The other day I was walking along the road talking to myself. Suddenly, I realised the presence of a man walking beside me, on the right. I looked at him. He too was talking to himself. Relief. I actually ventured to say Hello to him. He didn't respond, but noticed that I had said something to him. I saw him remove his earphone from his right ear. Sorry, I was talking on the phone, he said. Caught on the wrong foot, for a moment I didn't know what to say. I said, Hello. He had a broad smile on his face. And replied, Hello. We moved on.
A few days ago, I wanted to withdraw some cash and reached the ICICI Bank ATM in Kasturinagar.
It was the third one I was coming to that morning: one wasn't working, and the other had a long queue.
There was one person already waiting, and another was inside the kiosk.
On seeing that there wasn't anyone in front of the SBM ATM, which is very close by, and I went there. But the sensor on the screen didn't seem to be working. I came out, and headed back to the ICICI ATM.
The man who was in the kiosk was still inside. Probably, he was making multiple transactions, or facing some problem. Anyway, a couple of minutes later, he came out, and it was the turn of the person who had arrived before me, to go in.
But that young man surprised me with this suggestion: "Why don't you go in? I need to generate PIN, and it might take some time ..."
Though I was taken aback, I told him, "Thank you so much. You are very kind," and I walked in.
It didn't take me more than a minute to withdraw some cash.
As I stepped out and exited, I thought, there was no need for him to make that offer. He could have gone in, and I would have waited for, may be, a few more minutes. Parking fee
Yesterday evening, I had to make a few purchases, and I parked my car at a paid parking lot in Kamanahalli. I was handed a small red slip of paper with the time written on it, by a young man who guards the place. The fee is Rs 10 per hour for two-wheelers and Rs 20 per hour for four-wheelers.
I finished my shopping and was back in 15 minutes. Just as I was giving the attender Rs 20, he said, "Rs 10."
I was surprised. He then said, "You just came.. " Meaning, I had parked the car for only a short time.
I said, okay, and put back the Rs 20 in my purse and gave him Rs 10.
As I drove back home, I wondered: he could have taken Rs 20. What was the need to give me a concession?
Or should I have insisted on going by the actual rate, and paid him Rs 20, instead taking a discount?
A few days ago, I wanted an envelope to place a small gift in it and give it to a friend, at a farewell function. So, I went to a nearby gift store to get one.
On my return, after buying the envelope, just as I entered my apartment block, an elderly gentleman asked me which was the exit in the building. No sooner I had pointed at the door than he asked me where he could get an envelope. (It turned out that he too was heading for the same farewell function, and he too needed a gift envelope.) I told him there is a shop behind the apartment complex. And that I am just returning after buying one for myself.
While I walked a few steps towards the exit to show him the direction to the store, he popped a question: "Could you just come with me?"
The gentleman, who must be in his sixties, was very apologetic. I agreed to to go to the shop with him, but I also suggested he could use the envelope I had bought, and that I shall quickly go back to the store and get another one. Why should he walk all the way to the store, I thought.
But he said no, and cheerfully agreed to walk along with me. As we walked, I told me where he had worked in Bengaluru, and asked me where I lived, where I worked, how long I have been in the city etc. We just quickly got to know each other.
Back at the store, I asked the lady at the counter for anther envelope. The lady is the wife of the man owns the shop.
"Give me a simple cover," the man told the lady, who then offered one which cost Rs 3.
Seemingly satisfied, he took out his purse and offered her coins of Rs 2 and Re 1.
However, a few other coins too dropped on the desk, and the woman's eyes fell on a shining one.
"What is that coin?", she asked.
Before he could reply, came another question: "Can I see it?"
A bit taken aback, he put the coin hurriedly back in the purse.
But the woman was insistent and assured him that she won't take it, but only wants to just see it.
Then he took it out and handed it over to her. She examined it.
"Is it a silver coin?" she was curious.
"No, it's an American cent, a penny," he explained.
She didn't seem to have understood. So, I said, "It is a coin of a foreign country, and not ours."
Then in a sudden turn around, she asked, "Can I have it?"
Why she abruptly wanted to own it, I wondered.
I asked her, "I wonder if it's right to ask for something personal from a customer in this manner!"
She then turned a bit apologetic, and reasoned out. "When I go to Rajasthan, I can show my friends the foreign coin."
"But still, isn't it a personal thing?" I asked her.
She then quickly said, "Uncle might have more such coins at home."
The elderly man, probably not wanting to have with him something that someone is longing for, readily parted with the penny, saying there are many more such coins at home, and that his son works in the US.
As we walked back, the incident left both of us thinking why she suddenly wanted to have the coin for herself.
This morning, it took me a good one hour to locate the corporation (Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike, or BBMP) office in Ulsoor, from where I had to get my mother's death certificate. But little did I realise that there was a pleasant surprise awaiting me.
I knew a BBMP office in Ulsoor. When I reached there, I didn't find the usual crowd, apparently because of the council elections, coming up on August 22. But on the first floor, where the office is, I found an elderly employee.
"No, we don't issue certificate. You have to check with the post office down," he told me firmly.
But, post office? I cross-checked with him. "Yes, post office, in the ground floor," he repeated quite calmly. So, I went down. But, I didn't have the guts to ask someone selling stamps and envelops where could I get a death certificate.
There was a man sitting on the steps at the entrance to the post office. Could be a localite, so I asked him if there was a BBMP office anywhere else nearby where I could get a death certificate. He said the BBMP office upstairs issues only ration cards, and the one in the Utility Building on MG Road issues birth and death certificates.
I headed there, not too far. May be about three or four km away. After looking around and asking a few people, I located the kiosk. There was a board 'birth and death certificates'. When I showed the documents to the gentleman there, he had a good look at it, and said, I had to go to Ulsoor.
I said I did go to the Ulsoor office, and that they had told me they don't issue death certificates. He looked a little puzzled. Then, I asked him if there was more than one office in Ulsoor, and if I could know which one exactly issues the death certificate. He dismissed me saying, ask someone there.
I was back at the very same BBMP office in Ulsoor. But instead of going up to the first floor again, I asked a seemingly knowledgeable man sitting outside on the steps (you always find a few outside government buildings), where I could get a death certificate. He guided me to a BBMP office, about a kilometer away.
I reached there, without any difficulty. But the person there said, the concerned office is another one, half a kilometer away.
Finally, I was at the right office. This was the BBMP Health Office. I walked into a small room, where there were two gentlemen sitting, one of them in front of a computer. With much anxiety on how many more times I would have to come there, I approached one of them.
"Please sit down," he told me with a smile as he took my documents. He read out my mother's name to his colleague sitting beside him at the computer, as I looked around the small room. Even before I could form any thoughts in my mind, he asked me, "How many copies?
With a triumphant look, he also added, "In no other office, you will get things done this fast!"
I was a pleasantly taken aback. "Three?" he suggested.
Apparently three originals is the norm, assuming these originals would be required for official purposes at places like banks. I said, "Yes, three," (so that I wouldn't have to come again, in case I needed more copies). I was still struggling to come to terms with the speed with which things had moved in a corporation office, which is normally associated with bureaucracy and lethargy.
In less than two minutes of me walking into this office, my work was done. All the particulars were there without any mistakes. Obviously, they had dutifully filled them all in well in time.
What's the fee, I inquired, with an obvious glee on my face.
"Rs 100, plus anything extra if you wish," he said, as he resumed his work.
I handed him Rs 120, congratulated him for the highly remarkable level of efficiency, profusely thanked him, and exited.
All the pessimism and the feeling that things will never ever improve in India, which had welled up within me during the past one hour, vanished into thin air in less than two minutes.
Despair not. Things have changed, they are changing, may be slowly. But there is hope.
She had been sinking; her weak lungs and heart trying their best to function normally. She had already drifted away into unconsciousness. When I came to see her today, I remembered and cherished the conversations we had till a couple of days ago. Then, in the evening, the doctor called me. "Have one last look," he said. They showed me the multiple lines on a pink graph paper, pointed to the time and said the end came at 5.56 pm.
My mother had been fighting old age even as her body was getting weaker and weaker. She was fiercely independent. She had amazing reserves energy to keep herself going. She tried her best, until she just couldn't.
She enjoyed the reputation of being a fine cook. Everyone in family always spoke of the many curries, sweets and other delicacies she made. Her tea had a unique taste; no one knew how she managed to get the right taste. A gift, I am sure.
Slowly, she stopped cooking. Then, she stopped washing vessels. She just used to prepare a cup of tea in the night. One day that too stopped. During the last few days she was just eating barely enough to keep herself going.
On the first of July, she seemed to have contracted a chest infection. We got a nearby physician to examine her. Since it looked like she wasn't getting better, on the eighth, we moved to her to a nearby hospital. On the next couple of days, she seemed to be getting better. But the doctor said the infection had weakened her lungs. She also seemed to have had a very mild heart attack a few days earlier, because of which the heart too was weak. The doctor was just hoping that things would get better, especially since two important organs weren't working to their full capacity.
During the last couple of days, her condition worsened, and today evening, she left for her heavenly abode.
One regret, if at all, was that she never wanted to be in hospital. And sadly, her last days had to be in one. But, mercifully, she didn't have to suffer much. She was 84, and lived a full life.
You leave behind tons and tons of good memories. You will never go away from my thoughts.
Recently, my friend from Kolkata narrated an anecdote that happened in his neighbourhood.
A 20-year old college student went missing. He had returned after studies, but went out soon after, saying he was going to meet a friend. But neither did he mention anyone's name nor people at home ask. When he wasn't back even after 10 pm, folks at home began to get worried.
They called him on his mobile. But the calls repeatedly gave an 'out of coverage area' reply. Friends too tried, but to no avail. Messages too evoke no response.
A friend thought of checking WhatsApp. The Last Seen time stamp was only 10 minutes behind the actual time. That meant he was active on the messaging app. But the friends couldn't figure out why he hadn't bothered to inform where he was, but "was happily" WhatsApping.
A quick explanation was he might have tried to call or message but the mobile connectivity might have been bad. He might have been online as his data lines were more stable or he was on someone's Wi-Fi.
No sooner his friend noticed the missing boy's time stamp change to 'online' than he shot off a message.
"Where the hell are you? All are worried."
To the delight of everyone, he replied.
"I am at (a friend's) house. Don't worry. It's raining heavily here. Can't step out. Will come once rain reduces."
"Then why the **** you didn't tell anyone at home ...."
"Chill. Nothing to worry. Call wasn't going through. Will call now. Or you also tell them."
Apparently it was true that in the other part of the city, it was raining, and he was genuinely stuck.
He was back home around midnight to a lecture on how he should remember to keep someone posted on his whereabouts if he wasn't where he normally should be.
But the other takeaways from this incident were: one, how internet-based messaging platforms can help when the default phone call and SMS don't seem to work; and two, perhaps, more significantly, the clue the time stamp on Last Seen can provide about your status.
The above anecdote was narrated by my friend during a recent dinner get together we had with a few of our common friends, when he visited Bengaluru. His story triggered a debate on whether the Last Seen feature is an invasion of privacy or it is helpful.
Here is a gist of the arguments: some on predictable lines, some new lines of thought.
Against Hiding
Since when is WhatsApping a crime?
Why should I care if someone knows when I checked WhatsApp last? How does it matter to anyone? I might check at 1 in the afternoon or 4 in the night.
WhatsApp is not like Email. It is an instant messaging platform used for quick communication. So Online and Last Seen are important indicators, that show how easily I can be accessed.
Hiding doesn't serve any purpose anyway, because the double tick will indicate that I have got the message. And the blue tick (if I haven't disabled that) means I have read it too. So, what is the big deal? What am I trying to hide anyway?
For Hiding
Since it's an instant messaging platform, I am online most of the time. Then, why publicize additionally the precise timings too?
It's a system prone to technical issues, and not reliable. One, if the app is running in the background, especially on Android phones, I might be shown as online, when I am not actually. Two, if I only opened the app, and not read or typed a message, sometimes the Last Seen gets updated. Three, when using the web version, sometimes you are shown online, even when you have minimised the browser. The Last Seen feature is flawed and misleading.
Some people expect a reply from me immediately (on seeing that I have been online), when actually I haven't had time to type out a reply.
Suppose I was chatting late at night with my friend in the US, my mom wants to know why I wasn't sleeping, and with whom I was chatting late in the night! Mom I can handle, but why should everyone else too know that I was up late into the night. It's total invasion of privacy. A provision to make oneself invisible is what is actually needed.
All of these finally got washed down with a few drinks and a generous helping of some Continental and Chinese delicacies.
The visit was long overdue, and finally I got time one evening to drop by my friends' house.
Let's call them Sithesh and Sarah. They are bank executives, and they have a daughter Sangeetha who has just completed 12th.
One flip side of a bank job, is the transfer. You are liable to be moved from one to city to another anywhere in the country. And when both husband and wife work in banks, it can sort of wreak havoc with the family life.
Sithesh and Sarah have had their share of the problem, which proved to be quite troublesome especially after Sangeetha came. They had to be in different cities for years. Somehow, they have managed to pull it off, thanks to their parents and friends.
As soon as I landed up in their house, we launched ourselves into a non-stop conversation. There was so much to catch up.
Some half an hour later, Sangeetha came in. She had gone to her neighbour's house. It's about two years since I last met her.
In a while, she too joined our conversation. She spoke about her school, her teachers, her strict headmistress and her friends. Quite an opinionated girl, she had her own views about topics as varied as our education system, corporal punishment, dress code, traditions, taboos etc.
A little later, she brought a book in which she had drawn beautiful pictures; some of them pencil sketches, some them water-coloured drawings. There were images of landscape, objects, people -- a wide variety of the life we see around us. As I turned the pages, I could sense her eagerness for my nods of approval.
I was immediately reminded of what she had told me when I had come to their house the last time -- her ambition to make it big the world of design and arts. As she turned the pages of the scrap book of her creative work, she told me how she had read up on successful people in the field, the courses she could pursue and what lay in store for her in the profession.
When I told her that her work was good, it was neither by way of mere encouragement or blind flattery. I had meant it, for her works were stunning.
It was dinner time. While having the sumptuous spread that they had prepared, her parents spoke about what they made of their daughter's interests.
For them, it was merely her hobby, a pastime, or even a waste of time, as it was cutting into her study hours. She would be reading some article on design and art, instead of reading something related to school work, they whined.
I summoned my diplomatic skills, and merely nodded in approval, as a debate on turning hobbies into careers ensued. I took my own example, of how I consciously chose to do a post-graduation in Journalism though I had got admission to PG courses in Bio-Chemistry, Physical Chemistry and Applied Chemistry.
But, I had to be careful here not to infuriate my hosts, after all it was a sensitive subject; and it should not appear that I was trying to "wrongly" influence my friends' daughter.
Both Sithesh and Sarah want Sangeetha to be a doctor. They have their own reasons.
"She is good in studies; even top scores in biology. There are so many children who want to be doctors, but their parents don't have the money to educate them. But here there is no such problem. Sangeetha is so lucky to have everything. Children of 12 Std need to be guided to the right profession; and not allowed to choose one based on someone's recommendations or based on what they read on the internet. Parents know their children well, and therefore they are the best people to guide them to the right profession." They went on and on.
Now, I couldn't help making murmurs of disapproval. Without sounding crass or cut-and-dried, I gently suggested to them that though it was the duty of the parents to guide their children through the right path and give all support they need; after all, it's the children's career and life, and it should be left to them to take the final call.
Soon it emerged that the parents were opting the doctor's profession not just because Sangeetha was good in biology, but it was as a safe choice (for the parents), and given her academic brilliance, it almost looked as if Sangeetha's career in the medical profession will be stellar success.
There might be good career prospects in design and arts, they agreed with me. But why take the risk, why mess with life?, so went their argument.
I felt a bit sad, when a little later Sangeetha told me (without her parents hearing) that she would pursue medicine, because that is what her parents want. "After all, they have to support me in my education; it's not practical to rebel against them, when I am dependent on them."
She will soon be writing entrance examinations to medical colleges around the country. Knowing her, I am pretty sure that she will pass with good marks, and ultimately choose a good college (on suggestions from her parents, rather than anyone else), and do well in the medical course too.
However, I wonder if she is making the right choice. Should she pursue her passion or merely follow what her parents want her to do?
How will it all pan out for her when she is done with academics, and steps out into the real, hard world of patients, doctors and hospitals? That's the time your passion will be the only driving force. At that time, will the dormant interest for design and arts rear its head and spoil the chances for Sangeetha?
I am part of a Facebook group of bibliophiles. When I saw a post a week ago, about plans for a get together, I had mixed thoughts running through my mind.
Images of striking up conversations with, and getting to know people with whom I had interacted only online, began flashing. That's exciting for me. Moreover, I have always felt that bonding with people having common interests is easier, than randomly saying Hi to a stranger and striking up a conversation.
But another thought seemed to be weighing me down. After all, they are strangers. Nowhere it's said bibliophiles are also the most affable human beings on earth. (In fact, I know some with airs of huge diameter around them, and attitudes that poke you everywhere.)
Fighting off skepticism, and with fingers crossed, I replied to the post, telling the organizer to count me in.
On the appointed day, yesterday; a few minutes after the appointed hour of 12.30 pm, I landed up at Toit, a popular joint on 100 ft Road in Indiranagar. As I reached the 2nd floor, I was guided to the far corner, where tables had been booked.
I was neither the first to arrive nor the last. But the body language of the few who were already seated seemed to convey the impression that they knew me or recognized me (obviously via the FB profile photo.) Broad smiles, shake of hands, and self-introductions. As everyone else trouped in, the protocol carried on for a few more minutes.
We took out the books we had brought for either exchange or giveaway, and spread them on the table. The focus quickly shifted to that as each one of us lounged forward to pick them up, flipped pages and exchanged notes. Ice had broken even before we realised. Comments about how possessive we are about our books ... jokes and banter ...
Before landing up there, I had thought no one would find me interesting to talk to, and I would myself be struggling to make conversations with strangers. (My social skills are pretty bad.) I was completely wrong. We found many topics (besides books) to talk about. In fact, I was talking so much, I wasn't eating; so had to shut up and focus on food.
The best part, some of them were friends of my friends -- two of them are good friends of my ex-colleague; and the cousin of another is married to my schoolmate and family friend. What a pleasant surprise!
As the drinks arrived - from water to cocktails to beer - the conversation centred around how Indian and western cultures look at drinks... And, when the food - broccoli, pasta, pizza, burger etc - started landing up, the focus shifted to vegetarian vs non-vegetarian. How beef is Kerala's "favorite food", and what would happen if it were banned in Kerala.
Meanwhile, I realised quite late that it had been raining cats and dogs. A gentle reminder was the few drops, which found the gaps in the ceiling, falling on me. O, by the way, toit in French is roof.
At the end of it all, around 4 pm, the most remarkable takeaway was the bonhomie: I didn't feel anyone was a stranger. The only flipside, if there was one, was that the seating arrangement at the corner didn't make it quite comfortable for all of us to move around and mingle with one another as much as we would have wanted to. But we all had resolved to catch up, and keep in touch.
As the evening gave way to night, my Facebook notification pings wouldn't stop buzzing, with friend requests, posts and comments in the group.
So long. ... The buzz now is that the next meet-up will be a potluck party.
"That's weird," my friend exclaimed, when I told her about it. "Students still use pens, so you should get it everywhere no?"
Though near the place where I stay, there is a well-known college and a school, the stationery shops there don't sell them.
Lack of replacement refills has led to accumulation of unusable ballpoint pens in my house.
So, today I took them all to the Supreme store near Ulsoor bus stand. The shop is popular as they sell stationery and binding material at very affordable rates.
But, even he has only refills for Reynolds.
I asked my friend's question to the shopkeeper. This is what he said, "When there are cheap use-and-throw pens, no student will bother to go around hunting for refills. And many college students use Gel pens."
These one-time-use ball pens come for as cheap as Rs 3. And if you buy in bulk, you get it cheaper. These may not be stylish, but they are good, and serves the purpose.
So, no surprise it's very difficult to get ballpoint pen refills.
The flip side of use-and-throw pens is environmental degradation. But when did anyone put ecology ahead of convenience?
I was in a train travelling from Kozhikode to Mangalore today morning. I was lying down on the upper berth. Just when the train was pulling into the station, I was struck by a very rhythmic music. I looked around to see who was playing it. In fact, instead of getting irritated, I was only getting more curious.
Soon, I found that a boy aged around 5 on the upper berth beside mine playing it on a mobile phone. He was blissfully enjoying it and playing it over and over. I sat up to see what it was. It was an animation clip. The music was so captivating; but I had no clue to what it was.
Just when I was about to ask him about it, his parents began scrambling the luggage, and the boy was summoned down. He was carefully descending the steps from the upper berth. Later, he began talking to his mother even while keeping that music on. There was no way I could interrupt them with my question. That would have been very odd.
I was reminded of a similar incident many years ago. When I had gone to a mobile store, I heard a very nice Tamil song. I asked the person who was playing it what song was it. He said it was some Tamil song; and he wasn't quite sure of the first line either nor the movie.
I never heard that song anywhere else; and it was lost forever.
Today, I didn't want to make that mistake. So, I quickly took out my mobile phone and recorded a small clip of it, so that I could play it to someone who could then tell me what song that was.
At my friend's house, later in the day, I played the music; and she knew what it was. "It's Cleopatra Stratan's famous Zunea-Zunea."
The first day of another new year. Woke up around 7 am to a strange sound. Rain? Looked out through the window. Indeed it was the pitter patter of the rain drops. Very unlikely on a New Year Day.
Last year was a significant one. I changed my job. This year too will be momentous. Because I will pass a milestone in my life. More about that some other day.
New Year resolutions? No. Never believed in them. I think in school, I used to have them. But they never worked out. Probable reason: they were decisions I was forcing myself to take because it was January 1. So, no ambitious goals. I am restricting myself to small tasks. I have made a list of things to do in 2015. Easier to keep track, accomplish and feel gratified. What are they? That will be the subject of my end-of-year post.
Prime Minister Narendra Modi is in Japan on a day when his party has shut down Kerala. In Japan, people work hard on any normal day, and work harder when there is a reason to protest.
Today's snap state-wide bandh is in response to the killing of an RSS worker in politically sensitive Kathirur near Thalassery in Kannur district, allegedly by CPM workers, yesterday. The region has a long history of tit-for-tat violence between the RSS and the CPM.
Incidentally, BJP president Amit Shah's arrived in Kerala yesterday to reinvigorate the party in the state where his party hasn't been able to do well.
No one likes bandhs. Political parties too know that. No one knows what bandhs achieve. At best, parties only have a misplaced sense of power. Vehicles keep off roads, and shops down shutters because of fear of being attacked for disregarding the call. Bandhs are clearly a lose-lose proposition.
Though forceful shutdown of a city or nation is disruptive, I do agree that parties and people are fully entitled to organize peaceful protests on any issue of public importance. Supreme Court has upheld this right. But what matters is how and when it is organized.
Bandhs are most disruptive and most annoying when organized without any advance information. Most bandhs in Kerala are snap decisions. Yesterday's is a good example. Originally, the bandh was planned only in Kannur district. By late evening, it became a state-wide shutdown. How it happened, no one clearly knows.
I am furious. I am stuck at home today. We had planned visits to tourist spots, and homes of relatives and friends. The plans have been ruined.
Modi keeps talking about making India a powerful nation and bettering the standard of living of every Indian. I am told he works very hard, and expects others to work very hard too. I am sure, he will abhor the culture of bandhs, not just in Kerala (where it is a fairly frequent phenomenon), but anywhere else in India.
Every party is equally guilty of organizing bandhs and even indulging in associated violence. Can Modi make a difference? Fresh from Japan, can he prevail upon the party to unilaterally declare a moratorium on bandhs? Can he get the party to say, "Bandhs don't serve any purpose. It only ruins the economy. BJP is declaring a moratorium on bandhs and disruptive strikes. We will not call for a bandh, even if other parties do."
It has been raining cats and dogs. Typically it doesn't pour for too long. When it rains it rains heavily. After about 10 minutes it reduces to a drizzle. Then it stops. After may be a couple of hours, clouds gather all over again and it's heavy rain again.
Here even though it rains so heavily roads don't get waterlogged. Water runs off to either side and sinks through the loose mud. But puddles of water can be a nuisance for pedestrians.
Considering the water and mud footwear can carry into the shop floor, some retail outlets expect you to leave your footwear outside. Some shops have an umbrella stand and some others provide you a plastic cover to put your wet umbrella in while you shop.
Monsoon arrived a bit late. This spell started on 28th and has been on since then. Rainfall has been more than average this time, so say media quoting met dept.
It was my niece's wedding today and mercifully, rain paused till evening much to the relief of everyone. Such social gatherings are the perfect rendezvous to meet relatives and friends. Today's function was no exception.
Such occasions also make us pause and ponder over how time has flown by. I remember the day when my cousin got married. During my visits her daughter played with my son. Today, she has grown to share her life with another.
Last night's drive back home after work around 1.30 am won't be forgotten too soon.
Up to M G Road it was like any other day, or rather night. After I crossed Trinity Circle, I could see lightning in the far sky, and it was becoming windy. About a km ahead, it began drizzling. That became a steady downpour when I reached the S V Road Metro station.
After about 500 meters, the downpour became so strong that I could barely see what's ahead, even after putting the wiper in full speed and turning the AC on to keep the moisture out. There were no lights on the street. Long and bright streaks of lightning helped me see the road ahead. It was a relief to see a few vehicles plying too.
Close to the Baiyappanahalli Metro Station, the rain became stronger. I could see a few vehicles sheltered under the overhead Metro rail track. But I decided go carry on, for two reasons. One, my house isn't too far off, and two, a kilometer or two ahead, there could be no rain at all! But, I began to get a feeling that I am really struggling against heavy odds.
I rolled down the windshield so that I could peep out and see what's ahead. I was also getting a bit claustrophobic with huge rain drops pounding on the car and total darkness all around.
Then on, for about half a km, I drove with just the gut feeling of where the road was. I seriously thought of what I should do in case of an eventuality like the car getting stalled or the car falling into a drain or some such thing.
Another kilometer so, and then miraculously, the rain abated and the streets was lit, though there was considerable water on the road.
The roughly 2-km drive was an unforgettable experience. Reached home, safely, actually.
We keep cribbing. We rarely have any kind words for others. Even if someone does or says something good, we readily come out with a conspiracy theory. We are contemptuous and sarcastic. We have no hope in the future. Everything is doomed to fail.
The so-called realistic view is actually pessimistic view. All deals are scams. All politicians and bureaucrats are corrupt and inefficient. Everything is done with an ulterior motive. No one is straight forward or sincere.
A new is road built. O, just imagine the amount of money engineers and politicians would have made.
An NGO is doing good work. O, that is all just to get some foreign funds.
A new college has come up. O, that is just a way to make some money out of hapless parents.
The neighbour has bought a new house. O, he must be corrupt.
The list goes on and on.
Why are we so suspicious? Why are we so negative? Why do we see red everywhere?
Can't there be good people around? Can't people just be helpful to others? Can't there be many honest bureaucrats and politicians? Ok, the system is bad, but is it so bad as it's being made out? Aren't many people, performing well in spite of the system?
Have we lost trust in humanity? When we ridicule others, don't we realise that we are also liable to be ridiculed same way by others?
The exceptions
I have used the pronoun "we", since these highly cynical, very negatively charged perceptions seem to be all pervasive.
But there are many exceptions among us, may be very few in number.
I had an aunt, who in spite of unimaginable hardship in her life, was rarely critical or cynical. She always had a smile on her face, and was ever ready to help others.
One of my school mates, about five years elder to me, has always only good wishes for others. He is critical, but always very mild, and always sees a sliver lining in every cloud.
An former colleague of mine, who is a successful public relations professional simply infects you with happiness. He is always smiling. When something goes wrong, he recovers very fast and turns happy, because he sees that as an opportunity.
Just as no one can give us happiness, but we have to discover it ourselves; we need to consciously be less contemptuous and less cynical. Instead, we should consciously look at the world around us in a positive way.
My wife and I were at the Banaswadi Railway Station, Bangalore, this morning to receive my in-laws who were coming from Kerala by the Garib Rath. As we were about to enter the platform, my wife nudged me to get the platform tickets. At that point, a thought flashed my mind. Since anyway no official checks exiting people, should I bother to buy them? At bigger stations like Bangalore Central and Yesvantpur, usually there are officials checking passengers and visitors at the couple of exits. But Banaswadi station being a small one, there's no boundary wall. And, people walk out of the station through the open space on one side of the building. It's impossible for anyone to check exiting people.
But the counter-thought was: irrespective of whether there is someone to check or not, I must buy the ticket, since that's what I am supposed to do. Also, by not buying the ticket, I am being corrupt in a way, as I am depriving the government exchequer of a legitimate income.
I walked up to the counter and bought two platform tickets. By the way, it's Rs 5 per ticket.
Having recently finished Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, one of this last weekend’s small excitements was a visit to Wolf Hall, Wiltshire.
My images are two composites: aspects of the monument to Jane Seymour’s father John in the church at Great Bedwyn (moved there in 1590 by his grandson, the memorial states, from Eston Priory Church, which had by then fallen into ruins), along with a window there containing some armorial stained glass derived from the former Wolf Hall. Sir John lived to see his daughter Queen of England, but not to be a grandfather to a future King, dying a couple of months before his daughter’s pregnancy was announced. Of his sons, one became Lord Protector, and had to allow the execution of his brother Thomas, who had plotted to capture the young prince, and marry the young Elizabeth Tudor.
The other image comprises two views of the present day Wolf Hall itself, which seems perhaps to be an 18th century house with large Victorian accretions. The rear view is framed by a catalpa tree – and there is what seems to be an abandoned walled garden, as there should be in a lost domain like this. The original house of the Seymour family has vanished, though there are apparently brick lined tunnels running from the present buildings to where the old house stood. A 16th century house down the gently sloping valley side to what is now the Kennet and Avon Canal survives, and Henry VIII is supposed to have stayed there while on his first visit to Wolf Hall with Mantel’s hero, Thomas Cromwell, in 1535. Back then, the (Hampshire) River Avon rose close by the house, and flowed west into the Vale of Pewsey.
I talked with a couple of the tenants occupying parts of the Manor (and they are currently, should you want to take up what would seem likely to prove an interesting stay in a house full of associations of one kind or other, looking for a new sharer). I was told that the landlady was currently reading Wolf Hall itself, which ends precisely when Cromwell (imagined by Mantel to have his own eyes on Jane) works out that he can escape Henry’s demands on his time for a visit of some days to Jane Seymour’s family home.
Mantel’s remarkable book prompted all this literary and historical tourism, of course. There’s so much to admire in it: the intelligently hostile portrait of Sir Thomas More, Henry VIII seen through the eyes of his brilliant counsellor, and I liked the way the narrative is paced, making us all wait, as they did, for the product of Anne Boleyn’s pregnancy. Then there’s the gracefully lucid writing. Mantel admits scarcely any archaisms: her point is partly that Thomas Cromwell was a modern man, interested in information and its storage, acutely aware of how money works and makes all things possible: so he cannot be distanced by what he says every time he speaks. She has, in line with this policy of making Cromwell our contemporary, partly secularized a man who was probably far more in league with the reformers than the sympathetic fellow-traveller depicted here.
In the second volume, Mantel has to repeat what she did so well in A Place of Greater Safety, show idealism and remarkable personal capacities turning to bloody oppression, to unleash the murderer latent in her measured and highly intelligent Cromwell (the inner murderer glimpsed in the novel by Cromwell in Hans Holbein’s portrait). Her hero has, in the second part, to set about destroying Anne Boleyn and her circle to save his own position. The axe and the block will feature like the guillotine did for the French revolutionaries in the earlier novel: Mantel’s characters cannot be unaware of their likely fate, how close it always is, how they can appease the terrible wraith with other people’s blood for only a limited time.
As it is, in this volume about his rise to power, Wolf Hall deploys Cromwell as a very gifted novelist’s ideal protagonist: a master of language, either in persuasion, threat, or charm, and a witty appreciator of costumes, food and style. Cromwell here is also a man preoccupied with memory - both haunted by his own memories of having been the child of a brutal father, and the adult administrator determined to possess, so as to augment his own prodigious powers of recall, a mechanical memory theatre. So always he allows Mantel to demonstrate her own prodigious gifts of imagination and language.
