Scarce Resources

Thanks to the unremitting focus on the geophysical changes churning around us all the time, people are getting an avalanche of information as to what is getting depleted in the world.  What with the newspapers and TV channels screaming about Antartica-like situation in Kerala, Australia experiencing Saharan temperatures, lakes in Ooty freezing like the great lake of Chicago and the serious likelihood of 50C in Wales, people should be alarmed of dire consequences.  I am sure a huge majority of common folks, when asked what they thought are scarce resources at this point of time, would promptly respond with one of these - `oil', `forest cover', `water' and the like.  The more scientifically inclined would have probably bamboozled the common man by saying something like `Scandium', `Lathanum', `Serium'.  These are rare earth metals used in aerospace components, nuclear batteries etc, which most of us are blissfully and justifiably ignorant of.  What we don't know exists, cannot be scarce in our estimate, even if they really are certified as rare and scarce.  Against this background, let me explain what's happening around us in this context.

A few days back, a very hassled woman, who happens to be my dear wife, was sitting crestfallen, immersed in some thought, but seeming thoughtless.  She looked harassed and irritated and as a dutiful and concerned husband, I skirted well around her and went my way, without disturbing her or getting in the firing line.  Or so I thought.  I was the lonely, bulky target within a few metres, so she apparently could not ignore me and very wistfully asked  `What are we coming to! Life is a struggle nowadays'.  I certainly was not remotely guilty of dereliction of duty of any sort and had no knowledge of willfully causing any deprivation in her life. So, I was cautiously emboldened to ask her what her problem was, knowing fully well that this time the answer would not be a blunt `You'.  She said in a pained voice `You know I have been searching the whole locality with a sieve to find a good stay-in nurse for Amma and have drawn a blank from all known and unknown sources'?  She proceeded to detail her agonising and fruitless hunt and the travails and tribulations along the way.  The following day I discreetly asked a few of the ladies in the community some questions to find out that scarcity of water, oil, rare earths are nowhere in the vicinity of their thoughts.  The top seeded scarce resource was indeed a good maid of any description.

The second item that surfaced as scarce really surprised, nay, shocked me -- STP water, yes, Sewage Treatment Plant water for the lawns and backyard gardens.  It seems we were producing less STP water than earlier -- people are wasting less, how can that be?? -- and this quantity was not sufficient to take care of the needs of the 200 houses in our community.  Consequently, gardeners and some uncaring residents were using good water instead.  One wise, grey-haired man in the community even suggested that we should waste more water, so that this issue could be addressed forthwith! Personally, I do not see any scope for a solution to this conundrum, as usually is the case with many thorny issues which emerge, defying logic.

Our home environment, which used to be a bountiful orchard, abounds in coconut trees.  And obviously coconuts.  But, for some reason, those trained coconut-tree-climbers, who bring down the booty and also spruce up the trees, seem to have vanished into thin air as a breed.  Now, culling the coconuts is not matter of preference or an option because people are acutely aware of and averse to the dire consequence of some casualty due to a falling coconut or frond. Even if we are willing to pay whatever is demanded to get the coconuts down, there is no resource available.  Last heard, a resolution has been passed to get a monkey-trainer to visit us and train some in-house monkeys (am not referring to anyone specific, no offence, but real ones) to do the job.  Hopefully the trained monkeys will not migrate and will stay put.

A recent visit to my native village educated me in many ways.  One striking feature was that there were no young men around.  The average age of the village had climbed steadily to fifty plus, due to the tendency of youth (with or without education) to move out, in search of jobs, money, whatever.  So, young people are the scare resource in this context.  And my village is not an isolated case.  Some experts reckon that in a way this is preferable because in order for agriculture to be a viable industry, more people have to be taken out of it and more efficient mechanized systems have to be used.  They opine that this might even reduce farmer suicides eventually by spreading the income among lesser number of people.  I think we should reserve judgement on this and hold our breath to see if this exodus of youth from villages results in scarcity of food products for the rest of us ultimately - that would be an unmitigated disaster.  Hope not!

The other thing that was scarce in the village was water in the river to even take a decent dip, forget swim.  One heard that ankle-level water was the modern equivalent of a flood in the river and people generally take a bath, ironically, by scooping muddy water up in plastic mugs.  There is an offset, though.  A lot of sand there, but brings with it the ugly menace of the sand mafia! There is no scarcity of rogue elements waiting to indulge in relentless exploitation of all sorts.

Recently a few other things became scarce for known and unknown reasons.  Tomato was missing from the market because angry farmers, peeved with the low prices fetched by a bumper crop, crushed tons of them on the roads, using their tractors and feet.  Next few days, the prices magically climbed up, but that was obviously temporary.  But the scarcity of Cold Storages which can help keep the produce in good condition for longer is the primary problem.  This, combined with the paucity of any meaningful political and agrarian leadership means this cycle would never end.  Too many things scarce here for a single, collective solution to emerge in quick time.

If people are watching Indian sitcoms, regardless of the language, the one virulent presence that keeps them hooked on TV is that of the scheming, villainous women, whose objective is to make as many lives unhappy as they possibly can.  So, the scarce material here is the presence of a bunch of good, strong, happy women who can help spread joy and goodness around.  I see no chance because producers and directors would not risk it as no one will probably watch the sitcoms after that.

Two things I personally count as scarce are melody in current generation's film songs and a somewhat sane TV anchor who would conduct a half decent, logical debate on any subject on earth.  Again, the current situation, completely bereft of decency and some thought for the viewers, does not lend itself to any hope of betterment.  A friend of mine, during a phone call recently, lamented on the non-availability of goli-soda (soda in a bottle with a marble at its neck, which needs to be pushed down for the soda to flow).

With such dominant scarce materials in routine life, who can looking beyond, to the scenario of dearth of rare earths and such outlandish things!!  God bless us all.

Party People

A party can involve (a) a few friends (b) friends and family members (c) some colleagues and acquaintances (d) all those and plenty of strangers and so on, depending on the reason for the party.  For many, any excuse will do to stitch together a party, when whoever available just shows up and in many cases, it is a carefully manicured event with a proper list of invitees.  Some individuals frequently manage to have a party of one - a synonym for their solitary drinking binges, in an attempt to find their true selves, which are resolutely concealed from the world.

Let me confess I am far from being an avid party-man and am most comfortable when it is a small group of good friends and/or family members.  What I am distinctly uncomfortable with, are those parties in which the crowd is somewhat larger, but still compact enough to compel you brush your nose against some alien cheek from time to time. Invariably necessitating awkward conversations with complete strangers -- God bless them, I do realize the fault is not theirs, but entirely is an unavoidable consequence of my own DNA -- who happen to be on completely different wave-lengths.  Such tete-a-tetes usually don't stir up anything in you except a sense of frustrated wonderment as to `what the heck am I doing and for Pete's sake, why'!  And yet, as much as we want to avoid such banal encounters, they are just thrust upon you in each party and are par for the course.  Then, there are those jamborees, where you are a hapless misplaced speck, intentionally added by the host in the last minute, just so the number-objective can be achieved.  I scrupulously avoid these where no-one is going to miss you and you won't subsequently be called upon to provide even a stupid excuse for your absence (remember, you are a speck anyway).  However, these are the parties which have given me the required space and time to stay anonymous in a crowd, look around, make some objective assessments and pigeon-hole my fellow-party-men/women. Following are some types we meet and the nomenclatures may be read as gender-neutral.

(1) Spiderman.  Being hawk-eyed and ever vigilant, he is waiting to catch any unsuspecting individual walking by and eat his/her head off for the next twenty minutes, while craftily blocking all ways of escape.  Obviously only those will be caught who are not beware; those who know the individual, carefully avoid stepping into the danger web-zone.  If the catch is hoping to slide away after a strong show of reluctance to engage in conversation,  that doesn't help because lack of participation from the other end never shuts them up. Instead, they tend to talk for both!! Until the next victim is visible on the horizon, there is no respite for the current one.

(2) Superman.  He has done all that you have done and better, bigger and on a different level.  If you have trekked to the top of Nandi Hills, he has conquered Everest; if you have played league cricket in Madras, he has played for two different States in Ranji trophy (it does not matter that you cannot recollect anything about this, despite your continued interest in Ranji trophy cricket); if you have been to Galapagos, he has been on a expedition to Antarctica, all alone, such that no one else can vouch for him. So on.  Until his wife comes and steely-eyed, emits a monosyllabic, low-decibel bark at him and he tucks his tail where it should be and becomes the veritable supplicant that he actually is, completely domesticated in all respects.

(3) Arnab Goswamy/Navika Kumar.   These people have a firm opinion, not necessarily subject to debate, on everything under the sun and beyond.  They believe in shouting from the roof top what they think, without giving any body else any leeway to utter two words edge-ways, unless they have to catch their breath or are tired, which is seldom.  They use a lethal combination of loquaciousness and a loud delivery mechanism (read larynx power) to overpower the rest of humanity.  They come having done their homework in recent conversational and controversial topics and are well prepared to bludgeon others into submission with their untiring tirades and argumentativeness.  You wish you had a remote to switch them off!!

(4) Barman.  The objective of this tribe, usually in a small party, is very clear.  To serve one drink to somebody and have a balancing tipple themselves. People who efficiently and willingly take over the barman's role, relieving the host of an essential responsibility.  Not because they have some emotional attachment to the host, but more to the stuff they serve. This camouflage enables them to drink quietly while waiting for the next guest, without attracting serious attention to themselves.  This man would suggest very subtly to the hosts that they are better off letting him handle the job and focus on the guests.  If it is a party without alcohol, this job does not generate much interest and this type is conspicuously absent.

(5) Solitary Reaper. Definitely not what Wordsworth had in mind, because they can probably never sing to save their own souls. They are not interested in any type of conversation or people. Period.  Look carefully and you can identify all those traits of a hermit who has recently emerged from the cave, evicted under duress by compelling circumstances. They just sit quietly in some forsaken corner, watching the goings-on with a benign eye and concentrating on the snacks.  They have carefully nurtured this knack of giving the impression that they do not exist, what with their utter silence or when terribly coerced, single syllables muttered under their breath that go for responses.  Until some very close friend of forty years hops on for an  exchange for a couple of boring minutes and leaves, with both parties absolutely relieved and better off when the tryst ends.  The discomfiture caused by such unnerving interruptions is very quickly replaced in the individual by complete solace in solitude very swiftly.

(6) Flitter.  They come to parties only to hold their drinks and diligently circulate to all corners of the room, meeting every single person present, collecting business cards wherever possible.  No substantive conversation is necessary for them, principally because they are incapable of such a thing.  They want to tick off all the boxes and are intent on wider coverage than involved in pow-wows for long. More accent on quantity than on quality, if you dig that. Very doubtful if they recall too many new names or faces, two hours after they depart the scene. But when they are at it, it seems they put on a show as if they have known everyone for decades.  And when they leave, no one misses them either.

(7) Interviewer. Some people are insistent on gathering all the information -- personal, professional, whatever -- that they can elicit from those willing to fill in the details.  This includes your personal assets, where you met your spouse, whether your sons in USA are vegetarians still or they have strayed off into carnivore territory, what illnesses you have had in the past decade, which doctor you go to and what tablets you take. Even if you unambiguously express your reluctance to provide the information, they, leech-like, do not let you go until some scraps are sucked up, whether the data is real or cooked up.  I wonder what they do with that load of garbage. But, I shudder to think of the next chance-meeting at another party with such individuals, when they may may want to resume and reconfirm all that you said and ask for more!

(8)  Matchmaker.  Very well-intentioned and genuinely desirous of helping friends and relatives, who are generally in a distress mode because their offspring are refusing to walk into wedlock.  They are constantly on the look out for information which will facilitate matching up somebody's daughter with somebody's son. I understand in the last couple of years, the scope has expanded to include matching up sons and sons as well as daughters and daughters.  All is well that ends well.  So focused this type is in this pursuit that they eschew all other subjects and navigate conversation with single minded dedication in one direction all the time.  The world needs people like that and they are rendering exceptional social service, so power to them.

(9) Raconteur. There is always an eager crowd, gathered around these, hanging on to whatever is being said. They are the exceptional story-tellers and glean through their library before coming to a party, well endowed with anecdotes, jokes and stories.  Very entertaining and tend to laugh raucously at their own jokes.  But even they cannot avoid repetition and if you end up with them in multiple parties, it is better to avoid these.  Because though they are smashing with their wit, after a few parties, unfortunately you tend to hear the same stories which draw the biggest laughs and give the teller the highs. They cannot avoid that.  But others can.

(10) Multi-Party Animal. Not labelling them in any derogatory sense, but am wonder-struck as to how they can do four parties in one night, when some of us cannot even handle one in a fortnight.  This species come to parties, when almost everybody is done with gossip, drinks and food.  Just to make an appearance in all their finery, wave to a few people majestically, hug the hosts and leave saying they have to attend two or three more parties after midnight.  And most people remember these blokes only for those fleeting appearances they make when people are half-asleep. I have been tempted to follow some of them to see if they go straight back home and tuck themselves into bed, who knows! But, the idea behind attending parties this way is a mystery to me.

I am sure I have missed a few other party types.  Like the hard core foodies, who go only for the sustenance the parties provide and make a quick get-away as soon as their job is done.  I have a feeling this last type is the one which probably enjoys parties the most, regardless of the quality of company.

   

New York, New York - Part II !

The Central Park, that famous lung space in Manhattan, is obviously a place we walk to and from, every single trip, at least once. Make that multiple times, simply because our sons aver that is the best place to be on a summer day and my dear wife agrees with them as readily as she disagrees with me on any subject.  With its wide expanse of glistening, green, grassy spaces, a few large and small water bodies where miniature boats bobble up and down, it is a sheer spectacle any day and more so, if it is a sparkling, summer day.  You see scattered musicians playing their tunes and beats (a few pull you to them, the music tugging at your heart-strings and many tend to repel or scare you further away with their noise), all with their ubiquitous. inverted hats suitably positioned as collection boxes - not on the heads obviously. Hordes of bikers, strollers (with two legs as well as four wheels), dog-walkers and child-minders with their wards. (many holding leashes at one end, regardless of what is twitching at the other). Horse-drawn carriages on the park roads, filled with smug and smiling elders, shrieking youngsters, excited kids. Multiple soft-ball games in progress, with an assortment of men, women and kids scurrying around. And of course, a bunch of people, hooked to their Google Map, with the typical confused looks and furrowed foreheads, wondering where they are and whither they should proceed!! A walk around the park (we recommend you go farther inside from the 59th street to around 75th) provides one with good exercise, fresh air and free entertainment with multitude of actors, as explained above.

Having said that, we also like another park, the Bryant Park, which is starkly different and well, stark, period! This one occupies probably about 9 blocks near the 42nd street and 6th Avenue (very close to my heart not because it is near the Metropolitan Museum but because it is diagonally across the Bank of America building!!).  This park amazes us no end.  Strapped for space being located right in midtown Manhattan, it is tightly packed with drinking places, restaurants, coffee shops, ice cream parlours and the like.  Yoga routines involving avid but masochist groups who seem bent on twisting themselves permanently out of shape; old movies being shown to aficionados full of nostalgia and reminiscences in the central lawn, while youngsters gawk and wonder why would such slow movies appeal to anyone; book-reading sessions attended by new authors and newer, eclectic groups of readers on one side; tradesmen and employees using the chairs tables available for free as temporary mid-town offices to conduct business, some even converting them into short term living quarters - you get to see all these and more, making one wonder whether this park is a microcosm of Manhattan. Look, sets of people are playing chess on a few tables, head bent in intense concentration and so absorbed that none of the hubbub around them is a distraction.  We have seen players on either side changing after 15 minutes of an unfinished game, because guys have to go on with their jobs!! There are a few table tennis tables too and sometimes, shots get played by the next table guy, partners change all of a sudden because somebody moved a couple of feet more than customary and balls get trampled over all the time by crisscrossing pedestrians.  All part of a day's fun!  As usual, my dear wife frets hugely about participating in all the above activities at the same time and realizes, after enthusiastic efforts, that she cannot.  But she has the grace to accept that fact with equanimity and move on, just to try again next year!!

It has always been a mystery to us why that ferry ride to Staten Island is gratis!! That huge ferry is stuffed to the gills every single trip, either with commuters from the island or with tourists.  While the former tribe use the ferry to get to work/back and do other chores in Manhattan, the latter group does nothing more than go to Staten Island, take a U-turn and return post-haste by the next ferry, like veritable balls hitting a wall.  Sure, we know Staten Island is not Santorini, so tourists just take the ferry for a joy-ride, with a double bonus thrown in -- they get a chance to go right across the Statue of Liberty, twice and at a distance.  We would gladly pay and enjoy the ride because it is a pleasurable trip, with the salty wind caressing your face and ruffling  your hair. But if there is a levy, I wonder how many tourists will board the ferry for seeing pretty much nothing at the other end. Some fodder for Trump, since this seems to be benefiting visitors also, something that goes viciously against his grain!! Can we expect a tweet soon?? Talking of that, shouldn't Twitter call the post a Twit rather than a Tweet?  Would be more appropriate in all respects, right?

Another sight that perpetually mesmerizes us is that of the anglers along East river, lying comatose on benches most of the time, having set up their tackles in the fond hope of catching some fish or anything else, may be! We have walked through that space about a hundred times so far and have never seen any catch, unless you expand the scenario to include those jogging, running and cycling  catching their body parts when hurt during their exercise regimen.  I suspect the anglers know something we don't.  Fishing is for the absolutely patient, certainly,  but next time I intend checking if there is anything at all in East river to catch or all that is an elaborate sham set up to blissfully avoid an over-powering wife at home!!  Who knows, even the wife may be happier this way, considering the quality of her own catch!

During the walk from midtown to Williamsburg Bridge, along the East river, one can see some sophisticated forms of daily transport, unique to Manhattan.  Helicopters are used by those who can afford, as taxis, to travel from the city to their suburban homes or offices.  There are a couple of heli-stations (one near the 34th st/FDR highway) and the frequency of service is almost better than our typical bus services.  The pilots combat strong winds and land the helicopters so expertly in the small space available, when just a jerky movement forward by a some yards might crash the contraption against the flyover on the road!! And we just love walking across one which is in the process of taking off, generating high velocity wind which hits ones face, supplemented with generous spray from the sea.  Exhilarating feeling, I would say, despite the horrendous noise produced.  If we look a bit further, we see sea-planes landing and taking off in regular intervals, on what should be an imaginary, somewhat choppy run-way in the sea! Add the ferries, barges, boats and the occasional jet-skis -- you get what should be a chaotic mix, but everything seems to work in great unison, according to a well controlled procedure. The sky buzzes with activity here when you include all the regular commercial flights taking off/landing at the nearby airports and one can spend hours just watching this spectacle.

Our sons have spent a decade and more in USA, especially in New York and San Francisco.  Initially we wondered how one can eat out all the time, without ever cooking a meal at home.  Our elder one, with absolutely no penchant for the kitchen, has never once pretended that he would want to cook a meal.  We understood why, during our peripatetic missions there.  In something like a 8 square mile area in Manhattan, without exaggeration, one can fine cuisine from any country (may be Western Samoa, Nauru and Papua New Guinea exempted, that too only because we have not seen any board) and multiple providers at that. Add to that the superb convenience brought into play by the Online Ordering system (Seamless and the like) and one can eat meals for 3 months possibly, without ever repeating a restaurant.  If you have the appetite for that, given the variety and ease.  However, when we are there, our sons diligently come to our apartment every evening, eat the regular home cooked vegetarian Indian stuff, lick their plates and fingers clean and applaud the creator (of the meals, I mean).  So, when available, this desi stuff beats the hide off the `foreign' dishes, we concluded. 

Our favourite restaurants, this being not an exhaustive list, are Baby Bo Cantina  (2nd Ave/34th street) for Mexican,  Sigiri (1st Ave/5th Street) for Sri Lankan, Vezzo (Lex/33rd street) for probably the best thin crust pizza in the world (for normal crust, I would recommend going to Piece in Wicker Park, Chicago), Ruby's Cafe (3rd Ave/31st street) for casual, snack-meals, Jaiya Thai (3rd Ave/28th Street).   If you like something different, try Maoz's pita sandwiches (near Union Square) - be careful not to use too much of the sauce, lest your sandwich gets too soggy too soon and disintegrates outside your mouth!

Other things we look out for are Royce chocolates, Mochi ice cream, Gregory Coffee (we avoid Starbucks at all costs), Gelato at Eataly, french fries at the Belgian Beer Cafe.  Enough said, on food, I guess.  I seem to have gained a few pounds since I started this blog.

So, ambling along in Manhattan, unmindful of where you go and what you do, can be a significantly rewarding pastime in itself.  The biggest advantage in doing this in Manhattan is that even a dummy cannot lose his way, because of the way the layout is. We enjoy that and hope some of you would do too.  Yes, do pack in some Dolo 650, Tiger Balm etc; helps in times of vigorous protests by various creaking parts of the body.

New York, New York -Part I !

The crying need of the hour, as far as long distance travellers are concerned, should be the immediate introduction of seriously ultra-supersonic Concorde-like flights between continents.  Especially those which will cut down travel from India to USA to some 3-4 hours! The very thought is so exhilarating, even though the cost attached to that might be mind-blowingly prohibitive initially.  Like many urban Indian families, we have also despatched two young warriors to the financial minefield that is New York.  The youngsters continue to love the professional challenges there despite all the Trumped-up hurdles erected periodically in the context of visas and green cards.  This means, like many parents in the same situation, my dear wife and I are likely to make our annual pilgrimage for some more years and could gladly do with a massive reduction in the flying hours between India and USA.  The consequential damage caused by the current long flights, to the creaking bodies is two-fold.  One, the actual pain felt by the bones and muscles during the flight and in the immediate aftermath for a few days.  Two, that exotic trauma called jet-lag, which seems to impinge on existence with progressively worsening results as one ages.  Hence the fervent prayer for something akin to the Star-Trek type transporter to be made available pronto!! When someone suggests that we should take the non-stop from Bombay or Delhi, my body involuntarily shudders in response, thinking of 18 continuous hours in a plane.  More so, when it occurs to me that minimum 3 or 4 inedible meals will be served when even two are superfluous.

The immigration clearance has gotten faster and faster over the years and we now get out in thirty minutes flat.  That is providing for some chit-chat with the friendly officer who asks in his native twang, if we are carrying some `molaga podi, paruppu podi, murukku, mysurpak etc' (I swear, this is true).  These chaps have assimilated a lot of knowledge about India and Indians to the extent they can tell that anyone with the long surname is probably from the south; definitely so, if the names ends with `n'.   The prompt for that query about food items inevitably comes from the customs clearance form wherein the risk-averse part of me, especially so in a foreign land, has diligently declared `yes' for `food', valiantly overcoming hissing and nudging  protestations from the wife.  She prefers to ignore for this purpose,  routine stuff such as sambar powder, rasam powder and the rest of the start-up kit that contains tamarind, jeera, some dals etc or forgets that she has sneaked in some `real' food at the last minute, prior to locking the suitcases.  Who wants to get caught by the X-ray with some halwa or pakoda in the suitcase, to be shepherded as a criminal to a segregated area for a full search of the bags??  However nice and pleasant they try to be and are, they are still policemen, right?

Once we get through, the bags take their own sweet time arriving and if you were on an Airbus 380, you should resign to the idea of an hour or more before you retrieve your bags.  Entertainment is provided by a couple of police dogs, which sniff around, making unsuspecting people jump.  The dogs always seem to end up being disgusted with the smell of so many bodies that they seldom do anything noteworthy.  The 6 USD charge for a trolley grates more on your nerve than the machine grates on the credit card when inserted.  New York should emulate Switzerland in this respect, the latter widely advertising the availability of `free' carts (as many as you want) near the carousels. But, if visitors from Asia raise their voice against this atrocity,  Trump might hike the charge to USD100 just to ward off more Indians and partially compensate for trade deficit with China!!

The first thing that changes forthwith on landing is the mobile phone.  Out goes Airtel and in comes T-Mobile.  With that we seem to seamlessly shift to Uber from our chauffeur driven car in India.  Invariably the driver is a South Asian and this and his polite small talk tend to lull us into the false belief that we are in `home' environment,Trump or no Trump.  But then, after so many visits, the city does feel pretty much home for a few months and as we pass through one of the tunnels into the streets of Manhattan, we almost smell the place. Once we check into the by-now-familiar service apartment close to Grand Central, we are almost home.

The first week goes in fighting the acquired fatigue that is the awful by-product of jet-lag, while the pleasure of being with the sons for a few hours daily adequately dulls the pains and aches.  The primary objective during this period is to ensure one is at least half-awake during the boys' evening visits.  But strangely, this jet-lag malady seems to be terribly partial in afflicting me and has absolutely no effect of my dear wife, who behaves as if she got tele-ported in a jiffy.  It is as if God up there had assigned all such discomforts in the family to me while sparing her.  Some people are plain lucky, I say but she insists it is all karma!!

Half-awake or not, we have to accomplish some priority objectives shortly on arrival, in preparation for our two-month stay.  First is the trip to the Indian store, some 14 blocks away to fetch the basic grocery needed and this chore falls to yours truly, as the wife gets cracking on the kitchen in the apartment, asking for cooking vessels, cutlery, crockery etc that the service apartment normally sets aside for 10 apartments collectively.  By now they know her, so there is not even a whimper when the list is read out and the Housekeeping supervisor sweetly says to her that she had just put everything into a cardboard box and will haul it to the apartment.  And in her honour, they give her brand new utensils etc too.

The Sardarji at the Indian store does not seem to age at all -- must be the Indian spices he inhales through the day, especially turmeric.  He looks at me like a surprised frog, half under water, probably because I had gone missing for 8 months or so.  He obviously has difficulty remembering that we do not live in New York, despite that repeated explanation having been advanced every year and opens his mouth repeatedly like a fish gasping for breath while no sound emerges at all.  I presume it is a greeting only by the mustache and beard twitching simultaneously and the comforting absence of choice expletives.  He has his reasons for harbouring mixed feelings towards us; good business for two months but in the penultimate week, the wife starts returning a whole load of unopened packets bought earlier in excess, for exchange.  This causes immense agony to his soul and scalds his feelings.  He sputters even more than on the first day in anxiety and nervousness, but is yet to decline the barter; I have a foreboding that it is on the horizon somewhere. We tend to visit the store once in 2-3 days, to get fresh supplies and have not heard the stodgy Sardarji speak anything more than the total payable amount, apart from the routine `Sat Sri Akal, kya haal hai'?  A very cosy relationship!!

Our most favourite outdoor activity is to amble along the streets in different directions every day.  Normally if my wife points to Battery Park, I tend to gesture towards Central Park, and if her choice is to trundle along the East river, I prefer to go the Hudson-way. Of course, we finally reconcile amicably and democratically, without any external agent's interference and go to Battery Park or East river side, as she decides! We just flow with the crowd, but flowing is impossible if you are in the heavy duty tourist areas like Times Square, Empire State etc.  We do not really care as to where we are headed because each such trip is truly exploratory in essence.  One is just struck by the liveliness of the place, the abundant energy and diversity on display in every aspect of life.  Eminently fascinating pastime with very little effort, except the walk and we are certain to forget most other mundane things in life for the duration of the walk.  All kinds of people one cannot even guess the nationality of seem to converge and jostle along; it is a virtual tower of babel in terms of the languages spoken.  Such a melting pot that even when some immigrants speak English it takes a few iterations before you understand it is a familiar language that you should be able to comprehend!!  Invariably this sojourn ends with a visit to a supermarket, after my dear wife triumphantly sounds the bugle at some point, `Done 15000 steps for the day, enough'!

Her Fitbit must be creaking with all the walks it has monitored so far!  Even without that monitoring responsibility, I am, honestly.

(To be continued in Part II)










 

Ten Years Of Gully Cricket

About 10 years ago, my dear wife and I decided to shift to Bangalore from Bombay.  Our rationale was straightforward. Good climate during most of the year.  And equidistant from Madras (where my folks are congregated) and Mangalore (where she hails from).  But she had one distinct advantage in that many of her folks lived in Bangalore and I had none.  And between us, we had zero friends when we arrived bag and baggage.  Not one family.  All our other friends, strewn over India, tried to frighten us a bit by saying it would be so difficult to form friendships at our age, post 50! But then, we were veterans of so many moves in our lives, into various cities in different countries, where we found good friends  without fail.  So Bangalore should not pose a great problem; that was our repartee.  What made everything a breeze eventually was nothing but the game of Cricket.  Vista, the community into which we moved, had a fairly large cricket team, indulging in gully cricket every Sunday.  The moment I strolled across to the `ground', which is actually a T-junction within the community, surrounded by villas, a very warm welcome awaited me from some 15 co-residents who had assembled there. That was, until I said I wanted to play.  I would be prevaricating, if I did not mention the fact that my grey hair and build received a rather lukewarm reception and the doubts changed to outright disbelief when I mentioned that I have been a wicket-keeper all my life.  They took time to reluctantly hand over the gloves to me and many were very solicitous to ensure that I did not get hurt during my foolish escapade!  The rest, to use a cliche, is history.  My dear wife and I have some 50 families in our community, which we can call `close' and many of these relationships we owe to my initiation into gully cricket in Vista.

The name of the cricket club is Vista Breakfast and Cricket Club (VBCC) and the priority should be clear from that.  Mercifully, however, we do have a quick snack of assorted pastries, puffs and drinks AFTER the game, not before.  Having said that, we do organize a full fledged breakfast for members and their families a few times in a year and based on hard evidence, one can assert that on those breakfast days, the game gets terribly over-crowded!  The venue is a cul-de-sac with houses on all sides.  The only reason most of the residents of those houses do not complain is that they are all founders of the team and play regularly.  A couple of renters, who moved in later and resented the early morning noise and balls smashing into glass windows etc were coerced to join as players or cajoled into letting things be.  The game has never stopped!

First time one plays, one finds it tough to reconcile the physical age of the participants (the eldest being yours truly at 67 and younger ones are in thirties and forties, except for the occasional presence of some genuine youngsters) and the general behaviour on the field.  At the positive end, what contributes to this is primarily the zest, spirit, competitiveness and intensity involved in the game.  On the other side, pretty frequently people indulge in deportment that immature school children may find embarrassing.  Actually, when a couple of youngsters, about 16, stopped coming to play for a few weeks, I asked them why and the answer was very truthful and hilarious simultaneously. `Uncle, you guys sledge, talk and fight more than you play; we don't like that'.  Touche!!  Pretty much the truth, that.  But then, the players are not likely to change anything because the intended agenda includes just not cricket and breakfast, but also some serious sledging and genuine school-day fun.  If there is some meddling with the various components of the game, a lot of the lustre will be lost and things might degenerate to being mundane.

The process begins with a group WhatsApp message on Saturday from the ever-ebullient organizer, asking for commitment to play on Sunday.  If less than 10 commit, the game is off. Six fielders, aside from bowler and wicket keeper, are good enough because we have a plethora of trees, parked cars and frequent intruders in transit who get hit once in a while, who can all add to fielding muscle.  We need 5 per side minimum, even assuming everyone fields for both innings and the umpire is conveniently done away with, so that the room for fights and acrimony during the game increases multi-fold.    Even otherwise, the poor umpire who is from the batting side, is usually the last person to give any decision, after polling all those who have a say and generally the majority rules, seldom what is probably right.  Out of some respect for the oldest player who is keeping wickets, sometimes the decision is left to him only because no one else has seen even that little necessary to start a fracas.  And the most sensible course of action for him obviously is to say `I am not sure', so that others continue to indulge in verbal assaults after a short pause, while he gets to retain that modicum of respect that surfaces occasionally on the field.  There have been occasional successful attempts to cause grievous bodily injury to the wicket keeper, unmindful of his age. These were accomplished by batsmen over-zealously trying to cut a ball (which was too close and absolutely uncuttable), well after it had passed the wickets and then some distance, intruding into the territory usually occupied by the face of the wicket keeper. One more reason the old guy judicially maintains neutrality when a referred appeal involves some normally friendly chap who may decide suddenly to taste blood for no overtly explicable reason!

Team selection is managed mostly by one individual, well yes, ONE. One, who wants to captain at least one side, if not both, even though he pretends to be satisfied with being just a member of one team. And he selects the team in way that enhances his chances of leading both; pliable chaps are  selected as captains to ensure this happens. All done in good fun, without any ulterior motive. Then this individual manipulates the bowling changes, batting order, field placements, who umpires etc for both sides, but is careful to ask his own captain where he himself should field, or when he should bat or bowl.  Just to be seen as a good soldier.

There are a few, very passionate Commissioners involved (you see, we may be chaotic but in a very structured set-up), who drive the rules etc, if necessary, on the fly.  What they decide better be accepted even if the majority is utterly unconvinced, because otherwise you have on hand, a couple of sulking and disinterested individuals, who were excited and very involved till the rule discussion disrupted the game.  Even if  these blokes are away for a month, we text them and ask for approval to amend the rule or just do the change for the duration of their absence and noiselessly slide back to status-quo-ante when they resume.

Sniping or sledging happens all the time and same-side sledging is a defining characteristic of VBCC. Actually between two balls, the umpire and the other players wait for someone to start and finish the sledge before resuming.  As a matter of fact, the umpire starts the sledging quite often. If the game takes about 2 hours for 12 overs a side, 1.5 hours are for the actual play, the rest dedicated to traffic interruptions and sledging/fighting.  This is pretty much the standard schedule and nobody worries about time being wasted, unless he is being sledged too much or he has no repartee to spare.

Serious fights break out, all verbal, seldom physical (being an optimist, I am not saying`never') but thankfully they never leave scars on the those indulging in verbal pyrotechnics, who are all neighbours, occupying the next or opposite house inside the community. But on the field, it looks like all hell has broken out and until the intensity of the fight subsides some members who are left as dumb spectators, just loll around on the lawns, watching the unseemly skirmish unravelling fast. After the game, all is forgotten and everyone joins in the aforesaid snack and tea regimen.  All is well.  I have a feeling that our gully cricket has survived and flourished over the past decade, primarily because of the implicit understanding that after the game or at least after a few days, all should be well.

No lbw, so one can stop straight balls impudently with legs; searing words might be directed at you and even faster balls at your legs.  The physical scars heal and there is no mental trauma in the first place!  No leg umpire, so it is a free for all when it is a stumping or run out at the striker's end.  Whoever is more voluble wins and either the bunch of fielders close to the wicket or the batting team are left miffed for a few more overs.  The straight umpire, as mentioned earlier, is the last person to be involved in most dismissals, with everyone else having a firm opinion and the umpire not even allowed to get in edgeways. There are rules regarding half-out (when a shot hits a prescribed wall directly and most of the time the word `directly' creates massive confusion due to interpretation), on deflection of a shot when some tree branch or something else gets in the way (not even the Commissioners are clear about this one, we get as ad-hoc as possible in this with imaginary measurements of the angle of deflection being brought in frequently) and runs to be granted if the ball gets into a bush or under a car (bush, car and all other terms are subject to liberal and outlandish interpretations).  These are the rules which cause a lot of dissension, rampant verbal assaults, eminent heartburn, but none of us wants the rules to be taken out because the character of our Sunday cricket will be irretrievably lost with that!!

Post game chai and snacks are of utmost importance.  This is the time when wounds are licked and healed; apologies, if any, are tendered half-heartedly and accepted enthusiastically (driving home the point once more vociferously) and technicalities not accepted on the field are conceded and positions reconciled.  Hence the collective pride in the name and penchant for the breakfast part.

Disclaimer: No offence to any one, please.  But if many are offended, I might write a sequel, with detailed delineation of characters in VBCC.  And, please leave that poor, old wicket keeper alone!

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Agony Of Applying For Visas

When was the last time you applied for a tourist visa for Schengen area?  Asking because you should never mistakenly assume you are a master of the process and everything will be a breeze. The simple fact is that each country issuing the Schengen visa deliberately designs its procedure to be slightly different.  Just to pep up the rather dull activity, apparently and inserts its own quirky requirements. And to boot, the process itself is constantly evolving across the board.  I believe they do that just to drive home the point that anything in life without ongoing evolution lacks fizz.  They may be right. Recall the tumultuous feelings and trepidation you have, as you wait for the fateful interview, which are ample evidence of the fact that they succeed in keeping the applicant on the tenterhooks. One knows that there will be a discomforting twist here and a embarrassing turn there and generally one can expect a suspenseful operation till you finally say `phew' and get out.

Most of the countries have visa applications on their websites with elaborate instructions for completion of the forms and the unsuspecting applicant would heave a sigh of relief thinking that it is a good beginning.  Generally, yes; but then, the list of documents they require or things to be done, shown online, would never be complete, as they carefully hide something till the last minute.  As a policy, at least a couple of things would be left out and one of them would require your going home or elsewhere to fetch something you have not carried with you. Or, at the minimum, two extra forms will be thrust into your face for you to sign them in their presence, one of them asking for some information you do not readily recall.  No use your bristling and asking them why these are not part of the requirements in the website.

Photos, as you know, are a perpetual irritant.  One question you can always anticipate is `when was this taken'?  Even if your response is `just before coming in here, in the studio down the road', they look at you with loads of pessimism and sarcastically say `but this does not look like you'.  And my dear wife always says my gnarled, crinkled face with the crooked nose and unsmiling mouth have not changed in decades, meaning the face has not become any more attractive even by some miracle. No room for discussion here with the interviewer and one has to go and get a new photograph done.  Which, when obtained and delivered, looks exactly the same as the one submitted earlier, but is readily accepted.  And all this while, my dear wife is smirking away because she submitted one of her photos from some 5 years back (because that shows her younger, obviously) and is waved through enthusiastically.  To make things more painful, the interviewer is suggestively looking at me as if to say `see, the lady knows how exactly that is to be done; why don't you learn from her'?  She is not the one to miss a fantastic opening like that and eventually rubs it in saying `I hope you realise it is not the photo but the visage'.  I have to sullenly agree!

In one of the visa offices, I was asked to get new photos and I asked the chap specifically whether it can be with my specs on.  He categorically said yes.  When I went back with a new photo, two days later due an intervening week-end, he was a pathetic victim of a severe bout of amnesia and flatly refused to accept the photo with specs.  My protestations did not take me anywhere.  Like this, the photo offers a whole host of opportunities for the visa agency to make you run around -- width, length, teeth showing, eyes off-centre, colour of the background etc.  I am sure readers will add a few more pitfalls in this context.

What puzzles one is even if you apply as a family of four, always travelling together on the same ticket and staying together in the same hotels, some visa agencies insist that you provide them with four sets of supporting documents -- air ticket, hotel confirmations, internal travel documents etc.  Isn't it easier to confirm everything for all the four from one set of documents??  Obviously, a big NO.  When I pointed out that the previous year I submitted only one set for the two of us in the German consulate, this chap got very offended and with an air of superiority said dismissively `but this is not German consulate'! Case closed.

Coming to the serious stage of the interview process wherein the applicant is asked some questions, for the sake of asking.  I am of this firm opinion only because all the information is invariably already on the application form and unless the stringent scrutiny is to check the state of the vocal chords of the applicant and pronunciation skills, no new information will be gleaned.  I was asked if I had provided fingerprints on any previous occasion and this priceless data was already available on the application.  I confirmed it and the next question floored me, `You know the exact date on which you did that'?  Come on, guys, we are growing so rapidly old that we may not remember our birthdays and eventually our names sooner or later.  Don't they have the stuff stored in their database??  We were in another visa agency a few years back, when a couple were being asked questions.  One was `why are you visiting the country'?  The applicant had an outstanding sense of humour and he, without a pause, said `To have oodles of sex'.  The lady who asked the question did not know where to look and recovered well to ask `And you are taking your wife along'?.  He said wihtout batting an eyelid 'Yes, she is going for the same too'.  I am sure their visas were approved pronto, so that further questions can be avoided.

There are various other finicky requirements like only cash, no credit card; exact amount to be tendered, no change available; black ink only for signature; if you are late by 2 minutes for the interview, go back to the end of the line and reschedule.

I immensely like countries like Vietnam which make no fuss in issuing visas when you land and hand over your passport and cash. Some preliminary online request has to be made for other countries and the process is painless at that end.  Countries like Mexico are smart enough to make USA do all the work for them and they approve visa for visitors on landing, as long as they have a valid US visa.

When in the finale, the time came to sign some declaration at the visa agency, the smile on my dear wife's face got wiped out in a jiffy.  Nowadays she is so petrified of having to sign something.  You see, her signature has changed over time and she is unable to sign the same way in two different places, even within the same minute.  Especially if the signature is going to be compared with something old and she is doing this in the presence of people.  I watched expectantly, along with the interviewer, as she went through the long preparatory ritual and finally managed to scribble something which barely passed muster. If I was the signer, you know what would have happened!!

Poster Menace

Four, five decades earlier `posters' meant primarily advertisements for films.  One of the famous heroes and his less famous leading lady (had to be that way, right) appeared on the poster, with minor details like the director's name and the date of the release of the movie.  The hero invariably had his arms spread out, as if to emphasize his mega-reach, striking a pose one would usually see in a song from the movie.  The objective of the poster was clear - an appeal to the viewing public to go see the movie.  In the pre-TV, enervating media blitz times, that kind of a poster made sense as a medium.  Or the poster would have a leading politician's face, either with an appeal to attend a forthcoming meeting, in which he would go into bombastic rhetoric, incessantly frothing at his mouth or showering shameless accolades on himself for some imaginary or assumed good deed in the interest of the masses.  Sure, these faces were not as palatable as the actors' but were still within the tolerance level of the populace. And, very importantly, the posters were all much smaller in size and non-threatening, not repulsive.

Down the line, as people started losing their sense of proportion, realism and normal values and general degradation in public life set in, the poster industry's growth sky-rocketed, because demand for the theatrical bordering on farcical increased in leaps and bounds.  With reality receding to the background with a massive push-back from 'appearance' and people readily and avidly embracing sheer form for form's sake, generally devoid of content, the size of the posters symbolically expanded to mammoth proportions.  The make-believe world of movies and politics attracted one more major homogeneous player, who would fit into the group like a glove fitting a hand, to make a triumvirate in the game of posters -- Advertisements.  All in fitness of things in that there is nothing significantly real about any of the three, all are given to mindless exaggeration and hyperbole and their shared objective was to constantly pull wool over the eyes of the common man.  Of course, they are succeeding in that till today and have concurrently also increased the size of the cutouts, while also spawning a widespread culture of posters at a much lower, grass-root level.  Now, one does not have to be a leader or great actor or anything worth the salt to be appearing on posters, as is evident from what you see.  Essentially because most posters are set up by one's own family or self, with black money supporting the production and erection of the unseemly projections.  Nothing but a blatantly self-serving attempt to thrust oneself into public consciousness, for no achievement or good deed, but just through large size images of oneself, in a clear attempt to encroach that space.

Recently, in our neighbourhood,  The Ugly Indians, that group which tries to clean up various blackspots around Bangalore,  organized an effort.  As part of that, some huge cutouts of the current MLA of the area were brought down from their offending positions.  One should have seen the alacrity with which some paid supplicants, the guardian angels of the politician's interests in the area, pounced on the group and vehemently protested the action in dethroning him, poster-wise.  When the current rule that no cutout can remain in place for more than a stipulated period was politely conveyed to them, guess what happened?  Within minutes, the earlier poster was replaced by another of similar proportions, which magically materialised from nowhere, depicting the revered leader greeting the constituency with folded hands for an upcoming religious festival!  Within five minutes the new poster was up and there was precious little anyone could do.  Surely this group of sycophants would have preened like peacocks and collected their rewards for their fantastic response.  While they were basking in the sun, having a tipple with pickle on the side, with their political bosses, there I was, getting my ears singed by the carping criticism of my dear wife, who justifiably just hates the fact that some ugly posters carrying sinister-looking faces, are sullying the space her group has been striving to keep clean and neat!

Such groups of hired goons, sycophants are omnipresent and have clear instructions from someone with some knowledge of the goings-on.  The other day, the fifth bail application of the son of another MLA was being taken up by a court.  This worthy son had almost killed a youngster in a restaurant, mercilessly beating him up and abandoning him for dead, of course, ably supported by a group of his own henchmen in the orgy of violence.  There was so much negative publicity and sentiment about the incident, all the efforts of the powerful father to extricate his son from jail, on bail, failed miserably for almost 4 months.  If the son thought he would beat the hell out of a fellow human being, dust his hands off and walk free using `influence', for a change it did not work out that way and he suffered the well deserved ignominy of incarceration for 4 months.  But, on the day of the bail hearing, within minutes of bail being granted, giant cutouts appeared, of the son (not the father), euologising him for his heroic acts (read, terrorising and physical violence on another person) and wonderful leadership (??).  To what depths can people blindly using and following money and power sink was evidenced by those posters!!

When one walks through a bazaar/road, one can see some store-fronts being covered by posters of multiple products, overlapping with each other, there being no indication of where one begins and another ends.  You are left wondering what is being advertised.  It is almost as if the number of posters clustered in the same location is the end-game, not the beginning of the attempt to sell.  Most of these posters serve to hide the unkempt, disorganized interiors of the stores which seem to subsist not from sales but from other dubious activities sponsored by political parties and leaders.

The one big change in the poster culture we have to day is that even for common men posters appear now and then.  You see a poster of a middle aged man and on enquiry you will find out that the man in question, aged 45 and father of four children, eloped with another woman who had 3 children of her own.  Retribution followed swiftly and the eloping man was killed by the woman's husband.  The poster was there as an exhibit to share the grief of the community at the fall of such a man.  Other similar cases involved a reckless auto-rickshaw driver who rode roughshod over everything and was living dangerously;  and a drunkard who had permanent residence in the local arrack shop and took breathers only to go home and beat up his wife and children as a pastime. Both appeared on posters posthumously, with the title `Tearful Homage'.

Why not?  There is no longer any qualification to be on a poster, right??  A poster is a mighty leveller.  If it is illegal to fix posters, cutouts etc why should that illegality be the domain of only the powerful and monied.  I am all for everyone sharing the space.  Just that one day I hope the governing authorities and judiciary would wake up and ban posters, period.  No posters for any reason!!