Beautiful Creations - Forgotten Creators

The Song

I was returning to Aurangabad city from Verul in Maharashtra, India. It was a break from work at Mumbai and had decided to take a random trip this long weekend; random because the destination was not planned till we hit the road. The driver put on some music. An unfamiliar voice and song came about through the music system …Clear strident notes, wonderful voice quality and superlative music. It was Hindi film music but had never heard it earlier. In the close confines of the car with the twilight casting all objects outside in soft focus, the music enveloped me. “Bheegi Hui Koi Shaam Ho” simply pure, the music soared, the energy in the voice building up the song and I was lost in the wonderful composition. “Whose music is this?” I asked the driver, Sir its mine sir, he had misunderstood my question completely. “Arrey No, who has made it?” I repeated my question a bit differently. “Sunidhi Chauhan is the singer and the film Chameli” said he proud in his knowledge. It was a movie that had clearly not been a commercial success despite a great brouhaha about the top film star Kareena Kapoor doing a serious film. “Nahi…no no… What I meant was who is the music director; the composer?” “Pata nahi saab” said he…”but music solid hai and I play it often”. It was a truly glorious track. “Do you have the CD jacket?” I pressed on. He shook his head “No jacket sir, only have this common plastic box for all my CD’s here.” I had no chance then of knowing the name of the person who had created the soul stirring song that had me perking up.

The Movies

On Reaching the Hotel, I freshened up. Having nothing much to do outside I decided to have a relaxed evening by myself. Ordered an early dinner up and started flipping through the cable channels. The movie ‘Gumnaam’ was on. A body had been discovered and the background music conveyed the tense moment. This movie was adapted from Agatha Christie’s famous book “Ten Little Niggers”. The book later got rechristened, when saying niggers became politically incorrect, to “And then there were none“. I had seen this movie earlier but enjoyed it yet again. The room service waiter saw me engrossed in the film and remarked, ”Lovely movie, Mehmood has acted real well”. I nodded and asked him, “who has directed Gumnaam?”. “Who knows Sir?” he shrugged. Gumnaam has been a rock solid hit and a total entertainer right from the day it has been released. I flipped a channel and “Chalti ka naam gaadi” was playing; a comedy riot and again one of the most well known movies in the Indian cinema scene. I again asked the waiter, “How about this film, who has made this one?” This time he was more confident and said “Kishore Kumar, Ashok Kumar and Anup Kumar. The three brothers together have made this film.” “They are the lead actors certainly, but are you positive they directed this film?” By this time he looked at me queerly, as if I was from some distant planet. I did not look like a quiz show host but was shooting questions about in a similar fashion. He then retorted that next you would ask me ‘Who painted the wall frescoes of Ajanta? Or who built the Kailasa Temple at Verul? And you would even tell me that the Taj Mahal was not made by Shah Jahan, Right?” And I laughed out loud and said “Exactly right.” “Kya saab subah se koi milaa nahi kya?” I tipped him, enjoyed the movie and finished my meal. My post dinner Chai was served out in the verandah where I sat in the wicker sofa chair looking into the night and lit up a cigarette.

The moot point

The question that had been hazily forming in my mind was clear. Music, Film making, Wall fresco painting, Architectural construction are all intensely collaborative art forms. However for them to cohesively come together and create something that is magical it demanded one mind to be at the helm. The one person with the overview and knowledge of getting it done exactly the way it should be, the person who conceptualizes it first in the mind before she/he gathers all of the pieces and starts the physical process of creation. In all of the above instances that I had coincidently touched upon, in the talks with my driver and the room service staff, every one of them was familiar with the work. Not one of them knew the maker. The work shone bright, luminous and had achieved popularity to become immortal, but the actual creators had receded into the oblivion or remained in the background.

Who does one credit, the Patron or the Artist?

Art and Entertainment are curious forms of creation. There are also certain forms like Architecture and Building science which reach the level of the artistic. Some better, bigger or more prolific than the others, lasting centuries. But all of them take shape only in civilized societies. It is only a fully evolved society or civilization that produces and propagates fine art. Often though the work of art has been attributed to the patron. Case in point are Shah Jahan and the Taj Mahal at Agra and Rajaraja Chola I and the Brihadeeswara Temple at Tanjore; The largest complete granite temple anywhere in the world. This was built in the 11^th Century AD, nearly 600 years prior to the Taj Mahal. But neither of these kings actually drew a plan, mounted a stone or carved a design. Ustad Ahmad Lahuri, Makramat Khan and Abdul Karim Maumar Khan who were the conceivers of the Taj in the form that we see today are forgotten except by the chroniclers. Similar is the state of the Vishwakarma builders who made the Brihadeeswara temple possible. Time and history adds layers and layers of dust and the lore gathers force while the creator fades behind the curtain of time.

No one knows who actually built the Kailasa Temple. All we know is that it was built during the time of the Rashtrakutas in the 8^th century AD 300 years before the Brihadeeswara Temple. This temple is unique because it is actually hewn out of a single basalt rock and has taken 120 years to build. That is nearly 10 generations of craftsmen would have worked on this one monument. Without going too deep into the historical significance, it is the creative scope that is awe inspiring. How can an idea of an architectural design survive for 120 years and whose was the mind that conceived it in the first place? But that’s a discussion for some other day. It is yet another immortal work whose actual creator is not known.

It is the patron who creates the environment that is amiable to the process of creation. The patron may fund it or commission it too and should they not do this the artist may not have a platform or an environment to achieve his creation; in the above cases such sublime ones too that have lasted centuries.The Patron and the Artist , two individuals who needed to collide in a window of time, for artistic magnificence to happen.

The Creators

What began with the music of Chameli and its music director Sandesh Shandilya who created this fresh sound, moved on to Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi the movie. Do take note that this the movie is nearly 60 years old and an absolute cult comedy yet equally fresh and fun when viewed even today. But ask the same people who is the director and erroneously one of the Ganguly brothers or all three who acted in it would be given credit. Nobody remembers the prolific film maker Satyen Bose who was its director. Satyen who? Now this phenomenal talent has made upwards of 34 films in as many years in Cinema. Some of his works like Dosti, Jagriti, Raat aur Din , Jeevan Mrityu were smash hits, but none like the one movie he made in 1958 “Chalti Ka Naam Gadi.” Same is the Case of "Gumnaam", one of the tautest thrillers ever made in Hindi Cinema. This movie is a perfect blend of being a complete entertainer yet a classy thriller for its amazing screenplay , story idea, the casting, the performances and the music. This movie is right on top of most watched movies ever in the video circuit but even today very few would be able to name Raja Navathe - the director. Nawathe was the assistant director to Raj Kapoor in making the RK Classics Aag, Awara and Barsaat. The seven films which he later directed were all popular films and commercial successes. Let me put them in perspective and you will know what I am talking about. Aah starring Raj Kapoor & Nargis, Basant Bahar & Sohni Mahiwal with Nimmi and Bharat Bhushan, Gumnaam and Patthar ke Sanam both starring Mehmood and Manoj Kumar, Bhai Bhai with Sunil Dutt and Manchali with Sanjeev Kumar. The work is famous its creator isn’t.

Schools of thought

In ancient eastern civilizations of India,China & Japan art and architecture flourished. Who doesn’t know about the ceramic pottery of the Han, Tan and the Ming dynasties? The metal working skills of the ancient Japanese are particularly well regarded in fashioning swords and blades; The Katana’s and the Samurai swords or the polished metal mirrors. The Buddhist and Hindu art forms have their roots in the Guru-Shishya tradition. The school of the master would be known and its style would have a demand. The maker was not important as long as he/she maintained the very high standards of the school. This was the ethos from which an Artiste from the east operated. Pride in the work but not in self. Those who practiced it achieved immortality through their work.The work spoke for itself and artistes were richly rewarded if their art found patronage or languished on the path to penury without it.

The western society which has its roots in the Greco Roman civilization took pride in the self. Not that the artists were any less talented but very few of them as persons remained hidden behind their work. A classical example is the Sistine chapel that had the greatest of the renaissance painters like Michelangelo, Raphael, Botticelli and Bernini coming together. The patron Pope Julius II is comparatively much lesser known for the chapel than these masters. Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and her enigmatic smile even now leads to speculation not so much about the muse as much as the multi talented painter who created it. The enigmatic sculpture “The Thinker” is not complete till we say “Rodin’s Thinker”. The name stamp of the artist is equally strong as his work is magnificent.

And then there is Fame for Fames sake

In the material world of today modesty has ceased to remain a virtue. It doesn’t ring the cash register. The speed at which the world moves today has everyone scrambling for their “fifteen minutes of spotlight” as Andy Warhol had very aptly said. This hurry, impatience and wantonness tends to sometimes divert the attention from the actual product delivery and its quality in the art that they practice. The work by these people may even achieve quick popularity but also is forgotten just as quickly.This is exemplified in a Marathi language music reality show that is extremely popular and aired on TV called Sa Re Ga Ma Pa. Season across Season the bulk of songs that have been sung by the contestants have all been from an era that is even early for their parents. How does this happen? These works are timeless because they were perfected. One hears of music directors of yore taking months to record a song. RD Burman gave 36 versions of the music to Nasir Husain before the director was satisfied for Teesri Manzil. With technology time has certainly been crunched but imagine the quality of the work if the same team records 40 songs in one day. Kumar Sanu is credited with this dubious record, am positive he himself would not be able to recall all the 40 songs that he sung on that fateful day. If he himself cant then how will I?

Then there are the cases of those individuals who are simply famous for being famous. No one really knows or worse cares what these people actually do. Leading this pack today is Rakhi Sawant, the current flavor of the season (ala Paris Hilton minus her billions and good looks).Open a page 3 of any newspaper and we see some faces there time and again, the usual suspects. Now reflect on the actual activities or work done by them, those that stare at us from these pages and go figure their reason for being famous.

Some stray thoughts as I sat out looking into the Aurangabad night. Rakhi Sawant or Sandesh Shandilya, Paris Hilton or Satyen Bose & Raja Nawathe…the two antipodes on the compass of the bitch goddess of fame.

Hopscotch

It was the phone call that started it all. He was on his way to Harvard on a company sponsored Executive Management Program; a condensed rigorous schedule chalked out only for the very best senior executives of an organization being groomed for the top position. As he deplaned at JFK International airport, New York, the cell phone buzzed. It was Murali Kanetkar his personal assistant. The words still echoed in his ear even today “The Board has selected TSR “.

He had seen it coming for a while now but never imagined that it would be announced in his absence. It seemed as if they wanted him out of the country for an extended period when they did this. He went through the entire Business Management Program in a numb state of mind. It was a KO punch that would have downed any normal person in his position but he was made of sterner stuff. Yet it hurt and badly at that. For twenty five years he had given himself to the company growing its business, creating & grooming great teams and it had eluded him now; the top job. Playing the system had been sheer guts ball; his rise was meteoric in parts, steady in the others with a few setbacks too, quite normal to an executive’s career graph. Hit hard, he had decided then to roll with the punch and go with the flow. But things had only gone from bad to worse after that call. Individually he seemed secure but his position and the power with it had lost its sheen. It had coincided with the market downturn and opportunities outside petered out too. He had never once considered that as an option till then. But now with the situation coming to a head, completely against his grain, he had consciously broached out. It was eerie the manner in which every single moment of the last two years flashed across his mind in clear & distinct frames like an old choppy black and white film.

The light had turned red as his chauffeur halted the car. Aditya Buch, Sr. Executive Vice President of Energy Corp Limited just put his head back on the seat rest and stared out of the window, eyes unfocussed. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had triggered this memory.Today he had decided to wind up early at work and at 2.00pm started for home. The downturn affecting the company’s business and his vertical in particular was neither the first nor the severest one in his career & he was sure that ‘this too would pass’.

ECL was his first & only job from the time he was handpicked picked off the campus of IIT Bombay. He had opted to be in the sales function. Through sheer determination and hard work he had quickly scaled up the ranks. ECL was an off shoot of Cyrmed which had been a closely held company founded by a Parsee gentleman Kaizad Cyrusi. Cyrmed dealt with fabricated furniture used in medical facilities. The son in law of the founder- Farhan Engineer was instrumental in steering Cyrmed towards technology. Subsequently ECL was carved out as a separate company. ECL concentrated on being an equipment and solution provider to other Industries in the field of Energy. Ironically Engineer the first chairman was not an engineer by qualification at all but an economics graduate. But what he lacked for in technical knowledge he made it up with his quick-silver open minded approach, clear vision, superb business acumen and a unique ability to attract the best talent in the industry. He assembled together the finest young brains in technology and made them a part of his vision. It was an exciting place to work with precisely because of this very talent pool. Aditya had joined the company when its strength was some 350 people and a turnover of Rs.100 million.His only goal had been the top position for which he had chalked out a path and systematically gone about it; executing and achieving those periodic milestones in the climb upwards. The company too had grown in the interim period. ECL in the present day was a multi-divisional company with people strength of 2900 & a turnover of Rs. 19 billion. The vertical under Aditya alone had a top line of Rs.12 billion and 1500 people.

Where had the years gone by ? Why did he feel a faint sense of unease and distress today?

He sighed deeply and as his thoughts lost the intense concentration the world outside the car window swam back into focus. He found himself in the suburb of Bhuleshwar. He wondered why the chauffeur, Joseph, had chosen this path today. It didn’t bother him much though as Joseph knew they were going home. Home was Bandra, further north from Colaba where the office was located. It was not his style to interfere once he had spelt out his expectation. His team loved him precisely for this trait, never once would he vacillate over a decision and once conveyed would give the team total freedom of execution. Nearer the timeline would come a brief review check and unless asked for he would hold his opinion. His feedback was always fair, firm and encouraging even if things may not have been exactly in line with what he had earlier spelt. He allowed people to make their own mistakes and learn from them. He was a superlative man motivator & consistently got more delivered because of this ability; coupled with the fact that he took his people along with him as he rose had created a fair amount of bankable goodwill. Now if one has to achieve speedy progress then some toes are bound to be stepped upon, some games would be played. He had done them all. As he looked out he zoned in on the trigger of these thoughts.

In an open compound adjoining the spot where the car stood, were four children playing, three girls and a boy all between ten & twelve years of age. It was hopscotch. He smiled widely to himself and looked on. Hopscotch is a simple game yet absorbing in its execution. All one needs to play it are a piece of chalk and a small flat rock or tile. One draws the course of 9 squares in a cross formation, tosses the slate in one of the squares and hops into the squares. The square with the tile is avoided while the foot has to be clearly inside the square. When the foot falls on a line then the player is out and has to concede her/his turn to another player. The beginner is allowed to look below and jump but as one progresses in the skill she/he should not. There lay the skill and the precision of the hop. Each being a commitment to a path forward till the top of the course is reached. Then one hops around comes to the square holding the tile, bends while on one leg, picks it up and completes the return, hopping all the time.

He had played it as a boy in Junagadh district, Gujarat where he hailed from. They were Nagar Brahmins’ by caste and a very close knit family. He being the apple of his grandmother’s eye was encouraged the most. When he won at Hopscotch against his sisters, he would get a paisa coin from her as a reward. He was allowed to spend it on himself though he never did. Even later as his education and career took him away from Junagadh to Bombay, this practice never varied or stopped. She rewarded and celebrated each one of his successes. He too looked forward to visiting her year on year just to see the glow in her wrinkled cheeks and shiny eyes as she dipped her hand below the pillow and fished out her velvet pouch. The joy and anticipation had remained just the same between them. The paisa had grown to four annas over time and he treasured them as much as his promotions, increments or bonuses which would have boggled the mind of the lady had she known the values. He clutched each coin fiercely like a hard won medal and kept them in a walnut engraved box at home. They came from a person who encouraged him and believed in him much before anyone even knew of his existence let alone potential. She had passed away a decade back and the playing kids rekindled that memory. He missed her for her simple homilies, the sage advice and her innate native wisdom. She had been his first & original mentor. She had played a role in his understanding of people &motivation for performance.

All things being constant the more one plays a game the expertise goes up till there comes a time when one can even play blindfolded. He knew now that he had never actually stopped playing; only now which each step ahead the squares had progressively become smaller and one day it would be his foot on the line. It had fallen two years back. Outside the girls yelled with joy as the boy faulted the line. Disappointed the boy stepped back & awaited his turn to play again.

The Engineer family had encouraged Aditya’s progress in his early days and he had grown close to them. He was on a song then and his rise was spectacular. He rose to command the outpost in the Western region with a record performance at a very young age. His efforts going forward were now keenly watched by his rivals. They waited for him with an obstacle at every turn. Most he had nimbly jumped over, some he had anticipated and diffused but off late he had stumbled a few times. The next business he headed was a startup, a new thrust area for the group. Things had not worked out for the business, as well as he had envisaged, both in the receptiveness of the market or the team he had to settle for. Limited capital constrained him to look within the group for a team. Those he chose were senior experienced hands. Startups as a thumb rule though work best with young people. Youth is energy and this energy when channelized by one head on top works wonders. This precedent was overlooked by him. Startups also require a fair seeding time. While the business idea had merit and they did manage a few business orders they had faltered. He had begun operations in a comfort zone of his relationships; both with the choice of clients and his choice of the team. This became his undoing and he had vowed not to adopt the same kind of approach ever ahead. He wound up this division and then moved back to the group.

The CEO, Rajiv Deshpande was an old school, old economy veteran and an autocrat in his style of operations. He had replaced Aditya’s mentor who had to leave when the economy turned & the groups fortunes fluctuated. The bad weather CEO, RD tightened the reins, trimmed the costs, cut off fresh financing to all new ventures and denied extended timelines to new seeded ventures. One of the casualties had been Aditya’s new venture. But then as a loyal, skilled & market hardened resource, he was just too valuable to let go. He was weaned back and as compensation was given his old division to head. RD’s actions streamlined the company into fewer verticals and restored profitability. He had recalled another of his trusted people T S R Balakrishnan from a company in the Middle East back into ECL to head its parallel division that concentrated on Environment. TSR was impeded by no historical performance metric for his division and the growth he achieved was phenomenal. This starkly contrasted with the performance of Aditya’s old economy division that was hit by the downturn. RD favored TSR to head the company after him and made no secret of it to the board. The family members who favored Aditya were left mute when performance in the recent past was brought on to the table.

Every successive day became a struggle. His peers & board who had supported his candidature receded into their shells. Most straddled a fence and preferred to keep mum.

Outside the traffic had not yielded even one bit, the light was still red and Joseph was drumming his fingers on the steering. In the rearview he could see his boss calmly watching the kids play their game. Joseph was a Tamilian and he too knew the game if only by its Tamil name - Paandi. The world around them was still, only the kids seemed to be perpetually in motion.

As the girls played Aditya could see that two of them deliberately cheated, and the boy, despite noticing this was quiet about it. He felt a queer empathy with the boy. The girls had denied him his rightful turn for a couple of rounds yet the boys expression didn’t change.

The thoughts flew back to the manner in which TSR after having taken charge had systematically scuttled his responsibilities and eroded the power centers. Aditya was still perceived as a threat to his chair. The attacks were oblique and never direct and it was a confrontation waiting to happen. Aditya had read Sun Tzu’s “Art of War” and was a follower. Without a fall back option he was not going to engage TSR. For this very reason he had activated his contacts outside. For over a couple of months now there had been an active discussion with a multinational giant. They were on the lookout for a person of his talents. They too had expressed interest and four rounds of informal meetings had happened. He had liked the people there, the role he was considered for and was awaiting their response. His team’s morale at ECL was at an all-time low, vitiated by the tension between him and TSR. Aditya’s still stance now worried his loyalists too. His patience had given way long back and with a startling clarity knew what TSR didn’t, that he “wanted it” no more. He would neither engage TSR in his futile attempts at one–upmanship nor retaliate in the same strain. His integrity would not be sacrificed at this stage of his career when their engagement would wreck the very business he had helped build over the past years.

The two girls finished their turn, the third one unfortunately stumbled and it was the boy’s turn to play again. Aditya could see the boy’s set jaw and the glint of steel his eye and knew this was it. The small kid’s determination brought about a surge of energy in Aditya too and he watched with fascination. With renewed vigor and grit the boy played. His movements were smooth and coordinated & he had wiped out the slate of his past error clean by opening up a new chapter in the play. The cars honking around them did not bother him. The girls were reduced to mere onlookers as the boy played with a calm competency. He actually felt sorry for the one who had stumbled. The cheats were only getting their just dues.

His cell buzzed. He was shaken up from his reverie. It was a similar ring that had him stare at a hellish two years, but the boys energy had suffused him with an optimism. “Hello, Aditya?” a faintly accented voice in English said, “Sven here, you are it, Congratulations, we shall talk later.” The blaring horns and vehicular sounds indicated the light had turned green. The choke in the road miraculously cleared. Aditya Buch, the new CEO of Bearings Inc felt the hum of the powerful engine as his car gathered traction. As it moved ahead he looked out & back, the boy was jumping in the air screaming "I won".

The Fine Art of the Non-Speak

I dropped Joanne at the Salon. She turned & very sweetly asked ‘Raghu, I hope you are not thinking of leaving me to get back all by myself, are you? The voice was dulcet but the eyes flashed a fire & "Yes" as an answer did not look like a wise option though the thought had crossed my mind. Guts-ball with a woman is not my idea of heroism. I merely shook my head and said "Never". This simple act fetched me a hug and a warm kiss, leading enough to promise more at an hour distant. My bachelor pad was where it could culminate. Hope too is a four letter word. The positive fact being that it was a "Ladies Only" salon and hence I was not expected to wait up inside. Whew, thank god for small mercies. Now to while away the time I started looking around.On the opposite side of the kerb we stood on was a street side bookstore and café and I made my way towards it.Browsing and Coffee sounded the perfect remedy for a long wait. I picked up a few magazines, ordered an espresso and settled in the bucket chair. My mind slowly drifted to the first time when I had gone shopping with Jo.

Let me bring you guys up to date. Joanne is my girlfriend of six months now and our lives are totally amorously entangled. It is a knotty situation but getting tied up and being unraveled is such a pleasure. Now this sojourn had begun on an academic platform at a conference in Goa. One thing led to another and what the grey cells started, the heart carried on and the hormones furthered the cause. It was Bio-Chemistry in its purest form and my faith in science strengthened. Now, we are together. But please let no one fool you that being the squire of a stunning and smart lady is a cakewalk. One periodically avails of rewarding moments that stretch long into the hours of the flying owls, however the days can be something else altogether. Here one has to develop common interests and learn to enjoy similar activities together like the most violent and avid of all feminine sports “SHOPPING”. Woe betides the man who displays impatience or too much mojo driven decisiveness. That may work splendidly in a boardroom but for a showroom these traits most certainly are a liability. One needs different skills here where one must communicate without actually committing, this is what I call "The Fine Art of the Non-Speak".

I recalled the instance of my first round as an inexperienced partner accompanying the lady on a Sari purchase expedition. This was for a formal occasion that she had to attend. Patience was then never my strongest point and when we entered the showroom it left me completely dazzled. The range and the depth of materials and types had me running scared. For someone whose apparel shopping was limited to Formal (solids, stripes, 42) or Informal (T-shirts with or without collar), Trousers (32’) or Denims (I only wear the conventional Levis blue) the whole exercise never lasts more than ten minutes. Eight of whom is taken up by the travel time between the rack and the billing counter. I doubled this factor and naively applied it with generous consideration to the lady sari shopper as I went alongwith Joanne.

Now let me describe Joanne to you. She is of the Christian faith ("And what do they know of Sari’s?" you could say. But she is also a Tamil and you can also say "what do they not know of Saris?"). She worked in the front office of a Luxury Hotel. Extremely presentable, this profession also made her a trained professional in the art of the drape; both as a buyer and as one who is adorning it. The first time my eyes fell on her packaged thus, I thought it was Christmas & Santa had come in early that year; So yummy did she look. I had felt like opening up my gift right then and there under the tree. What tree? Can’t you follow symbolisms? Ok that tall potted plant creating a muddy stain on the marble flooring in the reception corner, if you have to insist. Now what did you infer from the above rambling? One that Jo knew her sari, how to wear it well and look delicious in it. But the experienced readers would have read between the lines. They would have seen that this made the whole experience more complicated. In hunting analogy this made Jo a hungry predator; the kind who patiently sorts out the small game from the big game. Casing the prey and lying in wait endlessly to swoop in only when all specifications of taste are met or when competition lurks on the horizon. And I knew none of this then as I innocently went with her.

The showroom operatives welcomed madam and completely overlooked me. Then they offered us wide sofa chairs to sit, no one at the trouser counter has ever done this to me ever. Then they asked Jo what would she prefer "Teee, Kaaapi or Koaldreenks?" Jo disdainfully asked for two cold drinks. Boy this was looking good and I had not even shopped here. Isn’t this wonderful, thought I to walk into a new Showroom every evening and drinking cold drinks, sample the conditioned air make a show of buying a Sari and walking out. Then I noticed the burly guards at the corner and banished the idea far away. A cold drink was too steep a risk to get the feel of those paddle hands. Men can be very naïve and I was clearly out of my depth.

I sat in the chair sipping on the cold drink in the cool atmosphere. As the salesman displaying white teeth constantly (why did he have to smile so much? I felt like giving him one punch such that just the front incisor is knocked out) asked her the preference of a fabric. Silk said Jo and he exclaimed with undisguised enthusiasm “Now Madam NOSE eggjactlee what she wants”. It certainly made me feel good that it would mean , my girl Jo, who knows what she wants will make her choice quicker. But was I on the mark? Clearer need never mean quicker as i would realize. Now which Silk madam? Calcutta, Pochampalli, Orissa, Paithani, Kanjeevaram, Art Silk, and he rattled off a dozen more types that had me blown. Jo vaguely said show me some first and let me decide. I looked at the watch and noticed 30 minutes had elapsed and we had not even begun.

He turned to an assistant and whispered something to him, he jumped up on the shelf and picked some ten odd saris and handed them over. Our man with an elaborate care and precision opened up one. Plain Pochampally, Jo vigorously shook her head at the opened sample. He opened another and again Jo shakes her head then a third and a fourth and a fifth, I like them all. But Jo is a tough customer and the salesman a veteran. The only amateur at the show is yours truly. "Show me something bright and good not such cheap useless stuff " and I was aghast at Jo. But the salesman was not offended and called his assistant and screamed "take this lot away and don’t you understand, Madam has a very good taste, bring on the better weaves." The boy repeated his exercise at another shelf and was back with another lot...this time a Kanjeevaram traditional weave…Single border...And a brilliant flash happened before my eyes as the rich fabric opened out. Jo looked at it for a long time, fingered it and said the weave is thin. Double weave madam look at some more and he showed another ..."Double weave, double border traditional design…blouse material is in the weave". Jo seemed to have liked it and I heaved a sigh.

One hour had passed and the sofa chair was not feeling so comfortable any more.My posterior had identified where exactly the spring in the sofa cushion had bent. Realizing that I was fidgeting for the first time in an hour Jo looked at me and asked, "What do you think?" I picked up two and said "These are wonderful and you would look dishy in either of them. Select fast and let’s go, do I give you a coin to make the choice?" My smile froze in its place when I saw her expression. It was so cold that I felt like I was swimming in the tundra region in just my knickers. "You want me to buy this…this?"…she hissed. The salesman seeing a fight swept them all away and screamed at his assistant, "Ennada Swami…At once get the new lot which has come in yesterday. Not unpacked? Go unpack it for madam. She is distinctly unhappy with what you are showing her." Jo turned to the Sari's & I smiled gratefully at him ; his eyes behind a fierce expression looked kindly. He had saved me from a calamity. "Don’t worry madam, best quality saris are coming now, even Saar will like it. Till then try this "patto" and see yourself in the mirror there." Jo draped one and he smiled again. Now I didn’t resent his smile any more and reversed my decision on his front incisor.

"Thambi, get one more drink for 'Saar' and another cold orange drink materialized before me. After three hours Jo had shortlisted seven saris. All this while I had been looking around and saw a few fellows like me faking interest in the sari selection activity. With two drinks under my belt in the cold ambience, I felt it coming. Desperately tried controlling it a bit but then when the back teeth started floating, had no choice and whispered in Jo's ear ,"Please ask the man to show me the way to the washroom”. She giggled as I was shown the way. While washing my hands, happened to look up in the mirror above the basin, two red rimmed eyes stared back at me. They mocked me openly "Aren’t you the same dope who has spent 3 hours shopping for a sari that has not been selected yet?" I nodded and meekly retired back to my sofa chair. I had planned on dozing off and taking a cat nap but Jo had other ideas. With each Sari shortlisted, she would drape it around her loosely, pose before the mirror , then turn back and enquire "What do u think?" Time had me wiser. I too would squint and look it up completely. Then slowly move the head from right to left and look at her studiously, saying nothing, poker faced. This was what she expected and I had to do it seven times before she shortlisted three and discarded the rest. "Raghu tell me honestly do I look better in the bottle green silk with the gold border, the grey blue with the maroon border or the black with gold?"

This time words were expected but I yet refrained. This proved to be a master stroke. She managed to discard the blue and we were down to two. Do I give her the coin again; an impish impulse almost spoilt it all. But she now decides to drape them both together and did a few more twirls and again cocked an eyebrow at me. This time I got up and from behind her looked in the mirror. She was anxiously looking back at me. Boy, I was getting good at this. Slowly I fingered the black around her shoulder and felt her skin through the sari. Then did the same to the green. The green and flaming gold was a terrific combination and I liked it but perversely told her that the black can be worn by her on many occasions than just this one function.It had a universal appeal. "Raghu, she said with an exasperated exclamation, "will you feel really bad if I take the green?" Indifferently I turned around. The salesman was now out of the picture and I found myself squarely in it. "Tell me na, please" and I turned back and critically looked at her and asked her to wear only the green. She happily did it and as I nodded, she squealed and told the man, "pack this up fast and do check that there are no loose threads or holes."

I looked at the clock; it was precisely 3 hours and 52 minutes since we had entered. As we walked out after having paid up at the counter she seemed happy. But I was totally drained. The strain was too much. Taking my arm she said "Raghu initially I thought you were very frivolous & I was mad at you, but then because you were here, we could take a decision on that green and so very quickly at that, no? You must accompany me every time I go shopping for a sari. It will save so much time". All I could do was wink as this shifted her attention away from my Adams apple that bobbed furiously; the only visible indication that I had completely choked.

The second cup of coffee was almost finished when I felt a tap on my shoulder that brought me back into the present. There she was before me now, styled, shampooed & looking very lovely. When she lifted one eyebrow in an enquiry; the art of the non-speak now came very naturally. Elaborately lifting the butter cookie accompanying the espresso, with one significant pointed look at Jo, chomped on it with eyes shut and said “Delicious”.

The Reunion

“Hey, how are you? What have you been doing all these years?” And similar queries in various forms swirled around him. He even heard a stray “Lovely Silk Sari…Kanjeevaram? No…Ritu Kumar came the frosty reply.” The tones, languages and accents differed though. Wading through with a smile and stretched lips the patience was wearing thin. From the cloth banner hanging over in the Shamiana, one would see that it was a reunion of the school alumni – batch of 1984. It was twenty five years to this day. He had been away for most of these years; twenty of them in fact with a single merchant shipping line, the last five of them as a Master or Captain. The passport looked less like a slim book and more like a Chinese fan now. But he had moved on , when the one question started popping up too often in his mind; Is that all there is to life, the sea and touching base at ports? It had been four years now that he was a landlubber again. He wrote freelance for newspapers & magazines but the big book had not happened yet.

Martin Faleiro…he had dropped the Captain a while ago, was yet to come to terms with non-sailors, let alone civilians and loud ones at that too. It was on such rare occasions that he missed his command with its action and stress. The babble of noise was reaching alarming proportions as people kept piling in & he felt like barking out an order. “Silence on the decks, one more peep out of your beaks and you shall be swabbing the toilets for the next week with no furlough when we shore up”. But then if wishes were horses…He settled in a corner with a drink watching them, a quiet middling tall figure with even features and mouth that didn’t easily smile now, though the steel in the eyes could turn to mischief in a moment.

He saw Chetan bustling about making everyone comfortable, settling them, re-introducing them around. Chetan Godse, an architect who practiced in the same area as their old school. He was the one who had put this act together, found everyone, contacted them, collected the contributions and booked the terrace of his club. Chetan was the very same with the wide smile, the easy laugh and pure charm. The frame was portly but comfortably so as it was during school, only the grey sideburns indicated age. Networking came naturally to him as he weaved in and out of the groups.

Martin had not been one of the early birds and the jig was completely on by the time he reached around 7.30pm. The Invite said with spouse/partner & not having one had ambled in by himself. Twenty five years of no contact had created a curious bonhomie in the crowd that was fascinating to observe.

He saw Jitesh Shah the class topper, the one who was naturally expected to do excellently well for himself. Wryly he smiled to himself, what an expectation to live with? Then he had envied Jitesh, but not anymore. Dr. Jitesh looked the part and his bearing seemed to convey some expectation. Did he actually expect the same kind of obeisance the school had paid him when he was the head boy and topper, Martin wondered? Jitesh was an accomplished ophthalmologist, an eye surgeon. But looking at Jitesh & his wife he could see that there was more to them than what met the eye. The pair in the last one hour had not spoken a word to each other. No sooner had they hit the party he had gone about searching for a drink. Topping a class and med school didn’t make him top at home by the sour look thrown at his back by the wife.

The loudest voice came from a corner that could only be Reuben. The pitch, tenor and volubility had not changed one bit and Martin cocked an ear. Reuben was cracking jokes the same way he did at a nineteen to a dozen speed and had his audience in splits. He always had the potential to be a superb entertainer and it was only recently on TV that his art had found full expression. Reuben was a star comedian. It was a reality show on TV that had made him famous. Out of the 28956 participants who had auditioned and the final 24 who got to be on the show, Reuben had stood in an impressive third. His face was well known now and by the news in circulation he had even signed a feature film. Little wonder that the ladies made a beeline to him to touch base with a celebrity.

Looking at them hanging on to his words, he recognized Sheena of the big heart ( read magnificent mammaries ) fame. Sheena was quite the heart throb of the school and Reuben then was not her only admirer. Then he had had to wait his turn for her attention. The few crumbs she threw his way. How truly had the tables turned with her hanging on to Reuben’s every word and he barely noticing her. Looking at Sheena and her animated face, Martin blamed the recession squarely; across the board all her assets had taken a beating. To her credit In these days of tummy tucks and silicone she had resisted the temptation and chosen to remain her natural self. Sensing a stare she looked at him and smiled. He nodded, her smile still had charm & he liked her for the way she looked, big, a little frayed at the edges but happy.

Something waddled in from the door; two huge shapes. They didn’t walk, they seemed to roll was his first impression. Only on a closer observation did he detect a tiny pair of trousers below one gargantuan belly. There was so much gold on them that he mistook them for a famous Hindi Film music composer’s family. It was Ranchhod Gupta or the Baniya. He was called a Baniya though he was a Kutchi. His father owned the grocers shop near the school. Baniya had not made to college but had graduated from his fathers shop to wholesale grain trading and made his pile. The colors’ on him & his wife had Martin almost reach for his aviator glasses. Such was the flash.

Looking around Baniya came and sat on the sofa beside him while his wife made a beeline to the food table. Baniya looked at him vaguely and smiled, Martin’s solitude was gone now. ‘Guptaji’ he said with a flourish and then Martin knew he was not recognized. He burst out.”Abbey Bhe…c..d Baniya… Gupatji kub se ho gaya re tu ?” Baniya had the grace to look sheepish and said “Martin…right? In all these years no one could swear with such a lovable fluency as you. Grain trading puts me with a lot of uneducated but smart and tough guys and it’s important to create an impression that’s why the Guptaji , Baniya explained. The eyes that twinkled behind the corpulence were Baniya’s. On finding out that he wrote for a living, Baniya was suitably impressed. He had to let go of his education when his father died unexpectedly at his shop and he had to step in. He said that he had done good for himsel and was happy. He got married early like they did in their community and the business grew, but still couldn’t speak or write English very well he said in a typically self depreciating manner that was charming. They talked a while then Baniya went along to meet the others.

He sat with his drink observing yet and lit a cigarette.

A lot of people looked at him with disapproval but the shamiana tent that they had put up was on the terrace of the club, it was not exactly indoors or public so he took a drag. One of the women whom he had not noticed earlier detached from a far fringe group and walked across to him. She was slim and superbly proportioned. Her hair flowing down well below her shoulders she wore a deep saffron colored chikan salwar kameez & looked extremely striking. “Hi Martin”she said & he was embarrassed as he could not place her. Her attractiveness made him cringe inwardly even more. "Can I have one too?" she asked. Even more surprised he fished out his pack and lit one for her. Inhaling deeply & blowing out the blue smoke she exclaimed, "gosh I needed that. All here seem to be prudes or afraid of their wives or vice versa". She laughingly exclaimed, "You still haven’t recognized me have you Martin?" Looking into her laughing eyes it came with a rush. He tentatively said "Miriam…is this you?" Miriam was the petite, slim girl who would sit in the class very quiet and contained. No wonder her approaching him had thrown him off track. Even in his wildest imagination he wouldn't have connected the shy quiet girl from school with this uniquely beautiful lady before him. She had excelled at Art then…yes it was Miriam and had she filled out well? Frankly appraising her, he said as god is my witness Miriam you certainly have changed. ‘Go on now, take a complete look and she twirled around herself and looking over her shoulder pertly asked, Is my ass too as good as my tits that you have been gawking at ?” Finishing her turn she giggled at his discomfiture and she punched his arm.

He choked on his smoke at being caught trying to take a peek at her swells. Well, he had not been very discreet after all. " I am an art designer at an Ad agency and was married briefly but didn’t work out. Thankfully I had not left my job then and continued with a renewed focus. Now I head the creative department there. I do read your articles Martin" and he blushed. "It’s just a job Miriam nothing special." "Still the same guy shying away huh?" said she stubbing the butt under her slipper. "Come let me re-introduce you around to some of the samples from then" and taking his hand she started to walk away. He stayed her a bit and urged her to go on ahead, He would rather be by himself a while more. "Ok" said she, "just don’t leave without a word with me Ok?" He nodded and lit another one. Wow, who would have thought the fine bone structured shy girl would become such a boldly sensual attractive woman as he watched her gently oscillating posterior. At that moment she turned with an impish smile, made a gun with her fingers and shot him. He grinned back.

He looked at the faces again and started sketching from a distant memory, seeing black in the hair that had streaked into grey and hair where some bald domes displayed none.The once firmness of bursting youth that had led to grooves on the faces, ridges of maturity due to the advanced body clocks. Lines added by responsibility, laughter and the weight of the world carried on the shoulders.Some carried it better than the others. Wonderingly he thought that a few of them had been his very close friends then. What had happened in between? Well he would know soon enough if he looked around and he did. Different educational interests, marriages and the social backgrounds had created walls around them all; that they were optimistically hoping to breach in one sudden evening of togetherness. Some retained the enthusiasm of youth as he watched these faces break into easy smiles and laughter. The party or get together was a living mass of people which like a psychedelically colored amoeba was morphing and re-morphing itself around familiar lines. Miriam from the middle of a crowd caught his eye and smiled as the party rearranged itself around a different design and color as people walked about. These lines had a timeliness that was predictable as people out of sheer habit in professions demanding networking did so furiously. Visiting cards were being hurriedly exchanged. Some like Jitesh despite spectacular achievements were sitting deeply staring into their drinks, families forgotten. He smiled and watched the interplay wondering as to how old was this bunch? He had touched forty so that made all of them in the same range give or take a year.

Did that make them old and over the hill? He certainly didn’t feel like an old fogey himself but some faces made him realize that the dreams and stars in them had died a long time ago. A striking majority seemed to be in a rat race and running furiously to stay in the same place. Luckily the navy job had made enough money to sustain him for some years. He bought a small place for myself in the suburbs and one farmhouse in distant Igatpuri, the rest of the money was parked in secure stocks, deposits and commercial paper and he was set to write. Then when even that started paying for itself, his life was complete. It made him happy. He still didn’t own a car primarily because at Igatpuri he got by on a bicycle. And now looking around it he felt was so much better for it. For some faces here, life and its possibilities seemed to have ended at their parking lots assigned and otherwise.

These thoughts were playing in his mind as he moved along to the dinner table. Chetan was standing here and as he picked up a plate, complimented him on bringing this scene about. Chetan said the whole act was fun but was pleased all the same at the compliment. The food was wonderful and he started filling up a plate as a chiding voice said behind him, "What a gentleman you are Martin, didn’t even ask me whether I had eaten? To find Miriam again at his elbow, quickly apologized & tried handing her his plate. This she refused and said pile it up and let’s go into that corner, We can eat from the same one.

As they ate and talked they shared details, filled in the gaps from the years gone by, about what each had been doing and became friends. Truly speaking, he had not known her in school. Talking to the opposite gender was not such an acceptable thing in those days amongst their peers. This coupled with his being naturally shy had never worked up the courage to approach one at Church or elsewhere. He found it easy dealing with women in professional situations rather than on a personal level. Was this why he was still single? Miriam unwittingly had torn down his reserve quite like the chicken from a leg she was chewing on with eyes half closed. She was so absorbed in this simple act, her whole being seemed to be in her mouth. He wonderingly watched her. She opened her eyes and they twinkled as she said "I do love food, don’t you?" and without waiting for his reply continued "Now Martin, we shall quietly finish the meal and you give me one more of your smokes. Then let’s say our goodbyes and I shall drop you to where you stay." He feebly protested but she asked him quietly "Have you your transport, Nope na? then in that case its settled I shall drop you. I will then even know where you stay & this time I would want us to be in touch, would you like that?" He warmed up to her frank approach and acquiesced to her.

After all wasn’t this the exact reason why they had gathered here? He thought, banishing all his earlier rather judgmental comments on people. All of them were here to reaffirm their places on the terra firma and in time. To be in touch with all the faces who knew each other before the trappings of life had pulled them away on their unique paths. For this one night everyone wanted to be back in the same class, sitting in the same places, looking at life ahead with the same sense of abandon. This he definitely noticed from the people lingering about at the venue reluctant to leave, to get onto vehicles that would take them into their individual wheel of life; where they pottered away creating something new, demolishing something old or simply just continue spinning it. Some chords had struck though and the party had been an absolute success. Though most relationships of old were at status quo, time and experience had mellowed people, some friendships had been renewed, & like in his case new ones with some promise had been formed.

He conveyed his byes while a voice yelled “Goodnight everyone, See you soon all, Thanks Chetan, Great job” and softly to him “Come Martin lets go” and he looked into the smiling eyes of Miriam.

Crazy Little Thing Called Love

The raindrops hit my face and I rolled out my tongue to taste the first ones as we sped by. Clackety clack was the rhythm of the bogey as it went on the tracks. I was sharing the compartment with a hobo. He had everything that he ever seemed to have ever owned in just one small gunny bag and had the happiest smiles I had ever seen on a man’s face. A small battery operated radio seemed to be his most prized possession. Fiddling around with the knob on it he he hit a western station and as song was playing…I recognized the voice instantly.It was Freddy Mercury of the group Queen.The number "Crazy little thing called love"…oh boy I loved the throb in his voice and it took me back several years to the time when I lived there… in Bombay, Dadar, Parsee colony.Freddy and I were born in the same area. I remember the monsoon from there. Yes it had been a special time.

I am not supposed to like monsoons as a species, but I did. Simply loved it, when the drops came falling down hitting the parapets , ricocheting from the branches of trees or the bumpers of the luxury cars as I lay under them and then on to my fur. Monsoons in Bombay have been unpredictable but that year it was fun; Heavy showers but no flooding, the kind of season to enjoy. I loved this area of Parsee colony –Dadar, and here I would wander about freely for walks. It was my domain; specially marked by shooting a jet with a rear leg raised. A drop or two was enough to notify the tribe that this was my turf. Behave when you enter here with the right respect (tails tucked in neatly between your legs) or be prepared for the consequences. I was born in the compound of an Irani restaurant at the base of Tilak Bridge, Dadar, in a litter of eight, five brothers and three sisters. Three of us survived a year and the last year the BMC dog van accounted for my other two siblings. That year, the streets had made me smart, swift and strong.

My name? Now that is another story which marks the next level of my growth. I answer to Homi or Hormuz but this is not just because I am a Parsee or of the Zoroastrian faith. I am agnostic. No one owns me too, am my own master. It just so happened that the restaurant whose steps I use for my afternoon siesta was an Iranian restaurant; one of the last of the surviving few in Bombay. The canine DNA has "loyalty" as a very strong thread embedded in it. Loyalty to the place that offered me slumber. Also it was but a few steps from the place I was born, am sentimental that way. This restaurant like all Irani Restaurant Stores has an open counter and the owner was an old Irani. A fossil from an era long gone by wearing the trademark sadra kashti of the community. He used to sit on the counter. That day he was dozing and I was wide awake swatting flies with my tail. It was that kind of a lazy afternoon. There comes this boy seemingly well attired who didn’t enter the restaurant. He just put his hands near the counter and seeing the man dozing pocketed 3 packets of cigarettes of the imported variety. I loved the packaging and had played football with the empty packs very often as a puppy. People feel us canines can’t read but this one had 3 fives & State Express written on it. They cost around Rs.100 a pack. I hate thieves so what if they belong to the biped variety. Instinctively I barked and caught his leg and wouldn’t let go. The ruckus jerked the owner from his nap and he saw a youth struggling to be free of me. He would have swatted me too hadn’t I jerked the leg of the thief further. This knocked the packets from his pocket onto the road and the old man caught on. Seeing the missing packs from the counter lying on the road he jumped out, caught the thief and gave him a sound whacking. He retrieved the packs as the youth ran away. Then he looked at me from under the bushy eyebrows as I stood there staring back. Stepping closer , patting me on the head said you are like my Hormuz, Homi and yells “Rajuu” to his waiter. “Doodh lao” and he fed me milk and one large packet of Parle-G glucose biscuits. I ate hungrily. Then he tells me, good boy, sit here and guard my shop and at lunch times you shall be fed.Rajuu...isko khaana khilaaney ka... roj. I nodded like the bipeds do but they don’t understand that we comprehend their language ,gestures and mannerisms much better than they do ours, so wagged my tail for his benefit and he smiled. Softly he calls again Homi..Homeee…and that was my christening the moment I looked up to his call.

Now what’s the point of this tale, is it to just highlight that we are smarter than what most humans give us credit for? We are but that’s for us to know and you not to figure out. This is a love story. Hello, did you say LOVE STORY, yes you heard me right the first time. But then shouldn’t there be a love interest here? Well there is. I shall introduce you to mine. Her name was Coffee. When I first saw her she was so well groomed and proper that it took my breath away. When I passed by and raised the hind leg on the hydrant she turned her nose away. She is a Labrador slightly smaller of build than me but very lovely with milky coffee colored fur. The moment she turned up her nose coldly, she became CC to me…eh? Didn’t get it…Cold Coffee…you humans , we have to explain everything. My breed is not catalogued but have some German shepherd blood running in my veins along with some other fierce strains. This makes me a big and rather mean looking customer especially when my fur is raised and the tail is straight out. Not an ounce of fat is on me and I rule my turf with a stern authority that sometimes even surprises me. But then what was it about CC that got to me? Try as much as I could scratch behind my ear with my rear paw couldn't figure it out. So like i heard it said thought C'est La Vie.

By this time you guys are laughing your guts out on the whole idea of a rough n ready street dog like me falling for an apartment bred beautiful bitch? Well that’s the funny thing about love… its strikes as it did me without warning. Love exists even for us quadrupeds, how else did you imagine there are so many of us around? Think about it. Walking you, getting you to chase us, making you feel needed when even your own kind doesn’t look at you favorably as time goes by. We love and get loved in return but remember let us be. I don’t like collars never fancied them. For some of our kind maybe they get used to it as they don’t know anything different. But the bipeds don’t have the sense that when they keep us they should be keeping us in pairs like Noah did on his ark. Else the balance of this world would be off.

So here was CC and here was me on my street and she being walked by the biped whose name was on the apartment she stayed in. She was irritated that all she could do outside was to use the five gardens around here as a big loo. No privacy too. She did see and smell my sign on the path and occasionally looked back, quite like the movies…oh yeah I have seen some where the guy says “if she loves me ...she will turn and look back”. I yipped a greeting and she smiled. That was enough for me to gambol past her and introduce myself. I am not bashful when I know my soul mate.

There is a spot around this place the third garden where her master would let her free and we would run around talking and making plans. Though she envied my life wasn’t too keen to be a part of it and I was okay. Our kind doesn’t go about building homes and buying things. We simply savor the time when we find love and soak in it and so it was with us. I loved her smell and she kind of liked me too. For her the bridge was crossed when one street cur had tried to bark in on her. That was it, I had simply growled to see him slink away. Well I knew where she lived but it was the mornings and evenings that were ours truly, out in the gardens. Before the master could catch in on us it was the month after august…She kind of started smelling delicious...I knew something special was going to happen when she yelped a “Come September” at me and went behind the bushes. Oh I knew a lot of songs too but this became our special song. I would also sing to her from the Beatles and she specially liked my rendition of ‘ Love- Love me do” too. She didnt know how hard I practiced. These practice sessions had even opened closed windows at nights to open as the bipeds yelled at me. In my opinion from time immemorial true talent has always been treated shabbily; it gets shunted around till it gets special recognition from a discerning audience. She even tried to ape my Fredun Balsara strut from ‘Crazy Little thing called love’. We were Parsee colony dogs after all and as I mentioned earlier Freddie Mercury and his band Queen were practically locals and neighbors. Loyalty remember.

Was her master surprised in mid-November mid to have a Scorpio sun signed litter of six healthy ones? Each one of them frisky and yippy and boy did I scrounge out a huge chicken from the restaurant to celebrate. But then the travel bug hit me and I decided to see the world and went there once to say goodbye. She was sad but understood. She had her brood to take care of and an apartment to guard while the open world beckoned me. Having lived and grown in Bombay it was an acid test of survival cleared with flying colours . I could now live absolutely anywhere. These were the thoughts running through my mind as we shared a meal; my travel companion & I.

Trees went whipping by, as the wheels ate the distance with a rhythm. The raindrops kept falling on my head…as Queen on the radio went about the crazy song that reminded me of CC and a sweet September moment of love.

Circle of Life

T R Selvavinayagar Murugan aka “Binder Murugan” was not actually a binder. He worked as a second assistant to the binder in Saroja Printers, technically he was just a helper. Such was his exalted position in the social and employment ladder that the only living creatures below him in the pecking order were rodents. They too did not always listen to him till he hurled some stone or a binding ring at them. This was when they came too close & disturbed him while he worked. Murugan though deserves our respect, because unlike the thousands of wastrels in this city, he was yet employed and not on the dole. His magnificent earnings though barely kept his family of six that included wife, mother and three children in the rice-kuttu–sambar ( curry rice ) stakes. The income was supplemented by his wife who was a housemaid. Murugan had all the respectable vices of a man who lived in a slum. He smoked-chewed tobacco, drank the filthy liquor when he had coin in his pocket and occasionally even slapped his wife around just about once a fortnight. This made him a gentleman by the international slum standard and his wife loved him for it that he didn’t indulge too often. Didn’t she too on her part prove the love by bearing three children in their 30 months of married life?

The slum was a wide expanse of decrepit hutments with rivulets of grey green flowing. This was the Riviera that housed them and sixty five thousand others.

Today Murugan had received his salary and was making his way home. The pink lit sign of Vailankanni Country Bar beckoned him and the filled pocket urged him on. Just one, he thought to himself and then home. Parting the dirty blue curtain he entered. All the 33 crore gods in the Hindu mythology had smiled on Murugan as he beheld the sight of the person inside. It was Ranganatha Kounder or Rangu Saar. Rangu in the recently conducted assembly elections had won his seat from this slum by a wide majority. Rangu was Murugan’s hero and idol. Murugan worshipped him. One would be led to believe that Murugan thought It was daylight only because the sun rose out of Rangu Saar's rear crevice, such was the reverence . He, all his working life had just been a distant admirer of Rangu but today his "Thalaivar" ( divine being ) was within touching and speaking distance. Gathering up all his courage, he said to himself, it is now or never and shouted “Rangu Saar, today’s thaneer (hooch) is on me. Rangu looked at him with an evolved local politicians smile and genially came over. He was victorious and intended to keep his vote bank happy. “Not this hooch but if it is Old Monk I wont mind”. Murugan was in seventh heaven, One half “Old Monk” he shouted and soon a bottle appeared and more people joined in. The bonhomie carried on with Rangu slapping on his back and calling him my friend “Binderaaa”. Some one ordered boiled eggs while someone else ordered chicken. When Murugan left the bar there was hardly a coin in his pocket. He knew the wife would scream and chew his head out, but his heart was light. His hero had spoken to him and his social position had risen above the rodents. He had shaken hands with the great “Ranganatha Kounder, MLC”

Rangu in the meantime too had arrived home. He was not drunk as he had to take his wife out for dinner to Hotel Grand Central a luxury restaurant on the other side of the railway tracks. Rangu recalled his days in the slums where with single minded focus he had gathered his gang around him and turned them into respectable unions and co-operatives. Then with the vision of an alley cat politician, he had started regulating the collections in the area and managing the authorities for which he collected a fee. For problem solving in his neighborhood he earned gratitude and money both. He was on the way to becoming seriously rich. The wife wore silk saris and sported chunky gold jewellery. She preened around having latched on to the right man who fed, clothed her well and when the mood hit him also serviced her baser needs. He was a gale force wind without any finesse. She didn’t want to disturb its trajectory lest she be blown away. Rather better to allow the wind to soothe, cool and take her along. Rangu had now a serious following and money that were growing rapidly. But by “Karthikeya-the one who rode on peacocks" he exclaimed to himself, his heart too was set on what eluded him. He craved the company and acceptance of the higher social order. His money was yet not old enough and his tongue too rough to roll out the syllables of the language fluidly. They wouldn’t look at him let alone accept him as one of their own.

As he and his wife sat at their table in Grand Central and ordered their starters his gaze fell upon him. Mr. Sethuraaman Subramanian the austere tall figure of him in a stylish suit that only skilled fingers from Bond Street London can create , was partaking soup with his wife, the lady Lalitha. SS as he was known in his circle was a technocrat and a rupee billionaire many times over who operated several moneymaking conglomerates. His finer half Lolly gave great charity. SS was well known in the political and philanthropist circles and his words carried tremendous weight. He was quoted almost daily in the Economic Times and any association with him guaranteed instant acceptability and credibility. SS was Rangu’s hero and before him he balked. Today though flushed with the Old monk and his electoral victory, Rangu pushed back his chair and walked across to SS’s table. Standing by it, he reverentially spoke. SS politely looked up and saw a flashily dressed man, rose from his sofa chair, his high society manners refused to allow him to make a scene as Rangu spoke. Sir,I am Ranaganatha Kounder, MLC, Palaninagar colony constituency behind West-Mambalam. I have heard a lot of you and am your fan. I too have a lot of following in the area here and should you need anything done please don’t hesitate to call upon me. Here is my card and thrust his visiting card in SS’s hand. SS pocekted it and smiled which had Rangu swelling up like a toad who has swallowed three blue bottle flies whole. Extremely sorry for interrupting your dinner Sir and Lady, please carry on. SS smiled benignly and held out his hand which was taken with great alacrity. Mighty proud of having delivered this wonderful line without stuttering, he strutted back to his table and wife. Being acknowledged by the best of the society had given him a kick that not even his victory had. He had shaken hands with His Lordship, Shri Sethuraaman Subramanian.

SS was discussing with Lolly the latest charity that she had embarked upon as they finished their dinner and walked out to their car. The concern that SS had, was not in the money spent but in the well being of his fellowman. He conceptualized, visualized and executed grand plans that benefited thousands but he never ever personally got to meet a single beneficiary of his expertise or largesse. It was his wish to actually interact with the people who got them, such that they truly see him for the simple man he was. This particular project of Lolly involved the building of toilets for the slum dwellers. His car was riding through the area of Palaninagar slum. The air-conditioned large Mercedes Benz S-Class kept out the filthy stench of the area but could not blank out the sight of the mess where Lolly was planning to build toilets. The area by itself looked like one big toilet, unwashed since it was originally built. He was sure that this project would show these people here who he truly was, a man exactly like them. SS asked the driver to stop and got down. He saw a slim dark man standing by the side of the road smoking a beedi in an intoxicated haze. Walking across to him in his Bond street threads, side-stepping the few humanly made puddles, he stood in front of him and humbly said "I am Sethuraaman and am glad to know you". The man indifferently looked at SS and nodded.

SS held out his hand and the man not knowing what to do, swiped it on his not-so-clean-stained trouser behind and gripped it. SS got back into his car & asked the driver to move on. SS was in fine fettle as he looked in the mirror, he was happy, he had shaken the hands of a common man.

As the car glided away, the man he had shaken his hand with was crushing the beedi underfoot and fuzzily looking towards the slum wondering which direction was home. He was known in Palaninagar as T. R . Selvavinayagar Murugan aka “Binder Murugan”

The Pit Stop

The gull opened out its wings and glided into the sea breeze. The flight was as graceful as a swan and my eyes followed his flight completely fascinated. The wind ruffling my hair carried to the ears stray words of a song from a radio playing somewhere.

Der se leheron se kamal sambhale huey mun ka....

Jeevan taal me bhatak rahan re tera hansa....

O hansini, meri hansini, kahan ud chali....

Mere armanon ko, pankh lagaaakey, kahan ud chali...

Kishore Kumar, Zahreela Insaan, automatically the mind started processing the information. Is this a co-incidence or what… the flying bird, the song everything just fitted in? The wind died for a moment & the words bobbing on the ear tapered off. The bird too was now lost from sight. It’s a wonder how nature links up events and displays them for you. One only has to look with the eyes of the heart and mind. Both of whom always relaxed at this spot. I could see and feel better by just being here. There was a time in my life when one would find me sitting here, often. Offlate that had not happened. The spot though had not changed much and it still had the same effect on me. I looked on.

Some gulls were flying in pairs, skimming the waters and squawking loudly. They seemed like couples well into their marriages arguing and talking at the same time; almost human. There were human signs too. An endless stream of people were walking across to a monument right in the middle of the sea. From this distance the path used by them was not visible and they seemed to be walking on water. A smile tugged my lips as the gaze moved from across the sea & halted at the marble white monument. It was sitting right in the sea linked to the mainland by a thin rocky causeway. Those walking across, were devotees of the Saint (Pir) Haji Ali, the monument was the Dargah built and named for him. From here they looked like colorful ants crawling to a huge sugar mound. The mosque was sparkling white against the sky and horizon and did seem to be made up of white candy.

This monument is unique to Bombay (Mumbai now) and makes it a landmark to be preserved by the Archeological Society of India. I loved the sight and the spot where I sat now. It was not just the sea or the mosque or the signs of people and their faith but a seeming confluence of all spirits that converged at this spot. I had a curious sense of being very alive, every single time I sat here, like now, looking out facing the sea. The mosque was in my peripheral vision and was far enough to not have the huge crowd around me. It was the wrong side. When I turned the other way I could see the Annie Besant road and its traffic. Fast moving cars, interspaced with the crawling BEST buses and even some stray horse driven carriages and two wheelers zipping about. These were chased by enthusiastic mongrels on the road for some distance until they ran out of bark and breath. The manner in which these curs returned from their chase had the signs of victorious warriors coming home after a hard fought battle. For a while they sat with heaving chests and foamy lips and once the breathing returned to normal the yipping and chasing started again.

Beyond me in the shade on the same long winding promenade were the lovers. Not one pair but many, some couples clinched up in embraces so fierce that even the sea breeze wouldn’t pass through them; another sign of love and life. Nothing cooled their ardor, neither the stick wielding cops nor the unpredictable sea that in some moments of spite would lash out on the rocks and spray all with sparkling foam and brine. The sea reflected all the moods of those who passed by at different times of the day. The naughty saucy mood of the lovers in those mischievous splashes. To the passionate fervor of the devotees crossing in it’s bubbling. An icy calm and restlessness of the senior citizens who walked on the promenade with aids, to the friskiness of the urchins who jumped about playing on the rocks and jumping in to avoid the heat. The waves rose higher when the heavens split and couples fought , it was mystic how the sea sensed all the emotions around it and played them back, or was it the other way around? Had not quite figured that out yet.

From here have observed the sea in all its myriad moods from sunrise to sunset. This place has seen me over many moons, at times in company but largely alone. This was my space in this city, the one wherefrom I communed with the elements and restored my balance. It soothed and charged me up at the same time. Whether on my way to work or coming back from it, even the times when I simply passed it by, a sense of peaceful calm would settle over me. I have never been able to articulate exactly what the place meant. If one would still persist on an explanation then it was & is, a pit stop for refueling the soul just off the main track, a slight detour from destiny.