I Am A Stranger Here Myself

Bill Bryson is one of my favorite authors – primarily because his writing is totally non-pretentious, is not about any great philosophical. political or scientific thoughts, uses an English which does not need a frequent visit to dictionary.com and has a genuine frank quality as if that’s how he intended to write it in his first draft – ‘straight from the heart’. One such published works of his is “I am a stranger here myself”. Bryson was born in Iowa and spent a great deal of his lifetime (20 years) in Great Britain. This book is a collection of his memoirs after he returned from the Queen’s kingdom and started a new life in New Hampshire, USA. The essays in the book talk about his memories of life in America when he left and the difference in the life in America when he comes back. Of course, Bryson with his blunt and acidic style lends these essays a humorous and a candid tone. This post is not about this book, but just about how similar these experiences are for me personally when I visit India (moving back to my motherland might actually further broaden these experiences).

With every trip after the first 5 years of living in the United States, I find my own country, even my own town a bit stranger. I find myself trying to look for a sign of some semblance of that place I could relate to, of a place I was familiar with. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like there is nothing that I cannot relate to. There is plenty, as they say, you can never leave home. The home I grew up in, still feels like me, still responds to me and I to it. I know its secrets, and it mine. I know where the courtyard slopes slightly and a small puddle of water will form after it rains, I know which cabinet door needs a little play to open, I know which light switch needs to be pressed a little harder for the light to stay ON, I know that place underneath the window sill where a sparrow builds a nest in summer, I know how the light flows in the living room as the Sun struts from East to West, I know where my dad keeps the tools, I know where my mom keeps loose change, I know how it smells in every season, I know that the sink faucet drips - I know it, and it knows me. Sadly though, I can’t say the same about my neighborhood, about my city, about my country. I am loosing it, by each passing day, or it’s loosing me with each passing day. But to them three, the loss doesn’t mean much; to me however, it’s like losing a parent. It’s all but natural to have a neighborhood, city or a nation change after 10 years, after all I have. Some of this change is just a natural progression of things; most of it happened while I was away (totally my choice – to be away) and hence comes off as a shock when I experience it.

I don’t understand my neighborhood when I don’t see that little clearing where we played cricket after school (there is a temple there now – like we needed more of those), when some of my childhood friends (with whom I played cricket on that clearing) have become exactly the kind of people I keep myself far away from, when the lake near my house is now a garbage dump, when I hear the screams of a woman and find out that my neighbor is beating up his wife brutally (and the rest of the neighborhood says – it’s a regular thing). This whole neighborhood seems like a bizarre place – it bears no resemblance to the one I left 10 years ago - save for the flickering street light in front of my house – it still flickers as if along with me it’s trying desperately to hold on to a sweeter past.

I don’t understand my city when some of the streets I rode my bicycle (or moped) have disappeared, when old cinema halls have given way to new shopping malls, when my school building looks like a sad ware house, when I feel scared driving on a lonely street at night, when the evening Sun blankets a dense smog/haze on the city which lingers on late into the night rendering the night sky absolutely starless. There is a big cricket stadium, there are a few multiplexes, there are swanky new restaurants, but at the same time the slums have grown in size, the Thursday crowds at the Sai temple offer tens of thousands of rupees to the temple and the hundreds of kids begging for money outside the temple seem to be increasing in numbers each Thursday.

I don’t understand my country when I see people stand up dutifully to the national anthem before the start of a movie in the cinema hall and completely ignore their civic duties to the Nation, when everyone seems to be in an insane hurry on the roads but have all the time in the world for everything else, when people are running over young children and senior citizens on the roads as if it were a competitive sport, when people honk incessantly at nothing or no one in particular, when cell phone service is cheaper than sugar or pulses, when television oozes such gunk it stinks up the entire living room, when SMS and Orkut scraps is an effective way to communicate with the youth, when I see little kids wearing masks on school buses (supposed to protect them from the swine flu), where every village has cell phone coverage but little essential medical facilities, when vegetables are spray painted to make them look fresh, when you can pay your water bill online but there is little water in the taps, when you can pay your electric bill online but have to spend 4 hours a day (on a good day) without electricity, when I cannot tell how many exact states there are in the Nation.

I am sure, no I am positive, that if I spend sufficient time (cannot quantify this time just yet), when things will change in front of my eyes, I will become one with the change. But for now, every time I visit, I feel like I am walking in a dream, a bizarre dream, a dream that I wish I will wake up from any minute and will find myself back in a familiar place. Instead, the dream keeps becoming even more bizarre and incomprehensible. What is comforting though, is that after spending an entire day of living through this crazy unfamiliar dream, I can return back to my familiar bed in the room of my childhood home, a bed whose musky smell I remember and whose little quirky bumps my back knows of and automatically aligns itself to avoid them.

Raj and Rashmi

There are movies that shape or define a generation. They have a large scale impact on an entire demographic and help create trends, slangs, dictate fashion, attitudes and the overall outlook of a generation. There are some that have made a mark during the formative years (late 1980s to late 1990s) of the generation that I belong to. Note that this post is not about the quality of these movies and is not about reviewing them, or categorizing them as good or bad. It's purely from a perspective about the impact they had during that era. One such movie was released in March 1988 : Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak

This was the quintessential love story that defined every teenage boy and girl who were in love and should not have been for a multitude of reasons - different cast, different socio-economic status, family feuds, reiligion, etc. Outwardly, it told a story of an innocent, careless and impractical love amongst two naive youths blinded by their love and passion. Aamir Khan and Juhi Chawla played the lead roles of Raj and Rashmi. They were mostly unknown before the release of this movie and exuded freshness, innocence and the audacity required for their characters. These are characters who know from the outset that their love is doomed and yet continue on a path which they know will eventually lead to destruction. They keep convincing each other that it will be otherwise - a song much later in the movie "Akele hain toh kya gham hain, chaahe toh humaare bass mein kya nahi" defines their blind conviction that they can lead a life of their own without the need of any other worldly possesions but their love for each other.

It was the late 1980s and the 15-20 year olds were slowly coming out of the clutches of the Socialist Indian State of the late 70s and early 80s. There was a growing restlessness of spreading their wings and curiosity of finding out what else is out there. India's youth was stirring. The middle-class youth wanted to define themselves as more than just doctors and engineers but did not know how to, as there weren't many avenues for them to explore as they exist today. They looked at their father's generation and wanted to desperately break out of the mould of working for governments or banks. When Aamir Khan sang (in Udit Narayan's voice) "Papa Kehte Hain", it instantly became the clarion call for this confused generation. Many a Papas at that time deplored the bravado of the song secretly and openly and hoped that their sons do not venture onto the path like Raj.

The story is about Raj and Rashmi who belong to two families who have a bloody history which leads them to being at a feud that last generations. Of course, Raj and Rashmi fall in love and both the families go at each other's throats over it. After some scenes of good on-screen chemistry between Aamir and Juhi, a few melodious songs (composed by Anand-Milind who never could deliver another score as refreshing as this one) and much melodrama the movie ends in the tragic death of the lead characters. This is where lies the irony, despite the brutal death of Raj and Rashmi which is not a typical end to a movie and is certainly not what an Indian moviegoer expects, this movie became a phenomenon. Conventional wisdom would say that such a tragic ending will serve as a moral lesson to the youth to not venture on such foolish missions as to conquer the love of your life against all odds (the "love" could be a girl or a not so conventional career-path or a life in a distant country or a business venture -anything that was supposed to be beyond their reach).

But the effect was exactly the opposite: This very generation became one of the first to break the norm and ventured to distant lands in hordes, started new businesses which were unthinkable in the India of the 70s, created massive wealth (and employment), helped shape some of the public policies and became the foundation of the "India Shining" generation. It was as if the entire generation was united to ensure that the Rajs and Rashmis in them do not meet a tragic end and in some fashion wanted to avenge their on-screen failure. (All this, of course could be a stretch of my imagination and might not carry much credibility. For some concrete proof, you will have to wait until my research paper titled " The Effect of Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak on the Indian Youth of 1980s and how it shaped the India of the 21st Century" gets published).

Besides this, the superficial impact of the movie was observed in -

- Girls tried to address themselves in plural, like Juhi does - "Tum Dilli Mein Hum Se Milo Ge Naa! Agar Na Milna Ho To Milne Ka Vaada Hi Kar Do, Kam Se Kam Hamein Tumhaara Intezar To Rahega"

- Girls yearned for the puppy faced Aamir Khan and searched for him in their boy-friends or prospective suitors

- Lover boys wanted a loyal confidante friend/cousin like Shyam (played by Raj Zutshi, a good actor in his own regard but got branded as the Hero's friend) and the girl wished for a friend like Kavita (played by Shehnaz - who was sparkling and continued to sparkle in Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar with her liberal use of the word "dear", a few years down the line)

The movie's impact on Hindi cinema was evident in -

- It opened the possibilities of casting largely unknown actors.

- Love stories came back in vogue after many years of an onslaught of multi-starrer social and violent dramas. Maine Pyar Kiya which was released in 1989, further cemented that young love means box office magic. This led to a flood of many mediocre movies starring newcomers and were lost in the pile, none could repeat the magic of this one.

- The trend of acronymizing (is this a word?) movies took firm hold from QSQT.

Even today, I sometimes pop the DVD of QSQT and spend my time with Raj and Rashmi to try and relive those years. I see them take the foolish step of running away from their feuding families only to die to the background of a sad version of "papa kehte hain". Each time, I wish that a miracle would happen and they somehow cheat death and succeed in getting whatever they desire. But then again I remind myself that their cruel and abrupt end is what made them the icons of my generation. A generation which sang along with them hoping for a dreamy, foolish world of young and frothy love:

ab ye naheen sapanaa, ye sab hain apanaa

ye jahaan pyaar kaa, chhotaan saa ye aashiyaan bahaar kaa

bas yek jaraa, saath ho teraa..

akele hai, to kyaa gam hai

chaahe to humaare bas mein kyaa nahee

Loosely translated:

all this is not a dream, all this is ours

this little home full of happiness..if our world of love..

all I need is your companionship..

you are me we are alone..but there are no qualms of being alone..

there is nothing that we cannot achieve ( if you are with me...)

Goodbye Dear Friend – You Served Well

On August 3rd 2009 after about 9 years and 107000 miles, I traded my VW Jetta for a brand new Infiniti EX 35. The Jetta was my first automobile – ever. Before her, I never really owned a vehicle of my own (other than bicycles). This post is a heartfelt goodbye to a good loyal friend.

I laid my eyes on you in July 2000 at a VW shop in Concord, New Hampshire. It was a hot day and your silver was shiny and clean. I must say I had not done much of research and analysis that usually goes into buying a new car at that time. With you, it was love at first sight. The world outside felt right when viewed from your windshield and the road ahead seemed inviting, and that was plenty for me to make you my own. From that day on, you became my only witness and companion in my discovery of America. We travelled to many exciting places together: the majestic White Mountains of New Hampshire, the beaches of Cape Cod, the great city of Boston , from the rocky Maine coastline, to the biggest of all cities - New York city. It was through you that I first saw the spectacular skyline of the Big Apple and the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center while driving on the New Jersey Turnpike. You were the one who drove me to my first US Open where I saw tennis legends like Pete Sampras and Martina Navratilova. It was you who took me to the Nation’s Capital for the first time, I still remember the thrill of seeing the great marble buildings and monuments of Washington DC driving on Constitution Avenue. You took me across the Allegheny Mountains to the Steel city and then further West into the vast open expanses of the Buckeye State. You were there when I received many a friends and family and you were there when I saw them off. You were there when I lost my job after that fateful Tuesday in September 2001. You took me to all the job interviews for the next three months and accepted me every single time when there was rejection all around.

You were the one who took me to the airport when I left for my wedding and you were there waiting eagerly when I brought A home for the first time. You were a little jealous I could see, but you welcomed her with warmth (your heated seats sure helped) in this cold country in January 2003. You helped A secure her driving permit and eventually, became her loyal friend.

You were the means to get to many happy occasions and a few sad ones. You were like a protective shell when you drove me to the airport when I had to leave for India for an extended time in early 2007 (when my mind was racing from bad thoughts to worse, you kept it sane on the road). You were there when I returned, you provided the much needed reassurance that not much has changed – “I am still here and ready for you”. You helped me assimilate back to my regular life after a long stressful hiatus.

You and me, we travelled thousands of miles, some good some bad, but mostly good. You got me where I am today safely and mostly on time. You did not ask for much attention and did not give up on me when I had given up on myself. You were true to your function and sometimes more. You have passed on but remember, dear friend, you will always be the “First”. Remember that. Drive in Peace. Adios.

Little Entrepreneurs

Spring is here and soon it will be summer. In local communities, little kids will set up lemonade stands and sell a glass of lemonade for a Quarter. It's not about the lemonade so much as it's about introducing the kids to how businesses function - the advertising, the setting up of the stand, the selling process, collecting money, counting the earnings of the day, customer service etc.- all, important and valuable lessons as the child steps into the adult world. I remember me and my younger brother had our own experiences of running "businesses" in the summer and Diwali breaks while growing up in Nagpur.

The Library
This was probably my 7th or 8th grade (that would be around 1987-1988). It was our indigenous idea. We had a respectable collection of comics, story books, novellas, magazines. Sample these:
Comics: Chacha Choudhary, Rajan Iqbal, Phantom, Lamboo Motu, Many titles of Amar Chitra Katha, Tinkle
Story books: Autobiography series from VidyaBharati of a diverse group of individuals such as Aurobindo Ghosh, Vinoba Bhave, Sarojini Naidu, Chandrasekhar Bose, Motilal Nehru, Swami Vivekananda, C V Raman and many more. There were also large volumes of stories of Akbar and Birbal and stories from Panchtantra.
Magazines: Mostly a stock pile of a Russian Magazine named Misha

We would store this potpourri of books in an old wooden cupboard in the mid-landing of the stairwell leading to the terrace of our house. Many of our neighborhood friends would envy our collection and would occasionally borrow books from us. So, one hot summer me and my brother came up with a plan: Why not charge them for each time they take these books from us? Right there the details of the plan were hashed out:
Name of the library: Om Library (that's the name of my parent's house)
Working hours: 9AM to 2PM (I think), Open daily unless the owners are out of town or are busy in some other summer vacation enjoyments
Charges: 10 paisa per rental, regardless of the size of the book, can borrow a maximum of 5 books per person.
Return rules: Books can be checked out for 5 days, 10 paisa per day late fees thereafter

We opened an old unused notebook and started a log. Advertising was all word of mouth. The word spread and slowly we had a steady flow of customers (some kids came from neighboring communities, kids we did not know prior to opening the library). The log was meticulously maintained and moneys were diligently collected. It wasn’t a well-oiled operation, there were a few defaulters and we lost some books. We also found that kids had started exchanging comics books rented out from us, amongst themselves prior to returning them. There was nothing we could do about it. At the end of the summer we closed the library. We had lost a few books, had gotten sloppy with maintaining the logs, but nevertheless had learnt a lot about operating a business. I think we had collected about fifty rupees and probably bought more comics from those earnings.

The Phataka Shop
We used to live in a joint family where my uncles (younger brothers of my father) lived with us. The younger of the two uncles had just started a new job but also wanted to make some extra buck on the side. He had acquaintances/friends who worked or owned wholesale firecracker shops in a part of Nagpur called Itwari. So one fine September, a month before Diwali, he decides that he will buy a stockpile of firecrackers from these wholesalers and sell them to families in our neighborhood at a slight premium which will be lesser than the shops nearby. He recruited me and my brother as his "Happy Helpers" and boy were we happy or what? It’s what every boy looks forward to in Diwali - the immensely satisfying experience of lighting fireworks each night of Diwali. This is the singular goal of the two weeks of the Diwali school break - which the vastly insensitive and we-have-no-life-so-you-should't-either teachers of our school would like to ruin by assigning 'Diwali Homework' prior to the break. Anyway, the thought that we will have a room full of fireworks in our own house was beyond our wildest imagination. We were ready to do anything to be near those magical boxes of – Sutali bombs (green colored little explosives which make an awful lot of noise), Laxmi bombs (long tubular explosives which have a picture of the goddess Laxmi), ladees (long strings of explosives), fuljhadees (sparklers), anaars, chakras, rockets, and many more.

So one glorious October morning a delivery van arrived at our house with many wooden boxes full of fireworks. The smell of barood (silvery powder that is the essential ingredient of the explosives) tingled and titillated our nostrils as the delivery guy unloaded these boxes. While we stood there on our verandah watching this spectacle with a look of such pride on our faces that we were the kings of the world, we secretly imagined our neighborhood friends were watching us from the slits of their windows and envying us for our good fortune. My uncle had already prepared the order lists using his typewriter and made many copies. Off we went from door to door handing out copies of these lists. Back at home we helped my uncle sort the goods in neat piles. Our eyes and open jaws were evidence of the pleasure we were deriving from that exercise: some of the boxes had colorful pictures of curiously voluptuous actresses of the Hindi Cinema: Jaya Prada, Sridevi, Rekha, Hema Malini, Mandakini and some others we couldn't recognize but curiously had the same body structures. Once all the boxes were arranged, we looked at the stock like parents look at their new born child for the first time. People started bringing in their orders from the next day, and while my uncle would do the calculations of the bill, me and my brother would pick out the items from the list and hand it to the customers. It was beyond magical - doing the whole dance of walking amongst those boxes, selecting the products for them with the occasional "only two of the plain sparklers, you should also try these colorful ones....they are new this year". We must have sounded like professional fireworks sellers; it was all an unbelievable dream that had come true.As the first day of Diwali dawned on us, we were still left with many unsold items and it as expected they were all for the Happy Helpers. It was the best Diwali ever, and in our opinion was the best business in the world.

Next year, we waited impatiently for our uncle to ask us again for our help, and when he did not bring the topic up; we indicated that we are ready for helping him out this year too. He said, he was too busy at work this year and will not be setting up the shop. We think he probably had made a loss last year, but nevertheless it was all well worth it for us kids. . Of course, we were disappointed, but with any childhood disappointments it lasted only a day or two. I still remember that Diwali of the “Phataka Shop”: me and my brother would wake up late at night and walk to that room full of fireworks, turn on the light, look at them for a few minutes as if to reassure ourselves that it's not all a dream and go back to bed.

Suntrust National Half Marathon - Washington DC

This was my third half and my target was to beat the 2 hours barrier. The day started with 28F, clear skies, no breeze. Got to the start line at a decent time so that I had time to stretch and warm up (unlike the last minute scramble at Richmond). I was debating whether to wear the long under armor tights or shorts - eventually went with the shorts, the key body parts to cover were hands and ears and the nike gloves and the headphones worked out just fine. Anyway, the race started at 7 AM and it was still dark. The Sun rose at about 7:10 AM slightly after the first mile. I was feeling a slight pain in my right foot at the start of the race, but it eventually went away by mile 2. The course was mostly flat and went through many key DC landmarks and neighborhoods- Capitol Hill, the monuments on Constitution, Dupont Circle, Adams Morgan, Children's National Hospital, Armory etc. The crowd support was fantastic - loved the fresh orange slices that people were offering (not from race organizers) and of course - beer!! Anyway, I was completely at ease by mile 4, the pace was set, heart rate steady and was overall feeling great and the 2 hours target seemed completely doable. The last mile was brutal (as usual) and crossed the finish line with the race clock showing 2:01. The overall net time was 1:58:09 and I couldn't have been happier. All eyes on Chicago now.

The Writer's Almanac & the best way to spend 5 minutes

If you did not already know, I am a sucker for NPR (National Public Radio). The days when I would drive to or from work, I would look forward to spending time with Steve Inskeep, Melissa Block, Michele Norris, Robert Siegel, Terri Gross and the others. There were times, when I would just sit in the car even after reaching my destination, waiting for a story to finish. There were times when I had completely missed my exit listening to Fresh Air with Terri Gross. Anyway, the five minutes that I would crave the most and would time my drive home around these five minutes was the "Writer's Almanac" by Garrison Keillor. It's a 5 minutes daily episode about writers, or poets or other literary fellas who were born that day, or died that day or did something of importance on that date. Sounds dull, innit? Only until you hear it! Garrison Keillor usually narrates a poem at the end of the opening narration of the historical account of writers from that date and then ends the episode with his registered trademark line:
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.®
In Harrisburg, the Writer's Almanac would be aired at 7 PM and it would mostly coincide with my drive home on weekdays. Now, I walk to work and the timing of the show does not match. I end up reading the script at the show's website, but it's not the same, is it? The voice in my head when I read it does not sound remotely like Garrison Keillor. His rendition of "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch" line is just what I need to end my work day, any work day. It instills the right dose of hope and goodness to all that we do in a day.

20 minutes of flying time

An airport worker was inspecting the fans of the turbo-prop plane I was about to board at the Sacramento airport. I had a nervous feeling, looking at the size of the plane and the flimsy staircase leading me inside that asparagus shaped aircraft. I climbed aboard while stepping inside it with ever loosing confidence. There were about 16 seats and I got into mine - 2A by the window. A middle aged woman in blue jeans, a red sweater and auburn hair boarded the aircraft and settled in 2B next to me. We exchanged the usual pleasantries while the only cabin attendant did her bit on oxygen masks, exits and floatation devices in case of a water landing. She announced that it will be a short flight with a total flying time of 20 minutes. I planned to take a quick nap before we landed in SFO. Planned to have some dinner at the SFO airport and continue working for a little bit on the flight back to Washington DC from there. I was about to close my eyes when I overheard the lady next to me talk to the attendant about the ring she was wearing.

Lady - "I know that symbol on your ring, I have a tattoo on my ankle with the same symbol."
Attendant (who by now had revealed her name to be Alexis) - "Ohh really....can i see?"
Me (in my head) - "There goes my 20 minute nap!! Now I have to listen to this tattoo crap.....come on lady bring it on"
So the lady goes - "Sure" and with tremendous zeal unzips a boot from her left leg and removes her sock. Alexis goes - "Awww...it's so cute". Me - "Ok, now that the tattoos are out in the open, the conversation will end." Nope, they had other intentions:
Lady - "My three daughters also have the same tattoo, but the color of the heart in their tattoos is different than mine"
Alexis - "Ohh, that's cuter, what colors did they get"

And then the lady went on a description of the colors and why a certain color and the names of the daughters and on and on and on. I was seriously craving for a water landing at that time and was looking out the window to beckon a flock of wild geese to play with the propellor fans. No such luck, all I saw was the lights of the bay area. I resigned to my fate and took a deep breath. Alexis had to now attend to the landing procedures and the lady stopped talking. I was hoping she wouldn't turn to me and well we all now how hopes are shattered etc.
Lady - "So do you live in San Francisco?"
Me - "No, Washington DC"
Lady - "Ohh, what brings you to Sacramento?"
Me - "Work"
Lady - "What kind of work?"
Me - "We help State Governments do their jobs better"
Lady - "Ohh Yeah! they do need a lot of help...what a mess the CA budget is in!"
Me - Just an understanding vague smile.

We were now about to land and I was ready to leap out of the plane. We landed, I heard the lady in 2B say "have a good flight", without looking back I muttered "You too!", deboarded with tremendous alacrity and sprinted towards the first open walkway I saw. I had about an hour to kill, so grabbed a soup from the San Francisco Soup company, enjoyed it in perfect solitude in a crowded food court. As I was approaching the gate for my connecting flight, I saw the lady in 2B sitting on a chair right outside my gate and my heart sank to my tattooless ankles. I was hoping she doesn't see me, but you know the drill with hopes. So she saw me and smiled at me. I smiled back and naturally walked towards her - "Hey...you again! So you are also on the same flight to DC?" I was impatiently waiting for a response. Lady - "No my flight's not in another 2 hours, from the same gate though. I am going to Grand Rapids, Michigan". I must say, I was relieved, I felt like hugging every stranger there. With this light headed feeling, I asked the lady with a wide grin on my face- "So Grand Rapids, visiting family is it? Not a good time to leave sunny California for a cold wintry Michigan".
Lady - "Yeah, you can say that, my only family there was my mother, she died today. Going there to arrange for her funeral and take care of other things. Her second husband and her step sons have pretty much abandoned her since the cancer took hold of her." It was like I was slammed on the ground from a thousand feet. There, right there, I was put in my place. I hugged the lady "So sorry for your loss, have a safe flight and may she rest in peace". The lady smiled - "Thank you and I know she is peaceful, she is with the only man who really truly loved her and cared for her - my dad".

All along my flight back I kept thinking, I used to be a compassionate and a completely non-judgmental person. Was it the stress of the last few weeks that had made me so callous? Whatever it was, note to self: Be more compassionate, non-judgmental and kind to all, no matter what my mental/physical condition.

Richmond Half Marathon

I had signed up for the Richmond Half Marathon right after I came home after finishing the Harrisburg Half Marathon. I was on a high of finishing my first half marathon and signed up in an adrenaline rush. Little did I know that I will have little time to continue with my practice from then until 11/15/2008. I was in India for the entire month of Ocotober and did not have many opportunities to run long distances.

Weather.com predicted a rainy, wet and windy day in downtown Richmond. Thankfully, the temperature hovered around the low 60s and the rain was reduced to a drizzle by 7 AM. Getting to the event was an ordeal, the traffic was backed up getting into downtown and we (me and friend A who was also running) abandoned the car and our respective wives in it on Interstate 95 and walked/light-jogged about a mile to the start line to arrive there within a minute of the starting gun going off. No stretching, no pre-race regimens, nothing - it was the last thing I had expected how I would start this race.

Anyway, the race started and so did Sindbad Sailor on my mp3 player. All through the race I was hoping to finish gracefully and within two hours fifteen minutes. Somewhere around mile 6, I saw my timing - it was only 57 minutes and I was pleasantly surprised -a two hour finish time seemed like a possibility. I swallowed a pack of Gu and decided to make a go for it. Somewhere around mile eleven my legs started giving up and keeping the pace was becoming increasingly difficult, I realized I was slowing down and eventually crossed the finish line at a chip time of 2:03:39.

It was still a good 20 seconds faster than my time in Harrisburg. I was slightly disappointed that I did not make the two hours time I aimed for at mile six, but then realized that without practice, the above time was still respectable. I was 1275 amongst a total of 3516 runners who finished, 760th amongst all the males and 112th amongst the 227 males in my age group. As always, it was an incredible feeling crossing that finish line amongst cheering crowds. Aiming for a sub 2 hours time next time. Until then - RUN.

A Personal Achievement

Today I finished my first half marathon (13.1 miles/21.1 KM) in 2 hrs, 3 minutes and 59 seconds. I had caught the "running" bug about a year and half ago, but I did not plan on running long distances then. I was just thrilled by the feeling when your feet hit the pavement and propels your body forward, there was something liberating about the act of running. I was hooked, then over the course I ran about four 5 K races and then decided to take the plunge of running a half marathon. About 4 months of training and waking up at 6 AM on Saturday mornings to run 10 miles finally paid off. I had set myself a goal of finishing the marathon in two hours and fifteen minutes, but I blew that target by about 11 minutes.

The feeling of crossing the finish line while being cheered by total strangers was incredible. I must say that I am addicted and plan to run many more half and full marathons (already signed up for the Richmond Half Marathon -November 15th).

P.S:- The post does sound self-adulatory and narcissistic, but I think a first Half Marathon gives me the bragging rights.

Let’s Start Over

Caution: Long and extremely opinionated post.
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I am an optimist and have always been one and not just because I have lived in the USA for most the past decad (I have noticed that most of the imports from the third world nations to the USA are infected by hopeless optimism after spending a couple of years in this land of the “Free”). Even in situations as grim and hopeless as they can get, a tiny flickering flame of hope kept burning and pulled me out of most situations. OK, before you start thinking that I have had a horrible life full of miserable situations (the kinds you see the protagonist of the 80’s alternate wave of Indian cinema), let me tell it straight – I have had quite an uneventful life: my parents have raised me with care and have provided me well, have a loving and beautiful spouse, I did fairly well in my studies and secured better and better jobs at regular intervals, I own two properties on this planet, blessed with good health and enough wealth to live a comfortable life and have plenty of good friends strewn across the globe. So what then you say this post is all about? What is it that I want all of us to “start over”?

Let me go back in time. Summer 1993, I am in my first year of engineering and my first year of living outside of the protective enclave of my parents’ house. It’s a time when I am quite nervous of being so far away from home, excited about the new found freedom and scared witless of the ongoing hazing (ragging). One such evening I was hanging out with SI and CK who lived in the hostel room right opposite that of mine. We got to talking about – what else - the most important topic a couple of 19 year olds talk about – the future of Our World. The discussion was where the world is heading in the next 20 years – destruction or peace. Even though I was slapped about a 30 times just an hour ago at a hazing session and my cheeks were burning as if I had live ambers placed in my mouth, I had not had a decent home-made meal in about 20 days, did not know if I am cut out for Engineering, had no idea where my life was heading - the eternal optimist in me did not hesitate or even blink once to say “Duh! PEACE, of course”. SI and CK smirked at me and said in unison - “Destruction, of course”. Well, how does one settle such a matter of supreme discord between friends? How else, but with a wager! We decided to meet after 20 years in the summer of 2013 to see who is more right. (Yeah! that’s how corny and silly youth is, but I yearn for that corniness, silliness and the arrogant ignorance of that age now - fodder for another post).

Here’s a glimpse of the state of the World in 1993:
- The first Gulf war had ended
- India and Pak were fighting in their own ways over Kashmir
- Bombay had witnessed serial bomb blasts in March 1993
- Israel and Palestine were as always were at loggerheads
- The Soviet Union had collapsed giving birth to many small nations
- The USA was bombing Eastern European nations (The Bosnian conflict)
- North Korea was, well – North Korea
- The Rwanda situation was brewing slowly
- Afghanistan was looking forward to elections in 1994
- Terrorism was not a global phenomenon
- Global warming was an elitist term and was sneered upon

The situation was overall grim. My take was, well it can only get better, right? WRONG. It’s the summer of 2008 and this is how the world looks today:
- The second Iraq war has claimed thousands of soldier’s and civilians and there is no end in sight
- Afghanistan is a nation that has been gangraped by the world and continues heading towards more despair (if that’s at all possible)
- India and Pak have fought one small war in Kargil over Kashmir and the issue is still simmering with both nations coming oh so close to a nuclear fallout
- Bombay witnessed three more serial bomb blasts, many other Indian cities were bombed (Delhi, Hyderabad, Jaipur)
- Israel and Palestine continue to fight and again no end in sight,
- Israel & Lebanon have exchanged some fireworks
- North Korea: status quo (they claim they will declare their nuclear capabilities)
- The world meekly watched one of the largest genocides since the Holocaust in Rwanda
- Terrorism is now a global phenomenon: USA, Bali, Spain, London – countries and places where terrorism was only a foreign phenomenon has experienced their share of terrorist activities. Newer avenues of bio-terrorism are being used and explored
- Global warming is NOW and HERE

These are only a few examples, I am not even getting into the counts of nuclear war-heads, the other atrocities and wars perpetrated (and continue to) by the ex-Soviet nations and China (do not mean to single only these two nations out, there are many more, these two are just convenient). There is no point mentioning the natural calamities (earthquakes, tsumanis, volcanoes, tornadoes, hurricanes) since they are not in our control to a large extent (I am not getting into the debate of if Global Warming is causing a marked increase in the number of floods, famines, food shortages, etc.)

Now, if this was your dear son’s or daughter’s report card, what is the inference you would derive? You would not be sleeping a sound sleep anytime soon, knowing what you know and where your son/daughter is heading to – Failure. The world as we know today, my dear friends is also heading towards that inevitable DISASTER and it is getting there with reckless speed. You see, there is a reason I have become a pessimist in this matter. I understand that I should be looking at the efforts that are being made towards peace and such, but honestly, just based on numbers and statistics - no emotions and no subjective analysis - what would any educated person conclude? The efforts towards healing this world of ours are not nearly even close to the colossal magnitude of destruction that’s happening every minute.

I guess it’s nature’s way of telling us that we have crossed the peak in it’s cycle of creation and nearing the bottom of the arc. We have lived here long enough, long enough to have devoured every single available resource, long enough to have loved and hated each other enough, long enough to have not learnt from history and the natural cycle of creation and destruction. Its time, we will have to start over.
What then, you ask is my solution? I have none. Before you rule me out as a non-believer, a cynic and an eternal pessimist, let me stop you right there. I am an optimist when it comes to human beings and humanity and individual achievements, I just don’t trust Governments anymore. These Governments in the name of protecting the interests of its people, empower themselves and create this pseudo atmosphere of a free world while keeping its peoples even more oppressed and under the control of it’s iron fist (a not so obvious version of Big Brother from 1984?). It does not matter who makes up these Governments – Right wing or Left, Republicans or Democrats, Congress or BJP, Labor or Conservatives or Communists – they are all the same. Most of these Governments do not even acknowledge that there is a problem in the way the world functions today. The Governments of the under-developed world do not know anything about governing and hence start pillaging it’s people, the Governments of the developing world want to maintain the “developing” tag to keep filling it’s coffers with more aid money and last but not the least – the Government’s of the developed world want to keep the rest of the world from joining them. Do I need to explain why?

SI & CK – you win and I loose. Hunh! To think about it, is anyone really winning here?

One down, One to go

There are two important days in your life, the day you are born and the day you know why.

Need to work on the "why"!

Rebel With a Cause

This is how I will roll this Spring and Summer!

Aniket

I met Aniket on 3rd February 2007. He was a thin, bespectacled, cheery eyed twenty year old boy. Along with the light blue scrubs, he wore a constant smile on his face. He was the “ward boy” at the Intensive Cardiac Care Unit (ICCU) in a major cardiac care hospital in Nagpur. I had just arrived in Nagpur. My father was undergoing treatment in this hospital for congestive heart failure. I entered the ICCU and Aniket was the first person I saw in there, he smiled at me and asked me to take my shoes off before entering inside. There was something very genuine in his smile and his request. I obeyed, and silently asked him where my dad’s bed was. If you have never visited one (and I pray you never have to), the ICCU is a strange, ghostly and creepy place. There are constant beeps of the many monitors, oxygen level meters, and other array of gadgets attached to the patients in there. Each patient in there is struggling to hang on to life while the doctors are trying to bring the patients out of their fragile state. There is nothing, and I mean nothing cheerful about the place. This ICCU was no different. It was spotlessly clean, the air in there was purified, conditioned and had that sharp tang of artificial purity. There were about 12 beds in all. Three of the beds were vacant and there were nine patients on the rest of the beds. Each patient had multiple IVs, a catheter, a heart rate monitor, a blood oxygen level monitor, an oxygen mask. They were all covered in a pastel green blanket. The attending doctor’s station was in the right corner with 12 video monitors displaying the vitals of all the patients. Two nurses were attending to some nursing duties and the doctor on duty was busy reading the monitor and some files.

Aniket walked me to my father’s bedside. Over the next couple of days, I metAniket a number of times thereafter. He would update us with my father’s health and any changes in the medication that the doctors were doing even before the doctor’s told us. For a ward boy his knowledge in cardiac procedures and medicines was commendable. I assumed that if you spend 18 hours of your day seven days a week around cardiac surgeons and cardiologists, it rubs on you. His job comprised of cleaning up the patients everyday, changing their clothes, making their beds, assisting the doctors and nurses when the patients need to be moved physically, helping the patients in any of their non-medical needs. He was also in charge of keeping the ICCU clean. He had a couple other helping hands for the cleaning job; however he seemed to be the one who led the rest of the cleaning staff.

His job was extremely demanding and he was always on his toes attending to one patient after another. Despite the grim job, Aniket managed to maintain a happy and an energetic attitude and was the ever-helping guy. Relatives of the patients loved him, the doctors and nurses liked him, and my father liked him. Since relatives were not allowed to hang out with the patients in the ICCU for more than 5 minutes, Aniket was the one who spent time with them. Things were not looking very bright for my father. Close family and friends were constantly at the hospital in consultation with doctors who were figuring out the next steps. Aniket knew the situation quite well; he would spend time with my mother who was a wreck by then and tell her little details about dad’s time in the ICCU. He would tell her how he asked for milk at 2 AM in the night and ate a Parle-G with it. His concern and manner was genuine and his choice of words was such that it would convey hope and optimism in a way the doctors could not. The doctor would convey progress by saying that the blood oxygen level was improving or some such medical detail, Aniket would talk about how dad’s eyes had a slight twinkle when Preity Zinta showed up on the TV. Dad left the ICCU on Feb 8th and Aniket helped him move to a regular room. He said he will stop by each day to say hello and he did for the next 2 days.

Dad was back in the ICCU on Feb 11th as he suffered another CHF. He was moved in the middle of the night and was put on life support. His condition deteriorated rapidly. Aniket was off duty that night. He showed up next afternoon and was surprised to see dad back in the ICCU. The next couple of days were extremely difficult for all of us. Dad was relentlessly drugged; his doctors consulted other doctors in the city and around the country for other treatment options. One look in dad’s eyes was sufficient to see a man who had given up and resigned to fate.

We had lost count of days and nights; each day was roller-coaster ride of hope and despair. One such morning, I and mom were in the ICCU besides dad’s bed. Aniket walked in the ICCU and he was his cheerful self. He seemed a tad more chipper that day. I saw he was holding a large brown paper bag. From this bag he pulled out a long stemmed red rose and handed it to mom to give to dad.
He said “Kaku aaz valentine’s day aahe. Kakanna rose dya”.
(“Aunty, its valentine’s day today, you must give this rose to uncle”. )

My mother is from a generation where public display of affection is not the norm. Valentine’s Day, anniversary gifts, greeting cards, roses, chocolates and all the paraphernalia associated with “couples in love” is alien to her. This Valentine’s day however, she took the rose from Aniket and opened the thermos flask on the medicine stand next to dad. She carefully placed the rose in the flask. She ran her fingers through dad’s silvery white hair. Dad opened his eyes and for a moment looked back at her and closed them again. I saw that Aniket had brought a rose for all the patients in the ICCU and moved on to the next patient. In any other setting, I would have considered this youngster’s actions cheesy, but that day his enthusiasm was infectious and it put a smile back on our faces.

Dad recovered and in three weeks he was back home. Aniket was there to say good-bye when we took dad home. In the days that dad was in the hospital, I got to know Aniket a little more. He wanted to be a nurse some day and was studying to get into nursing school. He was saving from his Rs. 7000 monthly salary to pay for nursing school. Next time I visit Nagpur, I plan to visit the hospital to see Aniket. I hope I do not find him working as a ward-boy. I hope to hear that he has joined a nursing school, or better yet, he is now a Nurse.

Spin Baby Spin

Rupabai

Almost all households in India - middle class and upwards have a maid for doing the dishes and washing clothes. This maid is typically called “Bai” in most of Maharashtra. My home in Nagpur is no different. Our bai’s name is Rupabai. She has been our “bai” for about 19 years now. I was only 13 years old when she started working at our place. She was hired as a result of some recommendations that came through word-of-mouth from some neighbors. Rupabai is from a lower caste (quite common for this profession); she is about 5 feet tall, broad and heavy-set. She wears a typical Maharashtrian nine-yard sari worn in the old fashion of tying it in the back from between the legs. She has a slow walk and wraps the loose end of sari on her head and holds it between her teeth when she walks from house to house, while working she tucks this loose end at her waist. She has the typical tattoos of women of this sect on her forehead and forearms. She wears a thick round red vermillion bindi on her forehead.

When I was growing up she would come to our house at about 10 AM. That was the time when everybody – grandmother, mother, father, grandfather, I and my brother would have finished their morning bath in that order. She would have a bucketful of laundry soaking in Nirma (as we grew older, this was replaced by Rin and eventually to Ariel) waiting for her. Mom would have also kept the used utensils from the previous day in a container made of wrought iron out on the porch of the kitchen.

Rupabai would open the compound gate of our house and walk to the back-yard at around 10 AM (she kept this time quite consistently). She had a singular style of opening the wrought iron gate – she would be very delicate in opening so as to make minimal noise. The faint ding of the gate was an indicator of her arrival. If either I or my brother had not bathed yet, mom would yell at us “Rupabai is here; you better take a bath and throw your clothes in the bucket on the porch”. There were only two free-passes to get out of this – either you were sick or it was Holi.

Rupabai would carry the bucket of clothes and the dirty utensils to the back side of the house to her “workplace” – a small cemented open water tank and a washing area with a stone in the middle for scrubbing clothes. Her tools were simple - a plastic bristled brush to scrub the clothes, a soggy cake of Rin soap, a roll of steel wool and some white powdery substance for scrubbing the utensils. For the next hour or so (depending on the quantity she had to clean) she could be heard scrubbing the utensils or beating a piece of clothing on the stone. She would then hang the clean wet clothes on the clothesline for drying. She would carry the container full of clean utensils back to the porch by the kitchen. So long as my grandmother (aaji) was alive she was not allowed inside the kitchen. So she would place the clean utensils on the porch and aaji would keep each utensil in its proper place – one by one. After aaji passed away, Rupabai started keeping the container in the kitchen and mom would arrange the utensils back in the shelves. Rupabai would say quietly from outside in the general direction of my mother inside the house “Bai, jaate” (“Madam, I am leaving now”). It’s strange how she addressed my mother also by “Bai”. The difference between the social statuses of the word “Bai” depends on which “Bai” says it to which “Bai”.

This routine continued with minimal changes for years. Rupabai’s presence was always there in the background in festivals, in our little family functions. My mother and she slowly developed a strange bond. My mother is not the “secular-all-creation-is-equal” types, but she was a little less stringent than aaji. Aaji never directly took anything from Rupabai. Rupabai would place the item on the floor and then aaji would pick it up. I and my brother would deliberately tease aaji by making direct contact with Rupabai. Rupabai would discourage us from doing so but we continued the game. Aaji would get furious but gradually ignored us. My mother, Aaji and Rupabai had a strange love-hate relationship. There were arguments and bickering on the pay, the quality of work quite regularly. It was all in the background of our growing up years. During religious festivals there would be a multitude of people eating at our place and consequently the number of utensils to be washed would go up during these times. Aaji and my mother would save food for Rupabai and would ask her to eat at our place on such occasions. She would probably spend 4-5 hours washing utensils on such days.

Then in the summer of 1992 I left my home for pursuing engineering in a far away town. As much as my family was sad when I left the house, Rupabai was also in the background saying her goodbyes to me as I left my home into the unknown. It was during my years staying in the hostel, that I truly realized the importance of Rupabai. This was the first time, I had to wash my own clothes - it was either spend money on laundry or beer, well I do not have to explain to you kind folks what my choice was. As the semester would come to an end, I would not wash any clothes and carry the whole stinking lot back to Nagpur and eventually to end up in Rupabai’s able and skillful hands. She would instantly know looking at the 4 buckets of laundry that, it’s the end of a semester at Shivaji University. And then all those nasty, smelly clothes would do emerge clean and would be dancing all happy and smelling of Rin on the clothesline.

After four years of this routine, I moved to Pune for a job, and eventually started earning enough to afford the luxury of giving my clothes in a laundry for cleaning. I would still be glad to see Rupabai on my occasional visits to Nagpur. She continued to lead her same routine, but now the numbers of clothes and utensils to clean were significantly lower. My grandfather (Dada) had passed away; I had moved out and my brother was also in Pune. Religions festivals were no more the huge gatherings of the extended family anymore. Rupabai was the silent spectator through all these years.

January of 2000, I moved to the United States. It was a different continent; it was a developed world – a world of common laundry rooms in apartments, a world of dates at the neighborhood laundromat. Guess what, memories of the hostel days came flooding back. That aching feeling of missing Rupabai resurfaced. No sir/madam - no matter how much you enjoy the feel of the fresh, warm and soft laundry out of the dryer or the smell of “Tide with a touch of downy”, give me Rupabai any day of the year and I will be in laundry Nirvana. In the meantime Rupabai kept serving the remains of the Kulkarni household. In 2001, Aaji passed away, and Rupabai was still very much there to witness it and to clean after the flood of relatives who stayed at our place. I guess, she was expressing her grief and paying her respects to Aaji by not crossing the kitchen line even in her death.

I got married to A in 2002. Rupabai was there assuming the role of the head-bai of the other bai’s that she had summoned to handle the extra load of the many relatives staying at our place. I must say her supervisory skills were a surprise to all of us as she managed the whole backstage operation with extreme efficiency and finesse. Mother bought Rupabai new clothes on occasion of the wedding. She gave her blessings to me and A. When me and A left for the USA, she said very earnestly to me “Shirpa” (she calls me that, I still don’t know why) “sunbai chi kalaji ghya baga”! – “take care of the daughter-in-law now”. And just like that I was gone again.

Last year when dad fell really sick, I had to fly back on a short notice. I reached home from Nagpur airport and there was nobody but Rupabai at home, everyone else was at the hospital attending to the situation. Rupabai was busy cleaning the utensils from the previous night. She said, “Shirpa, saahebala bara nahi haay. Bai gelyaat dawakhanyat. Baai mhanalya tumi aanghol karoon lawkar jaawa, me haay hitha,”. “Your dad is not doing so well, your mother is at the hospital, she said that you should take a shower and rush to the hospital. I will be here”. I did as she said, gave my clothes with the grime of three continents to her and rushed to the hospital. I looked at her while handing her the clothers and something about her had changed (other than her age). I could not put my finger on it but had too much on my mind to think about it.

In about 3 weeks dad came back home. Rupabai did her best to keep the household running during those trying times. One fine morning as I was handing over a bucket of dirty clothes to Rupabai, I noticed the change in her. She had no “sindoor” in the parting in her hair, she had no red vermillion bindi on her forehead. I was shell-shocked. I ran inside and asked mother – she told me about the sudden death of her husband 2 months ago. I was ashamed at my own callousness and apathy towards her, towards a woman who had washed the dirty laundry of this family, who had been through births, deaths and marriages of this family. I somehow never thought of her as a person who had her own family and a life outside of serving us. I was disgusted of myself. I went back on the porch and saw her hobbling back with the same wrought iron container. I ran and took the container from her hands, she hesitated, and I looked at her. She had a distant look in her eyes but she knew what I meant. She let me carry the container from the cement tank to the kitchen.

Today, she still serves the Kulkarni household. She has gotten old and tired. I bought a washing machine for my mother and now the machine does the laundry. I could tell Rupabai was a little jealous of the new “Videocon-bai”, and was worried about the pay cut. I assured her that her pay will not go down. She smiled, that’s the least I could do for her.

Dada & Me

"Dada" - This is what we would call my grandfather. He was "Dada" to all - to his sons (my father and two uncles), to his daugther-in-laws (my mother and two aunts), to his friends, to my friends, to my father's friends, to the gardener, to the maid. This made him equal to all, yet each had his or her own "Dada" just for him/herself. He was very religious (although never fanatic about it), disciplined yet warm. He was about 5 ft 8 inches tall, lean (not an ounce of fat on his 75 yr old body), long face with strong features, a thin sharp nose, grey eye brows, grey moustache and long ears. He had thin grey hair which covered most of his scalp. He would walk with long confident strides with his long cherry wood walking stick. We kids used to run with him or slightly behind him when we would accompany him in on his walks. He was only slightly bent in the back. The walking stick was more of an accessory than a tool for support. He had false teeth and thick glasses. He had no other ailments of old age other than these two. Dada would wake up before sunrise each day, every day (until he became really sick). The first thing he would do before opening his eyes: would place his palms in front of his closed eyes like a book and would recite the “Hand Shloka” –
Karaagre Wasate Lakshmi
Kar Madhye Saraswati
Kar Moole tu Govindam
Prabhate Kar Darshanam.
(Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, resides at the tip of the hands
Saraswati, the goddess of Knowledge, in the centre
Govind resides at the base of the hands
Look at your hands first thing in the morning (and you have seen all Gods))

After reciting these magical words, he would open his eyes and touch his face lightly with his palms. Sometimes when I slept besides him, he would touch my face in the same manner in my sleep, waking me up slightly. After his morning ablutions, he would eat two soaked almonds that my mother had kept on his night-stand the night before. Dada would then proceed for his morning visit to the dairy for fetching milk. I could hear the front door open and him walking out with the rhythmic tik-tok of his walking stick. The opening of the door coincided with the waking up of grandma and mom. By the time Dada was back with the milk bottles, mom would be awake and in the kitchen. She would boil the milk and make tea for Dada, grandmother and herself. The newspaper boy would have delivered his goods by then and Dada would be all set with his hot cup of tea, and the newspaper on the verandah. This was the time when me, my brother and father would be waking up slowly and getting ready for our day at school and work respectively. After his tea, Dada would proceed to do his Suryanamaskaar (Sun salutations) and Pranayama ritual. He taught me and my brother these techniques and their importance, benefits and purpose. Little did I know that in the 21st century even Hollywood would be practicing these and there would be a multi-million dollar industry built around these simple techniques that Dada practiced? His tools were very simple compared to the ones marketed today - an old rug, a loin cloth, and the fresh early morning air.

Until I was in my 3rd standard, Dada would drop me and pick me up from school. My school was less than a kilometer away and so it we would always walk this distance. I guess my fondness of walking has its roots here. Dada was never late to pick me up at the school – rain or shine. In fact he was never late for any commitments he made. I believe when a 60 year old man can be on time for a 8 year old kid every day, there is no reason for anyone to be late for their commitments. I think my obsession with timeliness and punctuality can find its roots with those years when Dada picked me up from school. It annoys me when people commit to a time to me and are not able to keep it up purely because they assume that they can be late (genuine reasons is a different story, sheer tardiness is unforgivable in my world - courtesy Dada).

Dada taught me and brother the very few shlokas and prayers that I know today. “Shubham Karoti Kalyanam”, “Shantakaram” etc were our daily evening prayers. He would light an oil lamp and an incese stick (agarbatti) in our poojaghar after sunset and we brothers would chant these shlokas. This ritual would end with us touching his feet and then pushing our right cheeks for his peck.

During the scorching hot months of the Nagpur summer, we would all sleep on the terrace of our house. Dada was the only one who would sleep in our front yard. I had the duty of keeping a copper flask full of cold water next to his metal framed bed. My father would ensure that his mosquito net was installed properly. The rest of the family would sleep on the terrace. These were the late 1980s. We were growing up and Dada was getting really old. He had trouble reading for more than 5 minutes. I would read to him the newspaper articles that he would point me to. I noticed most of the articles that he would ask me to read were about the Rashtriya SwayamSevak Sangh (RSS), Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) or the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP). Dada would remark that India was better off when it was governed by the British. He was always very angry with the current state of the Nation (especially with the pseudo secular politicians). I think he believed that the RSS, VHP and BJP will change the course of the country. I did not much understand his anger or disgust about everything then, but thinking about it today, it all makes sense and sadly very little has changed.

Dada passed away in September 1993 on the last day of Ganesh Pooja. I was in my first year of engineering in Karad and was visiting home for the Ganesh Festival. Dada was hospitalized. He was never a believer of modern medicine. He always treated all his ailments – sprains, cuts, wounds, fevers, colds and any other illnesses using traditional Ayurvedic means. It was sad to see him laying on a hospital bed with IV drips and syringes next to him. I am sure he did not cooperate with the treatment. He knew it was his time and there was nothing that modern medicine could do to stop him from leaving this world. He was deeply spiritual and believed in Karma and Moksha. When he breathed his last I was at the hospital in the waiting room. The doctors informed me and asked me to call home and tell the rest of the family. Thankfully, an older relative walked into the hospital and took charge of the situation. I sat next to Dada, looking at his lifeless form, knowing positively that he has attained his Moksha. This was the first time I was experiencing the emotions of “Death of a loved one”. I was sad although I do not remember crying that day or at his funeral. I don’t think he meant for anyone to cry when he passed away, because he truly believed that dying is just as normal as living. I am yet to meet a human being who was so OK with “death”. I think his extensive practice of yoga, pranayama and meditation was instrumental in this. He used to say “If you live with the fear of death you die every day”.

It will be 14 years since Dada left, this September. The ten days of Ganesh Festival is cut down to three in my household. The day of Ganesh Visarjan (when the Ganesha idol is immersed) is marked as Dada’s Shraddha (death Anniversary). Dada continues to live with us in many ways – when we come across the old wooden trunk in the attic, his cherry wood walking stick, when I see Arnav (my brother’s 3 year old son) recite “Shubham Karoti”, when I do the Suryanamaskars or when I see an old man and an 8 year old walking down a street.

1984

There is something about this year!
- I was in my 9th year on this planet
- Our new house in the upcoming suburbs of Nagpur was almost built
- Mrs Indira Gandhi had successfully managed to foil the Khalistan uprisin, incurring a tremendous wrath of the Sikh community - courtesy Operation Blue Star
- My school was changing buildings
- We decided to move-in to the new house on 1st November...I was much thrilled
- Mrs Gandhi the iron woman was assasinated on 31st October....
- Everyone was afraid....my father was shaken...its a big deal you know to see your father AFRAID
- Even a 9 year old could feel the tension and the uncertainity around
- Lots of Sikhs were killed I hear, Aajoba (granpa) and Aaji (granma) would say..its 1947 all over again....
- We moved in regardless, there was no celebration...the vaastu-pooja was a low key affair
- On the positive side , there were wide open spaces around the house, we could run as far as possible, the airport was so close we could see the planes land and take off: it was the coolest thing
- Then came December and my cousins came to stay with us from Bhopal...there was some kind of a gas leak you see....was very bad for their health I was told!
- Then came 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988........
- 1984 remains a very strange year for me.

More on this later.

Cinema Cinema

I remember as a child growing up, my mom used to take us (me and my kid brother) to matinee shows of the newest Hindi release along with a couple of her friends. She would dress us up in the cleanest pair of terrycot or polyester short pants and white canvas shoes, ohh and not to forget the liberal application of Ponds dreamflower talc to keep us looking and smelling fresh - The theatres were not air-conditioned in those days you see. This "dreamflower" talc would do help us from smelling like sweaty piglets. It had its side-effects in the form of little lines of white lumps around our damp necks by the end of the show. Anyway back to the point : We used to have very little knowledge about what is going to appear on the giant screen. The excitement of watching the movie itself was too much to handle to care about what movie, who is in it and such minor details. Remember I am talking about the early and mid 80s here - Indian television had one channel and would show one movie a week, so going to the cinemas was an event - a GALA if you will. The excitement was visible and could be felt in more ways than one - My fingertips would tickle before the movie started, I would try not blink for as long as possible while watching the giant images on the screen, I would pray and pray real hard that I do not get to sit behind a tall human being with a huge head or a woman with a Sharmila Tagore'esque hairdo!! Long story short, it was really a HUGE deal - going to the cinema. It was these magical afternoons where I was smitten by the giant moving images.

The experience is still very fresh in my memory -
Huge painted posters which displayed some very key moments of the film we were about to watch. The poster would try and convey a lot in those days unlike the more artistic and creative ones these days where all you see is a silhoutte of somebody and a name of the movie with a English punchline ( Eg: Daag - The fire!!). The poster was the quintessential selling point of the movie since no previews were shown on the television and there was no internet. Posters were the only source of marketing the movie to the general public. They had to be very imformative, very gruesome, very shocking. The poster would have the hero jumping through fire, or in a tumultous embrace with the heroine, the heroine with longing in her eyes, the mom with revenge and love in her eyes, the sidekick assisting the hero in some shape or form, the hero with blood dripping from the left side of his forehead or right end of his upper lip, the villain with the most lethal weapon you have ever seen, the vamp in a skimpy (often a gypsy) outfit , at least one mode of transport (a motorcycle, train, ship, car, flight) on fire or exploding or launched in mid-air or all of them at the same time. In short the 180 minutes were crammed in that 20 ft by 10 ft piece of cloth.

The names of the cinema halls are etched in my memory - Amba, Apsara, Regal, Regent, Panchsheel, Liberty - I would think of them as temples in my 10 year old brain. We would wait outside these halls while mom would stand in the queue to buy the tickets. In the meantime me and my brother would be staring wide eyed at the above mentioned poster. There was just too much information for our little brains to process you see. Once the tickets were secured, mom would take us in the waiting area of the cinema hall. Now this waiting hall also provided a wealth of information about the feature we were about to watch. On one wall of this hall, there would be a dazzling display of some stills from the movie enclosed in a glass case. I would almost memorize all the stills and would wait for them to show up in the actual movie and would leap just a little bit out of my seat when I could spot one. In the darkness of the hall however I had nobody who could understand or share that momentary surge of adrenalin when this happened. The waiting hall also sometimes provided a poster or two of an upcoming release - honestly, the upcoming feature in most cases did not look a whole lot different from the one we were there for. Neverthless it made me feel very special and exclusive because now I knew exactly what is going to explode in the not yet released feature and opened up an opportunity to brag about it with my fellow 10 year olds at school.

After getting an eyeful of all the stills, mom would force us to visit the men's room so that we don't have to make the trip during the show. Then would come the moment we would be waiting for most eagerly - watch a flood of people pour out of the EXIT doors - thus marking the end of the prior show - thus making way for me to experience the show. The only goal and ambition now is to climb up the stairs to the balcony and get to our seats. Climbing these stairs was as much a very claustrophobic experience as it was a journey you were to destined to take in order to get to the final destination where the dancing images are displayed on the giant screen. Mom would hold on tight to our wrists and we would climb with her, squished in between many waists, legs etc. Eventually we would arrive at the entrance of the balcony. There wasn't one show that I do not remember stumbling in the semi-darkness on our way to the seats. Speaking of darkness - to date the darkness in the cinema hall is very special to me : this darkness allows the viewers to feel the moving images without being worried of others watching you, this darkness is your own cocoon where you can react shamelessly to the proceedings on the giant screen, this darkness allows hundreds of people to be alone in the crowd, this darkness is where I fell in love.

Once settled in our seats I had nothing else in my mind, the rest of the world ceased to exist, that time that place would be the only existence in God's Earth. The lights dim and the screen comes alive with a Films Division documentary - the documentaries would deal with various subjects- Indira Gandhi's contribution in the industrial progress of India, literacy awareness, importance of vaccinations etc. (I would cringe looking at little babies with rickety limbs being affected by polio and would be much thankful that I am not one of them.) Once the documentaries would get over, the lights would dim further more and my heart would beat 10 beats faster here onwards for the next 3 hours. The movie itself would be an immensely engrossing adventure for a 10 year old. All the images you saw in the waiting hall would appear during those 3 hours - there would be times when one or two won't and I would be disappointed, but overall it was an immensely satisfying experience. The cinema hall would get muggier and hotter by the passing minute. The intermission would come at the right moment, you could step out in the balcony waiting area and inject some fresh air in your lungs. Mom would buy refreshments - samosa and a limca or frooti or Soyamee (a local brand of soyamilk). We would relieve ourselves one more time before getting back to the darkness. All this time I would become totally oblivious to the responsibilities an average 10 year old would have - you know the monumental tasks of home work, unit tests, craft projects.

After 3 very quick hours, the "The End" would show up on the screen (have you noticed that in about 80% of all the movies made in those days this "the end" always is displayed in a typical fashion - it would slowly grow in size from a small blur to this huge 1000 type font and would eventually occupy the whole screen?). Now, it would be us pouring out from the EXIT doors to make way for the next set of eager movie-goers. I would still be wearing a very mesmerized and dazed look on my face, still recovering from all that i just experienced. The rest of the day would be spent in a very hallucinated state of mind - this 10 year old was not capable of understanding most of what was happening on the screen and believe me that was a blessing. Even when my eyes would close that night, the images would be dancing in front of my eyes, such was the magic.

Today, I understand most every movie, today I judge every movie, today I dislike most movies, today I wait for the magic to reappear in the darkness, today, the movies are slicker, even more grand, bigger, more colorful, but the 10 year old in me is missing.

The experience is still very alive in my memory and I can relive it by closing my eyes. The darkness appears again and the images come to life and it brings back everything - the sights, the sounds, the smells, the heat - believe me, after I come back from one of these memory trips I have found the dreamflower talc lumps around my neck.