8.29 Local Beckons

It’s already 8.27 ante meridian.

Parking his scooter at the disheveled parking-lot of Mambalam station, he was heedlessly rushing like his every usual day, but without missing any of his automated routines. Probably a psychologist would term them as OCDs (obsessive compulsive disorders), but he cared a hoot of what others think of him, leave alone the psychologists. Skipping any of those die-hard habits, he believed, would make his day miserable.

He shook the handle of his scooter twice to ensure it was securely locked and fastened his helmet to the bracket; troubled the handle once again before hurrying towards the station with his sling bag clung to his shoulder. As he crossed the Ganesha temple, he got out of the slip-on shoes, stood over them for a moment with his knees slightly bent forward and knocked his head thrice with his knuckles muttering something like a prayer; dropped a generous two rupee coin into the usual dented bowl of the usual leper squatting in the usual place; customarily covered his nostrils as he speeded through the urinal stink and increased his pace as he neared the flight of stairs. The siren of the distant train comforted him that he was in time.

Start of the day was not anything like this. At 630 in the morning, Parandaman was much more a relaxed person. He would squat on the small thinnai of his house and spread The Hindu in front and take the news and his filter coffee in alternate gulps. But it would gradually gain momentum and when he came out of his bath reciting the slokas, passed down through the generation, he would already be multi-tasking with dressing up, stuffing his bag with his paraphernalia like paper, tiffin box etc at the same time muttering his morning prayers. The sprint would peak at the breakfast table and he’d gush in whatever was on the plate. ‘Why this head-butchering urgency? Heaven is not going to fall, if you miss the 8.29’, his wife’s admonition to slow him down would only irritate him, but he would not retort. His irritation would show up when he kick-started his scooter which frequently refused to button-start.

Two years back he used to be more stress-free. He was not very fussy about taking this 8.29 local to Beach station where he would switch another train to get to his office. Things changed, when a small unassuming gadget appeared at his front office. This little inanimate creature reminded him of the old Tamil maxim which roughly translates as ‘don’t under-estimate the power of the murthy (idol) by its size’. This biometric reader impartially and religiously recorded the time of entry and exit of every employee. Initially he didn’t take it too seriously, but one fine day, it started triggering innocuous mails of his entry and exit timings- with cc to his boss. He could not ignore it anymore. Initially this had put undue pressure on him and now has got used to that hurry as a way of life.

Climbing up a flight of forty steps made him pant and he halted for a while after going up, as though looking out for the ‘Fast’ train, while trying to control his gasp. Then he alighted on platform no 1 jit (just in time) as the 8.29 arrived at the platform at 8.33.

The relief of having got into the train faded away when he lost the lone vacant seat to a senior citizen who overtook him. He occupied a corner comfortable enough to stand and hold his newspaper. He pulled out the newspaper from his bag and folded it fourfold and started going on from where he left. He used this also as a strategy to create an elbow room from the co-commuters who would soon occupy every inch of the floor-space.

The conversation happening near him drew his attention and he gave keener ear to it while he kept on the pretense of reading.

‘I can’t believe it, I saw him in our coach two days back’.

‘But who can predict this yaar? no one is born with the expiry date. And such things do not come announcing; he was in a hurry to his office. But he never knew that he was actually in a hurry to leave forever.’

‘What actually happened?’

‘He was hit and thrown off by the 9.10 local as he was crossing the track to take the Velachery train on the other platform.’

‘He was really a very nice guy’.

‘Poor fellow, he had such a caring wife. She couldn’t control her grief. It seems she’d tell him almost every day not to be in such a maddening hurry. Who knows? May be she had this premonition’.

Parandaman couldn’t hear any more. He was full of emotions -all sympathy for his wife and himself too. He felt how badly he had been treating his wife. It was after all, the care she had for him that she showed as anger. How many days has he really cared to appreciate her for the nice dishes she so-painstakingly prepares. He couldn’t think of a single day, he even spoke to her some nice words. He felt cruel about himself. These thoughts were churning in him even during the day and he decided to should change himself - from Tomorrow.

The day had worn on and gave in to the next day. Parandaman was back at the breakfast table. He looked at his watch. Oh, no, it’s already time for the 8.29 local.

White Moustache and Inertia

"Everybody continues to be in the state of rest or uniform motion..." his daughter, who is in seventh class, was mugging up the Newton's laws.

'Hey, it's not everybody, it is every body' he shouted as he was having his shave in front of the mirror. Unless he shows his Physics prowess at least once in a day he'd not get his night's sleep- thought his wife from the kitchen.

'why is it not everybody, pappa?' asked his daughter with curiosity.

'because, Newton's laws applies to only inanimate bodies and not to human beings', he said as he came to her study, wiping his face with the turkish towel.

'hey pappa, your white mousche has grown thicker?'

Hearing this, his wife came there asking, 'oh, you have not removed it today also. How many times should I tell you it doesn't look nice on your face?'

'But how can I have it on somebody else's face?' he tried to joke and evade the issue.

'Enough, it's dripping from your face!' remarked she and went back to continue with her morning chores.

'What is dripping pappa?' asked his daughter innocently. It's not a Physics question to show his brilliance. It's a idiomatic usage in their vernacular, where 'it' denotes stupidity. But he managed his daughter's question by asking, 'have I not wiped the foam fully from my face; do you also find it dripping?' Ashamed of his reply, he could feel it dripping now.

He left the the stubs, salt-only-no pepper, unshaved on the upper part of his lips for a couple of days under the pretext of an acne that was showing up below the nose. But somehow, he later was tempted to grow into a moustache since it reminded him of his boyhood days. Once it becomes a full thick one, I'd colour it black- he thought.

But no one was tolerant of this new development either at home or at office. It's after all his mousch, why should he care about what others say, think or feel about it.

But the last one week had really been literally a struggle defending his new move. He had to answer many people around him. His boss was more concerned. After five days he remiinded him whether his acne is still persisting. He was not this concerned even when he was down with typhoid and didn't turn up to office for a week.

One more day of ordeal at the office. Work was no big deal. But dealing with the people who came out with various advice on his mousche was really annoying which he had to put up with a smiling face, because they all came wearing a well-intentioned garb. His boss started looking at him as though he was mentally sick.

Next morning he entered the bathroom with a firm determination. And there he came out with a clean shaven face. His wife saw him and beamed a broad smile, as though with a pride of a woman who saved her husband from the brink of a disaster. His daughter cheered him, 'pappa, today it's not dripping' and went back to her mugging up, 'ever body will continue to be in the state of...

He mused- Newton's law applies to people as well, but with a small difference: everybody will continue in the same state and if he or she tried to change the state, all the external agencies will unite together bring them back to the original state.

An Octogenarian's Birthday Party

I am turning 80 today. My son, his wife and his three-year old son have travelled all the way from Austin just to celebrate my entering eighties. They are here for the last one week running around and doing things in a hush-hush manner, lest I come to know of their secret plans.

I have stopped being a partying type long ago and in the normal course, I would have said a blunt 'no' to celebration of any kind. But when my son came on skype two months back and strongly suggested with an emotional undertone, I couldn't say 'no'. I also thought probably this could be the only occasion I may get to see my American-born grandson. Yet, I told him sternly that it should be a simple home-bound function without much fanfare and with only the close-ones as guests. All he said was 'leave it to me, I know what you like and what you don't'. I didn't want to be any fussy further.

I must have slept a little long, for I already hear the whispers coming from our drawing room. Out of curiosity, I peep out through the slit in the closed door to see who all have come.

My son knows that I have the wont for getting up late and going for a bath straight from my bed. He had instructed me the previous night that I should wear the new silk dhothi and the saffron slack kurta, which he specially got tailor-made for me.

I am seeing many friendly faces milling around in the hall- young and old- some of them who have worked with me as my colleagues -many of my nephews and nieces whom I have seen during most part of their growing up- neighbours of past and present from different time zones of my life.

Ah, when did my ears become so sharp! I am able to even hear some of them talking to those next to them. May be, they are rehearsing what they would say when I get there. One of my ex-colleagues was nostalgically recalling a training session of mine when I'd ask them to fantasize their eightieth birthday and imagine what their guests would speak of them. The exercise was intended to trigger the thought on life's purpose and vision. I was eavesdropping into what he was saying, 'remember the eighties exercise, he has truly lived up to what he used to say- to live a life of simplicity.' Another one was extolling about my erudition and modesty.

My son has really surprised me. I never thought he'd invite all those close to my heart. But how, at all, did he know? As I was relishing the good words coming in the air, oh, whom am I seeing there in the corner, a fragile figure seated in a wheel chair, oh, who is that - face looks very familiar, but somehow I am not able to place him. Is it that I am getting old and memory is growing weaker? No, not that, I must not have seen him since ages. Suddenly, a chubby boyish face in school uniform flashed across my mind. Oh, how can I forget my best buddy in my school? Oh, how we used to chat and giggle over every little thing for endless hours those days!

My zest and eagerness to meet my good old friend got the better of me that I totally forgot my son's instructions and started walking in to the hall. How can the celebrity of the day be in the night dress amidst all the important people of my life? But that thought could not stop me and I found me moving towards the gathering.

Why no one is noticing me walking through them?

Oh god! What am I seeing? I am lying there amidst them, still sleeping peacefully.

Grow like a Tree In the Jungle of Work

                                                           

Oak and pine are the tallest of them all

That rise over the rest with brisk and risk,

But oh, how mighty is their fall

At the blow of a wind too strong and fast!

See the grass that surrounds the pine

Smiling and dancing unmindful of any gale or rain

For it believes not in growing tall

But in enjoying the every ‘now’ that befall

There is this banyan spreading far and wide

Helping every branch to grow its stem and root

And from them draws its strength and spread

To provide its underlings the much-needed shade.

It is in the newness that the plantain believes

And blooms with a newer shoot day after day;

With its fruit and bud, and stem and leaves

It serves the humankind in myriad ways.

And that Chinese bamboo takes its own sweet time

Not a month or two, but about years four to five

On its 10K hour journey to mastery, as Gladwel asserts,

Yes, that is the time bamboo takes to deepen its roots

Grow you may in whatever way

While you carry on in the world of work:

Taller, or wider, or newer, or deeper,

But make sure to align it to your inner core.

You know what really matters at the end of the day

Is not the money you earned or the fame you reaped;

But how happy were you, is what truly counts,

In putting that smile on the face of the world.

 - Bharath Gopalan

Die-hard Hoarder of Notes

Demonetisation came as a big jolt to me, at a time I could have least expected it. I was travelling and my worry was more about what would happen to all my notes I have been hoarding for long.

8^th November 2016, it was night ten past ten. The flight hit the runway with a thud at the Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport and was jerking awake the sleepy passengers all the way like an auto-ride on Lakeview road back home at chennai. ‘....You are free to use your mobile phones now, but keep your seat belts fastened until the plane comes to a complete halt. Please remember to take your belongings from the seat pocket’, announced the flight attendant into her hand-held phone. I pulled out from the seat pocket in front of me, the printout of my ticket on the back of which I had scribbled down many of my random thoughts in my hardly-decipherable handwriting, folded it carefully as though it were some precious thing and pushed into my shirt packet. Yes, I had jotted down some thoughts on a recent experience with a cabbie that affected me deeply. And I must say it is my wont to scribble my thoughts like this on every piece of paper I find.

Let me get back to my story. I pulled out my MotoG and powered it on. As the Samsungs and iphones around me got alive instantly and were beeping and pouring out all their three-hours of pent-up messages like a loyal pet on master’s return, my mobile was still struggling to find its signal. I could hear someone yelling, ‘hei, this can’t be true yaaar’ looking at his mobile. Another was speculating that ensuing elections could be the reason. As I was trying to make out what they they all talking about, the watsup messages in my phone were also cryptic: ‘the media prepared for Trump; Modi came out of syllabus’; ‘America counting votes; India counting notes’. As I moved up to the earlier ones sent, it started making sense to me; all the messages starting from eight pm had just one theme – deometisation.

I opened my wallet, Gandhiji was smiling at my spate, from ten pieces of atm-fresh 500s that I had drawn that morning and stuffed into my wallet. I remembered how quickly I brushed aside the thought: why no 100s at all. As I was wondering how I would push the next four days at Kolkata without any valid notes in my wallet, another thought stuck me. Notes- what will happen to all my notes at home. Come to think of it, they are lying in bits and pieces in every nook and corner of my home and some of them in my office too. You will find them hidden in my books and diaries or even the old newspapers. I have been thinking converting all my notes and moving them into digital for some time, but I knew it was a monumental task; I have not even kept track of them and would not be able to provide a coherent account.

My wife had given a warning threat to me as I was leaving home in the evening. I am going to throw out all these old magazines and books to radhiwala. Though she is a cleanliness freak, this was something she has been putting up with. May be, she is running out of patience now.  Does she know the real value buried inside each of them? If only she would try to skim though and get all those notes stuffed inside.  Would she care to do it? Why not call her and tell her openly all about it?  But somehow, my prestige stopped me from doing that.

Somehow I managed the next four days with the help of plastic money and some friends, and returned home on Saturday. First thing I did, after clearing my packet of all my paraphernalia on my desk, was to rush to the room to ensure my precious notes are untouched. Oh what a relief, everything was intact, the way I left them.

‘Can I clear your desk of these papers and throw them in trash?’ shouted my wife from the hall.

‘oh no, why are you in such a hurry?’ I rushed to salvage all the Notes I have made on the air ticket printout and on other bits of paper during my four days sojourn at Kolkata.

I opened my laptop with a strong determination. Yes, I am going to digitise all my notes right away- right from today.