tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49330148686452461582024-03-06T08:27:21.359+05:30Shtories and ShtuffThese 'Shtories' are taken from events, books, places and people that have become integral 'shtuff' in my life. I have been associated with them, or participated in most of the 'shtories'. Some are written here with an extremely liberal amount of fiction in them. Some are factual essays, short stories or analyses. Some are absolute nonsense while some shtories mark 'shmile shtones' in our lives. Enjoy!shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-51909182205339854672024-01-05T02:40:00.003+05:302024-01-05T02:40:43.407+05:30Thoughts 5 January 2024<p> I keep trying to sit quiet for contemplation and thoughts but it does not happen. I am worried about going deep into meditation, dhyan, prayers or japa. My mind starts talking to itself in an extremely speedy manner at many levels and dimensions. Mostly the mind explores true and hypothetical levels of possibilities and gradually the separation disappears. I begin to believe the untrue, hypothetical and probable options as actually true. </p><p>Over the past 15 years, and especially over the past 3 years and more, the mind seems to dance rapidly. I have sometimes got drowned in the thought and also have believed the possibilities as actual occurrences. Now I look forward to silent contemplation, not actually wanting to do anything. Maybe I could switch off during meetings but that thought makes me guilty. </p><p>I could walk away silently, without actual proximal access to cell phones and look for a place to sit and watch the world go by. Maybe have some support system such as a diary or a notebook, to write notes, keep a japamala and see what happens if I keep repeating a longish mantra. There are so many matters to think about, to contemplate, to worry about and to decide how not to worry about. </p><p>Will such a break be helpful? Can I do it in a long distance train journey or on a transit stop at an airport in between two flights? Maybe good to get lost silently while being inside a crowd and surrounded by noise.</p><p>Bharat Bhushan</p><p>5 January 2024</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-37717238338185227532023-04-28T00:33:00.004+05:302023-04-28T00:33:50.452+05:30Fultoos Timepass Gupshup 2 - the argument at the pharmacy<p><b>Fultoos
Timepass Gupshup 2</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was at a
pharmacy, waiting my turn to ask for medicines on the prescriptions with me.
The counters were crowded and I felt that it would not be wise to push in and
insist on service earlier than the others who were obviously in greater need.
The young owner of the pharmacy was busy on the cellphone and had stepped out
of the shop premises to the pavement and was standing alongside me. We were
chatting acquaintances as I was a frequent customer at the pharmacy.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A youngish
couple, husband and wife, possibly in their early 30s, walked up to the
entrance of the shop. The wife carried an infant girl child and a largish
shopping bag. The husband was talking on his cellphone and looked up at the
pharmacy and pointed. The wife nodded and they spoke to one another, standing
nearer to me and the owner of the pharmacy. They were speaking in Telugu and as
I understood the language perfectly, I could overhear their discussion that
grew to an argument and later matured into a battle about both their families
and their parents and all their ancestors.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Husband: “Do
you remember the names of the medicines that I had to purchase for my fever and
sore throat and body ache and all that? I do not have the prescription with me.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wife: “I do
not remember the names but it would be common medicines for fever and your
problems. You can ask one of the pharmacists to help you. I am sure that they know
what to give you. My brother down at Chennai always does that. He goes directly
to the Sivaprasad Chemist at Mambalam and gets whatever he needs. They help him
always. You can also do that.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Husband: “Arre…
There you go again, talking about your brother. He is a good-for-nothing chap
who never had any proper job and therefore cannot afford to go to a proper
doctor. Do not compare me with him. I have a responsible job at a respectable
office and people look at me for guidance. I was only trying to remember the
medicines in my prescription. I do not want to purchase any wrong ones.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was
smiling, very faintly, and enjoying the discussion. The owner of the pharmacy
looked at me curiously. He came nearer and asked if I understood what the
husband and wife were speaking about. I nodded and whispered to explain. He
wanted to help out but I pointed out that they wanted to wait for one of the
counters to get vacated.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The wife
looked quite irritated. She said, “If you are so intelligent, you should be
able to remember your prescription. But, since we are here, do purchase that
extra wings sanitary pads pouch for me. I need it badly. It will be anyday now
and I do not have any pads back at home.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Husband,
more irritated than the wife, “We should not purchase any such stuff here in
this small pharmacy. They will be costly. They will sell at MRP price only. We
can purchase it at that large super bazaar when we go on the Sunday. They
always sell at 5 or 10 rupees less. Better to purchase at that place. You can
get 2-3 packets at one purchase. We will save at least 30 rupees.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wife: “But
what if I need it tomorrow or tonight? Sunday is 4 days away and you always
give the excuse that you want to stay at home and take rest and not go to the
super bazaar. What if we do not go to the super bazaar on this Sunday? How will
I manage?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Husband: “Let
us concentrate on remembering my prescription. You are disturbing my
concentration. I was trying to focus and remember. Remember, this is a
pharmacy. We did not come here to purchase your sanitary pads. What would your
brother do if his wife wanted to purchase at a costly shop?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Wife: “Costly?
How did my brother come into this topic? No shop sells sanitary pads at more
than MRP. At least ask for the extra wings one. Maybe this pharmacy sells it at
a discount. Who knows? And we did not come here for your medicines. We were
just walking by. You should ask the ladies in your family. Would they agree to
wait for the Sunday to go to the super bazaar? You would have run all the way
from the house to here and back to purchase for them. But not for me, you will
not.”</p><p class="MsoNormal">(c) Bharat Bhushan, 27 April 2023</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-1461514018377548592023-04-25T23:06:00.002+05:302023-04-26T00:18:02.126+05:30Fultoos Timepass Gupshup 1 - Denim Jacket and the Striped Shirt<p>Fultoos
Timepass Gupshup</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This was at
a restaurant today evening. Two young ladies were seated at a nearby table and
speaking quite loudly. They were obviously not aware that people at the
nearby tables were listening to their chatter and enjoying it. The two ladies must have
been in their early thirties and possibly friends from their school days and
were meeting up after many years. They were quite formal in their conversation,
well, almost. One of them had a denim jacket while the other had a striped shirt. Their
chat was quite interesting and animated.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Denim
Jacket: You know, I am my parent’s only child. No son, even. Like, I did not
have a brother. Did you know that?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Striped
Shirt: No. I did not. I wonder how it is growing up as the only child. I had
two brothers and another sister. Like, we were two sisters and two brothers.
So, I had very good company while growing up at our house. It must have been
very lonely for you, na?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Denim
Jacket: Noooo…. That is what I am saying. It was never lonely for me. I was my
parent’s only child. But I was never lonely. We had very good neighbours and I
always had school and lots and lots of friends. So, I was never alone. Let’s
call the waiter and ask for some Masala Dosa. It will come fast, I think.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Striped
Shirt: Ok. Masala Dosa will be ok. This menu does not have Rava Dosa. I wonder
why? It has been a long time since I had some good Rava Dosa. I thought we
could have some cutlets and bread toast. You know, my brothers, both of them,
they like Rava Dosa and Cutlets. I always enjoyed Rava Dosa. But, we can have
Masala Dosa tonight.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Denim
Jacket: That’s what I meant. If you have brothers, you have to always eat what
they eat. There is no way that you can have Masala Dosa if they want to eat
Rava Dosa. Hey, you know, your striped shirt, reminds me of our very dear Parsi
teacher, who taught us in school. I think she was our Class Teacher in fourth
standard. She was always properly dressed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Striped
Shirt: Yes. I remember the teacher. I wonder what she taught us. I can
recollect her but I cannot remember the subjects that she taught.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Denim
Jacket: Yeah. Even I cannot remember what she taught. There was that other Sir
who taught us Geometry who always said that you should not get wrong answers. I
remember that very well. I think we should have some ice cream after the Masala
Dosa. That may be good.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Striped
Shirt: I cannot have ice cream. I am not allowed. I always avoid fried stuff,
sweets and all that. But ok, today for your sake. I will have some ice cream.
We should remember today.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p>Bharat Bhushan 25 April 2023</o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-84931088984812138002022-09-11T00:52:00.002+05:302022-09-11T00:52:22.615+05:30 My family and.... etcetera (4): the illustrated weekly of India<p> My family and.... etcetera (4): the illustrated weekly of India</p><p>One of my early memories is of getting The Illustrated Weekly of India, each week, edited by the famous Khushwant Singh. We would also get the weekly Blitz with the column by Khwaja Ahmed Abbas. The Weekly cost about 70 paise in those years of 1968 to 1970. We would purchase it on the Thursday or Friday that it came out before the datelined Sunday.</p><p>I would usually go to the news agent with my uncle, Shantaram, I would profit from that. For, on Thursdays or Fridays, the Times of India would also release the Indrajal comics issue for the week -- Phantom, Mandrake or Flash Gordon. That would be a delight. </p><p>The Weekly would first be read by my grandfather who would sit on a wooden long bench on the balcony of flat #18 at Narulla building. My father did not like it if I had gotten my uncle or grandfather to buy something for me. So I would sit up beside my grandfather and read up the Indrajal comics while he would read the Weekly. Later, the both of us would stack up the issues below his wooden long bench. </p><p>I would complete the reading of the comics within 30-40 minutes and therefore had more time to explore the stack of Illustrated Weekly issues. I can still remember some of the excellent articles mainly by Khushwant Singh and some others. He took big issues and catchy headlines on the cover. </p><p>There were many well known authors in the issues and my grandfather would relate some of the articles to the news articles in the Times of India. On some days, my stack of comics were disturbed in their order as I had placed them. I had a strong suspicion that my grandfather was also a keen reader of the comics. </p><p>Bharat Bhushan </p><p>bharatbhushan@yahoo.com </p><p>9 September 2022</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-17813414473551275222022-09-10T00:30:00.003+05:302022-09-10T00:30:26.706+05:30My family and.... etcetera (3): The Diamond Gardens on Sundays<p>My family and.... etcetera (3): The Diamond Gardens on Sundays</p><p>The earliest memory is of Narulla building, of course. We had two large foldable metal cots. On some weeks, we would have them kept separate on either side of the window that looked out at the turn off of 21st Road towards Chembur railway station. On other weeks my parents would experiment placing them together so that all four of us would be together. I can never remember a sleepless night and we would always be up and out of the house by 8:30 a.m. to reach wherever we had to go.</p><p>We did not have a refrigerator and we had only vaguely heard of it. We did not know about this strange machine. We kept all our clothes and belongings in metal tin boxes almost like suitcases, below the cots.</p><p>We did have a longish balcony and on some days in that most wonderful location, me, my sister and our neighbours, Jyoti Radhakrishnan who was my age, and Ajji (probably a short form for Rajita), her sister, we would play at some games, steadily, for hours.</p><p>On Sundays, our grandfather would take us, all four of us, and Bina and Ashwin to Diamond Gardens at 4:00 p.m. to have a free run at various games. I remember that I can never recollect walking all the distance from 21st Road to Diamond Gardens and back, especially for my grandfather, who would have been 71-72 in those years of 1970-1971. </p><p>He had never used a walking stick until much much later. Jyoti and Ajji were our closest friends in those years and we have lost contact with them since we moved on to Wadala and later. I do wonder about them on certain moments and I hope they remember me and my sister.</p><p><br /></p><p>Bharat Bhushan bharatbhushan@yahoo.com </p><p>7 September 2022</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-89351760160069614292022-09-06T23:26:00.006+05:302022-09-06T23:27:07.372+05:30My family and... etcetera (2): my mother and the big move<p>We shifted from Chembur in very unfortunate circumstances. There was a loss in the family. Earlier, we lived next door to one another, our family in flat # 17 while my father's brother, Shantaram, whom we called Chindaddy, their father Shyamala Ranga Bhashyam and Sai Naidu were in # 18. Bina was born in July 1968 and Ashwin in August 1969. Bina journeyed ahead in 1971 and that turned the tide for both families.</p><p>My mother, Sharada, had developed severe health complications. She was diagnosed with hernia after the two cesareans, that is me and my sister. She could not lift either of us and we ended up never being in her arms all through our infant days while she stood. </p><p>I do have a photo of myself in the arms of Kodamma, my paternal grandmother, and one in the arms of my mother. But those were studio photographs and I suspect that it was composed only for that occasion.</p><p>My mother was also obese because of her hernia and as a result she suffered severely from diabetes. She could not climb up to the 2nd story apartment and was desperately hunting for a ground floor apartment.</p><p>Her school colleague, Mrs Subbulakshmi, also a school teacher at the Andhra Education Society High School informed her of the 320 square feet apartment in the ground floor of Usha building that was barely 100 metres from the school.</p><p>We used to travel by local train from Chembur suburban railway station to Wadala on the harbour branch line. Sometimes we traveled by bus from Chembur to Kings Circle and that was tiring and extremely exhausting for my mother. </p><p>We could either catch the 8 Ltd bus from Chembur station to Kings Circle and walk to the school or take 371 to Sion and change over to 315 / 314 and come to SIWS School and walk over to the AES School. </p><p>Bharat Bhushan bharatbhushan@yahoo.com </p><p>6 September 2022</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-17049331043619536042022-09-06T00:37:00.007+05:302022-09-06T23:24:10.645+05:30My family and... etcetera (1): a 320 square feet apartment<p>Ours was a very isolated unit of the larger family but we had an extended community of people that would always be at our house. Some relatives rarely came over but some others came over frequently. For us, those were the days when we did not expect our visitors to take permission or intimate us beforehand if they wanted to visit us. People just came over.</p><p>We were four of us, my father -- Mr. B. N. Bhushan, my mother -- Mrs. Sharda Bhushan, myself -- Bharat and my sister, younger by an year, Uma or Sarala or Aruna as she was known by. </p><p>We lived in a second floor 270 square feet apartment at Narulla building on 21st Road at Chembur in Mumbai right up to 1972, and later, forever it seems, at the Usha building in a 320 square feet ground floor corner apartment at Wadala in Mumbai.</p><p>The happiest part of it was that we were never claustrophobic in the 320 apartment though I have felt trapped in larger rooms in my later years. We had converted the kitchen into a livable bedroom and multipurpose room and the balcony was adapted to serve as a kitchen. It had a rear door that opened out into the open area of the apartment building and was sheltered on all three sides by tall compound walls. So in a way, that smallish apartment also functioned as a bungalow.</p><p>All over relatives living in other cities and in other parts of Mumbai had larger apartments while some that lived in Tirupati, Hyderabad and Chennai had large bungalows. I would always envy that, of course, but never felt despondent or sad when I returned to our perfect little apartment, whenever.</p><p>Bharat Bhushan bharatbhushan@yahoo.com 5 September 2022</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-46719111413222393952022-09-04T01:42:00.002+05:302022-09-04T01:42:26.223+05:30the old lady and the sea - the lone dog and his lunch<p>Ameena had not come over today. Saroja was used to her presence. They had grown old together since school days. Both had been widowed about 10 years ago and Ameena had on her own taken on the role of housekeeper to Saroja at her small cottage that was along side the tree-lined beach by the sea.</p><p>Saroja could actually get by on her own but she did not want Ameena to know. Her friend needed the wages that she paid her each month. She had explained it away by saying that her very rich son-in-law sent the money from London. Her children and son-in-law knew about her conspiracy and they understood.</p><p>Ameena was a very self conscious and independent sort of woman and did not wish to be a burden on her two sons and their wives. She had taken care to see that they lived independently in nearby villages. Her friendship with Saroja was more precious to her than in taking care of her sons' families. </p><p>Saroja was curious and wonder if something was wrong. She called up Mr Fernando, the one who run the village grocery shop and asked him. Ameena's shop was right opposite Fernando's grocery store. Her orphaned niece ran the shop with her young daughter. She had been abandoned by her husband and Ameena had adopted the young mother and her daughter.</p><p>Fernando had a look at the shop and informed Saroja that he could not see Ameena. He would go up to the store and ask. No, he assured Saroja, that he would not let on about her telephone query. He called back to inform that Ameena had to rush to meet her younger daughter-in-law in the neighbouring village. There was some problem but she would come back by the night bus. Mrs. Fernando asked him to add that she would send her grandson with some packed lunch and a thermos of tea for Saroja.</p><p>Saroja decided to walk to the beach at noon. She was feeling lost without Ameena. Her friend needed her own space, she told herself. She sat below the very cool and darkened spot at the mango tree in her backyard. It was hot out there at the beach and by the sea. She could wait it out at the mango tree.</p><p>A foot trail passed by from the village to the resort area and the touristy beach up ahead. A lone dog was walking about and he came up to Saroja and plonked himself alongside in the shade. He looked very thirsty and was panting. Saroja looked out at the vastness of the sea and smiled at the paradox. "All that water out there!!!"</p><p>She looked at the dog and spoke to him, "wait here. Let me go and get something to eat for you and some water. Do not go away." The dog was two exhausted to reply. He did not react. Saroja walked back to the house and dunked some dried up leftover chapatis in milk and poured out water in a deep melamine soup bowl and carried them out to the mango tree.</p><p>The dog looked up and must have understood for he stood up expectantly. She placed the two bowls near the dog. He went all out at the chapatis and ate them up within a couple of minutes and drank the water immediately after and sat back at his spot as earlier.</p><p>Saroja felt happier since the morning misgiving about Ameena. Mr. Fernando's grandson came up with the lunch parcel from his grandmother. He looked very cheerful. He handed over the lunch parcel and spoke to the dog. "Hey! There you are! How did you know that I was coming here?" </p><p>He turned to Saroja and said, "he is my dog and I thought he had gone exploring somewhere else. He must have come for his lunch in exchange for your lunch". </p><p>Saroja laughed. Mr. Fernando's grandson laughed loudly and happily. Saroja looked out at the sea and told herself that the waves and the energy made it all "ok" in her life everyday.</p><p>Bharat Bhushan, 3 September 2022</p><p>From the series, the very very short stories - the old lady and the sea - a new approach to visit the memories of yesterday</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-14905803641887594202022-06-21T00:38:00.004+05:302022-06-21T01:00:27.126+05:30the old lady and the sea - a cup of tea and all about daughters<p>Ameena was busy with making tea while complaining. "Didi, I am told that you met Shaili, the young girl, Shyama's daughter. She came by you at the rocks near the sea at night on her return from selling peanuts at the tourist beach. I heard her talking to her mother at our shop. Her mother looked scared and worried after that."</p><p>The old lady nodded but did not reply. Ameena handed over a large cup and poured out the freshly made decoction and added milk to it. Just as they liked to after all these years. She went back to the stove and looked out at the street. </p><p>Turning around, her hands on her hips, she asked, "You must have said something harsh or worrisome to the young girl, I think. Do you even remember it now or have you forgotten it completely?" </p><p>Saroja looked up from sipping her tea. Better to stay silent, she thought. </p><p>"There she comes, Shyama, to this house. She must be wanting to talk to you. I will give her a cup of tea. That may cool her down." </p><p>Saroja smiled and nodded. Shyama came in and stood nearer to the dining table, not touching the cup of tea that had been placed for her. Ameena was about to insist that she sit down but thought better of it and stepped back to wait by the refrigerator. </p><p>Shyama placed a plastic bag containing peanuts on the dining table near Saroja. "There! Are you satisfied now? My daughter was very upset that she could not sell you any peanuts. Are you happy now? I knew that you will interfere in our lives. I had warned her to stay away from you."</p><p>"Do not be harsh on her," Ameena said. "She does not know what she says and she does not remember. She would not even have noticed what she said. My old friend only likes to go and sit on the rocks by the sea and watch the high tide in the late evening. She hardly remembers anything else."</p><p>Saroja did not look up at Shyama. She opened the bag and took out some peanuts with her left hand and kept watching them on her open palm. Ameena came nearer and looked at Saroja. She was worried. Had this outburst affected her friend in some way? </p><p>Shyama spoke again, "I know you and that you meant well. Your daughter is well studied and married and gone to London and has her own children. But I need my Shaili with me. She has to work My son has to work. My Shaili has to sell these peanuts. I want you to tell her that. Will you?"</p><p>Saroja bent down to smell the warm peanuts in the bag. She smiled. "I love these peanuts. Boiled and salted peanuts. Do you remember, Ameena, we used to run to your father's shop and your mother would have them ready for us? You, me and Mildred, the three of us loved them. We would add some salt, some crushed pepper and lemon juice. We did our school homework at the shop and your mother would make those sweetened chapatis for us."</p><p>Ameena nodded and laughed. "You remember all that, my wonderful friend? Those are memories from a long long time ago. I had forgotten them. Did you remember that by smelling those peanuts in the bag? That is so amazing and beautiful. You made me remember my mother. After all these many years that have gone past."</p><p>Shyama had gotten over her outburst. "What do I do? We need to live together as the small family that we are. I could send her to school, I guess. Why did you have to interfere? Now I have to send her to school. The school and her classes would only be in the morning, so it is ok, I think." </p><p>"We will struggle and make do. But the years go by so quickly. Will you let her come to meet you and bring you these boiled and salted peanuts? I want my daughter also to be remembered for her good work and success long into the future like Ameena's mother, illiterate and humble though she was. You remembered her even if you forgot other things. I want my daughter to be remembered for much longer than she would live." </p><p>Bharat Bhushan, 20 June 2022</p><p>From the series, the very very short stories - <b>the old lady and the sea</b> - a new approach to visit the memories of yesterday </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-4438771435231208132022-06-19T21:15:00.001+05:302022-06-19T21:15:17.215+05:30the old lady and the sea - boiled and salted peanuts at twilight<p>The routine was disturbed tonight. The old lady had walked up from her house by the beach to the rocks where the high tide came crashing at twilight. She had always been alone, sitting by herself, these many years since Gopala had passed on. </p><p>There was a young girl, possibly 10 years old or just about, walking alone from the tourist end of the beach and going towards the village. She was carrying a largish basket on her head and the old lady recognised the shape and its purpose from her childhood memories. The young girl was possibly selling boiled and salted peanuts to the tourists on the busy weekend. </p><p>The vendors from the village usually went to the touristy beach by the motorable road with their carts and goods. It was very rare for a lone vendor, a young girl, unprotected and unaccompanied, to walk back on the lonely beach at this hour. </p><p>The girl had spotted the old lady and she paused, watching her. The old lady watched her, waiting for her to call out to sell the boiled and salted peanuts. The memories came rushing back, the taste of the rock salt, pepper and chilli powder sprinkled on those tenderised peanuts. She could be lucky if the young girl had not sold out all her stock at the tourist beach. </p><p>The girl stood silent, balancing her basket on her head. Saroja stepped down from the rocks and walked up to the girl and asked, "Well! Are you going to sell me some of your boiled and salted peanuts?" </p><p>The girl smiled. "I want to. But, my mother has instructed me not to talk to you."</p><p>Saroja laughed. "Your mother said so? Who is your mother? And you, what is your name? Are you from our village?"</p><p>"My mother is Shyama. You know her well. She knows you from many years. My name is Shaili. We live by the houses beyond the village after my father died suddenly. My brother and me, we help our mother to manage our house. I sell the boiled peanuts while my mother and brother work in the tourist resort during the day. We have to. My mother needs our help." </p><p>Saroja nodded. "Yes. I know Shyama. But why did she ask you not to talk to me? Did she say that I am crazy or mad, sitting alone at the rocks on the high tide?"</p><p>Shaili laughed. "No. No. She did not say anything like that. She does not think that you are crazy. She was worried about me, if I would meet you and would talk to you."</p><p>"Why? What would I do to you?"</p><p>"She asked me to be very careful in talking with you. She said that you will talk with me and will later want me to stop selling peanuts or will purchase all the peanuts and will ask me to start attending school."</p><p>"That would be correct. Your mother knows me well. Should you not attend school regularly?"</p><p>"No. We cannot afford to," Shaili said. "My mother needs my help in the house. My mother was very worried. She said that I should avoid meeting you at any cost. She was worried that you will interfere in my life and will want me to go to a school and whatever. I need to sell the boiled peanuts and do work at the house to help my mother."</p><p>Bharat Bhushan, 19 June 2022</p><p>From the series - the very very short stories - <b>the old lady and the sea</b> - a new approach to visit the memories of yesterday </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-19210133698785008172022-06-19T02:03:00.003+05:302022-06-19T02:07:21.208+05:30the old lady and the sea - Gopala at the tempest rock<p> It was time, that usual hour, when the old lady walked from her house to the beach at her backyard. She could hear the waves at high tide, roaring aloud, washing on the rocks by the shore. She had her favored spot. It was where she had always sat with Gopala, her husband of many years, now journeyed ahead, these past ten years and more. They had made it a routine of their own, "their private lives", he had termed it. </p><p>That was him. Always. He needed to define their moments in life with perfect terms and name-calling. "Saroja", he had said, "this is where we wait for the sea to take strength from any tempest tomorrow and to rush in past us and to enter our house and to take it over. This will be our tempest rock where we will go with the return tide to wherever the sea takes us in its flow." </p><p>She had smiled. And when she was widowed, she waited for the evening to walk out and to be able to sit here, faithfully, waiting for the sea to rush past the beach and to enter her house. The high tide had never done so and it had always lapped at the lower rocks. It would throw up the spray and return. The spray would be like a giant curtain of water and she always thought that she could see herself, sitting out here, at the tempest rock. A minute later, the tide would be back, crashing onto the rocks, stubborn, strong, determined to return, and steady as ever. </p><p>She continued to sit at the tempest rock, every evening, watching the sea and the tide rushing in, looking at the twilight turning to dusk and waiting for the night to take over. The moon was her message to herself. To return to the house. </p><p>Her bed was by the window that looked out to the sea and she sat there, propped by her pillows, determined to stay awake for she had no need to wake up early or go anywhere. It was not so difficult now, after all these years. This was her life. And this was her awake hours, happy, waiting and watching. The roar of the waves could be heard at her bedroom and the sound was her companion. It never failed her. The sea was always out there, whenever she looked out. </p><p>She would sit up and watch the moon shimmer over the sea and the tide would bring the moonlight to crash over the waves and the spray of the sea would only be interrupted by the silhouette of Gopala, her husband, sitting over there, alone, by the tempest rock. </p><p>Bharat Bhushan 18 June 2022</p><p>From the series - the very very short stories - <b>the old lady and the sea</b> - a new approach to visit the memories of yesterday </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-72142407726289256812022-06-17T15:44:00.001+05:302022-06-19T01:49:12.311+05:30The old lady and the sea - Bringing Mrs. Braganza home<p>The old lady had a routine that she kept to, by herself, in spite of losing her memory gradually, as others declared, and on the edge of dementia, as her doctor warned. She lived by herself, alone, at the small cottage near the tree-lined beach by the sea. Her children were all grown up, married, in good jobs, well settled. Her son was in the US and her daughter was comfortable in London. They had their children and she loved her grand kids. </p><p>She was widowed, these past ten years and more, but did not wish to leave the cottage to go visit her children or stay with them. They stayed in touch on video calls and visited her every two years. In fact, she spoke to her grand kids everyday, more than she had ever chatted with her own children. </p><p>"Let my children live their lives and be responsible for themselves," she had told Ameena, her housekeeper-cook-nurse-caretaker and a dear friend from her childhood years and of the same village. </p><p>Ameena had agreed. She went back to her often repeated concern. "You are correct, Saroja," she said. "Mrs. Braganza was called by her children to stay with them in London. She was all excited and happy and gave us a party at the clinic. She sold her house and coconut farms and other properties and gave away all her stuff and traveled to London." </p><p>"There she found that she was to work as a maid-ayah-babysitter to her grand children and was also expected to work in the kitchen and put everyone's clothes in the wash and take them out and fold them and put them away". </p><p>The old lady nodded politely like she was hearing it for first time. Ameena had spoken about Mrs. Braganza on many occasions. The old lady understood. Probably Ameena thought that the story was forgotten because of her poor memory and that she had to keep repeating the sad tale about Mrs. Braganza, their common childhood friend. </p><p>How could she have forgotten her dear friend of these many years? It was not done. The old lady listened to Ameena speak about Mrs. Braganza all these many times. Of course, she had never told Ameena that she had asked her son-in-law in London to quietly buy a ticket for Mrs Braganza and got him to help her to fly back to Goa. The old lady had spoken to the missionary convent school that the three of them had attended together. Her request and a small donation had helped and the seniors at the parish had done the needful and got her settled as a caretaker at the orphanage in the village. </p><p><br /></p><p>Bharat Bhushan, 17.6.2022 </p><p>From the series - the very very short stories - <b>the old lady and the sea</b> - a new approach to visit the memories of yesterday </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-53259549819782711782022-02-20T16:12:00.004+05:302022-02-20T16:17:13.106+05:30my grandmother, a strange little boy and the tea shop on the pavement<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">“It was the weirdest dream last night,” my grandmother said. “I have
never had such a real-like dream, ever.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I smiled indulgently. She always had a manner of exaggerating stuff
and adding nuances and metaphors that would never be required with the matter
at hand. I mean, how one could compare one dream to any other, unless they
could remember each and every one. I could not even remember any current dream
if I woke up suddenly. Sometimes, the dreams were so interesting and exciting,
and I could just vaguely remember that they were, and I did want to return to
the same dream and to the same moment, but it did not happen. That most
intricate moment would always be lost.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Nanamma, what was the dream about? Do you remember it still? Was it
about all of us? Was it about your childhood? Do tell, but please keep at your
breakfast. You need to eat up that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kanji</i>
and oats for your medicines.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">She gestured as if to include the entire hall and dining area in our
2<sup>nd</sup> floor apartment. “You call this suitable breakfast? Your parents
are torturing me by always siding with the doctors and medical whatnot. Give me
your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aloo paratha</i> and pickles and
whatever else that you have on your plate. I am already eighty-five but I am
stronger than anyone of you. I have not lost a single tooth and I have never
stayed overnight in a hospital for the past many years.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I loved her a lot and it was always an opportunity to do something
that would be an act of disobedience with my parents and that could not be
missed up on. I handed over my breakfast to her and brought back some more of
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aloo paratha</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chole</i> and pickles from the kitchen. I
sat nearer to the largish window alongside the balcony so that I could have my
breakfast and keep watching the world moving down there, in the streets and on
the pavements. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“You know that tea and snacks shop on the pavement below, that you
can see from where you are sitting?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I nodded. I looked down at the footpath and I could see it very
vividly. It was at the corner junction and a lane came out from some apartment
complexes. The shopkeeper had kept four wooden benches outside, extending his
premises and encroaching on the walking area. There were other shops in a line,
a haircutting saloon, an electrical equipment repairs shop, a newspaper and
fruits vendor and a dry cleaner laundry of sorts followed by a flower vendor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My grandmother continued, “I dreamt about the tea shop yesterday
night. I have never been there ever but I dreamt that I was sitting there,
wanting to take a breather from walking back from meeting up with my friend in
that larger apartment building. A youngish boy, probably about ten or twelve
years old, in a dark peacock blue shirt was sitting alongside, eating a large
bun and dipping it in a cup of tea. I remember that clearly. I can remember the
sounds too but I was not aware at that moment in my dream. He looked up at me
and smiled and he was so very familiar.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I looked down from my window seat and I could see the people at the
pavement benches. There was a boy out there, sitting, having a bun and tea. As
I watched, he dipped it in the cup of tea and gulped hastily, wiping himself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“What was interesting about that, Nanaamma?” I asked. “You must have
seen him earlier or from up here.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“No. It was not that. The boy was very familiar and I could not
remember easily. He spoke to me. He called me by a different name. He said, ‘Saramma,
how are you doing? It is time. You have to come with us and recover the
treasure of the village deity. We have been waiting for you. We need you to
return. Your four brothers and sisters are also waiting. I have to hand over
the treasure that we had taken away from the temple and hidden it by the river.’
And, I looked at him again, and I knew his name. Just like that. And, I knew
what to say to him in my dream. Very strange.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I turned to look down at the tea shop. The boy was seated there. He
had finished having his bun and tea. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“How can that young boy know you from a different name,” I asked. “You
had only one brother who is no more.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Yes, Yes. I thought about all that,” my grandmother replied. “I
asked the boy in my dream, ‘who is Saramma? I am not Saramma.’ And, he replied,
I remember so very clearly, he said, ‘You are Saramma. I know you are. Our
village deity told me so and sent me here. Unfortunately, after the treasure
was hidden, our village was attacked by the enemy and several houses were burnt
down and your entire family was killed. It is time. I have met you. You need to
return to the village and locate the treasure and return it to the deity and
the temple. Only then, will there be peace.’ I remembered it all then, in my
dream, of having helped my brothers and sisters carry the treasure from the
temple to an old unused well and climbing down and hiding it within. I was the
only one who could do it as I was the smallest.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was getting worried and jittery. If the entire family was killed,
the dream probably referred to some past life matter that must have jumped the
many years and could have come up now. I did not believe in all that stuff but
my friends had recently shown me some videos about past life regression and
workshops and interactive sessions. That was all ok but if it was about past
life and it was in my grandmother’s dream, what about that boy? I could see
him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“What happened after, in the dream?” I asked. I did not want to
mention that I could see the boy at the tea shop. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“I remember it so well. The dream, I mean. I spoke to the boy, ‘And,
you are Pattabhi? You are the son of the temple priest? I recollect you. The
families living near the temple knew where we had hidden the treasure. Anyone
of them could have helped you recover it even if my entire family was killed.
Why do you need my brothers and sisters?’ And, he replied, ‘My father was
blamed by the Nayaka and his ministers. They said that my father had probably
stolen the treasure and he was now blaming the families who had been killed and
could not come forward. Saramma, I need you to return with your brothers and
sisters. It is only you who can retrieve the treasure. My father had tied the
sacred thread from the deity on your wrists and bound you all to the treasure. Nobody
else is allowed to bring it back.’ And, as I looked around, in my dream, I
could see them, my two brothers and sister. They were born in different
families but they had returned to stand together. They were looking at me and
smiling. They were all very elderly and must have lived different lives, away
from one another, but they had recognised one another and had recognised me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I did not know what to say. I looked down at the tea stall. I could
see the boy standing near the wooden bench, looking up at our apartment window.
Two elderly men and an elderly woman were standing alongside, looking up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">20 February 2022</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; text-align: left;"> </span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-16204345674495492742022-02-17T23:39:00.002+05:302022-02-17T23:39:15.140+05:30the mysterious taxi driver, the coffee house at Connaught Place and the chaiwallah<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">I had to get out of the airconditioned meeting hall and the
high-storey building and try to take a longish walk after the very typical and
predictable buffet lunch that had been served. I had been warned about this
sort of a lunch at the semi-government semi-corporate meetings that took place
anywhere in Delhi. The caterers would serve a total kitsch of Punjabi, South
Indian, Chinese and a whole lot of very familiar dishes from various places in
India in order to satisfy any and every VVIP that may turn up. The host did not
want to be the one to disappoint any of the power centers in the capital and
always instructed the caterer to ensure that there were always 2-3 dishes of
different types.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had had to stand around obediently with my seniors as they kept
chatting and eating and my dining plate had to look creative and satisfied and
thus had something of butter <i>naan</i>,
garlic <i>naan</i>, some stuffed <i>kulcha</i> and one half of a <i>rumali roti</i> along with various
vegetables. And, of all the combinations, later had to sit at a dining table as
my boss kept chatting with somebody important, and had to watch the VVIP eat
some so-called cauliflower Manchurian <i>tawa</i>
fry with <i>dal makhni</i> and <i>puris</i>. I was just about ready to throw
up after having had to watch that for twenty minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My opportunity came when my boss whispered with heavy garlic breath
that I was required to go down to the parking area, search for our locally hired
taxi with the rather mysterious driver with the name that I could not remember
and bring back some important papers and files that were sort of necessary for
coming to an agreement of whatever it was that we had come here for, flying out
of Mumbai in the ghostly early hours of the morning. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The lift was right out there, almost like waiting for me, and I was
glad and thankful and thought that the stuffy cabin was more welcome than the
buffet lunch dining hall. I rushed out of the porch and walked out of the
high-storey building and went out in search of the many parking zones around
Connaught Place. This is one of the most intriguing of all puzzles in New
Delhi. You know that your driver entered a particular parking zone and you saw
him park his car, just outside and opposite of Coffee House, and you actually
saw him walk about and wave at you that he was good and comfortable out there,
and you absolutely, very absolutely, know that he will not be at that spot when
you return. I had had a good enough suspicion when he had asked me, in a low
voice, as to how long would be at the meeting and where did we have to go from
here. I had honestly replied that I did not know the answers and he had looked
at me with a conspiratorial smile and nodded, as though I had confided the best
of secrets to him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Those were the days before cellphones or pagers. There was no way
that we could contact him. I walked all around the coffee house parking zone. I
did remember the vehicle number plate and went up to the parking booth and asked
them if the vehicle had been asked to park in any other zone at Connaught
Place. The <i>parking-tikitwala </i>checked
his register and declared that no such vehicle had ever entered the zone. I argued
that I had seen him actually park the vehicle and get out of the car and walk
about. The <i>tikitwala</i> asked if I had
seen the driver pay for the parking slot and I replied that I had not. There,
he said that means the taxi had left rightaway and gone to park at some other
spot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">What was I to do, I wondered. Should I go back and inform my boss?
That would not do. He would just pick it out on me and blame me if the intended
agreement did not happen. I walked about from the coffee house to Nirulas and
from there to the famous camera house and around to some known names and some
not so known. I looked at some pavement eateries and was upset that I could not
sit there because of all the heavy buffet lunch that I had had. I returned to
the coffee house parking zone and waited about. Should I go within and have a
filter coffee or wait here?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">An elderly tea-vendor, carrying a lighted-up stove, a <i>chullah</i>, with a tea kettle on it, in his
right hand, with a thickish sort-of-metal wire looped around his left hand with
multiple dirty looking ceramic cups hanging from it, was walking about. He was
not advertising or shouting out for anyone to get their tea from him. He walked
confidently, sat under the shade of a <i>gulmohar</i>
tree, right outside the coffee house, and made himself comfortable on a packing
case that must have been placed there for this very purpose. It had one of the
most dirty looking cotton pillows on it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Drivers from many vehicles walked up to him, silent, no chit chat, giving
him five-rupee coins, and he poured the tea in to the ceramic cups and handing
them over. The tea was enjoyed and the cups returned. I looked on curiously,
wondering as to how the vendor was going to wash or clean the cups. I was not
disappointed. He took a cup and tapped on the stainless steel parking barrier
that went about the tree guards. A youngish man came out from a nearby shop
with a bucket of water and placed it alongside and the tea vendor dunked all
the cups and took them out and hanged them once again on the metal wire that
was looped on his left hand. There. That was it. The cups were ready. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was very tempting. That whiff of the tea was overpowering and
welcome. I had to have a cup. What was it about the cleanliness and all that, I
thought. So be it. I handed over a five rupee coin and got back a cup of tea in
return. It was absolutely the most perfectest cup of tea that I had ever had, I
decided. It washed away all that heaviness of the buffet lunch and the all of
New Delhi and Connaught Place seemed to be all ok now and there was nothing
wrong about anything. I stretched out the tea cup for a refill and entered
heaven all over, once again. Perfect. Best. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Just as I drank the second cup, I noticed that our mysterious taxi
driver was standing alongside me, and also enjoying a cup of tea. He seemed to
be standing about as though he had never ever gone away. I looked around, and
the taxi was right out there, at the very spot that I had seen him park at in
the morning. I asked him if he had gone somewhere and he replied that he had
gone to the outer lanes, the ones behind the well-known gurdwara and had taken
a nap and had had his lunch and a second nap and he knew that this was the
correct time when the tea-vendor would come to the spot outside the coffee
house. So, he had returned. That was it. Nothing complicated about having gone
away or any presumption that we could have returned early or that we may need
our stuff from the taxi and all that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I asked him if he had paid for the parking slot in the morning and he
smiled, that wonderful New Delhi smile, that suggested that there are some
questions that you do not ask if you do not want to know the answers to.
Perfect. </span></span><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;">17 February 2022</span> </span></div></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-23361995278217695702022-02-13T00:28:00.005+05:302022-02-13T22:37:50.396+05:30last local from Churchgate and traveling with ambitious gangsters<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">It was the last local from Churchgate to Vasai, well past
midnight. It would practically be all-empty, with most 3-seaters being occupied
by passengers who could stretch out and sleep it out all the way. The slow
local stopped for more than its usual day-time at Bombay Central, Dadar and Bandra to
allow the long-distance night express trains to speed past enroute to their
destinations. I had to travel all the way up to Vasai and that would be a
journey of more than ninety minutes or so and therefore I organised my
haversack as a comfortable pillow and covered myself with two sheets of today’s
Times of India and planned to take a good nap all the way. Hopefully, I would
not be disturbed by anyone.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There were other passengers on nearby 3-seaters. The rear 8-seater
had a family sitting together, looking worried and tense, with several
old-style cotton bags, tied up with nylon ropes. They must be going to Vasai to
catch the interchange long distance trains that came in from Pune and changed
over from the Central to the Western railway networks. Something must have
happened at their native town or village, something unfortunate and tragic,
perhaps.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The 3-seater opposite me was empty and a lucky passenger could get
to sleep on it upon boarding at Marine Lines or Charni Road. It was difficult
to fall asleep rightaway. This was my first journey at these hours and I had
not planned it in this manner. Whattodo. I could not help it. I had to be at
Vasai, just before dawn, to catch the down train from Indore that would turn
eastwards to Pune and would help me reach before office hours for an early
meeting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was ok, I thought. What if I could not go to sleep? I could just
take some rest in case I did not get a good seat or sleeper berth on the train
from Indore to Pune. The worried family on the 8-seater were whispering and
chatting and I could hear all or some of it. The elderly lady was speaking in a
terrified whisper and wondering about all the sleeping passengers. She wanted
to know what they could do if anyone of these passengers jumped up and
threatened them with a knife or a gun and wanted all their luggage and money.
How could they fight him and avoid any injury. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I could not hear the reply from her middle-aged son but it had not
been satisfactory. The middle-aged daughter-in-law replied impatiently to the
elderly lady and the gist of it was that any such person with a knife or a gun
would be truly unlucky. They could actually pay the thief to take away their
entire luggage and go away. At least, they could then look forward to
purchasing new items and new clothes. The five kids, probably theirs, laughed
in silent gasps. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Three men boarded at Marine Lines and came to sit at the 3-seater
that was opposite me. I glanced at them in a very hesitant manner. They looked
quite decent, middle class, half-sleeve shirts, terene trousers, leather shoes
with laces and had newspapers, an umbrella each, and small packets of salted
peanuts that they must have purchased at the railway platform. It had become
costly this month and one had to pay two rupees. A hundred percent inflation
and that must be reflective of the state of the nation, I thought. No threat or
worry from these three decent persons, I felt. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One was quite elderly, probably their boss or elder brother or their
senior at their workplace. The other two spoke respectfully with the elder. He
was dressed in a white shirt and a pale cream trouser. The youngest was dressed
quite formally. He had his half sleeve shirt tucked in and had buttoned up
right up there, all the way to the collar. The third one looked nervous. He
looked around the compartment. He was glancing at each passenger and yet, he
had just rightaway dismissed the family at the 8-seater. He did not look at
them. I could sense his thoughts as he looked at me. It was just more than a
normal glance. He was staring deliberately to check if I was really sleeping or
just faking it up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The youngster in the formal tucked-in-shirt bowed low, just a bit,
and spoke in a matter of fact manner. “Boss, we may have to bring a full stop
to that shop owner. He refused to pay up on the monthly rent and has not paid
for the past one year. You are very kind to him otherwise I would have used my
full stop methods, at least six months ago.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The elder smiled and patted at his folded-up newspaper. “Who are you
talking about? Thanawala? Let him be. He is a Bawa and they are like that only.
I will talk to his mother. She will know what to do. We can visit her at Flora
Fountain. You come with me. You cannot go about killing all our tenants who are
not able to pay up. You have already forgotten the mess that you created last
year with the Malabari family. You thought that they were just local
shopkeepers who were selling fake goods by labelling them as smuggled goods.
You did not realise that they had a big background support. It took me quite a
lot of trouble and five months to settle everything down. Do not start again.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The third man was watching me intently. He was suspicious that I was
not fast asleep and that I was probably listening to their conversation. I was
getting worried. What if they did notice that I was awake? Full stop or what?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The youngster was not convinced about taking it easy about whosoever
that Thanawala was. “I know all about your patience, Boss. You tell us to be
polite and patient and yet you want us to collect as much pending rent as more
than possible. We have to answer to you. This Thanawala knows it entirely. He
threatened me by saying that he will complain to you. He says that his business
was down for the entire year and he cannot pay and that we cannot remove him
from the house because he has his receipts from earlier years and he has sent
letters to the owners about it. Just let me handle it in my way. I will return
with Richard and Pakiya and we will take care of him. New tenants will pay.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I sat up in alarm. These fellows were talking about knocking off
someone. It would be better to move to another compartment and get away from
them. The third man smiled in triumph. He had guessed correctly about me. At
the same moment, the elderly lady with the family on the 8-seater screamed. She
probably thought that I was a thief. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Do not shoot, do not shoot,” she shouted. She was holding up her
hands in absolute filmy style. Her daughter-in-law had bent down to hide. The
middle-aged man was looking very apologetic at us and shrugging his shoulders. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The three men looked at me in alarm. They must have thought that I
was a threat to them and was traveling in the train to cause them harm. I was
in an absolute state of panic. I shouted at the elderly lady and her family,
waving my hands and saying, “No. No. I am not trying to harm you. Do not worry.
I am not going to shoot you. Do not worry.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Saying thus, I turned to apologise to the three men. They were gone. They had
probably jumped off at Bombay Central.</span></span><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;">12 February 2022</span> </span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-78806809165318489512022-02-10T22:51:00.002+05:302022-02-10T22:51:21.283+05:30The challenge of full meals or limited meals and a nap on a sultry Kadapa afternoon <p> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">“For lunch in Kadapa city, Saar, you should go to Reddy Mess or
Naidu Mess or Brahmin Mess. Full meals.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“What do you mean by these names,” I asked. Why are they named thus?
Like a community name? I do not want to go and eat at a place where they do not
allow others to eat or if they ask for any sort of proof about my community.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Subanna laughed. The way that only he could. There was no sound. He
would just tilt his head back and giggle and shake convulse in a certain way
and be back to normal within two seconds. You would never know that he had
actually laughed unless you saw him do that unique mannerism. He knew that I
was joking and that I knew all there was to know about the Reddy Mess or Naidu
Mess. He turned towards the city clock tower and pointed. Just like that. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Saar, let us go to the Brahmin Mess today. You have eaten at the
other two and you are good friends with both the owners. You have not eaten ‘full
meals’ in Kadapa unless you have been to all the three eating houses. You will
not be able to move from the chair after you even finish half of that ‘full
meal’. I can just about finish one such meal.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I smiled. He was correct. Venkatappa Reddy, the owner of the Reddy
Mess, near the bus stand had become a good friend. On occasions, we would stay
overnight at the wooden benches outside the mess if we missed the night bus out
to Siddavatam or if we were to wait to board the midnight long-distance trains
that ran between Mumbai and Chennai. Similarly, Muniswamy Naidu, the owner of
the Naidu Mess, had also delighted in sitting up with us after our meals and
sharing in some stories, some true and some totally made up, for I was
dedicated to listening to all his long tales.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“It is a challenge, Subanna,” I said. “I will finish at least one
full meal, if I try. I may not ask for anything extra.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">There he went again, Subanna with his silent laugh. He managed to
cross the busy main road while doing that. We came up to the outer shed of the
Brahmin Mess and I was surprised to see the largish crowd that was standing
around.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Subanna whispered, to pacify me. “Saar, today is Sunday and this is
special full meal day. Let us go only for limited meals. Today, the limited
meals will be more than the full meals. We will also get gunpowder rice, <i>puliyodhara</i>, ie tamarind rice, lemon
rice, and at least three types of <i>payasam</i>,
ie sweetened milk preparations, and one big <i>laddoo</i>,
made entirely of jaggery and sweetened cashewnuts fried in butter. There will
be fruits also. The full meals will have all this and unlimited rice, one plate
of <i>puris</i>, and some other stuff. It is
written on the blackboard outside the dining hall. They change the menu every
day. You can have your bet about full meals on some other day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">This was getting to be paradoxically worrying and exciting. As a
foodie, one had to get tempted and challenged. But as a post-lunch journey in
the noon heat of Kadapa, this was like wanting to have an accident, right here
at the eating house, in the outer shed. I looked around and saw some men
snoozing right there, stretched out on the gunny sacks of rice and wheat. Some men
were just seated on the floor and resting their backs on the sacks and snoring
away. One elderly lady was accompanied by a small motley group of middle-aged
and younger women. They were also sleeping it away, but had been provided with
coir cots. These cots were probably always kept here for such. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I was taken along the outer queue of intent diners and pushed to a
small cabin near the entrance. Subanna introduced me to the owner who gestured
for me to sit alongside. It was comfortable in the cabin and I looked around
for the reason. The owner had affixed two large heavy-duty exhaust fans with
strong wooden support frames on opposite walls of the tin shed. One fan
probably pulled the air inwards while the other one pushed it outwards. Good
idea. Smart man, especially for the famous sultry air-sucking heat of Kadapa in
the summer, I thought and smiled. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">He had noticed my glances at the exhaust fans and my silent smile. “Welcome,
Saar, to my Mess. This should actually have been called Venkateswara Mess or
Balaji Mess but that is too much like going on pilgrimage to Tirupati and
therefore my father called it as Brahmin Mess so that everyone knows that you
get only pure vegetarian food here. My grandfather and his two wives and their
four sons had started this place but in those years, there was no need for a
name board or whatever. They only made food for my father and his brothers to
run to the railway station and sell the food packets to the passengers of the
long distance trains. My father had an accident on the railway tracks and he
lost one leg and so he could not go with his brothers. So he decided to sit at
one place and continue with his father’s work. That is how I am now owner of
this Brahmin Mess. Do not worry about the food and its quantity here on Sunday,
Saar. I will tell them to bring a smaller quantity and you can eat here,
peacefully, unless you want to dine inside.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">It was the manner in which he said it. Almost like a challenge.
Subanna knew my answer. I replied, “Thank you but I would like to eat inside. I
do not want to break the queue and jump ahead. Is there any special room
inside?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Do not worry about that, Saar,” the owner said. “Subanna knows what
to do and where to sit without breaking the queue. We have a table kept aside
for policemen, truck drivers and state transport bus drivers. There will be
some empty seats there because it is a Sunday. You can sit there and I will
tell the servers to get you a very limited meal. You are free to order whatever
extra you want but please keep some space. I will treat you to a special banana
and <i>paan</i> (betel leaf) and some
coffee, special Kadapa coffee. You will enjoy the menu here. After that you can
sleep.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Sleep? Here?” I replied in surprise. “We have to drive out there on
my motorcycle and reach Vontimitta or at least reach Bhakarapet and take some
rest. It will be risky if I take a nap here. There will be traffic in the
evening.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The owner smiled and waved his palms at Subanna. “Tell your saar,
that there is no way that he will be able to even walk out of the shed after
the lunch and the bananas and the coffee. You both should take some rest, sleep
and enjoy the joy and pleasure of the Kadapa Brahmin Mess. Evening, when you
wake up, you can have the evening tiffen, we have special idlis and chutney,
excellent tomato tamarind chutneys and some more Kadapa coffee. You can sleep
after that tiffen. Do not worry about driving to Vontimitta. I will take care
of that. You will get there safely.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“You will take care of that?” I asked. “How? Are you planning to
drive my motorcycle to Vontimitta with us?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">The owner laughed jovially. “No Saar. Truck drivers stop here in the
evening. I will ask them to give you a lift.”</span><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">10 February 2022</span></span></div></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-10222592421703771612022-02-10T00:28:00.007+05:302022-02-10T00:28:50.293+05:30The mist and the fog and the invisible lake that you could step off to journey the Universe<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">“Do you really want to go out on the lake with our fishermen on
their boats? They may return only after a week.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I looked out at the expanse of the great floodplain freshwater lake
that was right out there on the border of Bihar and Jharkhand. One could not
locate the opposite bank. In this winter noon on the reed-beds near the small
fishing hamlet, I could not even pick up on the sense of the waterbody. It
seemed like there was nothing out there. The view comprised just some fog and a
very faint mist that was like a wall from the water’s edge to the heavens. Nothing
else.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Four <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mirshikar</i> locals
accompanied me on this exploration. The rest of my group of travellers had been
distributed all along the floodplains and I was the only one deputed for this
particular location. I could not locate any boats or fishing nets or any sign
of a wharf or a cast off point. There were very vague shadows that one could
see on the water.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Is there any actual lake out there, Riaz? It seems like this is the
end of the world and one step out of this spot and we will fall off the edge of
the universe. How do we go out on the lake? Do you have a boat or do we start
walking?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He laughed happily and turned around and translated to his
companions. They smiled politely. I could feel their discomfort. They had been
ordered by the local government officer to give me all the support I needed,
even if it meant that some of them would not be fishing on the lake and they
would not be paid for any of their efforts. A discussion of some sort had started
between Riaz and his companions. They were all related to one another. They
comprised two brothers, one uncle, one grandfather and another who looked old
enough to be a great grandfather. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He came up to me and looked intently at my face. He brought up his
eyes very near to my nose and looked at my eyes and stared firmly. I decided
that I should not flinch or get scared. This may be a frequent stunt by the
elder. He spoke to Riaz and there was a reply in their local language and the
other elder joined the discussion and they nodded. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Riaz said, “Sahebji, our community elder is curious that you mention
that this is the edge of the universe. He says that this has not been said so
in many years. The youngsters in the village and in our area are only concerned
about the fishing and the harvest of the local variety of rice from the lake.
They go out with their elders and they help and they return but they are more
interested in the TV and in the video film library in the nearest mofussil. He
wants to know about why you mentioned what is very firmly known in our ancient
religion and customs and our way of life.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Please tell your very senior elder that I present my respects,” I
replied and bowed. “This is a well-known thought that if you travel on the high
seas and oceans, you may come to the edge of the world and fall off. But that
has been proven to be wrong. One knows that it does not happen that way. But
now, when I stand here, and I look out at the lake, and there is only fog and
mist and the hint of rain, and I do not see anything else, I can understand why
would the most ancients think of such possibilities. Please convey that I
respect him and I would like to travel with him.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The entire group discussed the matter in whispered tones. I stepped
aside to let them work it out and walked along the reed-beds. It was quite
slushy but the gravel below the water line allowed me to have a firm tread.
Some of the reeds alternated with the edge of the underwater paddy variety that
was grown in this area. I bent down to smell the inflorescence of the paddy. It
was very heady and pungent and I got thrown back in surprise. Luckily, I did
not fall. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The second elder was standing alongside, watching me. “This is just
the small rice grass here, at the banks of the lake. Already, they are one to
two feet in height. When you will go out with my father and you travel for more
than three days and nights on the boat, you will see. The underwater rice grass
grows to nearly fifteen metres in height and sometimes, the weight of the
harvestable ones are so heavy that we have pull them out with our fishing
nylon. My father does not like it that we use the nylon. He says that this rice
grass and the lake are our ancient deities and we harm them by using nylon. I
have seen him and his brothers jump in to the lake and bring the rice grass
heads to the boat. They would be very respectful. Just four jumps like that
when we are out there and our boat would be filled up.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was puzzled. By their names, they sounded like Hindu and Muslim
families and they were discussing about common deities, very ancient, and none
that I had heard of in the Subcontinent. This must be very local and endemic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Why do you think of this rice grass and the lake to be your ancient
deity?” I asked. “They are your sustenance. You go out there to catch fish and
harvest the rice. And that is all. This lake must be drying up in the summer
when the Ganga retreats from its flood plains. These waters come from the
Himalayas. Is that the reason? Is it because these waters come from the great
mountains that you respect the lake and the rice grass? This must be a very
ancient ritual.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The senior elder and the others had come to join us. Riaz gestured
to a large reed bed. “Sahebji, our boat is out there. We will go ahead and
build a stronger hut on it because you are not used to traveling on this lake.
It gets very cold and icy in the day and more so in the night. There is no
sense of day or night out there. We will be using some cement buckets to light
up a fire and to keep us warm. We will also be burning some of the dry reeds to
signal to any of our other boats that would already be camping there. Do not
worry. We will not be alone. We will go to a location where at least you can
see about forty other boats. You will be safe. You are our responsibility and
you will be warm.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I smiled and bowed, once again. “Thank you. I am happy. I am
curious to be with you all but I am grateful.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The senior elder whispered furiously to his son. But, it was Riaz
who translated. “Sahebji, our community elder is keen to take you along with
him and to show you the many aspects of the lake. He says that it is many many
years since a visitor was respectful to our great lake and to our ancient knowledge.
It is so spoken of in our community and we will so pass it on to our children
that we cannot change the way we live and we cannot change the waters. They
come down from the great Himalayas and the Ganga River is known to us. But it
is not the river that sustains us. It is this soil and it is this land that
brings the great river to leave its rich nutrients and sacred water. From a
depth of 2-3 meters, the lake soon reaches 15 to 20 meters and on some years,
it has also gone past 30 meters. We do not see it as flooding but we wait for
it. This is the most precious of all rice varieties and we get the best
fishing. We respect that.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">9 February 2022</span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-1063592324541251452022-02-08T02:00:00.002+05:302022-02-08T02:00:35.269+05:30a peacock on our balcony and a room with a view of the Indian Ocean<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">“There is a peacock on the balcony outside our room. I cannot
believe it. Quick, take out your camera and lens.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Indeed, there it was. Unbelievable for city dwellers from inner city
areas of Mumbai on a tour stop at Kanya Kumari and staying at the Hotel Tamil
Nadu facing the Indian Ocean and the meeting point of the Arabian Sea with the
Bay of Bengal. Our room faced the ocean and we had a spectacular wide-angled,
nearly 180 deg, view stretching from the temple and all the way across to the
green groves at the Hotel premises. We had seen the peafowl moving around in the
campus, yesterday, on our arrival, and we had been excited to see them so very
commonly and fearlessly, walking about amidst the tourists, local housekeeping
staff and rickshaws speeding about. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Today, at this early dawn hour, it was very different and
tremendously awesome. We could see the peacock from within the first-floor room,
through the window that looked out at the ocean and also had a view of the
balcony. The peacock was seated on our balcony wall and was calling out loudly.
We had never heard a peacock call out in such a shrill and high-pitched voice,
up so close. You did not need an alarm clock if you were booked into these
rooms. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We stood nearer to the window, hoping that it would not be alarmed
and would not fly away. He did not. He kept a steady watch on our movements and
yet was looking out keenly at the gardens and groves of the Hotel compound. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“He must be calling out to attract the peahens,” I said, “we are in
the early week of March and it would be summer soon. I think it is much earlier
in South India. They will need to start nesting very soon if the eggs are to
hatch before the monsoon. But, I think that they are quite well protected in
this large estate of the Hotel and the nearby premises.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We took some photographs from behind the window but it was not so
very perfect. The window glass was reflecting the glow from the ocean and
created a mirage sort of disturbance over the photographs. We could not open
the balcony door, for sure that the peacock would instantly fly away. After a
while, it was quite tedious to hear the peacock call away, and the sound was
getting a bit stressful. The doorbell rang and I went up to answer it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The room attendant brought in our early morning order of coffee and
biscuits. We would have to get ready and go down to the restaurant for the
breakfast, he informed. I nodded and smiled. He pointed at the peacock in the
balcony.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Do not worry,” he said. “You can open the door and allow it to fly
away. Otherwise he will keep calling out like this and you will get very
disturbed. He just likes to call out from one of the balconies in the morning.
Later he goes down to the children’s playground and moves about and continues
to call from there. You can go down there and try to take photographs if you
are interested. Many tourists have taken excellent photographs at that
playground area.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I nodded and allowed him to leave the room. The peacock called out
for another couple of minutes and flew down to the gardens below. We had our
coffee and got ready and walked down. It was going to be a long day for us and
we were all ready for it. We were planning to go to the temple and later stand
in queue for the boat to go out to the Vivekananda Rock. There would be a crowd
and a very long queue for the boat tickets, first thing in the day, we had been
advised. It was better to go later in the morning after a good breakfast. There
were no eateries out on the Rock.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We had some time to wait it out after breakfast and we thought that
it would be a good idea to follow up on the suggestion from the room attendant to
try and get good photographs of the peacock and other peafowl at the children’s
garden. We walked up to the garden and made ourselves comfortable at a good
stone seat in the shade. It was getting humid and hot, rather quite early. The
peacock was at a distance and we wondered if we could tempt him to come nearer.
We did not have any bird feed and we had not thought of packing up something
while we had our breakfast. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Just as we were about to give up, four young children, probably six
to eight years old, school going kids in uniform and with their school bags,
came nearer. They whispered amongst themselves and pushed the eldest one to us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Saar, good morning Saar,” the kid said. “Do you want to take photographs
of the peacock? That is reason why you are seated here. Morning tourist here
are always want to use camera and take photo of peacock. Correct, is it?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I nodded in agreement. I was curious. This seemed like a rather
perfect arrangement for these kids to turn up and want to help us take
photographs of the peacock. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">camerawallahs</i>
among the tourists would probably pay some money to these kids. I was ok with
the idea but I wanted to know if this was a properly rehearsed arrangement. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I gestured for the kids to come nearer. “Yes. I want to take
photographs of the peacock. The room attendant uncle told us to come here and
wait for you all to come and help us. He said that you are experts at peacock
photography.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The eldest boy smiled proudly. “Yes. That must be Natesan uncle. He
is father to the small girl in our group. He is my uncle also. My mother’s
brother. So you are his friends, then? Will you pay us if we bring the peacock
closer?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“You are all in school uniforms. You are also carrying your school
bag. Do you attend a school actually? Are you studying? Are you good students?
Or do you sit here all day in the school uniform and help us to take
photographs?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“No, No. We are real students,” the boy said. “We are to go to the
school. We have one hour before the school starts. It is very closeby. Just
behind the Hotel compound. I got first rank last year in the Class One. It is
English medium school and our teacher is very good. Natesan uncle does not know
that we take money for photographs.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Ok. Let me see how you will bring the peacock closer to us. My
companion here will take the photographs. That camera is better than mind. Do
you call him? Does the peacock know you by now and come to you for eatables?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The boy got busy. He spoke to a younger lad who brought out a grubby
looking newspaper pouch and sprinkled what looked like powdered idli and medu
vada and steamed rice and some soaked gram on to a grassy patch. The elder boy
and the younger girl called out to the peacock. He seemed to know what was
expected and came up to eat. My companion got busy with the camera and was
quite happy. I knew that the photographs must have been perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I asked the young boy. “What do you do with the money? Do you spend
it all on sweets, snacks and ice cream?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“No. I do not waste the money,” he said. “I am saving it for all of
us. We want to become Dr. Abdul Kalam.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">7 February 2022</span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-89053043070104117782022-02-06T18:11:00.007+05:302022-02-06T18:55:07.287+05:30Curfew in Jammu and the tourist family that wanted to walk in the snow<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">“Not today, Madam ji,” the hotel security explained. “You cannot go
out of the premises today. There is curfew.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">He was explaining the situation to a family of six that was part of
a larger tour group. This family had come down early to breakfast buffet on the
ground floor of our hotel in Jammu. I had also been hoping to go for an early
morning walk along the river but had been asked to stay indoors. I was ok
with it and secretly was happy that my outdoors workout was cancelled. It had
snowed all night and a crystal white blanket had covered the river, the boats
and the city. I could see the wonderful panorama from my window seat at the
restaurant. It was not the right moment to go up to the buffet spread and fill
up a plate. Nature had done its magic over Jammu and it was better to sit
silent and watch.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">A lady in a bright red sweater was protesting in a shrill voice. “But
it is our first snow. I have never seen or walked in snow. Our children are so
excited. We are wearing the proper woollens and we have also worn thermals. We
want to go out and jump and move around in the snow and we promise, we will be
back in time for breakfast.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">The hotel security was quite dignified and patient. The hotel
management or colleagues had not come to his support. They did not need to. He
was about six feet and half in height, he looked like. His uniform was a
glorious hotchpotch of several regimental colors. He had a tremendous moustache
that curved all over his cheeks and went to rest below his ears. His gloves
made him look very different from a regimental army officer. They gave him away
as a security chap rather than an <i>armywallah</i>.
He stood straight, respectfully blocking the doorway, his palms crossed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">“No Madam ji. Again, you cannot go outdoors today. All movement out
of the hotel is prohibited for today. There is curfew declared since midnight
and we do not know when it will be lifted. Please watch the snow from your
room.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">The red sweater lady was very upset. She walked around near the
security man, clomping her shoes on the wooden floor, creating tremendous noise
that echoed all over the ground floor. Her husband came up and guided her to
sit at the nearest sofa. He asked her about the situation and anger and moved
his hands in consolation and seemed to assure her that he would take care of
the matter. He had on a matching red sweater, oversized, perhaps to make space
for two thermal inners. Their children were seated glumly at the other chairs,
nearer to their mother. The father, the extra-large red sweater, came up to the
security man and pleaded. He kept turning around and pointing at the lady.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">He had had no impact on the security man. He had not moved from his
position. He had quite a rather loud booming voice and it made up for all the
stuff that we could not hear clearly from the extra-large red sweater man.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">“Sirji, it is not about the snow. You cannot go out, your family
cannot go out, nobody from the hotel can go out. There is curfew and the police
have a checkpost outside, near to the hotel. They will shoot and kill you
immediately.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">I had completed my breakfast and this looked like the only thing
happening right now. So I went up to sit at a couch that was nearer to the
security guy. He looked at me, professionally, assessing my threat factor. I picked
up a newspaper and opened it up very obviously, to convey that I was harmless.
Not a threat. Not a threat to the situation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">The red sweater man had discussed the matter with the red sweater
lady and returned to the security guy. She had not given up on her insistence
that about going out and jumping about in the snow. This was getting better and
better. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">“See, you do not know my Pakru-ki-maa. Once she is wanting to do
something, once she is wanted to purchase something, she does it. Complete. You
must be married, I think. You must be understanding my problem, No? She is
wanting to go out and jumping in snow with her children and with others from
the group. We have come from Mumbai and we have never seen the snow and never
walked in it. We are here only for two days more and we have to return. The
snow may go away as water into the river tonight and tomorrow there may be no
snow. Allow us, No?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">The security guy did not flinch. “If you go outside, you will be
shot. This is Jammu. This is not Mumbai. Today is curfew and they will not give
warning. First shot will be low. It will hit your legs. Second shot will be
higher.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">The red sweater man was persistent. I will grant him that. “Nobody
shoots without warning. Before the police know that we are outside, we will
jump one two three times, run from hotel entrance to the river wall and return.
The police will never know. We will go quietly and we will return immediately. You
do not worry about the police. I will be outside with the family and the tour
group. I will speak to the police if they shout at us. I will convince them,
No?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">The security guy stood silent. He did not reply. He had given up
convincing the two red sweaters, I realised. What now? At that very moment, the
outer doors of the entrance opened and a police officer accompanied by two lady
constables, armed and in camo dress and with large khaki overcoats, entered. The
security guy saluted. The lady constables went to the rest room in the lobby
while the police officer waited. This would be interesting, I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">As I thought, the red sweater man came up to the police officer. “Sir
ji, I have a request. This security man is not allowing us to go out. It is
curfew, he says. He is adamant. We are all from Mumbai and we have come to
enjoy Jammu and the river. We want to go and play in the snow and walk
around. This is the first snow that we have seen. We will just go from the
entrance to the river compound wall across the street and we will return immediately.
We have to return in two days and the entire tour group may not get a chance
like this once again. Please, Sir, No?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">The police officer was absolutely taken aback. He stepped away from
the red sweater man and looked at the tall security guy and his dysfunctional and
yet glorious regimental uniform. “Who are these people? Have you actually
informed them about a curfew and what it means here in Jammu? Anyone can shoot
at them, the police or militants.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia;">“I know, Saheb. I told them repeatedly. He says that his wife is
adamant and so he is helpless. He was actually wanting to come out and talk
with your senior officer and ask for permission for the group to be out in the
snow.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: georgia; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> The police officer grunted in disbelief. The two lady constables had
returned and were standing alongside. They had heard about the entire argument.
The police officer lifted his weapon and showed it to the red sweater guy and
pointed with his trigger finger and made a show about using it. The red sweater
lady jumped and hid behind her sofa. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white;"><span lang="EN-IN">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: start;"><span lang="EN-IN">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: start;"><span>6 February 2022</span></div></div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-16987210167729352662022-02-06T00:20:00.001+05:302022-02-06T00:21:15.263+05:30a dust storm in Jaipur, Genghis Khan, and a family busy with their books <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I watched the dust storm gather strength on the tarmac and the
runways from the safety of the interiors of the airport at Jaipur. It was
getting somewhat worrisome. I wondered if it would delay all departures. My
flight was to New Delhi and onwards to Pune with quite a number of hours to be
in transit. I was usually careful about that sort of a time gap between flights
but this could take it right up to the edge. The announcements were coming in.
Flights were being delayed and it was by three hours for now and could be much
more. I logged in to my ticket status and checked the one from Delhi to Pune
and relaxed. Several flights out of Delhi were also getting delayed. Now, I
could settle in at the departure area, find a silent and comfortable section
and get out a book to read. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Most passengers were seated nearer to the high outer windows and
were watching the dust storm. The regulars from Jaipur and those who looked
very much local were in the middle section, not bothered, and were busy with
their cellphones or were napping. What was there to watch in a dust storm for
someone from Jaipur? I walked around a bit, scouting for a good location. About
four entire long rows of rather comfortable seats were somewhat less crowded. The
reason became obvious as I neared it. There were no television monitors or
eateries or rest-rooms in the vicinity. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I made myself comfortable near a large potted palm and placed my
haversack between my leg space and the plant. The other carry on had my airport
stuff, books, bottled water, small packages of snacks and one particularly
aromatic parcel of puri bhaji from an excellent foodcart near the railway
station. I was looking forward to enjoying myself with it when on the flight or
while at the transit lounge at the New Delhi airport. For now, I could be busy
with my book.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">An elderly couple on the other side of the potted palm had already
made themselves quite at home, actually, in a way. They were snoring away
happily while a younger couple were busy chatting with one another. They must
be related, I guessed, for otherwise they would have been irritated or would
have moved away to another section. I was ok with it for I was used to
traveling with mixed group of fellow passengers in long distance railway
trains, night buses and while staying in dormitories and whatever. Opposite, to
the extreme corner, I had a group of pilgrims, from the sight of all the stuff
that they carried and their dress. They also had a <i>guruji</i> amidst them and yet they were silent. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Right across me, the most intriguing group of all. An elderly
gentleman, a not-so-youngish lady, and two very young kids, a boy and a girl,
with about eight bags on alternate seats, being used for various purposes. The
elderly gentleman had his elbow resting on a large carry-on bag while the lady
was using one soft bag as a back support and had another bag tucked below her
seat. The kids were more enterprising. Each one was using a bag as a pillow and
backrest and was able to adjust adequately to sit across two seats. The more
interesting of all, each one had a book. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Curiouser and curiouser, I tried to identify the books without
giving away my intention. The elderly gentleman was reading a book that I
recognised right away. It was one of the very popular Jim Corbett titles and I
felt happy about it. Fellow nature lover. He must be a good person, I
certified. Everything is all a-ok about him. The lady a book from the
One-Minute-Manager series. Slim book about management and organisational behaviour.
Hmmm, I thought. She must be a working professional, recently promoted, good
organisation and wants to be better informed at work.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The young lad had a book from the Game of Thrones series. My mind
went ‘Wow!’ That was some heavy reading. I had enjoyed the TV series but
reading it had made me quite tired. This young fellow looked determined at his
task and I saluted him. Not many adults would have picked it up at a book shop.
They young lady, possibly his younger sister, had a novel-sized book about
basic photography skills. I was impressed. She was not going to be one of those
who were just happy to be a point-and-click accidental photographer just
because her cellphone had a camera.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I could run an experiment, I thought to myself. I returned the
heavy-set novel that I was about to read and picked out ‘The Wolf of the Plains’
about Genghis Khan by Conn Iggulden. The cover would be interesting to each one
of them for it showed up the title about a wolf while it had interesting art
work about Genghis Khan and of course the image would also be appealing.
Something for the elderly gentleman and both the kids. I wanted to see if they
would gaze at the cover, look for longer times, and would be curious enough to
come over to chat with me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Sure enough, the young lad glanced past, something clicked in his
mind, and he turned back to look at it keenly. It had caught his imagination
and he could not let it go. He walked over to the elderly gentleman and
whispered. The elder looked around politely and casually, very casually,
brought his gaze to my book. Now, he was hooked. He whispered back to the young
lad and nodded. The lady was possibly the mother of the two kids and she had
not moved her gaze out from her book. There was quite some furious and hectic
whispering between the elder and the young lad. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">It was however, the younger sister who was bolder and impulsive. She
had been hooked on by the cover page of the book and she was smart. She picked
up her mother’s cellphone and, I just guessed at this by her actions, must have
typed in the title and googled about the book. She read it up and understood
the contents and also realised that there were more titles in the series and
that all were best sellers and were all about Genghis Khan and his descendants.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">She walked up to the elderly gentleman and her brother and spoke in
a stage whisper that I could hear very clearly. “It is not about a wolf. It is
about the plains of Mongolia. It is about Genghis Khan. You will like it, brother.
There is a book series and they have better Amazon ratings than ‘Game of
Thrones’. It has history, war, adventure, geography and all other stuff in it.
Dadaji, you will also like it. There is something about a wolf and an eagle in
this particular book of the series. Mummy will not like it, maybe. The stories
are very long. But, I checked about Mongolia. It is good country and the
potential for photography is very good. I saw some of the photographs. Maybe I
will go there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">I was blown away, absolutely. The young girl must have been on the
cellphone for just about two minutes or more. She had absorbed all this
first-time information, rapid fast, and picked out just the salient facts for
her brother. The elderly gentleman probably realised that I had heard all that
she said. He looked at me and smiled, very politely. </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"> </span> </p><div style="background-color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">5 February 2022</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-26073208535442369352022-02-04T22:49:00.002+05:302022-02-04T22:49:51.488+05:30a talkative coach attendant in a 2AC compartment and two scientists on a pilgrimage<p style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">I was in search of my lower berth, window side, in the 2AC
compartment. I was trying to recollect the seat number. The ticket was in my
shirt chest pocket and I would have to place the haversack and my suitcase on a
seat to check the berth number and hope that an occupant passenger would not
scream at me. I smiled politely at an elderly couple, possibly in their
seventies, and lowered the suitcase on the floor and balanced the haversack at
the very end of the berth and pulled out the ticket. 16-lower /window. I looked
around. There, what can you say? I had come to the exact berth that I had to be
on. I pointed to the seat number and gestured to the elderly gentleman that
this was mine.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">He smiled graciously and stood up and allowed me to take my seat and
moved across and sat alongside the elderly lady. This was worrisome, I thought.
They looked like a talkative couple and were elderly. I would probably have to
listen to all their sermons and advice and also have to rush out at the major
railway stations and bring back water and food and fruits for them if they
wanted. How could an elderly man rush out and risk it all? I would have to help
out.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Hello, Sir. I am Doctor Venkatachalam,” the elderly man said,
waving his hand in greeting. “My wife, Mrs. Venkatachalam, Also Doctor Missus
Raji Venkatachalam. We are from Kodambakkam in Chennai. We are going to Haridwar
north of New Delhi. Do you know Haridwar? On the Ganga, near Dehra Dun. We will
take another train from Delhi. How are you, Sir? Are you also going all the way
to New Delhi? Are you from Chennai or New Delhi?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">‘That’s it! He is going to talk to me all the way to New Delhi,” I
thought worriedly. I waved and nodded. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Yes, Sir. I am going to New Delhi. All the way. I am Sankaran Nair.
I am not a doctor, though. Only professor.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">He laughed. It was like he was gasping gently and suddenly he went
backwards and laughed and gasped loudly. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Good joke, Sir, good joke. How can you be a professor if you are
not a doctor? We are also not medical doctors. We are PhD doctors. We worked at
the institute of technology and we retired from there. We taught engineering
and we had research projects for nearly thirty years. We lived and loved our
work completely. Our children are grown up and married and settled. Now we are
free. So we travel. We are going to stay overnight in Delhi and travel after.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I nodded and smiled and leaned back and yawned and smiled some more.
‘Perhaps, if I did not reply, it would be ok and he would not continue the
conversation. Or I could pretend to be busy with my haversack and stuff. Or I
could help them with their stuff or purchases at the railway station only when
needed and talk to them a bit at that time.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not to be. The
compartment attendant came about with the blanket, bed linen, pillows and
towels. He threw my set of clothes on to my berth and pointed as if to imply, ‘that’s
yours, whether you want it or not. But, keep it.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">He turned to the elderly couple, smiled, and bowed, well, almost. “Saar,
Madam, How are you, Saar? It has been nearly six months since you have travelled
in my coach. I always go back and tell Missus Sasikumar that my Saar and Madam travelled
with me. Going to New Delhi, Saar? Anywhere from there? I know you will be
going somewhere.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The elderly gentleman stood up, very politely, and put out his palm
for a handshake. “Hello, Sasikumar. I was just telling Janki’s mother, that is,
Dr. Raji here, that it would be fantastic if Sasikumar was with us once again.
We can simply enjoy the entire trip to New Delhi and it was be very comfortable
and easy to travel through. Yes. We are traveling north from New Delhi. We will
stay there for two nights and then take the train north to Haridwar.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Haridwar?” the coach attendant asked. “Why? Are you going for some
special puja or for funeral prayers?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I was shaken up by the direct question. I had also thought of that
but I had purposefully avoided asking it. How can someone just ask it so
abruptly? Very impolite. This was not done. Why should one go within someone’s
privacy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Dr. Venkatachalam did not think it wrong. He replied, “No. Not for
any special puja. Funeral prayers only.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">‘I would have to say something now,’ I thought and said, “My
condolences, please. Someone close to you both?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Dr. Mrs. Raji smiled and looked out of the window and on to the
railway platform. She was pretending, I knew.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Not for anybody close to us,” Dr. Venkatachalam said. “It is for us
only. There is special provision in Haridwar. You can offer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shraadh</i> or funeral prayers for
yourselves. I am told that it is only available at Haridwar. Nowhere else.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Sasikumar was not flustered at all. No, Sir. He just went along with
the flow. “Saar, I think there is provision in Rameswaram also. But it is best
in Haridwar. There you really can feel the prayers. You know what it is to have
died and for your prayers to be recited and the priest is very nice and polite
and he helps you with all the rituals and all.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">This was just getting to be a bit too much, I thought. I would have
to travel all the way to New Delhi and listen to their discussion about
comparing places and pilgrimage locations that would help conduct your own
funeral rites. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Sir, Dr. Venkatachalam, Sir,” I said, leaning forward. “I have
never heard of this practice. But then I have not been to Haridwar. Why do you
want to conduct your own funeral rites? You said that the two of you are
engineers and researchers and have taught at the Institute of Technology. That
must be post-graduate students, then. You must have been or are very rational
thinking scientists. Is it not all superstition to want to conduct your own
funeral rites?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Dr. Mrs. Raji smiled and said, “So it is okay for our children to
offer the funeral prayers after our death?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I was taken aback. “That is their duty. It is part of our religion
and we are born into it. They have to offer the prayers and it is only then
that they have completed their duty towards their parents and to their
upbringing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Sasikumar had not gone to distribute the bed linen to other
passengers. He was just getting warmed up. “Saar, it is okay for them to go to
Haridwar and offer their prayers for themselves. How will they know that their
children will do what is necessary? Science will not help you after you are
dead and long gone. In one small moment in time, you are gone and that is all
that you can do or not do. What if your children are elsewhere and they cannot
come? What if they do not want to travel all the way to Haridwar? It is better
for you to make it easier for them. Parents are like that only.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Dr. Venkatachalam nodded in agreement. “Sasikumar, you are correct. Our
children are settled abroad. They want us to join them and lead what they call
a ‘comfortable life’. I am worried about our afterlife. Better to take care of
it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="background-color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: times; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">4 February 2022</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-68962165841870597412022-02-03T23:42:00.006+05:302022-02-03T23:45:54.221+05:30Trying to hire cooks for the Daphabum expedition and how to bake a cake and custard<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">In those days, one had to wait it out at the Dibrugarh guest house in
Assam for news and confirmation about aeroplanes or helicopters with space for
people and animals and luggage to be sent out to Ramnagar in Arunachal Pradesh.
I had been given instructions to meet the paramilitary desk and introduce
myself and they would have a jeep to go out to the guest house. They did not do
this for everyone. It was a courtesy because I was to be part of a multi-team
effort to go to the most remote parts of India and participate in a long duration
campout with many others.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">Our group was assembling at the guest house and the team leader nodded
at me in a rather cursory manner. I was quite upset. I had flown out at
extremely short notice from Mumbai to Kolkata and on the next day out to
Dibrugarh. I had been traveling non-stop except for a very brief nap at the Dum
Dum airport and onwards to the last regular airport in Eastern India. A team
member explained that the leader had actually been quite warm towards me and
that he was a senior government officer from Kolkata and that this was much
better than his welcome to fellow Bengalis. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">I felt better at that and went up to the team leader and asked if
there was any way that I could help since he was moving about, talking to many
people and trying to coordinate various actions. He was startled. He had not
expected that a ‘Bombaywala’ would want to help so willingly. So what, I
thought, we all have our prejudices and perceptions.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">“Ok! Come with me and do not wander away,” he said, almost
grudgingly. “You do not know the language here and by the way these locals do
not speak Assamese or Bengali. These fellows and some of these ladies are from
many tribes in Arunachal and they do get by with some broken Assamese and
Hindi. They refuse to speak Bengali even if they can understand it. Try talking
in English and they will be very happy. That is the best respect that you can
give.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">I smiled politely and laughed a bit. “I am in these parts for the
first time. Never been to East India. I will learn.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">“We have to hire a group of cooks and this is as good a time as any.
We have to search amidst all these waiting groups of local people who want to
return to Ramnagar. We actually need the cooks to be from that place so that we
do not have to hire inefficient guys from here and have to send them back. We
will be traveling from Ramnagar to other camping spots and all that area is
Lishu country in the Daphabum ranges. We need cooks who know the area, who live
in the area and we need tough guys, those who know how to cook in the tough climatic
conditions out there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">This was the first time that I had heard that it would be tough out
there. “What tough climatic conditions? Are we not going to be camping in good
alpine tents and in local circuit houses and in the local panchayat settlements?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">“Yes, Yes. We do have good equipment. But we do not carry the local
climate with us. We are helpless with that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">This was getting to be rather cryptic. I had seen the desert and I
had seen the Western Ghats. I had seen the winter at Bharatpur and at Aligarh.
So what if I had not been to the Himalayas. We were not planning to go up the
Everest in any case. What was it about the Eastern Himalayas that one had to be
worried about, especially with the climate?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">I walked up to the team leader as he started talking to a mixed
group of elders, young men and elderly women. They were seated together around
what looked like four baskets filled with live chicken, large hens and roosters
and young ones. Two of the youngsters had their hands busy with managing four
goats. One of the elders had a very young mule nearer to him. The ladies were
seated on large gunny sacks of potatoes and yam and <i>arbi</i> (colocassia). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">My team leader was speaking in a mix of Assamese, Bengali and broken
up local tribal dialects and Hindi and some words of English. Each time that he
would speak in English, he would point at one of the elders and he would be met
with a lot of nodding and ‘<i>yes, yes, yes,
yes</i>’. I had my own doubts that they had actually understood. I was wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">A young man replied in English. Perfect convent school English. “Yes,
Sir. You can get good cooks who can help you in your camping. A father and son
are here right now in the guest house. I will call them. Both are good cooks.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">One of the younger lads ran off to a neighbouring group and
explained the matter and two men came up to meet us. They introduced
themselves. The younger one introduced the elder, and said, “Apu. He is Apu.”
And then, proudly, he extended his hand to introduce himself, and said, “Apu. I
am Apu. Son of Apu. He is my father. I am son.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">The English speaking young man explained to me, “Apu is first born.
His father was first born and so he is Apu. His first born son is also called
Apu. But his actual name will be different but we all call them as first born.
It is a great honor to be the first born son of a first born father. They are
good cooks and also very good hunters. The best.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">“Hunters? What do we need hunters for?” I thought, worriedly. “Were
we not going to carry our food supplies?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times;">My team leader was not worried about this issue, I realised, as I
watched him explain his needs to Apu and Apu. He wanted them to be familiar
with a list of food items. He ticked them off very fast. Steamed rice, lentil
soup, chapatis, vegetables to be made in good Bengali gravy, non-vegetarian
items to be made especially like in the army and paramilitary cantonments, not
in the Assamese or Arunachal manner, sweet dishes like <i>kheer</i> and other items with milk and sugar, and especially, he was
very particular about this, they needed to be able to bake cakes and custard
pudding in stone ovens, out there in the tough climatic conditions below the
Daphabum ranges south of Ramnagar.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 11pt;">I could see that this had Apu and Apu rather confused. The English speaking
young lad questioned my team leader about it and got to know his exact
requirements about baking a cake without a proper oven. It was something about
using heated-up smooth large stones and placing them underground and creating a
natural oven. The youngster translated all the points about the natural oven
and explained it to Apu and Apu and the group. One of the elderly women got
quite excited about it and, I thought, she said that it could not be done. An
elder from a nearby group who had overheard everything came up and introduced
himself. He had been a cook with the army and he knew of this method when he
had been camping somewhere near Sikkim with the British Army officers, decades
ago. He explained the salient details and Apu Senior nodded happily. He
remembered the technique, he said. American Army in Second World War, he
claimed. British Army, American Army. Which war? Where? How old were these
guys? </span></div></span><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: times; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-size: 11pt;">3 February 2022</span></div></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-15609383575650848792022-02-02T23:00:00.000+05:302022-02-02T23:00:02.917+05:30Sleepless at the ICU and the lady patient from Bed No. 32 <p style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">“Try to sleep now. You will feel better in the morning. We have
given you a good anti-depressant tablet also.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“How can I sleep?” I replied. “I have nothing to do. You did not
allow my laptop in the ICU and my cellphone is also confiscated and kept in the
locker. How can I even try to go to sleep? I can only sit on my cot in my
semi-cabin and keep watching the other patients in the ICU. I cannot get sleep
in any case. Remember? My problem is because of my insomnia. I cannot sleep
until 3 am or thereabouts. That is the reason why my problems have become
bigger.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The male matron smiled and laughed a bit. I had not seen him smile
in all my two hours at the ICU when I had been a rushed-in admission after a
spike in my blood pressure. He had been standing alongside the cardiologist and
the night-hour on-duty doctor while my case was being discussed. I had seen him
reading through my file and repeatedly lifting his head to look at me as if he
did not believe my case. I knew that he was very sceptical and we had to talk.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">This was the first time that I had seen a male matron moving about
in an ICU, very confident and knowledgeable and in control of his team. I
looked around my section of the ICU. We were in an internal sub-section of the
very large ICU area. At this time, well past midnight, there were four female
and eight male nurses moving about, silently, intent on their tasks, checking
their wards, unsmiling, looking at the patient files, examining their catheters
and drips. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">They were in the new uniforms, both male and female, except that the
women wore pink colored shirts and trousers while the men were in Prussian blue.
They did not look like the nurses of earlier years, dressed in white, without
their narrow-waisted gowns and smart perky caps. The younger male nurses were
rushing through, not reading the patient files in detail and were simply
whisking off the catheter to hastily replace with new ones. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“What does my file say about my blood pressure reading?” I asked the
young male nurse as he picked up my patient file. “Is it ok? Do they write
about my ECG and blood pressure? Is there any written report that I can read?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“I do not know,” he replied. “I do not read any of that stuff on
these green pages. You have to ask Nagare Sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Who is Mr. Nagare Sir? Your ICU matron? He may not allow me to read
my file. Why don’t you read them?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">He did not reply. He had glanced back hastily and had seen the
matron watching the both of us chatting at this later than late midnight hour.
ICU patients were supposed to be asleep and a chatting nurse was very suspicious.
I smiled at the matron and as I thought, he did not smile back. Boy, was he
strict or what? But he had not seemed so. I watched him chat with the lady
patient from Bed No. 32 who was walking around. She must have been in her late
eighties, I guessed. She was walking from her bed section to the Matron’s
counter and making a circuit of the medicine carts and the on-duty doctors. She
did not talk to anyone but just ambled along, slowly. My guess was that she was
chanting, most possibly. She was worried about something but did not want to
allow her fear to overpower her. She had been chanting like this, all her adult
life, and it gave her courage and strength. She was here, wasn’t she, in the
ICU, walking about peacefully, smiling, not worried about the ceiling a/c units
and not avoiding the cold draft. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“She has a surgery tomorrow morning, early tomorrow morning. She may
survive and she may not. She knows.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Startled at the very deliberately enunciated low voice very close to
me, I turned around hastily. It was Mr. Nagare. He had come up silently and had
been standing alongside, watching the lady patient from Bed No. 32 as I had
done. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“She seems very courageous,” I said. “Do you know if she is chanting
something? She does not sleep easily?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Would you? Would you sleep as easily if you know that you had a
surgery tomorrow morning and you are all alone here in the ICU and your family
does not bother if you not return from the hospital at all? Not concerned at
all.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I looked at the lady, concerned and worried about her now. I watched
her smile at the doctor-on-duty and pat him on his shoulder and comfort him
about something. A lady nurse came up to her to ask her to return to the bed
and she pointed at Mr. Nagare, the matron, standing next to me. So he had
permitted her to walk around in the ICU. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Nagare Saheb, that is not fair,” I said. “You do not allow me to
move around and do not allow me my laptop and cellphone and you allow her to
walk about. Is it ok if I can talk with her? I can give her company until dawn
if you think that is ok. I am a compulsive insomniac and try as much as you
can, I am not going to get knocked off to sleep. If she is ok with my company,
I can sit with her here, in my section and chat. We will not disturb the other
patients.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Without any reply, he went up to the lady and placed a hand on her
elbow and brought her to my cot. I brought my palms together and greeted her.
She willingly sat on one corner of the bed and looked at me, silent, without
judging me. I could sense it. She had no opinion. She was just there, accepting
of anything that would happen to her. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Mataji, I am here for blood pressure and insomnia and panic
attacks. All my problems are of a fast moving world and addiction to
multi-tasking and the internet and working on computers all the time. This
visit will probably slow me down when I return and after two to three months, I
may get back to the same intensity and take more chances.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">She smiled. She knew that I was trying to make small talk. She pulled
out her chanting beads and gestured. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“I just do jaap. I recite his <i>nama</i>,
incessantly, without any stop. It must be the same. I also love my god in the
same way that you love your work. We are the same. If we do not do what we do
now, we will do something else and will once again be drowned in the same rush.
Our matron Sir must have told you that I am having a surgery tomorrow and he
must have told you that I may survive or may not. Do not worry about me. My
family has given up on me. But my god has not. I know it. If he calls me to
him, tomorrow, I win. If he does not call me to him, I win. It is the same.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Mr. Nagare laughed. I smiled. It was very difficult not to be
emotional and not to be able to show it visibly. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">“I am only aware of the magic of meeting new people. Each person is
different and I feel very strongly that each new individual is in HIS plan for
me. He always sends someone to me. My family hardly ever talks to me. They are
only interested in my bank accounts and legal documents. When I walk, and when
I chant, I am grateful that my poor 87 year old ankles still have the strength.
We will meet tomorrow, for sure. I hope you will be here when I return.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: start;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: start;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: start;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">2 February 2022</span></div></div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-47888143024086087352022-02-01T22:54:00.001+05:302022-02-01T22:57:29.515+05:30Mist and fog on the road from Ooty to Masinagudi and a precious corduroy jacket<p style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">“What are they doing? They are taking too much time to do shopping
and moving about on the Mall Road. Your wife and daughter should have finished
their list and returned to the vehicle. It will get dark on the road back from
Ooty to Masinagudi and the forest chowky gate will be closed. We will find it
difficult to return to Upper Kargudi in time. Go and get them here. No. You do
not go. You will not return in time. I will go and get them back with me.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I smiled politely. I knew Sivaganesan from earlier times and I knew
his earnest attitude quite well. It was better that he went out to the Mall
Road and brought back my missus and daughter. They would know how to get around
my impatience and would take more time on shopping for whatever it was that
they had listed out as ‘must purchase’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">We were in a grand-old-ambassador with Mumbai number plates and our
driver, Bajaj, was laughing and smiling as was his usual manner. He was from
Thane but he had travelled with me and my colleagues on several multiple-month
journeys and was familiar with most circumstances. This was the first time that
Thulasi, my wife, and Harini, our daughter, had travelled so far away from
Mumbai and he was very accepting of their delay for all their reasons.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Sir, Siva Sir is correct. We will find it difficult to convince the
forest chowky gate fellow to open to let us return to Masinagudi. Whatever your
argument will be, he will not agree after the big tussle that we had on our
drive up to Ooty, when Siva Sir had spoken to him. They know each other from
many years and he will not agree to help us.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“I know. I am worried about that,” I replied, keeping an eye out on
the Mall Road. “It is quite crowded out here and Siva will not be able to
locate them so easily. They must be inside a woollens shop because my wife
wanted to purchase some blankets. They are not used to this winter and this
altitude. But, Harini seems quite ok with it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Bajaj gestured and pointed at one of the side streets. Siva had
caught up with my wife and daughter and they were returning towards the
vehicle. They were laughing and quite happy about something when Harini pointed
at a vendor with packets of locally made chocolates. Siva went up to the vendor
and did not seem to like it for he guided them to a shop that had a gaudily
painted board declaring ‘the best home-made Ooty chocolates in the world’ as
their product.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I laughed and shook my head. “Bajaj, now Siva has taken them inside
that shop and they are bound to get quite late. It is his fault, not ours.
Think about the return drive. We need to get some food packets and some fruits.
It will get dark and past dinner time. We may only get some tiffin shop near
Kargudi if it is not too cold or too foggy. Let us purchase some stuff from
somewhere near the car and be ready. Some biscuits also, perhaps. Some dry
fruits.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Both of us hunted near enough to the car and made our purchases and
waited it out for more than thirty minutes or so. It was getting dark and the
mist was collecting above the houses on the Mall Road. Siva came out with
Thulasi and Harini and walked briskly to the car. He was already waving to Bajaj
to get the engine started and the car ready to go.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Get in, Get in, I say,” He gestured to me. “What is this, you are
not ready? We have got chocolates for you and some packets are hot. Fresh made.
They asked us to take the newly made batch also. Come on, we have to start
driving and we can eat the chocolates before they get cold and solidified
completely. We have to rush to the chowky.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Long and short of it was that we were quickly out of the Mall Road
and driving out of Ooty and were on the hill road going down to Masinagudi. The
scent of the eucalyptus and the tinge of the dinner wood fires from the huts
alongside the road overpowered us even as we drove past rapidly. The fog was
following us and getting lower as we motored on the downhill curves. Bajaj was
used to driving on such curves but he took extreme care. We slowed down, caught
the gravel on the treads as we turned, and picked up speed after each curve. It
was difficult to spot the road in the dusk and amidst the shadows from the <i>nilgiri</i> plantations. One had to be
careful not to overshoot the curve. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">We reached the forest chowky gate and as expected it was closed. The
chowky guard was not to be seen nearby. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Let me see if it is locked,” Siva said, alighting from the front
seat. “Bajaj, be ready. I will open the gate and you can drive past. I will
close the gate immediately after. The guard is not anywhere near. It is foggy
and cold. He must be inside, warming himself up. These fellows know that
vehicles will not be driving on this road in these late hours.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Siva got to the gate and checked it. He pointed at the very obvious lock
on the gate. The guard was very clever, of course. He had closed the gate and
locked it and taken the key and gone in to stay warm and secure for the night.
Siva returned to the car and got the rear boot opened and was searching for
something. I was worried that he was thinking of breaking the lock. Bajaj
called out to Siva and the rear boot door was closed and he came up to the rear
window. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Dai, did you purchase anything while at Ooty?” Siva asked. “Any
biscuits, fruits or food parcels? I know you, I say. You cannot go anywhere
without making sure that food is available and you would have got good food
packets.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">I smiled. I took out the food packets and showed them to Siva. “Why
do you ask? Are we going to stay here for the night? It will be quite cold if
we are to stay at the chowky. We can return and stay at Mohanraj’s house in
Ooty.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“No. No return,” Siva said. “We have come this far and it will be
difficult to drive back up the ghat curves to Ooty now. Very dangerous. Give me
the food parcels and fruits and biscuits. These fellows need the food. It will
be useful to him and his family. Only problem is if he has already gone to
sleep. You come and stand next to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">We went up to the chowky hut. As expected, the guard was fast asleep near a
small fireplace. The flames had gone out and the charcoal embers could be seen,
glowing peacefully. They would die out very soon. Siva searched around and
picked up dry branches and nilgiri leaves and placed them on the charcoal. He
twisted a newspaper lying nearby and got it to light up and got the fire going.
He picked up the key hanging on a nail near the door and went to the chowky
gate and opened it and waved for Bajaj to drive through. Immediately, he locked
the chowky gate and returned the key to its place. Silently, he looked at the
guard, sleeping peacefully. I thought of all the arguments and irritable fights
that they had had earlier in the evening. I was worried that Siva may take
revenge. Instead, he took out his wonderful corduroy jacket that I had envied.
He covered the sleeping guard with it and patted at him, gently.</span></div></span><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">1 February 2022</span></div></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4933014868645246158.post-89472014018697635432022-01-31T22:31:00.001+05:302022-01-31T22:31:14.571+05:30Tiffin and Filter Kaapi at Matunga and everything is all right in the world<p> <span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.25in;">I was returning to Matunga after nearly a year and was excited and
super happy to walk along its familiar footpaths crammed with vendors selling
vegetables, snacks, plastic goods and flowers and bananas and whatever. This
may not sound exciting to you if you are not familiar with Matunga but for
those who know, they know and they would be nodding understandingly and would
also be feeling the joy of walking about in those streets and pavements.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The previous year had gone in a project assignment in Central and North
India and I had been missing the truly original honest-to-perfection <i>idli-vada-sambar-chutney</i>, the various
dosas and the absolutely bestest of all, the strong “<i>philtar kaapi</i>” that for a Mumbaikar, can only be had at Matunga.
Please do not misunderstand me. There are other good places too for filter
coffee and south Indian snacks in Mumbai, and good ones too, but the pleasure
of walking about in the area and sneaking into Ram Ashray or Sharada Bhavan for
<i>upma-chutney</i> or cajoling for a
single-<i>medu-vada-sambar</i> or waiting
for <i>kela-bhajji</i> or <i>mysore-bonda</i> cannot be bettered in any
other café elsewhere in the city.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Devendra was waiting for me near Sharada Bhavan as we had discussed
over the phone and he understood that I needed company while snacking so that
we could chat absolute nonsense and endless stuff about nothing. It was much
better if you got someone else at your table, total strangers, and you could
pick on any topic and everyone would chat it out for the duration of the stay
at the café. Sometimes, very rarely, you may become good friends but it was a totally
understood thing in Matunga, King’s Circle, Sion Circle or Dadar Circle that
you were only snack table meetups. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">As expected, every table at Sharada Bhavan was occupied. The corner
table had an elderly couple, who did look like dedicated Matungawallahs, except
that the two other empty seats were on the inner side, that is, we would have
to squeeze in behind the other two diners. We did that. The diners did not look
up and did not make way for us. They were very busy with their dishes. As would
have been expected, we checked out their plates very fast. They were having <i>Rava Masala Dosa</i> and <i>Upma-Chutney</i>. There was no sign of any
other earlier dish that had been eaten up. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">‘Ok, they have just started,’ I thought and waved to a familiar
waiter. He waved back. It was not like we were friends but he must have just
guessed that I was a regular. He recognised Devendra though and smiled at him. I
was feeling somewhat jealous but it was to be expected as Devendra was here
almost every day even if he had brought in a good lunch pack from home. It was
a rare day or week that he would not have had some tiffin at Sharada Bhavan. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">We placed our orders and instantly, the diners at our table and the
one next to it, looked at us with respect. We asked for <i>Ulundu Dosa</i> and it was a rather specific order. Devendra enunciated
the entire order with proper gestures.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Two <i>Ulundu Dosa</i>. Crisp
and thick. Two chutneys but also give one <i>molagapodi</i>
(= gunpowder) and <i>sambar</i>. Bring them
together. After that we want <i>idli-chutneys</i>,
two plates, with the <i>idlis</i> swimming
in the <i>chutney</i>. Bring two <i>sambar</i> each, separately. Do not bring <i>kaapi</i> immediately. We will let you know
if we want anything else before that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The waiter was more appreciative, though. “You do not want your
usual? No <i>upma-chutney</i> and <i>dabra-Tea</i>?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The two diners sharing our table looked up at the very ancient menu
on the wall. This was the most traditional of all. The menu had never changed
its look. The prices had been repainted but the items on the menu had never
been changed. No new Punjabi-Chinese menu additions and no surprise dampener of
Pav Bhaji or Schezwan Dosa or whatever it was that was masquerading as ethnic
cuisine or novelties. People came to their regular restaurants in Matunga
entirely because they did not want to be disappointed by surprises or changes
in their dining routine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">One of the diners pointed at the menu board. “Ulundu dosa! We have
not had it in all these years of coming here. How come? Bhushan Kaka used to
always talk about it when he came here with Shantaram Kaka, years ago.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“I have had it at Ram Ashray,” the other diner said. “But it is
better at Ballard Estate. Not in Matunga. I have never liked it here. But I
have had three, one after the other, when I was in Mysuru. It is much much
better there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">Devendra smiled. He was used to this sort of flowing conversation.
It meant nothing to be able to know a better restaurant or a better eating
spot. It was just a starting point for some more discussion even if it was for
time pass.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“It is good here, but you have to eat it just right,” he said. “It
has to be crisp. It has to be thin. But it needs to be enjoyed with the chutney
and <i>molagapodi</i>. We mix up everything,
chutney, sambar and <i>podi</i>, and allow
the crisp <i>dosa</i> to soak it up. That is
the correct point in time to slice it up and crunch it. It explodes inside and
you enjoy the <i>dosa</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The second diner smiled. He had closed his eyes for a moment, as if
visualising the description. He nodded. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“Yes, but I come here for the <i>upma-chutney</i>.
I enjoy the silky feel. You do not get better <i>upma</i> than this in Matunga. Sometimes at the new footpath café opposite
Amba Bhavan but not every day. My brother and I, we need to eat only soft
tiffin. Our teeth are in a bad condition and we cannot risk cutting up our
gums. We bleed easily.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">This was something very different, I thought. He had heard about it
but had never actually met someone who suffered from it. But, here they were,
both of them, with <i>Rava Masala Dosa</i>.
That was crisp, actually extra crisp.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">“You may suffer many cuts with that <i>dosa</i>. Are you going to continue so that you can enjoy the <i>upma-chutney</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in;"><span lang="EN-IN">The brothers laughed. The elder replied, smiling, “Yes. I knew you
would catch that. But this one is ok enough. We asked for soft <i>dosas</i> and even then, it would be risky.
We are soaking it up with the <i>sambar</i>.
We have to get back to our homes and pretend that we were never here. Our
families do not permit us to dine out here in Matunga. They want us to stick to
our diet and be careful and strict about them. But, both of us, are 80+ and
what more can happen to us? This is Matunga and Sharada Bhavan. Something will definitely
go wrong with our health, we told them, if you stop us from eating to our joy
and contentment. All this we do, only to enjoy the last round of strong filter <i>kaapi</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: MR; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Devendra nodded knowingly. “I know you both. I have seen you over many
years but we have never spoken. Your grandchildren also come here with their
classmates from college on some days. They come here and instantly ask for </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">Rava Masala Dosa</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> and </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">Upma-Chutney</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> and filter </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">kaapi</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">. They will take care of you. Do
not worry. God is great.” </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: start;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">From "the very short short stories on first edit" </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: start;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">(c) Bharat Bhushan</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: start;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 11pt;">31 January 2022</span></div></div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Shtories and Stuff - From Bharat Bhushan</div>shteller...http://www.blogger.com/profile/05497988390295628633noreply@blogger.com0