Trrrrring!
The alarm went off. Yet again.
I sat up with a start. I was late! I had overslept… that too on a day of a very important meeting with a venture capitalist. I stumbled across the room, stubbed my toe on the bedside, burnt my tongue on scalding hot tea and rushed out of the house in 20 minutes flat, giving up my breakfast in favour of a clean shave. I was angry. Livid. At myself. The world. And everything in between. Right now at the lift which seemed ages to come to my floor.
As a young man who had decided to go ‘all entrepreneurial’ as my friends put it, it was difficult to get out of a regular job profile and try to set up and run my own business. It had been almost 18 months since I had started out on my own. I had a few good ideas that needed the right kind of push… and of course the very right kind of funding. It was an uphill task but I was not one to give up. I was touching 30 soon and somehow thought that this would be my watershed year. I had to make it or break it.
I got into the car and stepped on to the pedal. The watchman at the gate must have just seen a blur, but I really did not want to be late for this one. Not every day do you meet Venture Capitalists who are actually asking for ideas with their cheque books on the table. My heart was pounding with excitement; I was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Absentmindedly I flicked to the one radio channel that I listened to, mainly because they played good music. Being late and hyper was not a great combination while driving in peak hour traffic and I was hoping some good music would calm me down or at least occupy me so that I did not swear at every vehicle that came remotely close to me.
After a few minutes I was reasonably in control of myself and it finally looked like I was going to make it pretty much on time for the meeting. My blood pressure which had reached medically impossible numbers seemed to be coming close to normal as I still inched forward in the traffic. As the song ended on the radio, the RJ started droning on and on. While I loved the music on this channel, the radio jockeys left much to be desired. Considering the sonorous monotone with which today’s RJ droned on, she probably had been deprived of her morning pick-me-up. Then in an attempt to be funny she talked about some needless research that had been done in some part of the western world.
Apparently 8 of 10 women were actually flattered when men wolf-whistled at them. I smiled. She continued. Further research had shown that 3 out of 4 men did not whistle at women for fear of being labelled cheap or freaks. I smiled even more. My mathematical mind quickly opened up an excel sheet to see how many flattered women were out there considering only 25% of the men actually whistled. I laughed out aloud. Already I was in a pleasant mood.
So much so that I did not see the car in front of me lurching, the next minute the hazard lights were on and before I knew it the car came to an abrupt halt.
Screeeech! I slammed on my brakes just in time! Just when I thought I was in control.
Fuming I got out of my car, slammed the door and went to the driver’s side of the car in front. “What the….!” I said, but regretted it immediately. Before I could even finish, she gracefully got out of the car and said, “Look I am sorry, I’ve been trying to change lanes but no one ever gives way in this city. My car’s been giving me trouble since some time; it’s just that I could not move to the side to stop. Sorry…“
I breathed out audibly, looked at my watch and stared at her, really not knowing what to say. I looked behind at how close my car was to hers. There was no way I could move my car without the 10 odd cars behind backing up. I just shrugged my shoulders helplessly.
She however continued,” I’ll just get a cop to help me move it to the side… I know… I am holding up peak hour traffic… I’m late myself. But there’s nothing I can do.”
I looked at her clear honest eyes and sighed. I was not one of those who fell for the damsel-in-distress stances. Funnily though, here was, technically speaking, a damsel in distress, who was pretty much in charge of herself. Impressive, I thought.
Before I could react, she had walked across to the traffic policeman. From a distance I could see her explaining her plight to the policeman who was nodding sympathetically. In moments he had rustled up a band of motley street guys and before I knew it she was leading them back to her car authoritatively.
In my mind, the honking of the cars behind faded into oblivion as I stood enthralled by her car. She had left the car open, and the window open (and true to all women) even the radio on. As I came back to myself I heard that same sonorous monotone of that RJ! Funny I thought, she listens to the same radio channel. I smiled.
“Oh, I see you find humour in the situation. Give me a minute and you’ll be well on the way. I love the fact that people do help in this city.” Saying that, she nimbly stepped in. The motley gang took their stance behind her car, the policeman shouted instructions and her car was slowly wheeled to the side. I watched for a moment. Then looked at my watch again. All this had taken only about 5 minutes but to me, I had gone through a rollercoaster of emotions. The worst was the one I felt now. A sense of loss. I did not have her number.
I shook my head as I got into the car, almost in a daze. I stopped for a moment to make a quick call to the person I was to meet. I was going to be ten minutes late. He was surprisingly most accommodating.
I reached my destination. Somehow the whole presentation did not seem important. My mind was on that girl I had met. In some perverse way I wished I had actually crashed into her car. At least we would have exchanged our phone numbers.
The receptionist asked me to be seated.
A few moments later, she said, “They’ll see you now… follow me.”
They? I wondered.
I was expecting to meet only one person. I asked the receptionist who the other person would be. “His partner, of course,” she said as she opened the door.
I walked in to see two people sitting across a large table. As I stared openly, Mr. Gupta came around the table and shook my hand.
“Welcome, I was looking forward to this meeting. Meet my partner Ms. Sengupta.”
I smiled. So did she.
“We’ve met” , she said smiling as she shook my hand. “This morning.”
We both laughed.
Months later as we sat one lazy evening in a coffee shop overlooking the sea, I held her hand and confessed.
“Did you know, the first time I saw you, I actually wanted to let out a wolf whistle? “
She smiled, “But you didn’t. Because you would have been labelled cheap or a freak?”
We both laughed. We were both on the same frequency!
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Monday-morning Blues
Monday morning.
The sun was shining brightly outside. A stray bird chirruped outside my window. And a gentle breeze wafted in. All seemed right with the world. The world that is, not my world.
I just turned over and continued to lie in bed. My immediate thought? So what if it was a bright and beautiful day, it wasn’t for me. If this was going to be a day anything like what the last few days had been, I did not even want to open my eyes.
The past two weeks had been harrowing. Ever since that Friday two weeks ago: the day I quit my job out of sheer frustration. It had been a nightmarish scenario where I had been made a scapegoat. Changing my job had been on my mind for several reasons. I felt I had not been really appreciated for all that I put in. Thanks to a superior who had vested interests and his own personal agenda. I tolerated it to an extent. But when I was pulled up in front of a client for something I had not done, I thought, enough is enough. There was only so much I could take. I submitted my resignation in the very next hour, took a waiver on my notice period and walked out.
I was sailing high on the cloud of optimism, for a couple of days after that. There were so many things I wanted to do. See movies I had missed. Catch up on books I wanted to read. And sign up for that 3-day Feng Shui course. In the meantime I would look for another job, one where I was recognised for my worth.
My cell phone rang, shaking me out of my reverie. I looked at it suspiciously. Of late, I was not in a mood to speak to anybody. Checking the number on the display I saw it was Sonia. I had to take that call. Sonia was my one friend at work. Yes, friend. In an eat-lunch-or-be-lunch corporate scenario, I had actually found a colleague who had grown to be more than that. We shared office gossip, our own personal secrets and sought each other out for advice. We celebrated our little job victories together. And commiserated with each other’s falls. What would I have done without Sonia!
She was the only one who consistently told me that I had done the right thing. Optimist to the core, she kept saying that I had a better future in store. Her optimism was infectious. But two weeks and several job rejections later, my optimism had lost its shine like a brass jug exposed to the salty air of the sea.
But back to the insistent ringing.
“Hello”, I said dully.
“Hi”, chirped Sonia from the other end, making me look up at that bird still on my window. “Still in bed? How’s it going?”
“Going?”
“Yes, with the job search and all. How was the interview on Friday? Any result?”
“Yeah, sure”, I said dryly. “The outcome was a big No. Actually, it was not a NO, it was a YES MAYBE, some time in the future. Oh, you know how it is, Sonia. I’m so fed up of this. This is the fifth rejection so far. I don’t know whether I’m ever going to get a job.” And I broke down.
There was silence at the other end. I thought I had dampened Sonia’s optimism. But Sonia was indomitable.
“Do you know what I just read?” she asked me gently.
“No”, I said still sniffling. And actually not really interested.
Sonia continued, “I just read an article on successful job-hunting tips by someone, I forget his name. Anyway, he’s talked about a model for the typical job hunt. He says, the more NOs you get out of the way, the closer you are to YES!”
“Oh”, I said, still not getting the point.
“Don’t you see?” Sonia gushed excitedly. “You have five NOs out of the way, my dear friend, it means you are getting closer to a YES!”
Good old Sonia. Wonderful dear colleague mentor friend philosopher guide. She always had the right things to say! Or possibly to read. I could have hugged her then.
Sonia continued, now in a sterner voice, “So my dear jobless friend, I now suggest, you throw back the covers, get up and start getting more NOs out of the way.”
I laughed. It was a bright, cheerful Monday morning after all.
The sun was shining brightly outside. A stray bird chirruped outside my window. And a gentle breeze wafted in. All seemed right with the world. The world that is, not my world.
I just turned over and continued to lie in bed. My immediate thought? So what if it was a bright and beautiful day, it wasn’t for me. If this was going to be a day anything like what the last few days had been, I did not even want to open my eyes.
The past two weeks had been harrowing. Ever since that Friday two weeks ago: the day I quit my job out of sheer frustration. It had been a nightmarish scenario where I had been made a scapegoat. Changing my job had been on my mind for several reasons. I felt I had not been really appreciated for all that I put in. Thanks to a superior who had vested interests and his own personal agenda. I tolerated it to an extent. But when I was pulled up in front of a client for something I had not done, I thought, enough is enough. There was only so much I could take. I submitted my resignation in the very next hour, took a waiver on my notice period and walked out.
I was sailing high on the cloud of optimism, for a couple of days after that. There were so many things I wanted to do. See movies I had missed. Catch up on books I wanted to read. And sign up for that 3-day Feng Shui course. In the meantime I would look for another job, one where I was recognised for my worth.
My cell phone rang, shaking me out of my reverie. I looked at it suspiciously. Of late, I was not in a mood to speak to anybody. Checking the number on the display I saw it was Sonia. I had to take that call. Sonia was my one friend at work. Yes, friend. In an eat-lunch-or-be-lunch corporate scenario, I had actually found a colleague who had grown to be more than that. We shared office gossip, our own personal secrets and sought each other out for advice. We celebrated our little job victories together. And commiserated with each other’s falls. What would I have done without Sonia!
She was the only one who consistently told me that I had done the right thing. Optimist to the core, she kept saying that I had a better future in store. Her optimism was infectious. But two weeks and several job rejections later, my optimism had lost its shine like a brass jug exposed to the salty air of the sea.
But back to the insistent ringing.
“Hello”, I said dully.
“Hi”, chirped Sonia from the other end, making me look up at that bird still on my window. “Still in bed? How’s it going?”
“Going?”
“Yes, with the job search and all. How was the interview on Friday? Any result?”
“Yeah, sure”, I said dryly. “The outcome was a big No. Actually, it was not a NO, it was a YES MAYBE, some time in the future. Oh, you know how it is, Sonia. I’m so fed up of this. This is the fifth rejection so far. I don’t know whether I’m ever going to get a job.” And I broke down.
There was silence at the other end. I thought I had dampened Sonia’s optimism. But Sonia was indomitable.
“Do you know what I just read?” she asked me gently.
“No”, I said still sniffling. And actually not really interested.
Sonia continued, “I just read an article on successful job-hunting tips by someone, I forget his name. Anyway, he’s talked about a model for the typical job hunt. He says, the more NOs you get out of the way, the closer you are to YES!”
“Oh”, I said, still not getting the point.
“Don’t you see?” Sonia gushed excitedly. “You have five NOs out of the way, my dear friend, it means you are getting closer to a YES!”
Good old Sonia. Wonderful dear colleague mentor friend philosopher guide. She always had the right things to say! Or possibly to read. I could have hugged her then.
Sonia continued, now in a sterner voice, “So my dear jobless friend, I now suggest, you throw back the covers, get up and start getting more NOs out of the way.”
I laughed. It was a bright, cheerful Monday morning after all.
Monday, August 17, 2009
The ties that bind
‘Here, take this tie.”
I paled. It was one of those days when we had no meetings scheduled and I thought that the strangling neckgear in the heat could be done away with. But here was my boss handing me a tie.
“But…” I stammered.
He cut me off. “You have an appointment at 2. I will speak about it later. Come back to my office in about 30 minutes. I have some important calls to make.”
That was Mr. Rao, my immediate senior for you. Curt, to-the-point, no-nonsense. I, of course, knew him as a man with a heart of gold. This was my first job and over the past three years I had come to, silently of course, regarding him as my mentor. He had in his own brusque, business-like manner taught me everything I needed to know to ensure a smooth transition from college to career. A bit like ‘what they don’t teach you at Harvard’. I really appreciated that.
One promotion down the line and I thought I was settled. This was the job that I wanted all my life. I was doing well. Life was good. And I saw opportunity for growth within the organisation provided I worked hard. Mr. Rao, of course, believed in working smart. Well, ok, I thought I was smart enough to stay here without jeopardising my career prospects in this small but growing organisation.
At times Mr. Rao in his subtle manner talked about complacency and the need for change to ensure growth. I was not so sure. We always had an argument about the comfort zone at work. He felt true growth came from change. Words, just words, I thought. But then, they lingered at the back of my mind.
Half hour up, and I gently knocked on Mr. Rao’s door. The tie definitely needed an explanation. He looked up from his desktop, over his gold-rimmed reading glasses and said casually, “It’s an interview. I’ve instructed Janice to update and print out two copies of your resume. Your application was already sent last week.”
Stunned, I stammered, the second time in the day, “But…”
He continued, “You need the change. And this is as good an opportunity as it gets. I don’t think the interview should be a problem. Provided of course, you reach there on time.”
I stood there speechless. Interview? But I had not asked for it. Then why had he done it? What did I know about interviews. My last one was when I joined this place. Of course, I had grown since then. I stayed in touch with current market trends and knew my work well. Hard work. Constant updates. A finger on the pulse of the market. And of course, my boss.
Mr. Rao looked up again. “Oh yes, remember in any interview once if you really are what they are looking for, the final clincher is honesty..."
I continued gawping. Speechless.
Mr. Rao looked down at his papers, summarily dismissing me. "Now if you will allow me, I have this report for the CFO that I need to concentrate on.”
I stumbled out. The rest of the day went in a blur. Janice handed me my cv on an alabaster sheet. Along with that was a glowing recommendation letter from Mr. Rao. I knew all the right things to say at the interview. Till they asked me what was the one thing I would miss about my earlier workplace if I chose to join them.
Honesty. The word popped up in my mind again.
“My boss.” I said, “He has been my friend, philosopher and guide and I appreciate all that I have learnt from him over these years”.
I got the job.
Now I was excited about the change. I was taking one more step towards growing in my career. When I called Mr. Rao, I thanked him profusely. “Sir” I said tentatively, “how can I ever thank you for what you’ve done?“
He simply said, “ Could I have my tie back?”
(c)All rights reserved
I paled. It was one of those days when we had no meetings scheduled and I thought that the strangling neckgear in the heat could be done away with. But here was my boss handing me a tie.
“But…” I stammered.
He cut me off. “You have an appointment at 2. I will speak about it later. Come back to my office in about 30 minutes. I have some important calls to make.”
That was Mr. Rao, my immediate senior for you. Curt, to-the-point, no-nonsense. I, of course, knew him as a man with a heart of gold. This was my first job and over the past three years I had come to, silently of course, regarding him as my mentor. He had in his own brusque, business-like manner taught me everything I needed to know to ensure a smooth transition from college to career. A bit like ‘what they don’t teach you at Harvard’. I really appreciated that.
One promotion down the line and I thought I was settled. This was the job that I wanted all my life. I was doing well. Life was good. And I saw opportunity for growth within the organisation provided I worked hard. Mr. Rao, of course, believed in working smart. Well, ok, I thought I was smart enough to stay here without jeopardising my career prospects in this small but growing organisation.
At times Mr. Rao in his subtle manner talked about complacency and the need for change to ensure growth. I was not so sure. We always had an argument about the comfort zone at work. He felt true growth came from change. Words, just words, I thought. But then, they lingered at the back of my mind.
Half hour up, and I gently knocked on Mr. Rao’s door. The tie definitely needed an explanation. He looked up from his desktop, over his gold-rimmed reading glasses and said casually, “It’s an interview. I’ve instructed Janice to update and print out two copies of your resume. Your application was already sent last week.”
Stunned, I stammered, the second time in the day, “But…”
He continued, “You need the change. And this is as good an opportunity as it gets. I don’t think the interview should be a problem. Provided of course, you reach there on time.”
I stood there speechless. Interview? But I had not asked for it. Then why had he done it? What did I know about interviews. My last one was when I joined this place. Of course, I had grown since then. I stayed in touch with current market trends and knew my work well. Hard work. Constant updates. A finger on the pulse of the market. And of course, my boss.
Mr. Rao looked up again. “Oh yes, remember in any interview once if you really are what they are looking for, the final clincher is honesty..."
I continued gawping. Speechless.
Mr. Rao looked down at his papers, summarily dismissing me. "Now if you will allow me, I have this report for the CFO that I need to concentrate on.”
I stumbled out. The rest of the day went in a blur. Janice handed me my cv on an alabaster sheet. Along with that was a glowing recommendation letter from Mr. Rao. I knew all the right things to say at the interview. Till they asked me what was the one thing I would miss about my earlier workplace if I chose to join them.
Honesty. The word popped up in my mind again.
“My boss.” I said, “He has been my friend, philosopher and guide and I appreciate all that I have learnt from him over these years”.
I got the job.
Now I was excited about the change. I was taking one more step towards growing in my career. When I called Mr. Rao, I thanked him profusely. “Sir” I said tentatively, “how can I ever thank you for what you’ve done?“
He simply said, “ Could I have my tie back?”
(c)All rights reserved
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Flying Lesson
I could visualise him. Neel. My little wide-eyed, wanting-to-know-everything-about-everything grandson. All of six, he was the driving force of my sixty years. I could picture him right now, nose pressed against the glass pane of the window, waiting for me. Waiting for that evening at the aero-modelling club. While here I was at the Board meeting called unexpectedly, but unavoidably, on a Sunday.
I sighed inwardly. At sixty, I had retired from work. But not from life. I had always looked forward to a quality retired life. With my work having taken me far and wide, and reluctantly away from the family, when my own children were growing up, I had decided that spending time with the family would be a priority.
But work did not let me go so easily. As a member of the Board of Directors of three companies, retirement just meant that I didn’t have that corner office anymore. Meetings, seminars, conferences, award functions, still took up my time. Especially when all I wanted was time with the family. Especially the new generation.
Sometimes I wondered, was it because I was too busy when my own children were growing up? Did I lose out? Were they deprived? Then I realised that grandparents and grandchildren shared a special bond, and here I was experiencing one of those blessed relationships in life. I wasn’t going to think too deeply about it. I was just going to make the most of it.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, an article I had read began to ring true. It talked about how ‘Dads’ influenced children and their behaviour right up to adulthood. So what if his Dad was busy. I was a notch up: as a ‘grand’ Dad! I could still do my grandfatherly bit.
That’s how the ‘Grampa Sundays’ came to be. Every Sunday, Neel and I would plan a little ‘misshun’ on our own. It could be a visit to the museum, an hour at a distant park, the aquarium or simply a walk on the beach. It was just our special time together. Neel and me.
No bribes of ice-creams, special rewards of chocolates or promises of gifts from his parents could take Neel away from our little Sunday outings. On my part, I tried my best to plan something new every time.
A shuffling in the chairs brought me back to the meeting. It was decided to call the meeting to a close. As I got into the car to drive back home, I casually glanced at my watch. And gasped in dismay. It was past six in the evening. Neel would have had given up on me. It was too late now to take him to the open ground where they flew the model airplanes. Neel had been looking forward to it all week. And now I had let him down. My heart sank. How was I to face those big, brown reproachful eyes? How was I going to make up for the loss of a Grampa Sunday?
Then an idea struck me. I swung my car around, walked into the nearest department store. Within minutes I was on my way home. The temperature at home could have sent the hermits of the Himalayas into deeper penance. Gingerly I opened the door to Neel’s room. He sat on one corner of the bed, and gave me a reproachful sideways glance. Inwardly I thanked myself for my last-minute thinking. I would never have survived that look.
I went over and sat next to him. I knew this was not the time for an explanation. I simply said, “Sorry, Neel. You know the time we spend together is very important to me”. It was like the floodgates were waiting to open. He burst into tears. “But you promised to take me there… show me those model planes fly! I wanted to see those aeroplanes fly!”
My eyes welled up too. I quickly gave him the package, saying, ”You know what? There’s something better you and I can do today. Look what I have got for you. ”
Somewhat tentatively Neel opened the long rectangular gift-wrapped box, glancing at me in between, trying to gauge what was inside. When he opened he gasped. It was an aero-modelling kit of balsa wood, complete with a small motor. Quickly wiping his wet nose with his sleeve, Neel looked up at me and asked, “Can we make this… now?”
“Of course, we can”, I said, “it’s still Sunday, remember?”
We worked late into the night on our model. It was that of a World War II fighter-bomber. And as it took shape, even my heart raced with excitement. Neel was handing me little bits to glue together, running around with excitement from time to time, his hands spread wide like the wings of an airplane.
Neel agreed to go to sleep only after I made a secret promise to him. The next morning, we both rose early and went up to the terrace. There Neel took out his first model aircraft. Handing him the remote control I placed the little wooden plane at a distance. At the flick of the switch the motor whirred and the plane took off, tugging at the string that held it to the ground.
Looking at Neel’s face in the gentle light of the morning, my heartstrings got an even bigger tug. I may not have been much of a father, but by trying to be a conscientious grandfather, I had rediscovered my boyhood. Finally, I was flying as a grandparent.
I sighed inwardly. At sixty, I had retired from work. But not from life. I had always looked forward to a quality retired life. With my work having taken me far and wide, and reluctantly away from the family, when my own children were growing up, I had decided that spending time with the family would be a priority.
But work did not let me go so easily. As a member of the Board of Directors of three companies, retirement just meant that I didn’t have that corner office anymore. Meetings, seminars, conferences, award functions, still took up my time. Especially when all I wanted was time with the family. Especially the new generation.
Sometimes I wondered, was it because I was too busy when my own children were growing up? Did I lose out? Were they deprived? Then I realised that grandparents and grandchildren shared a special bond, and here I was experiencing one of those blessed relationships in life. I wasn’t going to think too deeply about it. I was just going to make the most of it.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, an article I had read began to ring true. It talked about how ‘Dads’ influenced children and their behaviour right up to adulthood. So what if his Dad was busy. I was a notch up: as a ‘grand’ Dad! I could still do my grandfatherly bit.
That’s how the ‘Grampa Sundays’ came to be. Every Sunday, Neel and I would plan a little ‘misshun’ on our own. It could be a visit to the museum, an hour at a distant park, the aquarium or simply a walk on the beach. It was just our special time together. Neel and me.
No bribes of ice-creams, special rewards of chocolates or promises of gifts from his parents could take Neel away from our little Sunday outings. On my part, I tried my best to plan something new every time.
A shuffling in the chairs brought me back to the meeting. It was decided to call the meeting to a close. As I got into the car to drive back home, I casually glanced at my watch. And gasped in dismay. It was past six in the evening. Neel would have had given up on me. It was too late now to take him to the open ground where they flew the model airplanes. Neel had been looking forward to it all week. And now I had let him down. My heart sank. How was I to face those big, brown reproachful eyes? How was I going to make up for the loss of a Grampa Sunday?
Then an idea struck me. I swung my car around, walked into the nearest department store. Within minutes I was on my way home. The temperature at home could have sent the hermits of the Himalayas into deeper penance. Gingerly I opened the door to Neel’s room. He sat on one corner of the bed, and gave me a reproachful sideways glance. Inwardly I thanked myself for my last-minute thinking. I would never have survived that look.
I went over and sat next to him. I knew this was not the time for an explanation. I simply said, “Sorry, Neel. You know the time we spend together is very important to me”. It was like the floodgates were waiting to open. He burst into tears. “But you promised to take me there… show me those model planes fly! I wanted to see those aeroplanes fly!”
My eyes welled up too. I quickly gave him the package, saying, ”You know what? There’s something better you and I can do today. Look what I have got for you. ”
Somewhat tentatively Neel opened the long rectangular gift-wrapped box, glancing at me in between, trying to gauge what was inside. When he opened he gasped. It was an aero-modelling kit of balsa wood, complete with a small motor. Quickly wiping his wet nose with his sleeve, Neel looked up at me and asked, “Can we make this… now?”
“Of course, we can”, I said, “it’s still Sunday, remember?”
We worked late into the night on our model. It was that of a World War II fighter-bomber. And as it took shape, even my heart raced with excitement. Neel was handing me little bits to glue together, running around with excitement from time to time, his hands spread wide like the wings of an airplane.
Neel agreed to go to sleep only after I made a secret promise to him. The next morning, we both rose early and went up to the terrace. There Neel took out his first model aircraft. Handing him the remote control I placed the little wooden plane at a distance. At the flick of the switch the motor whirred and the plane took off, tugging at the string that held it to the ground.
Looking at Neel’s face in the gentle light of the morning, my heartstrings got an even bigger tug. I may not have been much of a father, but by trying to be a conscientious grandfather, I had rediscovered my boyhood. Finally, I was flying as a grandparent.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Remembering Uncle Sam
The movie hall darkens. As the screen flickers to life and the images begin to fade in, a strange craving overcomes me. No, it overpowers me.
“Uncle Sam?” I hiss.
A crackling bag is handed over to me. I feel the warm stuff inside the bag. I’m satisfied and now I can settle down to watch the movie.
Somewhere I had read that there were certain associations can actually help one remember. Here was one simple example: movies made me ‘remember’ samosas! For me, a movie loses its flavour without the accompaniment of hot ‘theatre’ samosas. It’s nothing new. It’s something I’ve always associated with watching films, in the theatre in my younger days, and now even at home.
So much so that way back in our childhood, samosas got shortened to ‘Sams’ and then became a cryptic ‘Uncle Sam’. In other words, no movie was complete without ‘Uncle Sam’. That hot delicious savoury once almost set a theatre on fire, figuratively speaking.
I was all of eleven at that time.
My brother, fourteen, was a teenager who was at the stage when brothers did not want to have much to do with a ‘kid sisters.’ Home from his boarding school for the holidays, we were having our share of quibbles and fights. The film, ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’ had just been released a week ago and I kept pestering my mother to take me to see it. Bogged down with guests in the house, my mother hit upon an idea. She delegated the entertainment portfolio to my brother.
“Me?!!!”
My brother was indignant. “Take her for a movie?!!!” He looked at me like I was something amphibious that had crept out of stagnant water. I opened my mouth to protest, but one stern look from my mother and I realised that silence was golden at that point in time. I turned and left the room, glowering.
Several moments later, I realised Mom had won the case. The die was cast. My brother, resigned to his fate, came out with his nostrils flaring. I was thrilled. I put my pride aside. For me what was most important was going to the movie.
But not that easily.
I was bombarded with a volley of instructions.
“You will not walk next to me. Walk behind me like you don’t know me.”
“Just keep an eye on me, if you miss the bus stop, I’m not responsible”
“And don’t talk to me in the bus.”
“Get off when I get off”
“And don’t talk to me, at all, ok?”
I promised without flinching. The desire to see the movie was so great. And so we were off the very next day. I was excited. He was still sulking. He strode ahead, hands in his pockets, thinking deeply about why God made kid sisters. I scampered happily behind him, determined to keep my promise not to talk to him right through the outing.
At the theatre, I waited patiently while he bought the tickets, and then we went in, sort of, together. Ushered into our seats I settled down to watch the movie. And then it happened. Those associations. Those memories. And an overwhelming craving. Forgetting all the promises made to him, I blurted out, “Uncle Sam?”
His look to me could have set, not just me, but the rest of the theatre on fire. He glared. He hissed. And then he spat fire. But knowing he could not do anything, he harrumphed and then stood up and went out. Five minutes later, a hot pack was thrust into my lap with another look that now sent me to the bottom of the evolutionary cycle. But the smell of the samosas wafted up and I smiled and settled to watch the movie. Any promise could be broken for ‘Uncle Sam’.
As we got older, we remembered that incident and laughed. Especially every time we ate samosas.
Years later, I was visiting him in the United States. On the second day after my arrival, my brother came home from work and handed me a packet smiling.
Looking inside, I saw a Blockbuster home video of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’
And a dozen samosas.
“Welcome to Uncle Sam”, said my brother smiling.
(c) All rights reserved. Vaishakhi Bharucha
“Uncle Sam?” I hiss.
A crackling bag is handed over to me. I feel the warm stuff inside the bag. I’m satisfied and now I can settle down to watch the movie.
Somewhere I had read that there were certain associations can actually help one remember. Here was one simple example: movies made me ‘remember’ samosas! For me, a movie loses its flavour without the accompaniment of hot ‘theatre’ samosas. It’s nothing new. It’s something I’ve always associated with watching films, in the theatre in my younger days, and now even at home.
So much so that way back in our childhood, samosas got shortened to ‘Sams’ and then became a cryptic ‘Uncle Sam’. In other words, no movie was complete without ‘Uncle Sam’. That hot delicious savoury once almost set a theatre on fire, figuratively speaking.
I was all of eleven at that time.
My brother, fourteen, was a teenager who was at the stage when brothers did not want to have much to do with a ‘kid sisters.’ Home from his boarding school for the holidays, we were having our share of quibbles and fights. The film, ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’ had just been released a week ago and I kept pestering my mother to take me to see it. Bogged down with guests in the house, my mother hit upon an idea. She delegated the entertainment portfolio to my brother.
“Me?!!!”
My brother was indignant. “Take her for a movie?!!!” He looked at me like I was something amphibious that had crept out of stagnant water. I opened my mouth to protest, but one stern look from my mother and I realised that silence was golden at that point in time. I turned and left the room, glowering.
Several moments later, I realised Mom had won the case. The die was cast. My brother, resigned to his fate, came out with his nostrils flaring. I was thrilled. I put my pride aside. For me what was most important was going to the movie.
But not that easily.
I was bombarded with a volley of instructions.
“You will not walk next to me. Walk behind me like you don’t know me.”
“Just keep an eye on me, if you miss the bus stop, I’m not responsible”
“And don’t talk to me in the bus.”
“Get off when I get off”
“And don’t talk to me, at all, ok?”
I promised without flinching. The desire to see the movie was so great. And so we were off the very next day. I was excited. He was still sulking. He strode ahead, hands in his pockets, thinking deeply about why God made kid sisters. I scampered happily behind him, determined to keep my promise not to talk to him right through the outing.
At the theatre, I waited patiently while he bought the tickets, and then we went in, sort of, together. Ushered into our seats I settled down to watch the movie. And then it happened. Those associations. Those memories. And an overwhelming craving. Forgetting all the promises made to him, I blurted out, “Uncle Sam?”
His look to me could have set, not just me, but the rest of the theatre on fire. He glared. He hissed. And then he spat fire. But knowing he could not do anything, he harrumphed and then stood up and went out. Five minutes later, a hot pack was thrust into my lap with another look that now sent me to the bottom of the evolutionary cycle. But the smell of the samosas wafted up and I smiled and settled to watch the movie. Any promise could be broken for ‘Uncle Sam’.
As we got older, we remembered that incident and laughed. Especially every time we ate samosas.
Years later, I was visiting him in the United States. On the second day after my arrival, my brother came home from work and handed me a packet smiling.
Looking inside, I saw a Blockbuster home video of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’
And a dozen samosas.
“Welcome to Uncle Sam”, said my brother smiling.
(c) All rights reserved. Vaishakhi Bharucha
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A love for bubbles
“But what will you take for her?” Nitin asked me.
He seemed almost as anxious as I was on this occasion. Okay, so that’s what friends were for… but right now he was not helping me at all.
What would I take for her? The instant answer was “Myself” but I thought it was safer not to say anything. Nitin was the earnest type and he would not like me making light of the situation. The situation? My planning to propose to Richa. Big momentous occasion on the cards. All planned by the small guy.
Did I say ‘small’? I didn’t feel that small. I felt like I owned the world. After all, Richa was almost mine, so to speak. And who wouldn’t be happy with a girl like that. She was everything I wanted in someone I was willing to spend the rest of my life with. She was fun, witty, charming and the best part was she understood me.
Well, over the last couple of months, I too was faintly beginning to understand her. Nitin’s verdict of Richa being a “good girl” notwithstanding, I knew there were many times when I could have torn my gelled hair in despair trying to figure out what was it she wanted to say when she clammed up and said, “Nothing”.
There were times when all she wanted to do was tell me about her day. Which was fine as long as she did not ask me about mine. I mean work was work, what else did one say about it? Then there was a time when she picked up a bottle of bubble liquid from a man selling balloons on the road. “Grow up”, I told her laughing, yet somewhat embarrassed. People on the streets were staring at us, though they were all smiling indulgently at her. “Why should I?” was her quick rejoinder. I had, as usual, no answer to that as a bubble settled on my nose.
But over time, I think I can understand her. No, maybe I understand myself better. I know for a fact that we are definitely different. And understanding that itself is a big step. I know that I need to lend her a listening ear time and again. She simply just wants to be heard. And I have told her that I really do not need to share every office issue with her.
I know that when she gives me space to have my night out with the boys, she is expecting that one-minute phone call to say that I still think of her. Easier said than done when you are in the middle of a heated football discussion, but I can do it now.
“So what are you going to get her” Nitin interjected into my thoughts. “Do you know what I suggest?”
I smiled. I didn’t want to know.
This momentous occasion would be ours. Richa’s and mine. I was going to propose to her. The setting would be perfect. And I was going to take a bottle of bubble liquid for her.
(c) All rights reserved. Vaishakhi Bharucha
He seemed almost as anxious as I was on this occasion. Okay, so that’s what friends were for… but right now he was not helping me at all.
What would I take for her? The instant answer was “Myself” but I thought it was safer not to say anything. Nitin was the earnest type and he would not like me making light of the situation. The situation? My planning to propose to Richa. Big momentous occasion on the cards. All planned by the small guy.
Did I say ‘small’? I didn’t feel that small. I felt like I owned the world. After all, Richa was almost mine, so to speak. And who wouldn’t be happy with a girl like that. She was everything I wanted in someone I was willing to spend the rest of my life with. She was fun, witty, charming and the best part was she understood me.
Well, over the last couple of months, I too was faintly beginning to understand her. Nitin’s verdict of Richa being a “good girl” notwithstanding, I knew there were many times when I could have torn my gelled hair in despair trying to figure out what was it she wanted to say when she clammed up and said, “Nothing”.
There were times when all she wanted to do was tell me about her day. Which was fine as long as she did not ask me about mine. I mean work was work, what else did one say about it? Then there was a time when she picked up a bottle of bubble liquid from a man selling balloons on the road. “Grow up”, I told her laughing, yet somewhat embarrassed. People on the streets were staring at us, though they were all smiling indulgently at her. “Why should I?” was her quick rejoinder. I had, as usual, no answer to that as a bubble settled on my nose.
But over time, I think I can understand her. No, maybe I understand myself better. I know for a fact that we are definitely different. And understanding that itself is a big step. I know that I need to lend her a listening ear time and again. She simply just wants to be heard. And I have told her that I really do not need to share every office issue with her.
I know that when she gives me space to have my night out with the boys, she is expecting that one-minute phone call to say that I still think of her. Easier said than done when you are in the middle of a heated football discussion, but I can do it now.
“So what are you going to get her” Nitin interjected into my thoughts. “Do you know what I suggest?”
I smiled. I didn’t want to know.
This momentous occasion would be ours. Richa’s and mine. I was going to propose to her. The setting would be perfect. And I was going to take a bottle of bubble liquid for her.
(c) All rights reserved. Vaishakhi Bharucha
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Happy List
The doorbell rang. Two short buzzes, followed by a gentle knock. I smiled. This had to be Mrs Nair, my neighbour. We had this little code between us so that you could open the door on an 'as you are’ basis. Considering that we were two single women, each of us living alone, it worked out best for us.
While I had moved out of the comfort of home and hearth in the North to strike out on my own in Mumbai, Mrs. Nair’s solitude was not chosen by her. Her two children had grown and migrated abroad and about two years ago she had lost her husband. Although desolate for a few months, Mrs. Nair soon began to adjust to her new single status. Part of a reading club and several other senior citizen’s associations, she kept herself in good spirits, soon becoming the one person everyone turned to for help. Me included.
They say, God gives us relatives but we choose our friends. I’d go a step further. I think God even decides who our neighbours will be. Heaven knows, the Almighty was in a generous mood, when He deemed that I move next to Mrs Nair. A day after I moved in, the doorbell rang. Tripping over cartons and bundles of mattresses, with my hair full of cobwebs I opened the door expecting the carpenter. Outside stood a small, frail woman in a silk saree, holding a bowl covered with a napkin.
“Mrs. Nair”, she said smiling warmly, “I am your neighbour. I just made some hot idlis and sambar. I thought since you had just moved in you mustn’t have had time to cook.”
The rich smell of South Indian sambar wafted into my nostrils, and to me that small dark lady seemed to suddenly grow wings behind her back. That was the beginning of our relationship, strongly based on a variety of South Indian ‘tiffin’. With the aroma of upma and idlis, our relationship grew stronger. We came to depend on each other for a variety of small and big things. My Saturday morning breakfast was with Mrs. Nair. She’d thoughtfully allow me to sleep in late then ring the doorbell: two short buzzes, followed by a gentle knock. Then she would quickly step in with freshly prepared breakfast, whiz into my kitchen, take out the plates and lay the table. My part of the deal was to get the coffee maker on. She loved the filter coffee that my coffee maker made. To me it was the laziest way of making good coffee. She thought every South Indian family should have one, and give away the traditional decoction utensils.
I really admired Mrs. Nair. Although she was my mother’s generation, and a retired school principal, she was amazingly modern in her outlook. I felt that we shared a bond more as friends than neighbours, and never did the age gap seem to come in our way.
Then one Saturday morning, the doorbell did not ring. I got up at about 10:30 realising that it was way beyond Mrs. Nair’s time. Alarmed I rushed next door. She opened the door tentatively. Her eyes were swollen like she had been crying. “NairAuntie!” I exclaimed, “What happened?”
“You remember the doctor’s appointment I had?”
I could have kicked myself. I had known she was going during the week. But the weekdays had flown by so fast, it had just completely slipped my mind. Now my heart sank.
“What did the doctor say?”
She broke down now. Between sobs I heard the dreaded word. “Cancer.”
I put my arms around her. That was all I could do at the moment. Then regaining my composure, I straightened up. It seemed the right time to take charge.”NairAuntie, what’s for breakfast?”Quickly wiping her tears with the end of her saree, she looked embarrassed, “Dear, I haven’t made anything today. I just could not think straight!”
“Fine then,” I said, “today we’ll have a lavish breakfast of burnt toast, butter and your favourite brand of coffee.”
Over coffee, Mrs Nair told me that she had noticed a small lump in her breast a couple of weeks ago. Thinking it would go away she had ignored it. But later decided to go to her family doctor, who had immediately asked her to undergo some tests.
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” I asked indignantly. But she just shook her head. “You have so much to do, and you are so busy with your work.”
I sighed. For once, I wished I had not been working and had been by her side when the cruel diagnosis was disclosed to her.
“Ok… what’s next”, I asked.
Step by step, I went through the next few procedures that were required. A biopsy, more reports and maybe surgery. Chemotherapy, radiotherapy. The best part was that the doctor said that the prognosis was good.
“But,” she exclaimed, shaking her head in confusion, “there’s so much to find out and whenever I go to the doctor, I forget everything that I wanted to ask him.”
“List” I said absently.
“What?” asked Mrs. Nair, puzzled. Somewhere at the back of my mind was this article I had read about cancer and how to cope with the diagnosis. One of the things suggested in that was to go to every doctor visit with a list of queries one might have. “Everything you want to ask the doctor, goes into a list. That way you don’t forget anything and you make the most of your time with the doc.”
Over the next few weeks, I made it a point to come home from office and check on Mrs Nair. And her list. She seemed to be doing well. Our Saturday breakfast sessions were restored. But over a couple of weeks, I saw a change in Mrs Nair. She seemed to be sinking into a depression.
I set up internet chats on my computer so that she could speak to her children more often. We started going for an odd movie together. And sometimes our breakfast would extend to a lunch or an evening snack together. But nothing seemed to help. I often wondered, what made her happy. What could I do to cheer her up?
“A happy list” I said, one Saturday morning over a plate of kancheepuram idlis.
“Happy list?” Mrs Nair had been very successful with her lists on her doctor’s visits. “Yes, yes” I said, snapping my fingers, thrilled with my idea. “That’s just what you need, a list of all the things that make you happy. Let’s start right away”.
Mrs. Nair gave me a bemused look. Every day, Mrs. Nair was to pick one item from the happy list and do it. I would help wherever I could. The idea caught on. By next Saturday, the list was a page long. Chatting with her children, going to the reading club meets, even the movies we went for together found their way on the list.
Saturday morning. The bell rang. I opened the door. Mrs. Nair walked in with a mischievous smile on her face. On a pretty silver tray was the most lavish South Indian breakfast I had had in ages. On top of the lace napkin was an envelope with my name on it.
I looked at it. As Mrs. Nair watched, I tentatively opened the envelope. Inside was just one sheet of paper. Titled, “the Happy List”
The entire list of twenty items consisted of just one thing: a cryptic, ‘Saturday morning’.
(c) Vaishakhi Bharucha June 2009
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