Notes from India: An Authentic Experience

‘How would you like them cut?’ , my hairdresser had asked politely when  I had gone for my first  haircut  in US many years ago.

I had stared at her uncomfortably because I had never been asked that question by my hairdressers in India.  

“Short” , I had mumbled, not knowing what else to say., My wife had squealed in horror after I had come back to our apartment with my commando cut.

“Please don’t make it too short”, I had answered the same question imploringly when I went for my next haircut several months later. Over the years the instructions got more and more refined ‘Clippers on the side – size five and a half please.  Scissors on the top. Not too short  - just take an inch off.  Leave the sideburns long. Shampoo. No gel please’, I would rattle out without having to think and get (almost) the same results whether I was in LA ,Washington DC  or Boston.

‘Have you considered trying gray blending’ , I heard this suggestion a few years ago.  Gray blending. The word had a nice mature ring to it. It did not have the urgency of hair dying. Or the pretentiousness of hair coloring.  My hair had started to gray with a vengeance in the past few years. Especially, after I had started my own business.  My mother had just a few strands of gray hair at near sixty. My grandfather had a good crop of black hair at eighty. I had more gray hair than both of them combined. I had somehow let my gene pool down. ‘ It is perhaps the stress’ , I would explain half apologetically.

‘We have a special going on ...’, she continued, blinking her false eyelashes ‘ Tea Tree Treatment  - Free shampoo & head massage  ..’ . The deal was made. Several degrees of ‘blending’ were tried. The color combination of the one that suited me best was then recorded in the database. I could now go to any Supercuts in US and just tell them my name – they would then pull up my record and blend my grays like nobody ‘s business.

And then we moved to Bangalore.

                                                         ***

“New Paradise Men's Saloon”, the barber shop is located on the main road, about  half a kilometer from our house in Bangalore.  

‘Are you sure you don’t want to look for a bit more upscale place?’ , my wife had suggested looking at the crowd of the patrons sitting on wooden benches inside the shop.  But what did she know about the pleasure one would get from an authentic experience of getting a haircut from a roadside barber shop.

‘You and your authentic experiences’, she did not like my response apparently as I expertly maneuvered my scooter around a huge pothole. I had bought the scooter despite warnings and threats from my close friends. ‘Authentic experience my foot’ , one had said ‘ You know it takes  much longer to heal a broken bone once you are past forty ..’.  But I prevailed.  My Honda Activa was not only an authentic  experience; it was also my companion in looking for other authentic experiences.  Like a haircut from a roadside Barber shop.

I parked my scooter outside the shop, glad that I did not get the car which would have perhaps overwhelmed the patrons and owner of the shop. The proprietor – a man with neatly combed hair and smartly trimmed moustache serviced the customers diligently, as I waited for my turn. A television played a Kannada movie dubbed in Hindi – the out of sync dialogs were punctuated by the clicking of scissors. The shop was well furnished with hair products. On one side were different type of hair oils – Himgangay, Jabakusim, Parachute, Navratan . Hair colors were also displayed prominently – Godrej, Revlon, Garnier.

‘Your turn, Sir’ , the hairdresser addressed me politely.

I took a deep breath as I settled down in the wooded chair and got draped by a clean white cotton sheet that was neatly tucked along my neck. Authentic experience.

‘Do you have clippers’, I asked. The man stared at me puzzled. ‘ ..to cut the hair ...’  Still no response. I took my right arm out and showed him how the clipper worked. His eyes shone.”Machine”, he pulled a manual clipper out of the drawer.

‘Clippers on the side – size five and a half please.  Scissors on the top. Not too short  - just take an inch off.  Leave the sideburns long. Shampoo. No gel please’ .. I rattled out. The man stared at me, puzzled.

‘You want haircut? ’, he asked after a long pause. I nodded.  

‘Please sit, sir – I do haircut ‘

                                                            ***

I looked at my hair admiringly. The man knew his job.  This was perhaps the best haircut I had got in many years – and he did it without any instructions!  I was so pleased that I wanted to try out all the services he had to offer.

Gray blending ?  I looked at the hair color products in the shelf in front of me and decided to give it a shot.  My man Friday looked extremely pleased that his patron was interested in the most expensive service offered in the saloon.  Even the customers waiting on the benches seemed interested. Everyone in the shop watched as our hairdresser got a stepping stool, reached out and retrieved a box of Garnier hair color from the shelf in front of us, mixed it in a dirty plastic bowl and started to furiously applying it on my head with a brush.

I soaked the authentic experience as ceiling fan cooled my wet colored hair. The man worked expertly, wiping the dripping color from my face. I had never got my hair colored facing a mirror. I realized that it was messy. I had been spared of reviewing this mess in the past since there were no mirrors in the coloring booths in Supercuts. You would actually see the results after everything was done. The color washed, hair shampooed and patted dry and the hairdresser giving you well rehearsed compliment as she took you back to your chair. “You look like a new person !’

Today, I was looking at all the mess that I used to miss out in the past. Head smeared with color. Authentic experience.  And that is when my communication with my new hairdresser stopped abruptly. I was waiting for him to say or do something to get me cleaned up from the messy hair color. He was also waiting for me to say or do something – what? I was not sure of.

I then realized that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. There was not a single wash basin in the shop. Not a single faucet. No washing station. No towels. No shampoo.

‘Please go home and shampoo’, the guy’s voice boomed across the room. The movie in television echoed an extended gunfire.

                                                                      ***

That day I learnt several things.

That never wear light colored T shirt when you go for a haircut. You never know when you could be subjected to an authentic experience. 

That wife gets pretty mad if you ruin a polo T shirt with hair dye.

That people do notice when you drive a scooter with your head smeared with color. Sometimes enough to actually turn back and stare at you.  Or giggle.

That the stern security guards of our gated community do laugh once in a while.  When they see a new resident riding a scooter with color dripping from his sideburns.

And that authentic experiences come with authentic learnings !

                                                                   END

Notes from India : The New School

‘We have an awesome adventure lined up !'

Mom's eyebrows were going higher and higher as my seven year old sister jumped with excitement. I am a twelve year old boy - old enough to be apprehensive about revelations like this one.

“What is it?’, I asked reluctantly, as  Mom’s eyebrows were about to vanish under her hairline.

‘We are going to India for a year !’, she said . The eyebrows were heading back to where they belonged.

My sister had disappeared – that girl could sense trouble faster than I could.

‘Imagine – one whole year!  Think of the things we could do!!’, Her eyebrows were going higher and higher again. ‘You will go to a new school. Make new friends. See new places...‘, my Mom’s eyebrow’s had vanished under her hairline.

                                                                      ****

“Where did you live in the US?”, my new friend sitting next to me in the bus asked.

’Boston’

‘Cool’

We were sitting in the second last row of the huge School Bus on its way back home from our new school.‘It is one of the best International schools in Bangalore’, Mom had said, ‘It is a BIG school with BIG playgrounds and a BIG swimming pool’ 

I was not sure about the school, but the school buses was indeed BIG. Much bigger than ones in the US. But this one swayed a lot. And it stopped a lot more – not just to pick up kids for school, I mean it stopped a million times. It was already more than an hour since we had left school and we were not home yet.

I noticed that Ram (my new friend) was trying to duck behind the seat trying to avoid the girl sitting in front of us across the aisle.

‘What is the matter?’, I asked.

‘I will tell you in a bit  ... when she is not looking this way’

Ram had saved my skin in the class today. I mean, in a BIG way. 

He was in my section in seventh grade and was supposedly a good student or ‘topper’, as other boys teased him. Ram would dismiss these boys casually – ‘Shutup Chakkay !’, He later explained me what Chakkay meant but I am still not very sure I understood him completely - the anatomical description did not make sense. The word was currently the most popular derogatory term for boys in the seventh grade - loosely translated as 'Girly Boy'.

So coming back to the incident in the classroom. It was my first day in the school and  the teacher asked me to introduce myself.

‘We have a new student  in the class’, She said pointing at me ‘ Why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself’ , I  had an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach as the entire class stared at me. Ram gave me an encouraging smile.

And then it happened !  

The teacher continued , ‘And after SHE has introduced HERSELF – I want you all to give HER a warm welcome ..’ , her voice echoed across as the class burst out into peals of laughter.

I have shoulder length hair. Something that my mom  had insisted to get cut for the last year or so – but I had refused to. Ram looked at me sympathetically as the laughter continued to ring through the classroom.

‘He is a BOY, Mam !’, Ram had stood up and shouted over the noise, ‘ He even has a mustache …’ , he added emphatically. This was the first time in my life I was proud of the thin wisp of hair on my upper lip that I had worn since I was two years old.

The laughter died down. Mam put on her glasses and peered through them. ‘ Hmmm .. how can I tell – half of the girls in this class have mustaches as well …’

This time only the boys burst our laughing. I felt bad or the girls – but was relieved to escape from being framed a girly boy. I joined the boys in their laughter and formally claimed my place in the cohort.

All this happened today morning. Now in the bus I had decided to help out Ram with whatever it was that was bothering him.

                                                                         ****

‘That girl is crazy’, Ram was uncharacteristically nervous.’ She flings her boogers at me !! ’, he whispered as I stared at him with wide eyes.’ … and she does it so discretely that no one would believe if I complained.’ Suddenly Ram's eyes froze in horror. The girl was looking back at him with an evil smile on her face. Then she put her finger inside her nose, pulled it out, and flicked it towards us !

‘Stop it!’ , I said , standing up in the Bus Aisle.

‘No standing in the Bus !’ shouted the teacher who was ‘in charge’ of the bus.  

The girl extended her finger to touch me, even as I dodged and ran past her to the teacher.

‘Stop the ruckus, I say  ...’ , The teacher shouted.

‘That girl is trying to put her booger on us’, I panted – relieved that I could finally get my new friend some justice, ’ Mam, She does it all the time - ask my friend'. ' He is right Mam - she always does that ...' Ram nodded his head emphatically.

‘Don’t lie’, came the unexpected response ‘Girls don’t do things like that  ...’

‘But she JUST DID IT’, I exclaimed.

‘Get back to your seat ...’

‘I can prove it – just look at her fingers …’ I tried to explain.

‘That is the problem with you American Kids ... always arguing … go back and sit quietly otherwise I will send you to the Principal' My American accent had given me away ! 

I noticed that my little sister was sitting just next to the teacher, looking up at me timidly. 

‘Girls cannot do things like that … my foot’, I thought of all the booger fights that my sister had started as I walked back to my seat.

                                                                   ****

“Dadu !!”, I  hugged my grandfather who had come to pick us up from the bus stand that was inside the gated community we lived in.

‘How was the day?’, He asked.

‘I wrote seven pages !!’ , my sister chirped in. She seemed to be excited’ I wrote it ALL down from the blackboard !’ she exclaimed.

‘That is my smart girl‘; Dadu smiled ‘What subject was it?’

‘I don’t know .., but the teacher was writing in cursive ! ’

Dadu laughed. ‘How was your day’, He asked me. I did not know where to start.

‘I made a very good friend  ...’

‘.. and I need a haircut.’

Authors Note : The Protagonist insists that all the incidences in the story are true. His sister later offered to get him re-introduced to the bus 'in charge' teacher. ‘She likes me – thinks I am cute’, she had said. ‘ I will tell her that you were telling the truth’.

Pratagonist’s dad and mom spent a lot of time analyzing and dissecting the situation and whether or not it deemed a visit to the Principal office to lodge a protest and fight for the rights of the argumentative American kids.

‘Lets not do it this time’, the protagonist suggested , 'After all it was just a booger fight !’

Notes from India: Don’t Angry me

‘Don’t Angry me!’

My friend had advised me.

The advice was from the context of managing household help in India, ‘You will be surprised how effective it is … Just be stern and bossy and say the Rowdy Rathore dialog from time to time’

‘Don’t Angry me - is the mantra’

***

We were moving from Boston to Bangalore for a year.

‘One full year!’,  I was already counting the things to do, places to see and friends to visit. Having lived the USA for fourteen years, our bi-annual India trips were mostly a flurry of short stays with friends and family spread across five to six cities packed tightly in a three week schedule.  The pace at which things happened in those trips could put Flash Gordon to shame.   

I could almost feel my body relax as I conjured images of a fun filled, laid back pace at which we would get to really experience India.

‘Laid back and peaceful …’,the words floated through my head as I stood in front of the Villa surrounded by Palm, Gulmohor and  coconut trees  in a quiet gated community in the outskirts of Bangalore. This was going to by our home for the next year.

 ‘So we have a gardener, two housemaids, a cook and a driver ... all of them working at our place! ’ , my son remarked, ‘ I won’t have to put the garbage out ! ’, he beamed

‘And I won’t have to water the plants!’, my daughter chirped.

‘Yes’, my wife smiled’ that will give all of us a LOT of spare time, isn’t?’

***

‘So let me get this straight - the water is pumped to the house two times a day..’ , I was trying to keep my cool as I spoke with the person managing the water supply of our gated community.

‘Yes, two times – morning and evening’, the man nodded un-affirmatively.

‘We did not get the water in the evening’, I tried to explain.

‘Yes, it is only morning for your block sir’ the man nodded and shook his head again.

‘We are out of water ...’ I implored.

‘Please wait till morning, sir..’

“Don’t Angry me !”, my friends’ words rang through my head as I saw my only hope ride away in his Honda Activa.  I had the perfect Rowdy Rathore expression ready for him– only if he had glanced back.

The much awaited water did come in the morning. That is when we realized that the water pump had burned out since we did not know that the water storage was empty and had kept it running the earlier day.

‘No issues ... Electrician is just a call away’, I feigned a smile as my wife stood with a battalion of helpless house helps standing in attention behind her.  The gardener had the water hose in his hand to make a point I think.

The Electrician arrived sooner than I expected.  ‘ I have been working in this colony for ten years sir..’, he boasted, ‘ The security does not even ask for my ID – they recognize my bike’ , he said taking a strand of his mustache hair out of his nostril. He fixed the pump much sooner than I expected.

‘It is fixed ’,  he declared.

‘Can we turn it on?’

‘There is no electricity ..’

‘We have a UPS !’

‘The UPS does not drive 15 AMP circuits ..’, he gave me ‘you don’t  even know that !’ look.

‘So how do you know that it is fixed !’, I was trying to conjure up my Rowdy Rathore look even as the electrician started his bike and rode way into the dusty horizon. ‘ I know ..’ his voice seemed to echo across  time and space. 

The battalion of helpless house helps nodded their head affirmatively   - ‘He knows ..’  the silent message threw me out of balance.

I picked up my phone. ‘Mom , we need you in Bangalore. Now!  It is urgent!!’

***

It had been a few weeks since my Mom arrived. 

I was sitting on my Yoga mat in a quiet corner of the terrace. This corner is shaded by the coconut tree growing in the backyard.  Beautiful, southern-california-style-sunny morning.  Deep blue skies and a perfect 72 degree temperature.

‘Laid back and peaceful …  at last..’ , I thought as I lay down on the mat looking up at the sky through the coconut leaves.

I suddenly heard a rustling sound behind me that makes me jump up. Precariously perched on the coconut tree was our Cook. He was trying to cut out a bunch of coconuts with his kitchen knife “ Your mother has asked me to use fresh coconuts in the curry’, he said half apologetically.

Before I could respond, I head a clanging noise.  The society water supply guy stood on the top a twenty feet long bamboo ladder, peering into the overhead water tank. ‘The pump is working well Maaji – there is a lot of water in the tank ….’  I was amazed. I walked up the front of the house and my mother was standing on the Lawn. ‘Make sure that there is enough water in the tank …or else you will have to come again’ she fumed. ‘Don’t Angry me’

“Prune that Branch – don’t cut it !’ , she shouted at the gardener , who is sitting on a branch of the Gulmohor tree , visibly shaking. ‘ Leafs from that branch fall on the car …’either you fix that branch or start cleaning up the car everyday ..’ , she declared. ‘Don’t Angry me’

My attention shifted to yet another person participating in aerial acrobatics – this one was sitting on the highest point of the roof of the Villa. Straddling the top of the inverted V that framed the elegant edifice of the house. It was the electrician, putting Diwali lights. ’ I want the light to go through the point where you are sitting – and make the edge look sharp...do a good job otherwise I will make you climb up there again … ’, mother bellowed her commands. ‘Don’t Angry me’

I could almost hear silence floating across the air, punctuated with a silent ‘Don’t Angry me’ as the four men worked silently from their high altitude work spaces.

Don’t Angry me was indeed the mantra !

Author’s Note:

‘Laid back and peaceful …’   hmmm not really (at least not yet). But helluva lot interesting. Especially for folks like me who have been out of India for some time. Please stay tuned for more adventures and reporting from the old home.

The Tide Adventure

Prologue

‘The Sea is gone’

‘The Sea is gone ... no , really !!’

The little girl panted as she shook her mother awake.  The mother pulled herself out of the bed and drew the curtains, spilling early morning sunshine into the room. 

She squinted to look across the backyard that overlooked the bay of Fundy.  She could not believe her eyes!

Attack of the Crabs

Once upon a time, long long ago, there was a small little kingdom called Anrock near the Bay of Fundy.  The people in the kingdom were happy fishermen and women.  They would all work through the day and get together in the evening, sing and dance together.

Then one day, the kingdom was attacked by the ferocious crabs of the underland.  

Crabs of all shapes and sizes started crawling out of the ocean. Crabs of all forms - big ones with large claws and small ones with small pinchers and tiny ones with hairy spider like legs. Crabs of all colors –furious red ones, greedy greenish ones, lazy brown ones and the snooty blue ones.

They came out of the ocean in hoards, overrunning the fishing village. They gobbled up the fishing nets. They bit through the fishing boats making them sink into the bottom of the ocean. They even climbed up the roof of the houses and made big holes in them.  

The fisher folks had to run away from the villages. The ones those remained had to guard their houses round the clock. The men fought them with swords. Then women joined the fight trying to keep the Crabs away from their houses using pitchforks.  

But the creepy, crawly creatures kept on pouring out of the sea into the villages around the bay.  The fisher folks were losing the fight. The head of all the villages rode to the King’s castle.  

King Pembroke heard the plea of the unhappy subjects.  “The Crabs have attacked our villages, please help us …’, they pleaded.

The King was enraged.  He took out his deadliest sword, assembled his bravest soldiers, put on his strongest armor and rode on his fastest horse towards the Bay of Fundy.

Prince of Clams

King Pembroke had many friends who lived in the ocean. He knew that he would need their help to defeat the Crabs. So he stopped by the castle of the Prince of Clams.  

The prince lived in a castle that was different from all the other castles in the world - it was under the ground!  What looked like flat marshy seabed next to the Bay, was actually the roof of the huge castle.  Millions of clams stood guard of the Castle, keeping watch through tiny peepholes

.

‘I am here to see the Prince of Clams’, King Pembroke announced.  The section of the ocean floor he was standing in stared to move into the ground.  He was greeted by the cheerful clicky voice of the prince of Clam.

‘Good to see you my friend!’, the prince announced.  The prince knew about the Crabs. ‘They have come in from the underland’, he said somberly.

‘Can you help me?’, The King asked.

The clam clicked thoughtfully. He then clicked some more. ‘There is one person who can help you ‘ , he finally declared. The king waited expectantly as the clam clicked some more.

‘The God of the Sea – Poseidon’, the clam said after a pause, ‘ the God of the sea can tame the crabs. The crabs need the sea to survive …’

‘But I don’t know how to reach Poseidon …’ , King Pembroke  voice had a hint of dejection. He had heard about the legend of the God of sea who lived in deepest oceans – far far away from the bay of Fundy.

‘But I know someone who does! ’, the prince of Clam said with a cheerful click.

The Travelling Salmon

‘Yes , that is correct ‘ , the Atlantic Salmon said twitching his snout ‘ I have met Poseidon ...’ , he wiggled his tail and twitched his snout some more ‘ … met him several times …’ , he said in a calm monotonous tone.

Prince clam had told the King that the Travelling Salmon was back from his ocean trip. ‘The golly fellow comes back to the stream it was born in. Imagine, traveling to all those wonderful faraway places in another continent, only to come back here!’

‘The fish may be nuts,  but I tell you - he knows Poseidon. He has surely met him many times’, King Pembroke recalled  Prince Clam’s words as he stood near the Chamcook Lake talking to the Travelling Salmon. The lake was connected to the ocean by the winding Chamcook river , which plunged down a huge waterfall before merging into the bay. 

 ‘Seven times  ... I have met him seven times – once in each of my ocean trips ..’ , the travelling salmon continued ‘ In fact Poseidon  taught me how to jump up  that waterfall  - all twelve feet of it’ , The salmon flicked its tail in the direction of the waterfall.

 ‘Can you convey our message to Poseidon to help us? The Crabs are destroying the villages and they must be stopped! ‘ , the King made an earnest plea.

‘But the villagers have fished us to near extinction’, the salmon replied. A tinge of sadness accentuated its monotonous voice, ‘They have polluted the streams and built dams on the rivers that makes it impossible for us to come back to the places we were born in …’

‘Why should I help you and your villagers ...’ , the travelling Salmon stared at King Pembroke.

‘I will make sure you and your kind are protected ‘, The King did not bat his eyelids ‘ Even if you choose not to help me … Travelling salmon, that is a  word that I give to you today !’

The travelling salmon glided around the lake as several other salmon joined him. They looked very happy.  The salmon picked up speed and headed out towards the river ‘ I will help you ‘, it said jumping over a rapid.

‘How will I know that you have conveyed him our message?’, The king asked .

‘You will know’, the salmon said as it jumped down the waterfall.

The Sea is gone

‘The Sea is gone!!’

The little girl panted as she shook her mother awake.  The mother pulled herself out of the bed and drew the curtains, spilling early morning sunshine into the room. She squinted her eyes to look across the backyard that overlooked the bay of Fundy.  She could not believe he eyes!

She picked up the pitchfork that was carefully placed beside the door and cautiously walked out into the backyard of the house. The house was perched on top of a cliff overlooking the bay.

The sea was indeed gone!   And the crabs had gone away with it!  

Tears of joy welled into her eyes as she looked along the coastline which was lined with thousands of men, women and children, waving their swords and pitchforks into the air. A roar of cheer rang across the bay as the woman and her little girl joined in.

King Pembroke stood with the men and women and stared at the empty horizon.

‘You will know’

Epilogue  

The sea did come back. In six hours to be precise. The nasty Crabs of the underland did not come back with it. The Sea has been receding into the horizon twice a day since then – perhaps just to make sure that the crabs do not come back and terrorize the small little kingdom near the Bay of Fundy.

The breeding grounds of salmons are now protected in the Kingdom.

Authors Note:   Bay of Fundy in the Atlantic coast of North America is known for the highest tides in the world. The sea level drops by more than forty feet between the tides. The coastline recedes almost to the horizon in a lot of places leaving the coastal fishing towns somewhat embarrassed with their docks anchoring boats balanced on the dry ocean bed. Twice in a day, these quaint seaside towns would transform to (just) quaint towns overlooking vast expanse of ocean bed laden with silt and weeds.

I was sitting on the deck of a cottage in one such town, trying hard to get out of an obstinate writer’s block. The cottage (an amazing vacation rental) was perched on a cliff overlooking the Bay of Fundy in St Andrews, Canada. A path wound down from the cottage to the seashore where my kids were busy chasing crabs with enviable enthusiasm.  The crabs sought shelter in the receding sea that was fleeing with an amazing pace because of the low tide.

‘Keep an eye on the kids’; said my wife ‘I am going in to fix us some lunch’.

I nodded, fixing my gaze at the two children who were squealing with delight digging out crabs of all shapes and sizes from the ocean bed and putting them into a yellow bucket. ‘We will let them all go after we are done playing’, my seven year old daughter had assured me.

The kids went further and further away from the cliff as the ocean receded, almost as if they were chasing the ocean into a beating retreat. 

I had found my story!

Stranded!

“Stranded!”

The word has an uncomfortable ring to it.  A combination of helplessness and uncertainty laced with despair. A few strands of excitement scattered here and there. And the painful attempt of the mind to believe that it is in control.

Yes I know that formula very well dear friends. I should have received an honorary doctorate in getting stranded – if that subject was of any academic interest.  If finding holes in illusion of certainty that the modern technological age has been striving to create, was a crime – then I would be behind the bars for life.

You don’t believe me do you? Well, how about I share some of my experiences and then the jury can decide.  And before I start , I want to reiterate that all these incidences are true.

****

Train is of course one of the most popular modes of transportation across the world. Especially in India where thousands of locomotives ferry millions of passengers every day, connecting cities and towns and villages to each other, it is a like the lifeline of the country. 

During my college days, it used to be my primary mode of transportation between my home and college.  Thought it was long ride – fifteen hours if the train was on time, I was lucky that there was a direct train to the city where my college was located in. The scheduled departure time for the train from my town was 9 PM but it used to be invariably a couple of hours late, arriving at the destination early afternoon the next day.The travels would take place mostly during college vacations. 

As the train passed through numerous towns, known faces from the college boarded the train - mostly acquaintances and an occasional friend.  We used to spend a lot of time standing near the open door of the coach, smoking and chatting, getting off and on the train at all the small stations that the train paused through.   Only when the coach attendant declared that it was time to close the door, we used to finally retire, usually sleeping through the rest of the journey.

That day, the train had arrived at the station right on time. This was the first time this happened since had been travelling to college. My coach was in the middle of the train, which was a good location to scout the train from.

Strangely enough I was not able to locate any friend in the train that night. I decided to retire for the night and stretched out on my berth. The sleeper coaches of the train provided seeping berths that were positioned one on top of other. Though it was a bit early for bedtime, I pulled the blanket over my head and dozed off.

I was jerked out of my deep slumber by a rumbling sound followed by loud screeching and a finally a jolt. The coach swayed so much amidst the noise that I had to peep out of the cozy blanket and looked at my watch  – it was 3 AM in the morning .Then I heard screams, something that I had never experienced in my twenty odd years of riding the train.

The train swayed dangerously with a deafening sound and came to a screeching halt. I got up, amidst screams of passengers who had been thrown out of their berths. As I made my way to the exit, I noticed that the entire coach was sloping towards the right.  I was one of the first ones to jump out of the coach into a dark and still night.

The coach I was travelling in was leaning at an angle on the tracks. It was really dark outside, we were in the middle of nowhere. The only thing that was visible was the faint outline of the tracks next to our train and a broken harness dangling from our coach. The harness was supposed  to be attached to the next coach. All the coaches after ours were missing - those coaches, most likely would be lying down toppled somewhere down the tracks.

I glanced down the deserted track and then nervously at the men standing next to me in the dark night.

I was  stranded!

****

‘Train accidents happen all the time’, a cynic jury member might say in an imaginary conversation with the author, ‘You just happened to be unlucky enough to be part of one ...’

‘How about a cross country motorcycle journey then?’, I  would respond, ‘ Will that make the cut ?’

The jury member might look at me with a skeptical gaze, ‘A motorcycle accident?’

‘No – that would be too easy’, I manage a smile. ‘How about getting stranded on the road – without any of the predictable stuff …  accident, falling sick , bandhs  ?’

I passed on to the cynic jury member a link to the story – Pulp Fiction Masaala.

****

‘Did it really happen?’ , the jury member asked after browsing through the story.

‘Yes, most of it’, I replied ‘ Of course what is life without  a little creative license ?’

‘ I have more stories ..’, I added eagerly ‘ There is one where I get  stranded because of  the train. And then I head out for a road trip and get stranded again!’  

‘Yes I have read that one in your blog ‘ , the jury member gave me a faint smile.

‘Do you have something that is different?’, she asked after a pause.

‘You bet I do!’ , I was eager to be absolved of my crime of finding holes in illusion of certainty that the modern technological age was trying to create.

****

So here is a different story that happens in a totally different part of the world.

Aircraft is of course one of the most popular modes of transportation across the world. Especially in USA  where thousands of aircrafts  ferry millions of passengers every day, connecting cities and towns to each other, it is a like the lifeline of the country. 

‘Don’t tell me you have been in a plane accident  ...’ , the jury member interrupted  with her eyes betraying  her attempt of  feigning a detached calmness.

‘No – no usual stuff ...’ , I smiled ‘ Here is how the story goes…’

I fly a lot as part of my work.  If you discount the instances of ego induced imaginary levitations, I still flew a lot and was in the elite clubs of most of the airlines.  Of course the perks of these travels – beside the complimentary fist class upgrades, glasses of champagnes and access to exclusive lounges at  the airports, was my near constant absence from the life of my family. But somehow I had played along with the illusion that elite mileage membership was a more than sufficient compensation for missing out on life.

Because of my frequent travels, I have had the good fortune of experiencing several adrenalin induced moments. Like getting splattered with the barf of my co traveler when our shuttle aircraft plummeted down due to an unusually large airpocket.  It was early in the morning and I swear I could have guessed the menu of the breakfast the guy had.

Then there was this incidence where the overtly panicked stewardess asked us to  put our head between our knees for an emergency landing. The aircraft landed on the runway lined with ambulances and fire trucks. But  that is not when I got stranded.

It was a balmy winter afternoon  in Boston (if you know the standards of balmy winter in New England) . The Sun was still shining brightly - the temperature was twenty degree F ( -6 Deg C).  I was travelling to Chicago - It was supposed to be snowing and much colder there.  My brother lives in Chicago and I would be staying with him for the night and go through a string of official meetings the next morning. It was a simple plan.

The air was unusually chilly when I got out of my car at the central parking of the Logan Airport. I hurried out of the car and rushed towards the terminal building.  The flight was on time.

After  the usual rounds of in-flight complimentary  champagne, I disembarked the plane at O Hare Airport in Chicago.  My brother was supposed to pick me up from the terminal. ‘ Call me when your flight lands – I will be there before you reach the terminal exit’  he had said.

I dug into pocket retrieve my cell phone.  The phone was not there!  Then I realized that I did not recall turning the phone off before the phone took off.   My cell phone was in my car that was parked at Boston Airport !

I looked at the eyes of the cynic jury, who did not seem to be impressed by the turn of events.

‘So what – you just forgot your cell phone … is that all?’ , she seemed to be underwhelmed.

That day I realized the extent I had got used to the technological props.  I did not remember my brother’s cell phone number. Or his address – I had his address stored in my contact information in my cell phone. All I recalled that he lived in the Lake shore drive opposite to Lake Michigan on the eighteenth floor of a beautiful building that had a swimming pool on the terrace.

A combination of helplessness and uncertainty laced with despair crept up on my mind. A few strands of excitement scattered here and there in the mix. My mind made a painful attempt to believe that it is in control as I called my home from a pay phone.

‘So you got your brother’s address and phone number from your wife ?’ , my heartless jury remarked  nonchalantly.

I tried to. There was no one at home as my call kept on hitting the answering machine. I did not remember my wife’s cell phone number - her office had switched over to a new carrier last month and she had a new number which had not registered in my memory. 

It was snowing outside  and the temperature was minus 15 deg centigrade. I stood on the curbside thinking about my brother who was waiting for my call so that he could come and pick me up at the airport. I could not take a taxi to his place because I did not remember his address.

I was stranded!

****

‘So what is your point?’ , the imaginary jury asked after a long pause , ‘ Is it that the things that you take so much for granted – the safety net – it is a mere illusion ?’

Frankly, I was just hoping for some sympathy. But my jury’s philosophical inference sounded reasonable.  I nodded affirmatively.

‘But you did survive all the strandings  ... didn’t you ?’ , she asked  with a smile.

I recalled that I had walked for about a mile after the train accident when we saw fire from a distance. Several coaches lay toppled on the tracks and the passengers had lit up warning bonfires. Some of the passengers were helping the train staff in attending to the injured.  After what seemed to be a very long wait, a train passed on the track parallel to ours – we had stopped that train and made our way to the next station.

I had hailed a taxi at O’Hare. It had started to snow. ‘Please drive towards the Lake Shore dive … by the way do you have a cell phone?‘ I had asked the cab driver. I left a message on the home answering machine ‘Left my cell phone in the car. Stranded in Chicago – please call me at 347 564 3422’.   I had my brother’s address when I was a mile away from his home.

I did not want to tell her about the countless other times that I had felt that I was stranded but I had survived the stranding.  

‘We all survive the strandings’, I winked at my imaginary jury.

Time Travel with Tintin

‘How was it ?’ I had asked my eleven year son as  we walked out out  the multiplex after watching The Adventures Tintin.

  

‘Loved it !’, he had replied with a grin , ‘Can you get me all the comics, please ! you have read them all, haven't you  ?’

It had taken some convincing to get him interested in the blond boyish looking character who had been my favorite comic book hero since I was his age.

The crown jewel of my comics’ collection, Tintin had made his way up on favorite list. Herge’s illustrations would take me to the far away lands – Africa, Tibet, Middle East, America and even to the Moon!

‘How about we read them together?’ I had suggested. 

***

A pile of Tintin comics lay in front of us. I had ordered several of them from Amazon.  There were a few from my childhood collection - these masterpieces were still clad in the newspaper jackets that I had put on them to save them from the rampage of time.

‘Careful’, I  said as my son unwrapped the Jacket  to reveal the colorful front page of Tintin and the Picaros – the hilarious plot that was set amongst imaginary  Banana republic’s of South America.  He settled down into the couch diving into the land of General Alcazar.

The yellowing newspaper jackets lay on the floor. I picked up one which was almost brittle with age.

“Times of India Sunday, June 15, 1986” said the fading letters on the header, just above smiling faces of Kapildev and Ravi Shastri  who were popping a bottle of champagne.  

I carefully unwrapped other  newspaper jackets  - they were all  within a couple of years.

‘Scooch over ‘ I nudged my son from my favorite spot on the couch and settled down with a cup of tea and twenty five year old newspapers.

‘I thought you were going to read Tintin with me …’ , my son complained.

But I had already set out on a time travel that took me back more than twenty five years – when I was almost as old as my son.  

****

I don’t read newspapers. I think that they are the best way to ruin your morning. I believe that if the news is important - it would always find you.  Today, news from a Sunday morning about twenty five years ago had found me.

“End for Ron , Blonde for Mikhail predicted” , the international  news section had a piece covering an astrologers  prediction  that Ronald Regan would resign over Iran arms scandal and Mikhail Gorbochov would fall in love with a 19 year old  air hostess.  ‘Most Astrologers predict that next year would be disastrous ’ the article concluded. ‘Not much of a change there‘, I chuckled. 

'Can you turn off the TV please ?' my son requested, his eyes glued to the comic. The TV was showing a documentary on Tibetans and their struggle to get freedom. I turned it off and placed the remote on the coffee table.

My attention drifted to the small section in the Sunday newspaper that said “Today’s TV”  with the Sunday morning programs that I used to wait an entire week for.  The listing was next to an advertisement for black and white television sets.  Mickey and Donald show was at 10 AM, followed by the kids soap 'Ek do Teen chaar' and then the celebrated Rajani at 12:15 PM.

My eyes would be glued to the black and white television showing programs ranging from Mickey and Donald’s show to the feisty Rajani – the vigilant housewife on a mission to fight against social issues under a semi-comical setting.

The Sunday Feature Film was V Shantaram’s  Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje – which I recalled  even after twenty five years. It had been a painful movie to sit through at that time with its unending string of dances. 

“Last ‘Rajani’ today” declared an article just below the listing that said that Mudra Communications would not be making any new episodes of the celebrated TV serial. The last episode of Rajani at 12:15 pm.

I sat up excited. I still remembered that Sunday afternoon very clearly ! My mother had not stopped complaining  about the end of her favorite TV program. "Why do they stop the good programs?' . "They should privatize the TV broadcasting", my dad had quipped in. 

The time travel was getting real . It wasn't an general day from the past that was reading about. It was a day that I could relate to now. A day that I had memories about !

A quick glance at the weather section which was just under the TV listing – it was 43 deg C (110 F)  in Delhi. I cringed recalling the hot June afternoons. Tar roads would burn and almost feel soft under the shoes due to the heat . A blast of dry westerly winds , or Loo blowing from the deserts of Rajasthan could almost vaporize you.

****

The economic section had news about Reliance Industries setting up a new company for a massive petrochemical project in Hazira, Gujrat. 


The company was to be named Reliance Petrochemicals. The company went on to become a household name in India and played a key role in shaping up Reliance Industries into an industrial behemoth. The owner of the company is now the second richest person in Asia and ninth richest in the world.

Scattered around the pages were advertisements -  relics of commercial art with amusing copy writing. "Visit before or after marriage and regain health vigor and vitality", declared the advertisement of the celebrated Sablok Clinic - made famous but the wall graffiti advertisement campaign along the railway tracks of  Delhi.

A huge quarter page advertisement of Siva Computers was filled up with a rate card of PC's  with different configurations. The state of the art AT-386  was priced at Rs 1,40,00 (~$3000). 


'Times have indeed changed', I thought, as I looked at the advertisement with an amused grin. 


'How about some news ?', I opened the newspaper to peek into the inside pages. 


This section was relatively well preserved and I shifted my attention to the headlines sprinkled across the pages.  


I was Amazed by what I found there !


****


I could not believe that these headlines were from a newspaper that was twenty five years old. These headlines could pass as "News" even today.

Israel, Palestine, India. Pakistan, Kashmir .. the dates had changed but the stories were the same.


'Uneasy calm in Lhasa', said another headline - that talked about the unrest in Tibet. 


'Wait a minute .. didn't I see that on the TV just now..' , sat up flicking the TV on. The program was still on - throwing light on Tibetans and their struggle to get freedom.

'Perhaps the times have not changed that much after all ...'  I sighed as I fixed my gaze at the television which was showing interviews related to the 2008 Tibetan unrest which had ended in rioting, looting and killing.

****

‘Hey !  I thought you were going to read Tintin with me …’ , my son complained as he saw me watching the television. I switched the television off and turned my gaze towards the stack of Tintin comics on the coffee table. "Tintin in Tibet" was on top of the pile.

A smile spread across my face. Colorful images of Tibet and Himalayas that that Herge had conjured in the comic book flashed in my mind - the monasteries, the levitating monks, the colorful kites and  the snow clad landscapes. The images were in stark contrast to the fossilized reality. The fossilized reality that had not changed after twenty five years.

I picked up the Tinitin comic, stretched out next to my son and dived into the land of Tintin. I was happy that things had not changed there as well.

Smart Robots

Authors Note :   


"The strength of your writing is that it has honesty ... but you have to work on the length of your stories",  was my writing Guru's  feedback. "Cut ruthlessly on multiple reads till a point that you feel not a single word can now be removed", she said.


So I thought of a story that needed a lot of honesty. And tried to communicate it in the least possible words ..


Planet Omega-3 was inhabited by smart robots.

These robots ran on a heuristic program - a program that could learn. The robots became more intelligent over time and started performing new and cool stuff. They even evolved their forms to new cool forms to help them perform new and cool stuff.

One day a robot’s program became over optimized and created a virus.

The virus made the robot perform not so cool stuff, while its program continued to believe that it was performing cool stuff. 

The virus spread to other robots and the number of infected robots increased steadily.

***

Then one day a robot downloaded a vaccine program from an unknown source. 

The incidences of vaccine downloads started happening at regular intervals. These robots were known as savior robots.

The savior robots cleared the virus from a large number of infected robots they came in contact with. 

The vaccinated robots could once see the difference between what was cool and what was not.

***

But several of these vaccinated robots caught the virus back again. 

Most of them were the ones who got organized in big groups to set up vaccination camps for other infected robots. These robots relapsed with a resistant strain of virus - vaccine for which had not surfaced yet.

The gap between infected and vaccinated robots continues to grow in the planet Omega-3.

THE END