried to make me comprehend the logic. He would suffer my blockheaded-ness with ease. Of course as time went on, I did get better at math due to in no small part, the efforts of my father.

Two decades later, the tables have turned. My father has got older and cannot easily trace his way around the modern gadgets which we take for granted; like the computer, the mobile or the digital camera. He forgets small things too, like where he kept the car keys or whom he handed over an important letter to. Inevitably when some item seems misplaced or he encounters some complicated-looking problem with his laptop, he turns to me for assistance. I try to take him backwards through his routine to help him locate the misplaced thing, or sit beside him when he cannot find the download button to a song he likes. I try to show or simply talk or sometimes even demonstrate to him but I am ashamed to admit that I show none of the patience which he so often showed me when I needed his help with my childhood problems. I explain an issue once, dumb it down for the second explanation and start losing my temper, if I have to repeat it the third time for him. In fact, I think that I must be one of the difficult people that I know, when it comes to make someone understand the issue behind a problem, and help resolve it.

As I was sharing this with a close friend, I realised again how utterly ungratefully I must be conducting myself. And that too with the same person who would explain child stuff like how when a single orange costs 4 bucks, a dozen would cost 48. I had wrapped my head around oranges and math, but when it comes to displaying tolerance for my father whom I love immensely, I am a dunce. So I tell myself, “When you misplace the key, or when the internet page does not give you the download link, Dad, I will help you with it – Always.”

Thus Gurudev speaks…..

“I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.” – Rabindranath Tagore

I did not hear this statement in an intellectual discourse; neither friend nor teacher directed these words to my attention, nor did any priest. In fact, I heard it first when the auto-rickshaw driver taking me from Malviya Nagar to GK II looked at me in his tiny rear-view mirror and recited the lines word-by-word in English amid all the cacophony of a weekday morning Ring-road traffic snarl. I just listened to him with awe.

The context had been that morning’s weather, which was particularly pleasant after the harsh heat of the previous few days. I remarked casually what a godsend the weather was since the heat is actually worse for people who have to work out throughout the sun like the labourers and yes, the taxi and auto drivers. My driver looked at me in the mirror and smiled saying how work, when perceived in that exalted attitude ceases to be merely a physical/ mental activity which is capable of causing discomfort or stress. He explained his personal views that work done in the service of others stripped of avarice and ritualism, is actually an honest offering to God and therefore, escapes all the accompanying encumbrances which work sometimes amounts to. It was then that he spoke of how Tagore had so clearly synthesised the essence of work, which is service.

The auto driver had graduated in Arts from a university in UP and came down to Delhi looking for work, and has now been driving his auto for nearly 21 years. All his children are graduates (a son is even pursuing his PhD degree) and he confessed with an easy humility that having not amassed any monies, his only wealth is the upbringing he has been able to provide his children, and furnishing them the foundation upon which they can aspire for greatness. In the presence of such plain-speak and humility, I felt humbled too. As I got down, I thanked him for his inspiring thoughts, and silently thanked Tagore too for the clear truths which he has left behind for all of us. 

About a Nut……..and a Leaf

The first image which my mind conjures up when I think about tamul-pan is that of an old granny whom I met many years back during a brief stopover at a village. We Assamese stand by a long tradition of tamul-pan which is a concoction of betel leaves, raw areca nut and some lime smeared on the leaf – a tradition which is pretty much inescapable if you are in Assam. We chew it as a mild intoxicant, offer it to bhokots (monks) in prayer meetings, offer it to the Gods in our marriages, offer it to the departed soul for his appeasement, even our wedding invitation cards are adorned with that familiar image of tamul-pan arranged on a bota (a sort of brass chalice), and not offering it to the husori (Bihu balladeer and dancing groups) players when they come visiting every household in Bihu time, would be tantamount to a sacrilege.

To come back to my story, the granny I met must have been in her 80s, if not in her 90s, and we exchanged greetings. She grabbed a seat beside our family, and talked about this and that, mostly about how old customs are dying out even in the villages. She was very bent over due to her age, her hair was all silver and she had that sweet toothless smile with those twinkling eyes which most grannies seem to have. She had lost all her teeth, and her daily diet consisted of only milk and boiled rice mashed to sheer liquid consistency. Anyway as we were talking, she loudly exhorted her daughter-in-law to offer us tamul-pan (you see, in rural Assam you absolutely have to offer guests tamul-pan). The daughter-in-law placed a bota with tamul-pan in front of us, and a wooden mortar and pestle in front of granny. We watched with fascination as granny proceeded with a single-minded devotion to place first the leaf, and then the nut and lime together in the mortar-bowl, and mashed it all together with her pestle. When she put that powdered brown-green mix in her toothless mouth, her face lit up like a kid who has just got the candy which she was always wishing for. Afterwards she told us how chewing tamul-pan was one of the few pleasures she still enjoyed in that ripe old age. That wonderful image of the old granny with the beatific smile on her lips and eyes has stayed with me.

So when I was visiting Meghalaya just last month and as I saw Khasi people, mostly ladies chewing their kwai (the Khasi equivalent of tamul-pan), that long-loved image came back to me. I saw Khasi ladies in their traditional jainsem dress (with built-in pockets for holding knick-knacks and of, course for holding the beloved kwai), some of them carrying produce to the local markets in their khoh (traditional Khasi bamboo baskets), some with their babies strapped on their backs, others sitting by their shops and tea-stalls and chatting, but all of them with their customary red lips (locals call it the ‘Khasi lipstick’ and it comes from a combination of chewing the lime and nut in kwai). This form of Khasi beauty has been immortalized in a song by balladeer Bhupen Hazarika in his song ‘Lien Makao’ where he sings about a lovely Khasi maiden whose jainsem has been “woven by lightning” and with “alluring red lips”. The Khasi menfolk are mostly seen with their ubiquitous pipes which seems like a natural extension of their face (to be fair though, I saw far lesser men with pipes in Meghalaya the last few times).

Just like us Assamese, the Khasis too have placed their kwai on a pedestal which is accorded to a beloved family member. Khasi people in markets, in shops and on their home porches congregate over kwai, end their meals with kwai and when a person dies, the formal reference is that the departed soul has gone to heaven to enjoy kwai with God. Every other person you meet is most likely to be chewing kwai which also helps to keep warm, particularly in the winters when a small piece of fresh ginger comes gratis with the kwai. The last few times I have visited Meghalaya, I have also made it something of a custom, to imbibe the local kwai but there is one great difference. You see, unlike the Khasis, every time I chew kwai, my face and ears turn beetroot-red. My mom tells me it is because the Khasis traditionally put more lime in their kwai, and also due to the fact that their areca nut is fermented in water, unlike ours (fermented nut is supposed to impart a better taste but I wouldn’t know).

Youngsters now are veering away from the traditional tamul-pan or kwai and moving on to pan masala mixes available in sachets and therefore, more convenient. I cannot say that either is really a good habit. Chewing any form of betel nut concoction is unhealthy for the teeth and also carcinogenic; in fact, instances of mouth cancer in the country are highest in the North-east.

Anyway, whenever I think of old granny and the red-lipped Khasi ladies, I cannot help but smile when I see this connect in our region.

RIP The Man Who Loved Movies

What Roger Ebert (June 18, 1942 - April 4, 2013) has to say goes a long way beyond films and the people who make them. His thoughts possess a much greater reverberance when applied to the larger theatre of the comic-drama that is Life. One unwavering yardstick for me (for the last 3 years atleast) when I set out to see a film is to check what Roger Ebert has to say about it. This does not mean that my own thoughts have been in exact consonance with whatever he said. It is safe for me to say however without the least reserve, that he is able to delve deeper and unearth greater meaning from films that I had thought possible, accustomed as I was, to look at the medium of movies as basically a carrier of entertainment.

Beyond the loud (and silent) tears, the raucousness of strident laughter, the silky manipulations of work and society, the remonstrance of failed romances, and the tentative and ill-at-ease expressions (and triumphantly evocative demonstrations) of all the colours of moviedom, what films essentially seek to draw forth are the myriad hues of life itself. And with some effort, a little study and nudged by the knowing words of a great critic such as Ebert, films acquire a more realistic dimension – like a parable, they enable us to draw our own conclusions of what happened. In inexplicable ways, I have also found occasions where I have been able to apply some of these learnings to my own existence.

Ebert’s critiques of films as published in his website and in his books are wonderful pieces to read. They are peppered with unique observations, bits of humour and embellished at times with the rarest of rare truths, which are more likely to find their way into great spiritual books and discourses. Thank you, Ebert.

“For me, the film is like music or a landscape: It clears a space in my mind, and in that space I can consider questions.”

- what Ebert says in his review of Wender’s ‘Wings of Desire'

Winter Garden @ 2013

Winter is a good time for flowers. For those homes with a garden, winter is a colourful season – yellows, reds, purples, whites – it is nice to see all those hues splashing and cascading in merry confusion. As I have discovered, it takes very little to get all these colours into your garden and then, into your life. Nature takes care of most of the stuff anyway; the sun happily shines its warmth and light down on the sprouting shoots, the soil nourishes the roots and as the gardener, you have to water and every now and then, do a nip and tuck on the spreading plants.

I had gone along with chrysanthemums and petunias last year for winter. The results I was able to see encouraged me to take on a more ambitious winter project this time. So, I went around consulting garden aficionados, collected young plants, took care with the potting mix and watered and prayed. Nearly 2 months after I had planted the first tiny plant, colours slowly started appearing in my garden. First it was the chrysanthemums who shyly opened their radiant faces to the sunlight; the gay petunias imperiously followed and pretty soon, there were blooms of all colours and shapes. The hesitant pansies started blooming and it is a real joy when the pansy petals with the loved face-like dark prints appear. The zagged-edged dianthuses were not to be left behind and they too joined in the general bedlam of colours. The verbenas too opened their little bell-shaped petals with great willingness. Finally, it was the turn of the big boys – the dahlias with their impressive girth and humongous multi-layer petals.

When I see all the richness around me, I look up at the big gardener above and give him a hearty 'thank you'. I forgot to mention the most important tool that the gardener has in his paraphernalia, and that is…love!

(All images shown here are from my own garden; so nothing borrowed J. )

An Art of Many Forms

I am terrible at drawing; have always been since school days when my Vinci-esque repertoire was limited to battle-scenes of unaerodynamic-looking planes above dropping egg-shaped bombs on proportionally-challenged hapless infantry below, grotesquely-smiling plaid-shirted ‘kou-boys’ with shoulders too broad and legs too small and finally, my pièce de résistance – scenery sketches of hills, valleys and plains. My sceneries were dominated by triangular hills which I am sure, would have made Pythagoras proud and a serpentine river flowing down from the hills in distinctly Z-like courses, and of course, the ubiquitous proportionally-challenged people frolicking in the foreground. Evidently I suck at drawing, which is why I have forever looked upon people gifted with the artist’s eye for detail, colour and imagination (not to forget proportion!!) with awe and a teeny bit of jealousy.

While some artistically-gifted people are content to express themselves on drawing paper and painter’s canvases, still others explore several additional avenues of expression, like the sand painters who work such wonderous images using just sand or the artists who use superlative imaginative skills to fashion beautiful objects of art using the most nondescript of artistic medium – sticks!! Yes, it is true that over the ages, man has sought and found unique and mesmerizing artistic voices where stones, egg shells, glass panes, even pieces of discarded junk have done service as sometimes the brush, at other times as the blank canvas upon which man carves out his impossible, wonderful dreams.

To conclude, for those with the creative bent, everything is grist to the mill. So there is this friend of mine; she is unmistakably a member of this singular clan of individuals who splash the world around with colours and new forms. She carries a notebook around – a constant companion of many years – where she records the passing wisps of still half-forming images which sometimes float by. Her living room is adorned with wall murals, picture portraits, a framed Ganesha made up of perfectly-cut and wielded silver foil pieces and wonderful knick-knacks of decorative items painstakingly crafted with everyday items.

I have reproduced one of her most recent murals; I find the colours, the smooth curves and yes, the imaginativeness in juxtaposing the gently-swaying flower stalks with that of the left silhouette of a girl’s face quite striking. Now more than ever, I am convinced that Art is a gift – a gift which brings joy to the self and to others, and creates new spaces for reflection and comprehension. Yes, Art is a gift.

Of Memories Lush

An uncle passed away on 2^nd Jan this year. Death of a loved one invites reminiscence. One attempts to piece together an image of the departed person through a collective prism of memories; if the life lived is fulfilling, fruitful and love-filled, that prism throws up a joyous and generous mental image. So is the case when I try to recall past memories, buried incidents with my uncle, Dulal jetha (jetha being the Assamese colloquial for the husband of one’s paternal aunt).  Jetha was a doctor who served with the Assam state government’s medical department; during his service stretched over 4 decades, he had served in various remote areas throughout the state. After his retirement from active government medical duty, he used to look back on his past days when he used to go out on medical calls in all odd hours, sometimes trudging through dense forests, clambering over hills, or crossing rivers in spate on nothing more than a flimsy rowboat. And he had many interesting storied to relate from the various experiences he had while on duty.

Jetha had a wondrous and enthralling story-telling technique as he would relate his past experiences and the little impressionable kid that I was, I would sit captivated listening to all those stories filled with wild animals, ghouls, hunters and all other quirky, mysterious things which a young boy’s mind is occupied with. Years later, Jetha would compile all these stories and author a book in Assamese about his experiences. Not having gone through the book because I tend to labour while reading the Assamese vernacular, I would ask Jetha to recount those stories whenever I would visit him. I was grown-up by then but Jetha s stories about feebly-lit stormy nights, colourful rural folk and yes, those ghostly apparitions would still captivate me.

One very incredible story told by Jetha come to my mind now. It pays to bear in mind that the Assam of bygone days was an almost-alive mass of steaming jungles and wild and exotic animals who were far more in number than people, little-known tribes who had their own quaint customs, and villages scattered very sparsely with runners being the only means of communication. Anyway there was a malaria epidemic around the 60s in a particular area, and Jetha was dispatched on emergency duty to stem the outbreak. The area was covered with jungles and every morning, Jetha would set out with an orderly and carrying his precious little box of medicines. As protection against the mosquitoes swarming all over and the myriad wild animals on the ground, Jetha had taken up temporary quarters in a tree-house. One evening as Jetha returned back from his daily rounds, what he saw resting peacefully on the ground just below the tree-house stopped him in his tracks. It was a full-grown Bengal tiger reclining in that particular insouciant way that all big cats have perfected; idly swatting away the flies and flicking his tail contentedly. Jetha and his orderly slunk back into some bushes, staying still and observing the tiger from not more than 20 feet away. They sat there for close to an hour, darkness had almost set in and the emerging mosquitoes made sitting still an almost impossible task. Squirming and praying all the time, my Jetha told me that he almost felt the hot breath of the tiger as it lay panting. Finally, the tiger stood up, examined the bushes where jetha and the orderly lay hiding with an indifferent stare and suddenly, bounded off into the dark green.

Back in the time when I heard this story for the first time, I had read and re-read Jim Corbett’s ‘Man-Eaters of Kumaon’, ‘The Man-eating Leopard of Rudraprayag’ and ‘Tree-tops’ too. He was my hero and it seemed to my hungry imaginative mind that jetha too was no less than Corbett. He had his own tree-top residence and lived to tell the tale of how a tiger rested no more than half a cricket pitch’s length away from him.

Jetha was born in a small nondescript village in Assam but I am certain that a small part of his ancestry must have been undoubtedly Swiss; you see, he was very precise and he always, always made good time!! When Jetha walked, he would fairly trot; when he was at the dinner-table, he would invariably be the first to finish and when he would be driving, everyone else would be left far behind. There was also a certain economy and efficiency of manner around his behaviour which suggested a great deal of attention to what he was doing or saying.

As a son, father, husband and brother, Jetha led the kind of life which many us desire but seldom lead. Nothing in Jetha’s stories was make-believe; his chequered, dutiful and joy-filled life was the same way too.

Grandparents & Grandkids

Once there was an old man. You could say that he had a natural predisposition towards crankiness. He did not get along with most grown-ups but he had a granddaughter who stayed along with her parents in the house of her grandparents. And this granddaughter was the apple of her grandpa’s eyes.

Both grandfather and granddaughter would spend every available moment together playing, singing or going out for walks. At that time, the granddaughter could not have been more than 3 years old and she had just started playschool. Every morning before going off to school, she would rush over to her grandparents’ room, coax her grandfather out of bed and get him a glass of water. After she returned, both the old man and the young granddaughter would play their own peculiar games. One of the games was pretend-fishing, the duo would spread out pages of old newspapers on the living room floor; and then both grandfather and granddaughter would take out cane sticks with threads attached and pretend that the scattered paper was indeed fish, and proceed fishing. They would pretend to put their fish in a bag so that they could carry their catch home. Another game was bashing stuff; the old man would take out old cups of china, clay pots and other odds and ends of breakable stuff, and lay it out before the young kid like a veritable spread. The granddaughter would then pick up any object that caught her fancy and go thunk-thunk, disintegrating and scattering little bits of broken stuff all over the living room. All this noise and mess would anger the grandmother who would loudly admonish the frolicking duo. The grandfather would then reply, “She’s just a kid; she’s supposed to break things, It’s OK.”

One day while having his customary morning glass of water offered by the granddaughter, the old man was pointing out a lizard on the wall. He was talking to his granddaughter about the lizard and its life (what it ate, how he could grow back its tail even if it fell off, etc.) and walking towards the lizard, looking up and still holding his glass of water. He struck the arm of a chair and fell down on the floor. He took a nasty fall and the family took him to a hospital. The old man never returned home.

Sometime later the garlanded portrait of the old man was put up on a bureau in the grandparents’ old room. Every morning brought an inexplicable puddle of water on the bureau-top just beneath the portrait till the family found out what was causing it. You see, every morning before leaving off for school, the young granddaughter would still fill out a glass of water, stand up on a chair and hold it to her grandfather’s portrait. She would put the glass to her grandfather’s lips in the portrait and try to make him drink.

A Business that Flies…

I recently made a couple of trips to a place called Sonapur in the outskirts of Guwahati; the town lies on the highway barely 30 kms away. Earlier Sonapur was famous for its scenic beauty, the quaint picnic spots it had to offer and its sweet, juicy oranges. Sonapur is now more known for the multitude of dhabas that have come up along the highway, some of whom have grandly advertised themselves as ‘resorts’. The town itself is bound on one side by the highway, on another side by a tea estate and ringed by agricultural land all around. Besides this, Sonapur is also home to a defence establishment (whether army or air force, I don’t know for certain). Beyond the mushrooming of the said dhabas along the fringes and the recent opening of 2 vehicle showrooms along the highway (a Mahindra one for commercial vehicles and another belonging to Maruti cars), there is little commercial and industrial activity to be seen in the place.

Anyway, when I went into the town I asked an old resident as to the predominant occupations of the local folk. He replied that most people were cultivators, some of them ran myriad trading businesses (grocery, convenience, clothes stores, etc). Besides the regular clientele of defence personnel and their families, there is a fair sprinkling of hill tribal communities who also came down to sell their produce in the town, forming another customer group for the town’s traders. When I further enquired about any other business besides the stores and the ubiquitous dhabas, the geriatric man replied, “Oh yes, a great many do engage in ‘flying business’.” Flying Business?! This was the second time in as many months that I had come across the term. The first was when an old acquaintance had claimed that flying business was in fact, one of his major sources of income. I asked him what he meant and he explained.

To the uninitiated, let me make it clear that the term has nothing to do with propellers, aeronautics, flight ticketing or any other paraphernalia that we normally associate with ‘flying’. It is in fact a business that possesses no concrete definition; it operates mostly on the twin bases of local know-how and sociability. For instance, when one party decides to sell off a plot of land and you get hold of an interested buyer and arrange for the deal to materialise, you charge a certain fee as the facilitator – this is one model of flying business. Oh, flying business has numerous models of operations – again for instance, if you are new to a place and someone comes along who manages the gas connection and the police verification for your new rented home, that becomes yet another illustration of how a flying business may be conducted. Chances are that the same guy will also come forward to get you the registration certificate for your newly-purchased car, finagle a trading licence from the oily local officials, get you a maid or even arrange for the neighbourhood electrician to install the fancy chandelier in your living room. I guess you may call this guy a broker or even a middleman. In its essence, a person who engages in flying business is a sort of all-rounder offering his services; he does ‘this’ and ‘that’ and 'everything else' – his only consideration being the fee. The flying businessman may therefore, be considered a necessary and very useful part of the local community, providing his services through the extensive native network that he has cultivated.

The downside is that flying businessmen are often less than sincere about the services that they supposedly offer. They might charge fees upfront for 'incidental expenses' for things which never materialise; frequently leave you hanging with vague statements of ‘you know how it is, these things take time’ after taking responsibility or even rip you off with legal documents or certificates of decidedly dodgy provenance. There is quite simply no accountability mechanism through which one can ensure that services are rendered on time, as promised and in the correct manner. These are all reasons why the term ‘flying business’ has acquired a certain shady connotation today. Perhaps when you are a flying businessman, it is a constant temptation to just take off…..with your client’s bucks!!

‘Can I have a glass of Barfi, please?’

Having sat through the nearly 3 hours of the sweet choco-drop that is Barfi!, we came out of the multiplex. It was the late night show and by the time we came out, it was almost midnight. My throat was parched. The food and drinks counter at the plex had long closed; I went over to the restroom in the hope of atleast rinsing my dry mouth with some fresh water. Alas, the faucet was unwilling to part with even a single drop! The housekeeping guy (helpfully) informed that the water had run out and maintenance would not run up any more water till the next morning.

So, bracing myself for an extended thirsty spell till I reached home, I desultorily started down the dark stairs. In the ground floor of the shopping complex where the plex is located, there’s an outlet of ‘Pizza Hut’ which had an important-looking big sign of ‘CLOSED’ dangling from its door handle. Through the glass façade, I saw that everything inside was dark; there was a single light still on in what I suspected, was the galley cabinet. Against the urgent voice inside which was chiding me with ‘Roon, you’re hopeless! Can’t you see they’re closed?’ I started towards the glass door. It was locked (what did I expect?!), but as I was rattling the handle ineffectually, I saw someone inside. It was a young guy, dressed in a waiter’s outfit, and looking at me quizzically. Having recently observed Ranbir’s pantomimes in Barfi! I immediately raised a cupped hand to my lips, making a drinking motion.

I must have made myself very clear (a la the perfect mime artist!!) cos the guy came up to the door, graciously opening it. I came up with an urgent-sounding ‘Do you have some water?’ and he bade me in. I went up to the galley counter, observed as he took out a tall glass in which Pizza Hut typically serves mocktails and other drinks, put it under a water jar, and poured out a heavenly-looking glassful of sparkling water. He came up to the counter holding the glass and asked, “Sir, would you like some ice?” ICE!! I was delightfully stumped, mumbled out a ‘No thanks, this’ll do perfectly”, and gulped down the glassful in two shakes of a duck’s tail. He took the now-empty glass and was starting to pour out another one. I declined and thanked him effusively for his kind generosity.

Simple joys abound – one just has to look around, maybe rattle a few doors…. and yes, go to the movies!

[This post has been tagged under the 'The Confetti Girl Series']

"Luk ahead dat is where ur future lies"

It is a peculiar ability of the ‘happy souls’ that they can let life sit very lightly upon their shoulders, and accept stuff as they materialise, with a certain easy grace which while seemingly a second nature for them is a hard act to follow for the rest of us. Happy souls may be generally thought of as only living in the present  – living in the moment today and/or not burdening themselves with the possibilities of the coming tomorrow. Vivre au present is good but it does not entail throwing away your responsibilities and cares to achieve this. The thinker Ralph Emerson says, “We live in succession, in division, in parts, in particles” and that is perhaps, a very ineffective way of living.

When I was in school I came across this English idiom ‘the wood for the trees’. This is used to refer to someone who cannot see the wood for the trees cos they get so caught up in small details that they fail to understand the bigger picture. While the rest of us are so engrossed in the act of thinking and focused on the object of our thoughts, happy souls characteristically are able to happily assimilate the larger scope of life and live it out accordingly. While we wallow in and contend with stuff past and present, the happy soul not only lightly wafts through the same stuff but also acts upon and looks ahead to where our future lies.

I wish I too can develop this same lightness of spirit, and the capability to unfocus from the petty problems of yesterday and today to joyously welcome tomorrow.

EPILOGUE

Yesterday I was mock-wrestling with Bhumon the charm-kid (read more about him in Infinite Mischief) and he was expectedly getting the worse of it. Panting and tired he finally bade me to stop.  He collected his breath and told me with mirthful seriousness in his eyes, “Roon da, when I become bigger tomorrow, you will not be able to lift me off with the same ease.” Saying this, he laughed and ran off. A very good reason that, for looking forward to the future. That started me off thinking about some possible reasons for my own. 

[ "Simran 'Luk ahead dat is where ur future lies'" is the profile name for Simi in Orkut]

Magic in dough

As we turn into one of the busier lanes of Lajpat Nagar, we catch sight of this sign in neon lights proudly proclaiming ‘Shiv Dhaba – We Serve 36 Types of Paranthas’. It was my early days in Delhi then and so, I marveled at this seemingly unbelievable declaration. Back home in Assam, paranthas are a frugal affair with a thin round apologetic-looking specimen surrounded by a (mostly) watery concoction of lentils and aloo. In Delhi which for me, is the parantha capital of the country, the parantha is not just dough, it is a boisterous, aroma-filled way of life. Trust the Delhites to turn around anything and make it a celebration!!

My initial snobbish reaction towards paranthas has turned into a great liking for this magical piece of dough. Stuffed paranthas or just the plain parantha, the happy parantha swimming around in its own pool of melted butter, the busy-looking parantha which comes accompanied with a full attendance of sabzi, dal, pickle, onion rings, dahi et al – I have met them all in Delhi. Delhi was also the place where I got introduced to the more elaborate and regal-sounding eastern cousin – the Mughlai Parantha which is stuffed with beaten egg and keema (minced meat).

This liking started innocuously enough and like all good things in life, took its own time in blossoming fully. I liked only the plain parantha at first, and then I started preferring the stuffed ones. I looked down upon those dunking their paranthas in quarter-makkhan (1/4^th of a 100 gm stick of Amul butter) thinking to myself ‘look at these poor calorie freaks’ until I myself started doing the same with every single order. Later during my post-graduate days where there was a long line of small eateries behind our college dishing out paranthas of every description, I used to derive great pleasure from simply reading out their parantha-filled menu cards. Just look at these, I told myself, they have Aloo paranthas – Aloo-piyaz paranthas – Gobi (cauliflower) paranthas – Gajar (carrot) paranthas - Mooli (radish) paranthas – Paneer (cottage cheese) paranthas – Andaa (egg)  paranthas – Chicken paranthas – Keema paranthas. In Delhi you might be forgiven for believing that every conceivable veggie after getting chopped, boiled or masticated finds itself stuffed inside a parantha.

If one thinks that fascination for the delights of this heavens-fried flat bread is confined to the northern part of the country, then the southern cousin ‘parotta’ provides ample gastronomic evidence to the contrary. Some of the tiny Mangalorean eateries in Mumbai offer the crisply-fried and layered parotta endemic to south India. I found these perfect and spent many an evening tearing off succulent pieces of the parotta and dunking them in the coconut- and tamarind-flavoured rassa (curry) provided gratis and even with omelettes.

Sometime later in Kerala I had the opportunity to savour their local parotta which is fluffier cos the dough is prepared with egg, thus making the bread rise more. This parotta I found, was quite scrumptious when paired off with a side-dish of the local fiery mutton or chicken curry.

I feel that the parantha is demonstrably the most gracious of hosts. Whether you are pouring out a piping Mangalorean rassa next to it or lining its insides with fenugreek or even cashew, the parantha welcomes with alacrity everything that we Indians, see fit to embellish it with. 

Sufi-aana

I find the following words from the Sufi song ‘Iktara’ (the male solo version from ‘Wake Up Sid’) particularly affecting:

“…..Beeti Raat Baasi Baasi Padi Hai Sirahane

Band Darwaza Dekhe Lauti Hai Subah…..”

Which translated into English would roughly say,” The spent pillow is the only remnant of a restless night; Morning comes only to retrace its steps when it sees the door closed.”

I suppose it is these heart-aching sentiments of restlessness and loss as felt in that vision of the sleep-lorn pillow and that door tightly clasped shut, which evoke this affection. Good poetry succeeds with a simplicity in words and a vividness in images, in ensnaring the mind and oftentimes, the heart too.

The words of the Sufi poets strung together along like so many pearls, in praise of the Lord and complete surrender of the self in His love, have this innate quality of being profound while being extremely simple. The pantheon of the great Sufi poets that is Hafez, Rumi, Yunus Emre and so many others, have bequeathed mankind a wealth of wisdom and truths in the form of lyrics. Sufi poetry makes extensive use of parables, allegories and metaphors and while all poetry is at some level always an expression of the self, Sufi poets just as Sufism, often expound upon a heightened experience with the spiritual. An encounter of the kind I guess, which gives rise to intense epiphanies of the soul.

I found it bewildering when I first read Sufi poetry cos it spoke of a love for God so intense, so personal, so passionate. My orientation towards that same spiritual being was always one of fear (when I was a kid), sometimes augmented with great supplication (at exam times), later on replaced by a sense of enquiry and supplanted in periods of personal turmoil, with deep disbelief. Disparate from typical fear and insecurity, Sufism provides a refreshingly simple and bold approach. Sufism and Sufi poetry very uncharacteristically accord the same love to God which you or I would accord to a dearly beloved – replete with yearning and intense desires. Sample these lines by Yunus Emre:

“Your love has wrested me away from me,
You're the one I need, you're the one I crave.
Day and night I burn, gripped by agony,
You're the one I need, you're the one I crave.”

For whomsoever these words may seem to be addressed to at first glance, these lines actually form a conversation between the Soul (who is pining away) and the Creator (the object of desire); it is a symbolic dialogue between the murid (disciple) and his Murshid (Master or God).

Shorn of all embellishments and forged with a rare purity, Sufism is in its essence, just the soul, and about laying it unencumbered with material dualities and connecting with the Divine. A very simple message in all this is: let your soul be enslaved by the love of God and you will be emancipated of impurities. As Hafez of Shiraz the most popular Persian poet, proudly proclaims, “I am the slave of love, I am free of both worlds.”

For the Sufi I guess, mornings tiptoe in with an easy liquid grace after a restful night's sleep on a content pillow, for in his house the door is always open.

Marigolds for Eyes

In little bits and many ways, Simi embodies the guileless and impeccant attitude of a child-like mind. Like I mentioned before, she imbibes an utterly simple mechanism to realise the good and the bad around, without having to resort to duplicity, verbal calisthenics and the rest of that sum total which I suppose, we call ‘worldliness’. No wonder then, that Simi likes wholesome, good-natured and fun films ; films like ‘Jumanji’, ‘Notting Hill’, ‘Baby’s Day Out’, the ‘Home Alone’ series  and so many of Shah Rukh’s ventures. A necessary ingredient when one has a predilection for the kind of films which I just mentioned above is I am pretty sure, a sense of wonderment. Wonder is a precious gift, and too many films now attempt to discover it through cacophony; the trend today seems to create wonder not in the story or in its characters, but in digitally-enhanced sequences.

Anyway, Simi it seems gravitates towards wholesome entertainment in films – a dash of romance, light touches of fantasy, just the appropriate dollop of adventure, canvasses of colourful ecstasy, and loads and loads of comedy. Films which serve this delectable assortment are generally classified as ‘family’. While we are discussing ‘family movies’, I wish to de-bunk 2 myths. A children’s film is not always a family film, neither is an animated one. Now that we have established what a family movie is ‘not’, let us move forward to what it ‘may be’.

A simple rule of thumb for this definition, may be what Roger Ebert prescribes. He says, “A children’s film is a movie at which adults are bored. A family movie is a movie at which, if its good, nobody’s bored.” So, a family film is positioned to appeal not only to a younger audience but to a wide range of viewers. Family films seek to traverse this apparently-disjoint spectrum through an unique balance of story-boarding and humour which oozes sly wit and an edginess, while still remaining universal in appeal.

                                                   

Family films explore universal themes – if ‘E.T.’ is about an unlikely friendship, the ‘The Railway Children’ speaks about dignity in adversity while ‘Fly Away Home’ explores among other things, the sometimes-tenuous bond between child and parent. Family films are wonderful exponents for love too; in ‘Up (2009)’, the tender romance between a reticent Carl and a tomboyish Ellie first sparks and then takes wings with absolutely no spoken words, and on the magical canvas of a lilting score by Michael Giacchino.  

While it is true that so many avant garde family films are actually animated or seem targeted towards the young or the young-at-heart, it is apparent (but not why exactly, to me atleast) that where the story involves children and their immediate setting (parents, teachers, the neighbourhood bully, the reclusive but kind-hearted old neighbour et al), the magic that appears through the child’s eyes and his uncertain place in the world of obtuse-looking adults somehow are easily relateable to most of us too.

I would like to borrow Ebert’s words in his review of ‘E.T.’ to underscore the purport of family films. He says, “This movie made my heart glad. It is filled with innocence, hope, and good cheer. It is also wickedly funny and exciting as hell. This is a movie that you can grow up with and grow old with, and it won't let you down.” It is a moment of intense epiphany for me when I realise that these are just the words I would use to describe Simi. This wonderous touch of gladness, fun, excitement, good-naturedness and timelessness was Simi’s touch too.

Hasta mañana, Simi!  

Always The Confetti Girl

Her name in the rolls came at 18…or was it 19? She wore mostly cheerful-looking, bright-coloured clothes to college, in fact, I think she favoured a bright, fluorescent green top often. I realise now that I know so little about her then, that it is only by concentrating on the slight details that I can describe her.  So, Jassimran Kaur’s roll no. is 18 or 19 in our MBA batch; she has this la-de-da air about her that I must say is infectious; she starts coming in for classes I guess, 2 or 3 weeks after the session began. She does not take much time in making friends.

In fact, when I squint and try hard to remember stuff about her, all I come up with are pretty random, inconsequential-appearing stuff. Like that time our batch goes for an outbound trip to the hills where we undertake all kinds of activities in groups and pairs. We go rock-climbing on a cliff face where the climber wearing safety harness belts, ascends using precarious holds, while another person on the ground (belayer) holds a rope attached to the climber’s safety, anchoring him. Well, when it is Simi’s (that’s Jassimran) turn to climb up, I am her belayer. As Simi climbs up, I have to slowly feed out the rope and if she gets stuck at any point, I have to hold the rope fast. And Simi does not make the task any easier. She flings her legs wildly, cries out for assistance repeatedly, loudly protests about the utter stupidity of the task just like most of us (all this while still on her way up), but reaches the top somehow. Finally, it seems to me.

Another time, we are seated next to each other in a test. I must have spent half the time on my paper and the other half assisting Simi with hers. Every so often, Simi looks up, softly whispers in my direction, and then I would look up too and whisper back the answer to her. Simi typically does not have many of the answers for the test but how does anyone refuse Simi?

While we are discussing Simi, the subject of her seemingly indecipherable name makes for a delightful side-story. Most of us in the batch are acquainted with the name ‘Simran’ (well, someone who has seen DDLJ knows anyway, but then who among us has not seen DDLJ?!), but Jassimran?? In the beginning I guess, some of us call her ‘Simran’ and a few even tease her with ‘Just-Simran’. Added to all these, faculty members develop a particular ability to pronounce her name in hilarious tongue-twisting individual versions. Finally, when it seems that her name could not further morph, someone comes up with ‘Simi’; or maybe it is she herself who puts an end to all the name-changing. And Simi is how she’s known now. I did not care to understand what ‘Jassimran’ actually meant then, but with a little effort now, I am delighted to miraculously (it seems) discover how that unique name, that mystical-sounding nomenclature fits her to a T. Jassimran is a Sikh name, etymologically derived from ‘Jas’ meaning praise or glory, and ‘Simran’ meaning ‘realisation of the highest truth and purpose in one’s life’ or alternatively ‘rememberance through deliberation, meditation and realisation’. So, Jassimran simply explained, is the glorious commitment of the consciousness to the higher spiritual, awakened and self-aware state.

The thing about Simi which I realise fully now (well, I grasped the tip of this even back then) is that she’s one of them. You do not meet too many of them (I have befriended exactly 3) cos simply, they are not around much. Yes, they are individuals but they exist within such a wonderous space encompassing individuality, freedom and the amazingly prescient ability to realise almost, the entirety of the universe around them, that when they are with you, you unknowingly exult in their glow but when they are not there, you long for that indefinable quality which you do not seem to get anywhere else. They are what you would call ‘happy souls’; happy not in that they do or say things which are self-appeasing but they believe in utterances and actions which are so much in harmony with the things around them. If all this sounds too dense, then I suppose it is my inadequacy which makes it seem so. For when I remember that happy and bright light which we used to call ‘Simi’, a simple and deep warmth of the touch of a singularly wonderful person is the first thing which I feel. And as time goes by, increasingly it is the only thing I feel and remember. And that is enough.

[Simi’s birthday comes on 22^nd July and in this month, CPq will explore the happiness and the little joys which I guess, Simi would have liked to share in]

Nippon steel in the family

The Second World War (1939 to 1945), the most “widespread war in history” affected hundreds of millions of people worldwide; it has affected me too, albeit in a small way. My grandfather (‘aata’) who was trained as a surgeon, was involved in WW II. He was a part of the British Indian Army Medical Corps, and had actively served in the war in Burma (now Myanmar), where the allies first stemmed, and then pushed back the Japanese juggernaut that was threatening the entire continent. Aata probably served in those frenetic battle-field medical stations just behind the front lines, where the freshly wounded would be immediately brought in and being a surgeon, he must have been involved in some pretty hairy situations. Anyway, aata was with the allied troops when they marched into Rangoon (erstwhile capital of Burma, now Yangon), recapturing it from the Japanese army.

My beloved Aata

When the war ended, aata was honourably discharged from the army. He returned home, now an Army Captain and bringing a very special object, a ‘spoil of war’ if you will. Aata was just a doctor, mind you; he was no warrior but when he came back from the war, he carried with him a warrior’s weapon – a Japanese samurai sword, a “katana”. 

The Imperial Japanese Army required all its officers to wear the sword and as a symbol of aggression, it must have been very effective. The unsheathed katana and the accompanying cry of “Banzai!” have remained enduring images of the belligerent Japanese army in WW II. The story behind the katana in our family is simple enough – aata prised loose the sword from the cold grasp of a dead Japanese officer lying in a paddy field. Steel from Nippon was widely regarded then as is now, as being the very best of fighting steel and the samurai sword which the Japanese Emperor Hirohito mandated all his officers to carry, was very sought-after by the Allied troops.

It was I guess in the early 1990s, that I saw our katana. My father drew out the sword from its maroon-coloured scabbard very carefully. It looked distinguished even after all the years; it was very slender and had a continuous curved blade. My father began telling me about the sharpness of the blade; the katana was quickly put to the test, first on a hapless water gourd and then again, on a few, fat potatoes. It ran through the veggies like a knife goes through butter. The veggies decimated, my father sheathed it back and I can still remember how pleased I was with the entire demonstration. The katana was not mounted or exhibited in the house; the reason for that I feel now, was cos of its history as a weapon of war. Instead it was kept high up (remember I was small then) on top of a wooden bureau, carefully rolled up inside a piece of large cloth.

For a few years, the katana was the companion of Nitul dada (the son of my father’s elder brother). In his teens, dada used to sleep with the katana under his bed, I suppose as a weapon against burglars. I can understand how as a boy, dada must have been fascinated with the katana. To my anguish, I was too small then to wield it. The katana is a single-edged sword; its razor-sharp cutting edge is a meticulous blend of unique Japanese steel called ‘tamahagane’. It must have been to protect dada from any accidents that the razor-sharp edge of the katana was blunted by repeated hammerings but it was sharp nevertheless, as the veggie exercise showed.

Shortly afterwards, aata and 'ai' (my grandmother) died, my parents and I moved out from our ancestral home and the memory of the katana faded. It was almost a year back while on a visit to our old home that I remembered the katana and I asked Nitul dada (now a 40-something father of 2 daughters) where the sword was. Dada did not know. I guess we have lost that little, history-laden bit of Nippon steel. Or is it even now, lurking in a long-forgotten corner of the house waiting to be taken out of its scabbard to be shown to a new generation?