Wintry Trip To New York

Even when we were planning our Dec 2021 trip to USA, we felt that chill burrow through our bones and send tremors of anticipatory trepidation.  Not that we were strangers to USA in winter.  We have successfully negotiated the numbing cold of Chicago in Dec/January, accentuated by the freezing lake nearby, multiple times but that seemed eons back. Now we are that much older, with that much less tolerance of change from the balmy Bangalore weather, we were just anxious. Nevertheless, we had to go because we hadn't seen our boys and their families in two years. When we actually reached, we found ourselves in an apartment right on the bank of the Hudson river, which meant that we were fodder for all the concomitant forces of the elements.  At first sight we were very excited about the prospect of looking into the vast expanse of the river all through the day (no doubt it was extremely serene and soothing), but later on when the weather asserted itself and got nasty, we realised that there was a pretty significant price to pay. The increased impact of the cold whenever we stepped out.  The temperature tended to be some 3 to 4 degrees C colder than a bit more inland in Manhattan.  With wind-chill we were usually walking around in -6 to -18 deg C temperature and that was not very enjoyable.  We would have preferred to trundle along the length and breadth of the place in trousers/shorts and tees during summer, just as we wont to. Consequently this also meant we ventured out less, walked less and were disappointed that we could not indulge in our favourite Manhattan pastime, just walking!

If the cold weather was a problem, even worse was what we had to do to counter that - wearing multiple layers of warm clothing, even for the exposure of a very short walk around the corner to the supermarket.  The process was akin to dressing up with all those props for a part in a historical drama like Ramayana or Mahabharatha.  That ritual paraphernalia began with the addition of another layer under the trousers as the cold increased.  A pair of woollen socks became mandatory and that meant struggling with our shoes because of the thickness of the socks. A sweater was an add-on below the jacket we were using and one felt like one had bulged in all directions for no reason at all.  The long overcoat which was my permanent companion in New York during winter, seemed to weigh a ton all of a sudden and increased the discomfiture.  Pulling on a pair of good gloves was essential to avoid having to pick up the fingers from the floor if they fall off at the end of the trip due to frosty cold.  Yes, what one would have used to pick up those fingers from the ground is a pertinent question.  Then a monkey cap to prevent the icy wind from drilling its way through the ears. A pair of heavier than normal shoes to prevent the toes from curling up even as we walk and a shawl/muffler around the neck to cover the last exposed part of the body, all became necessary weapons to fight the weather.  As if all the above were not suffocating enough, our kindly friend Covid accentuated the oppressed feeling with the mask (our sons mandated N 90, nothing less).  For someone walking in Bangalore with the barest necessary clothing, all these were layers of extraordinary distress obviously.

That cumbersome ritualistic dressing up made us wise enough to curtail trips out of the apartment and robustly question the need for getting out of the cocoon of its heated environs. There was a fair amount of discussion before stepping out and we got into the wholesome habit of choosing `required' outings over `wanted' ones.  Still, we walked daily along the promenade by the river or in the river-side park.  Cold itself was not the issue (not after the protection offered by all that stuff) but the weighty responsibility of carrying all those pieces of clothing made us groan.  Our usual gentle pace was even further reduced by the strenuous effort and we found it difficult to keep pace with our two-year-old grandson, who was invariably our companion on such walks.  That guy never walks, only runs and his velocity effortlessly outstripped ours and we ended up huffing and puffing to catch up. And he would never let up and goaded us to go along without a pause. Interesting that he only had a jacket and a cap for protection and seemed none the worse for that despite his tender age. Children have warmer blood, we have heard, but this one seems to be blessed with hotter blood for the winter!! Having said that, we enjoyed our two hours' outing each morning with him and were willing to wear additional layers of warm clothing to do that, if warranted.  That's what grandchildren do to you, I suppose.

The daily essential trips were the above morning saunter with our grandson and the evening walk to my son's apartment, less than a km away for more family time.  One night at about 8 pm when we said good bye to our son and left his apartment, there was a very slight drizzle.  Unmindful of that we began ambling against the slanting rain and wind towards the river, to our apartment. Lo and behold, in a jiffy, the capricious weather metamorphosed so much; the slight drizzle gathered pace with a howling wind, which almost sounded like a gale to us unprepared Bangaloreans. We were struggling to hold our feet to the ground, as the wind made progress painfully slow.  We had to hold on to some rods on the roadside to make even that snail paced headway. Our struggling movement against the  wind was reminiscent of some disaster movies in which you see people  heaving and panting as they fight the elements! At one point, our feet were lifted off the ground by the gusting wind; but for the fact that we were attached to the scaffolding of a building, we would have probably been deposited at some unintended destination, negating the precious little progress we had made in 10 minutes!  We can assure you, dire situations like these kind tend to dim your wit and responses. When we reached our apartment eventually (that wind did not last very long, mercifully), we wondered why we did not use our sagacity to get into one of the buildings on the way, hiding from the raging wind.  There were at least 20 tall buildings which could have offered refuge. That was a terrifying experience but we can now look back and say we have gone through that also! Ironically we found out from our son subsequently that there was a gale warning out for that time!! Being non-New Yorkers we did not check that before stepping out.

It snowed 3-4 times during our stay and usually one foot of snow accumulated on the ground and quite a bit on top of cars parked on the roadsides.  Our grandson looked out from our apartment window and yelled `fonny' (his way of saying `funny') as he watched a parade of many vehicles with solidified snow on top, as if they were wearing a white canopy for the season.  Outside our apartment, between the road and the river, there was a sizeable slope, going down about 150 yards or so.  Every time it snowed, that slope was nicely laid out with snow and the whole area transformed into a skiing slope for adults and children.  Teeming crowds gathered there, equipped with whatever they can find at home, from large, flat plates to coracle like contraptions and everything in between.  They tirelessly screamed down the slopes on their backs or haunches and made the required tremendous effort to traverse the ascent back to the top, for the next trip down. It was hilarious to see some novices, with no knowledge of what to do or how to, starting with the intent of going perpendicularly downwards, but in their state of perfect imbalance switching to horizontal travel some way down.  They struggled to control themselves and upset many other neighbouring skiers, who got scattered all around trying to avoid the errant skiers.  It was fantastic and energising to watch youngsters ski all day long without a hint of fatigue.

While booking tickets to New York, we discovered that all those pronouncements about bubble flights and difficulty with connecting flights were just hogwash.  For instance, middle eastern carriers were unabashedly carrying passengers from India beyond their shores through connecting flights.  Even though flights between Qatar/UAE were under the bubble arrangement.  At the same time, British Airways very scrupulously told us we cannot connect to a BA flight from London to New York.  Then came the surprise that if you book with American Airlines (a partner of BA) a Bangalore-London-New York flight with a BA connection in London, it is a breeze, you are okay.  One BA agent told me we will not be able to fly BA from London, come what may, because the airline's aircraft cannot carry Indian passport holders beyond London.  But, if it is an American Airlines ticketed and BA operated code-share flight, all is well.  I guess that small part of the aircraft is American's and not BA's!!  Do you see any logic in this??  These rules just confuse you even more.

Another issue to compound the confusion is the Covid test requirement for the flights and countries you go to.  Airlines have ensured that there is no clarity about the tests required for the transit points.  Nobody would tell us for sure if we needed some test taken at a specific time for transiting through London.  We diligently filled out some forms that seemed required for London transit and were prepared to be grilled about our vaccination status and test results to anyone who would want to be informed of such frightfully critical details, in London.  But not a soul was concerned about what we were or what our Covid status was!  There seemed to be perfect indifference about you, just as in normal times. Looked like they did not care so long as you stayed Airside and did not shove your nose into the rest of England beyond the airport.  One line somewhere in the policy/rule book would have clarified this to harassed travellers but they did not think it was necessary.

Similar was the uncertainty on the return trip through Paris.  We were disheartened by the fact that there is no uniform rule regarding when you had to take the test for travel.  For India it was `not earlier than 72 hours' and for Paris `it was not earlier than 48 hours'.  Logically, the latter test would have covered the former also, but then there were timing issues which could have screwed up our plan if the results do not appear in time for our travel.  So, we were wondering if we had to do one test for India and another for Paris, because India test was far more critical and there was absolute lack of clarity about test for Paris as a transit point.  I was ready to do two tests, like that genius of an individual who made two holes in his door for his cats to move about - one large hole for the bigger cat and another smaller one for the small ones.  Fortuitously, at the last moment we chanced upon a Air France web site which clearly stated that no test is required for transit passengers, same as London.  That released me from the horns of dilemma where I stayed on tenterhooks for a couple of days before departure.

Why can't all countries agree on tests 72 hours before travel and no tests for transit points as uniform rules and pronounce them prominently to help the hassled passengers?  Too much to ask? 

All said and done, we were okay with the wintry trip to New York, but will probably take any suggestion of a future winter trip under advisement, only to decline vigorously.        

 

Sobering, But Hilarious Appraisal!!

Two days ago, I delivered this note - "Folks, don't shudder.....no blogpost is attached.  I have been seeing a general diminishing of interest in reading during the pandemic (very surprising, I would think people would read more for want of other forms of entertainment).  Readership of my blogposts is no different.  So, I thought we should all take time off.  I, from spewing out my kind of stuff and you from suffering through those pages.  This is a temporary pause - sorry to disappoint those among my readers who would rather see a permanent closure.  Shall regroup after the new year, whenever spirits look up.  Till then, taken care and stay well.  Thanks.  Varad"

When I sent out that 'excuse-me-for-now' note to all those to whom I usually and dutifully send my blogposts, I expected to receive some neutral responses from a few friends, tut-tutting profusely.  Please note, I am carefully avoiding saying `sent to all of my readers' because while I surely send them out, reading them is obviously a choice and many might choose to swipe left to banish the posts out of existence.  Believe me I am not complaining, not at all; instead I am happy that I have retained a large part of my reader-base (I am not disclosing how big that is!!) even after some 12 years of what some merciless recipients would consider a monthly nuisance.  But, I am overwhelmed by the deluge of messages received in response, ranging from a somewhat dejected `Oh, No' to a solicitous`Varad, stay well'.  In between there were many other shades of feelings I deciphered in the messages received and then this thought struck me.  Why not make an absolutely unscheduled and bonus blogpost of this event before all of us take a break.  I hope you don't mind! 

A few people wrote with emotion, to convince me that their lives seriously depended on reading my blog.  That it provided the sustenance they require to wade through this existence without too much pain. That bereft of the `sahara' of my blog, they may struggle to make sense of their lives.  I am, of course exaggerating, but there were quite a few like that. If I were a sucker for good words, I would have immediately felt the weight of my ego growing on me and would have readily imagined I have gained a halo too! 

Then there were those who completely ignored what I said was the reason that prompted me to opt for the break - that readership has reduced somewhat and generally people seem to be reading less and less; I perceive some fatigue in the masses! They precipitously concluded that something is terribly wrong with my psychological or at least physical health and assembling a few decent sentences successfully as I used to, is for now beyond my capability.  So those questions have come in a flurry - `Are you okay, please take care'; `Hope whatever is wrong does not affect you much, God bless';  `Praying for your recovery and return to blog-writing' and so on.  So, I am gratified to see that some have at least read the `pausing' message even if they do not habitually read the blogs and what is more, responded too.

There is this group of `readers' (they do read the blogs, I know), who apologetically told me `Even though I might have missed a couple of blogs of yours, I promise I read all of them; so don't take the fall in readership to heart.  Continue to strangle us with your words'.  This group of friends was pointedly telling me not to place the guilt of diminishing readership at their doorsteps and they wanted to be absolved of that responsibility pronto.  I am waiting for a few comments on some on old blogs from such people to reinforce this sentiment. That would definitely make me feel good.

Some others even went to the extent of questioning my judgement that less people were reading the blogs of late. They forcefully said that cannot be true - such reassuring darlings!!  A few reasoned that just because people refrained from commenting, it does not mean that they were not interested in the blogs.  They seemed more offended at the prospect of my losing readers than I myself would ever be!  I am touched and with such a protective and massively encouraging group of people around me, I do not have to worry about ever becoming completely `reader-less'.  And, if ever I want a trolling group from my readers to go after `non-readers' or anybody else, I know I can turn to this group of avid consumers to get the job done.  Some small comfort.

One set of people advised me that even if many readers drop off, I should not bother about that and continue to write because others are going to be with me. They have taken the high moral ground, saying `you write - that is your karma, do not worry about who reads'.  A couple even quoted Bhagavad Gita and readily assumed the role of Krishna to my Arjuna. I am truly humbled, friends.  I am reproducing a message verbatim here - `Your writing does not need some dumb audience to justify its existence.  Aap karm karte jao, phal ki chinta mat karo... Krishna says... also remember, ur writings will remain in ether for ever. There will always be a very long tail. Many great works got recognition many years of their creation..'.  This writer has been a dear friend for a few years now and has just become dearer!!

A few sent emoticans like 😑,😒,😡,😢,😊 -- succinctly teaching me that one does not have to waste so many words in a blogpost to express something.  I have made up my mind to one day write a blogpost with more emojis and less words.  That day will also come, I am sure.

One well-wisher just asked `Are you travelling'?  Many just said neutrally `Take care, Varad'.  This is the group which knows me well enough to have decided that nothing could be wrong with the chap, `he is just sparing us temporarily, God bless him and let us leave him alone'. A few said with glee that this short message was even funnier than a full blog, may be thereby obliquely suggesting that I should restrict myself to short messages!   

Net, net -- I am glad I sent out that excuse-me-for-now note. It has given me the rather unexpected opportunity to write a blogpost on next to nothing!! In the process, I got to know my readers better and also saw a groundswell of support for me (if not my writing), which is very comforting.  I thank all my readers (and non-readers) for sustaining me for 12 years and reassure you I am not going away!  And it is not that I cannot write a few more pages every month, but it is just that the author senses that the reading public needs some space and a break.  I respect that a lot.

Au Revoir, not good-bye.

  

    

   

This Obsession With Cinema

It is common knowledge that an average eight-year-old in Thamizh Nadu (for that matter, this is probably true of Andhra, Telengana and Karnataka also) would be better informed on movie matters than other fields of knowledge.  This inherited and infectious wisdom is derived from being associated with front-running elders. These worthies are so steeply immersed in cinema and are exposed continuously to its concomitant effects in their daily lives, that most people within a radius of fifty kilometres cannot escape their ubiquitous influence. Thamizh Nadu politics has been dominated by film people -- heroes, heroines, writers, producers et al -- so much that invariably it has become difficult to distinguish between politics and cinema as they run concurrently in the state. The aspiration of any actor with a reasonable fan base is eventually to enter politics and hog the limelight for some more years, because such actors would rather continue to `act' in politics than lose their halo progressively and fade away.  Acting is an inevitable, major ingredient in politics, as we know, since most of the politicians are just play-acting much of the time, whether it be delivering fake promises, hugging old men and women in a display of boundless affection, seemingly listening with all sympathy to the down-trodden people intently, even as they are planning the next scene somewhere else.

What is rather sad is that the gullible population (a good portion of that, anyway) also takes the bait more often than not,  emotionally recalling a few flashy, socially relevant dialogues or lines from songs the actors had delivered in their various movies, with the specific objective of encashing the goodwill on some future poll date. Ageing actors in Tamil Nadu, during their last decade, start cultivating the audience to receive them as their future political leaders sooner or later.  Their films are full of dialogues and scenes, which depict them as saviours of the common man, protectors of women and small children and generally the do-gooders for  humanity at large.  Modern actors believe that just because one MGR and one Jayalalitha successfully transformed himself/herself thru this process, they can all do that. Fact is, very few succeed to even scratch the surface, but this has not discouraged a succession of actors from trying.  Some older heroes are testing the arena even as you read this and are getting scalded in the process.  There are a few somewhat sensible actors, who desire the aura, but decide they may not be up to it.  They dodge the issue by forever staying on the sidelines and rolling out justifications and excuses for not taking the final plunge. None of this knowledge seems to dampen the adulation of the movie-crazy populace, which fervently hopes that such actors hold the panacea for all their ills and see them as leaders who can wave their magic wand and solve all the problems. When elders in the population go this way, what chance do the impressionable young ones have? They dutifully pick up the signals early enough and follow all the way.

Thamizh TV stations are full of film stuff, you will know if you have surfed stations for just a few minutes.  If it is not a segment of film songs or films themselves,  (there are stations which do this 24/7), there are interviews with actors/directors interspersed with clips from their films or with playback singers/music composers, peppered with their abbreviated songs and so on.  Otherwise there are these all-pervasive TV serials, which mimic films in all ways.  Of late, in the name of innovations, they have progressed along cinema lines to include action and dance sequences too. While TV actors do not have the chutzpah to attract the same kind of viewership as movie actors, they manage to occupy people's mind space simply by appearing on TV every single day for a few years continuously, through those so-called mega serials.  And then there are those panel discussions about something or the other, in which at least two film personalities appear, only because the subject matter has some streak of a connection to films.  Even if there is no real or imagined relevance, it does not matter because movie people are always welcome, anytime, anywhere.  When stations think people would have had enough of movies, TV stations 'innovatively'  replace them with Super Singer programmes, which laudably aim to bring out young talent by making them sing all those memorable old and new film songs.  And of course, they are judged by a fixed panel of erstwhile playback singers, complemented by a rolling stock of film stars.  So cinema world does not give you a inch of space to breathe freely, but hustles you everywhere.

TV is so obsessed with cinema that even when some events worthy of reporting occur, such events get a passing mention and stations are back to their favourite pastime forthwith.  I am sure,  regretting the loss of those two minutes which they spent on the serious newsbreak!  Even when the China-India border skirmish was on all national TV channels, Tamil TV stations seem to swat the subject aside to focus on what they prefer to do. On all holidays, including Sivarathri, Krishna Jayanthi, Mahatma Gandhi's birth day, Teachers' day, etc nothing changes and all the channels are full of movies, more movies and special screenings of movies.  And, of course, the movies do not pretend to be recalling any specific occasion.  

Take a look at all the Thamizh periodicals (weeklies, fortnightlies) and you will get sure-fire proof of the film craze that stalks Tamizh Nadu. And this burning fanaticism and the need to satisfy that as felt by the magazines is made starkly evident if you casually turn the pages. Even erstwhile cultured publications, famous for their quality output involving history, arts, poetry, tradition, values etc have now been forced to commit pages to filmy content. If you count the pages dedicated to cinema stuff, that invariably amounts to about 40-50 percent in most magazines.  Including interviews with actresses who have just been signed up for their first movie and the shooting is yet to start. Now 'what can they say to edify any reasonably intelligent man or woman?' is a legitimate question, but then the publications do not make the mistake of assuming that all their readers are intelligent.  You cannot blame them because that is how the herds have been behaving, I guess. Their take would be that this is what sells and they just pander to people's current tastes.  Add to this, all those adverts which show film folks trying to sell various products, by doing everything from wielding brooms, chewing pan, walking in dhoties, selling dog food to plugging for new housing projects 'which are veritable heavens-on-earth' in god-forsaken locations, some 100 kms away from Chennai.  It will definitely be a challenge for anyone to read the bulk of the magazines (it wont take too much time, given the triviality of the stuff published) for a few weeks and come out confidently and say that he/she learnt something useful, unless of course, it involves the tinsel town!  Even quizzes are there, with readers' questions answered by, who else, some film director or actor. Given their expertise and domain knowledge, all the questions chosen are also about films, especially about film actresses. Sample this - `Which actress is the better dancer amongst A, B, C and D' (answer is - the type of dancing they have to do in films, anyone can do) or `Which actress delivers dialogues the best among X, Y and Z (answer is - none of them because they are not good at Thamizh and have others dub for them) and so on.  If at all there is a news item about a scientist or sportsperson or classical musician, that only appears in a brief, single column short, after the person has achieved an Olympic medal or Nobel prize or something of that magnitude.  Of course, occupying the rest of the spread is the photo of a starlet, trying to spread her wings.

Daily life in Chennai, as in other southern metros, is dominated by all those posters - small, medium, large and extra large - which are propped up by poles on the ground (which are stumbling blocks for walkers) or hoisted up on advertising platforms (which could fall apart and kill a few one day), in all nooks and corners. From where heroes and heroines strike all those popular postures enshrined in their respective movies.  It is clear that filmdom won't leave people alone even after they step outside their homes.  On the roads, there are gigantic cutouts of famous heroes, looking literally down upon people and smiling benevolently even as they are preparing for their political future.  Poster culture is so strong there that anyone who wants a bit of mind space of people has to find literal public place to park his posters, with a massive dose of inappropriate and mostly fictional self-praise. This can all be done easily and is par for the course only because the funding comes from the subject himself.  The truth is, not everyone who has erected cutouts - actor or otherwise - becomes an adulatory object of the people. Thank God for that.

So, inside homes or outside, if there is such an over-dose of cinema related pounding from multiple directions, how can a child or youngster escape the lopsided influence of that fictional world?  The one thing that has changed for the better in movies now is that unlike yesteryears when only a fair and good looking person could usually become the hero or heroine, now anyone can assume the mantle, regardless of complexion, looks, ability to act etc.  One only needs a financier to back you and mostly the parents take on that role avidly since no one would volunteer for that.  People like me will have to just sit moping around, ruing the chances we never had!

  

Where Has That Family Doctor Gone?

(With due apologies to all the doctors in my own family as well as those who are good friends - no offence, please.  Kindly take this as the usual random read for 5 minutes and do not abandon me as a patient when I come to consult you on my vulnerable days)

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This is not a one-man-experience.  This is the distilled wisdom gained from the nightmares of various friends and relatives, without any reference to specific hospitals or specialists. Instances are galore when we have heard of people going into a big city hospital with what seems to be a minor complaint to see a doctor, urged by wives like my own dear one, who is reading this piece now. Being forced to see ten other specialists in six hours and coming out wondering what serious malaises they have developed suddenly.  Because nothing conclusive is disclosed and judgement passed by the end of the day and they have to be subjected to another battery of tests the next day. You enter the room of the General Practitioner (GP) for a solution to the nagging head/body ache you have lived with for the past two years with no major discomfort. You think you will be out in fifteen minutes with some reassuring words and a comforting prescription from the good doctor.  But the whole proceedings spin entirely out of your control - not that you had much of that to begin with - during the next thirty minutes and soon you are left wondering if your days in the world are numbered due to some serious, unidentified malignance afflicting you, with no one making you wiser.

First up, you have grown up with such mild niggles bothering various body parts all your life, you should know when it is serious enough to warrant a visit to the doctor.  Never to succumb to the badgering of that worthy who drives your life all the time. Secondly, if you have the option of visiting a doctor who practises in a small clinic of his own somewhere, be smart enough to choose that option.  And avoid like the plague, that big hospital with all the specialists in all the disciplines and all the bells and whistles, required by the medical care experts and health insurance companies.  If you ignore these warnings and enter a corporate hospital with a big brand name, then be prepared to be sucked into the following whirlwind of a routine in the next few hours.  You go the GP to get rid of the mundane muscle spasm or sprain in your leg. There is a possibility that a junior doctor, who is learning the ropes from the senior, screens you first.  Once you have answered all the questions multiple times and a fact sheet is filled up, your file is forwarded with you to the senior.  When the senior asks the same or more questions, there is a chance that he discovers that the junior goofed up somewhere and insists on having an inquisition right then and there in your presence.  All polite and seemingly harmless, of course, but nevertheless the junior goes through the extreme discomfiture of being grilled in the presence of the patient. But the overbearing senior has no qualms because he always does this in the presence of patients for that extra bit of satisfaction and fun derived.  Once this process is over and the junior is suitably chastised for assuming he is the same as the senior in terms of prowess, the problematic location in the body is examined collectively by the junior, senior, a nursing assistant and a couple of even more junior interns, apart from any paying spectators if they are interested. Nobody gives a damn if you are feeling like a worm under a microscope and would rather shove all the attention away, so you put up with that circus with you serving as an object of instruction and edification. Just as you are hoping that a prescription will be given and you could be on your way, you realise that what is transpiring is only Act 1, Scene 1 and a whole lot is yet to follow - picture abhi bhaki hai dost!

After a rapid-fire exchange amongst them, the senior tells you that you should see a Physiatrist (read the spelling carefully, there is definitely no artist hiding here, but a muscle specialist) for further examination and opinion.  Fortunately there is one just two cabins away for the convenience of sacrificial lambs like you and thus begins your grand tour of the various nooks and corners of the hospital facilities. Of course, the GP and the Physiatrist are good friends and this kind of mutual passing of the patient happens frequently for whatever reasons.  Now, the same scene which played in the GP's cabin is replayed in the Physiatrist's domain.  After fifteen minutes of talking and examination, the judgement is given that the problem is not with the muscle.  Your file grows a bit fatter with a couple of more sheets, being the contribution of the Physiatrist and you return to the GP and wait for the file also to make the same journey through official channels.  After listlessly waiting for half an hour for the busy GP to see you again, he beams looking at the file as if he has found the panacea for all your current and future ailments and declares `I knew it was not the muscle, that is why I sent you to the Physiatrist.  Now, I recommend you meet the Orthopaedic who is on the first floor'.  

The Ortho is even busier than the two previous doctors put together (it is obvious that bones are made a lot flimsier by God nowadays thereby making the ortho a flourishing line), so you wait for an hour more and watch the endless procession of  people in casts, just plain limpers, some on wheel chairs and some really serious cases brought on stretchers.  Your mind is whirring about, wondering which category you will soon be put into, without realising it is not so simple.  The ortho looks at the body part and asks you if you have an x-ray.  When the response is negative, he just brusquely nods to the nurse, who prepares a prescription to be signed him, asking for an x-ray of your leg in frontal and side views.  The radiology department is on the 5th floor and you wait for the lift to avoid straining your leg even further.  There are six lifts but all of them arrive full, you run jostling among the people to enter but for some strange reason, they depart without taking anybody in or ejecting anyone out.  After a repetition of this tamasha for the next ten minutes, you get fed up and climb the stairs.  Here is the nub. If your foot was okay to begin with and there was just a small swelling, this entire ordeal would have aggravated the problem quite a bit and provided some fodder for the ortho.  In the X-ray room, you wait for another forty five minutes because all those limpers, wheel chair occupants, stretcher dwellers and other assorted people in casts have already camped here before you, gaining seniority over you in the order. When your turn comes, you undress partially and get your legs twisted in five different ways for four exposures to x-ray.  They would examine the film and invariably find that one of them is not really the piece of art that they expect their work to be, so they will go through the rigour once again.  X-ray personnel would tell you that the films and the report will be ready in the evening and can be picked up from the reception.  When you dumbly stare at their faces and mumble that the Ortho is waiting for the films, they will hum and haw, stage a mini-conference of sorts and make a huge concession to say they will send the films and the report to the Ortho eventually (please don't try to fix a time) and you should go back to him and yes, wait longer.

The direct line from the radiology department to the Ortho's cabin would take four minutes to cover, if the lift blesses and accommodates you and ten if it does not.  But the film would not arrive for another hour and a half, as if it was transiting through the International Space Station.  Invariably, this means you would make at least one additional trip to and from the Radiology section to remind them, by now limping a bit and putting additional strain on the already doddering leg. When the film finally arrives and the Ortho takes a peek, he would shake his head dubiously such that you wonder if you require an amputation forthwith.  But that head shake was indicative of the fact that the Ortho did not see much more scope for extracting anything from you, based on the x-rays.  He declares suavely, pointing you in the direction of the x-rays on his well-lit screen, `I cannot see anything wrong with the leg in the x-ray'.  So, if you thought of jumping in joy because your ordeal has come to an end and you can go home, you should hold your horses - he grimly says `it is better if you get a scan done.  Sometimes we can see things in the scan which are not visible on x-rays'.  Interestingly, if you were carrying an MRI film and no x-ray, there is one hundred percent chance that the Ortho would feel that x-rays would be more helpful than the MRI film.  Either way, you are stuck without an immediate exit route, unless you are peeved enough to turn your back on the entire dog and pony show.

Now, Hamlet kind of decision time for you.  `To do MRI or not to do that'.  Apart from the fact that it costs a bomb, it is a very spooky experience, when you are completely cut off from the rest of the world, shoved into and incarcerated within a tomb like structure, which makes a hell of a lot of rattling noises of various types and decibel levels. Your initial apprehension as you are moved into the machine will soon grow to panic as you imagine that all the others leave you inside for incubation and go away for the day and there is no way for you to get out of the machine. And it is a thirty minute joy ride.  The left side of the remnants of your brain will initially tell you `no need, go home, they are making a sucker out of you'; followed by `what if there is some serious problem in the leg which can be identified only through MRI, so do it', thereby creating a serious conflict you need to untangle.  Not wanting to come to the hospital again, you go through the MRI, repeat the x-ray film experience and finally meet the Ortho with the MRI films.  Now his well-lit screen is fully occupied by the films and he points out various segments, explaining something which you don't get any way.  Finally, he says ` I will give you a prescription.  You see me after 10 days'.  Just like that.  It is all over.

You numbly stare at the prescription, which says `Dolo 650 1-0-1 x 5 days, Any pain relieving spray - twice a day'!! You wonder whether to laugh in relief or cry in despair.  The whole hospital experience involving 8 hours and 15,000 rupees for just that, you may wonder.  Yes, you could have done that yourself without any GP or specialist looking at the problem.  The situation would have been somewhat better if you had gone to a neighbourhood doctor practising in his own small cubicle.  He would have, at the most,  wanted an x-ray and the whole issue could have been resolved with that, hopefully.  That too, only because the Physiatrist or Ortho or other specialists are not available in the vicinity and there is no MRI available on the premises for him to refer you to.

Either way, you would go home, do hot water fomentation twice a day, take Dolo twice a day and do the spray joyfully twice a day.  Phew, what a tour of the hospital to get that pleasure!!  When I describe the whole process with a healthy dose of scepticism to my dear wife, she looks at me with sympathy and says a big hospital is better any day - no explanation offered, but to be understood. 

Some Conundrums In Life

I learnt about serious conundrums in life quite early.  My father was a pretty easy-going individual, who let his children be.  We all studied well, got good marks and the parent and educationist in him was happy he did not have to intervene often. He played cricket with us (my brother, myself, a couple of his own friends and lots of our friends) and was more of a senior advisor cum friend than a typical parent. But even he had to behave differently in certain situations which, in his opinion, demanded a slightly different take for the sake of other elders in the family.  In such contexts, he would rave and rant about our misdemeanours for a while and stop to look at us, as if he was expecting our response.  And here lay the conundrum.  A couple of times I earnestly tried to put forward our side of the story, thinking a very reasonable man like him would appreciate the why of it, even if the logic was a bit warped childishly.  Then I was shut out brusquely with a reprimand `Why dont you accept your mistake?   Instead you are talking back to me and other elders, trying to defend your lousy action'! 

Having got that rap in the knuckles a few times, subsequently when the same scene was re-enacted for some other juvenile error, I used to clamp up and steadfastly look down on the floor, determined not to respond and invite chastisement.  Now, a few times, this boomeranged too.  My father or mother would get angry and say `I am raving like mad here, trying to seek an explanation, there you are standing like a statue and not opening your mouth'!  The last thing one should do in these situations is to take the bait and aggravate emotions by pointing out one's dilemma whether to respond or not.  So, I used to let it pass with stubborn silence and took the verbal slaps gracefully.  When we all were grown up and there was no need for any shouting match or reprimand, we used to sit around with our parents and joke about such situations and have a good laugh, in which my parents joined heartily.  My father used to laugh the loudest, probably he never took any of these seriously; he was indeed a theatre actor and a good one at that.

Such conundrums repeat themselves all through our lives.  Whether to respond with this action or that or respond at all in a particular context, when there is something onerous in all options, is baffling most of the times.  

Recently one of my apartments, rented to an expat company fell vacant.  When I rented it a few years back, I was asked by my broker to put in some furniture pieces, some equipment etc. to be competitive while also being attractive to expatriate renters.  My thinking being conditioned by all those years of expat living, when we had our own furniture and equipment,  I gently turned him down. Knowing fully well that this is a situation when you are damned if you did and damned if you did not. I wanted to avoid this additional headache of worrying about the stuff I put in,  every time there is a turnover.  If you did not comply with such requests, it is likely that the apartment will not be rented for a while because as your luck would have it, all the expats streaming into Bangalore and looking for rental seem to want equipment and furniture to be included.  It does not work even if you are willing to take lesser rent so that the renter can hire furniture etc. on his own.  Simply not convenient for them, unless they have a single, all-in deal.  This means loss of rental for a few more months, until someone after your own heart comes forward to rent the apartment only, because he has his own furniture and equipment.  

My reluctance to include some furniture/equipment is not a bull-headed resistance to a fairly common request from renters.  I had done this earlier for a tenant.  Lo and behold, when he vacated the next chap who came along said `I like the apartment and pay the rental you are expecting, but please remove all the furniture and equipment you have in the apartment because I have my own stuff'.  Now, I was not in the furniture rental business to shove all the redundant pieces into a warehouse and move on.  If you put the items into storage, rental expense would be involved and after a few years when you take the things out, you will find that nothing is in the same shape or condition it went in.  Probably more money would have to be spent in restoring them than in buying new ones.  Which means a write-off of the remaining value of the stuff, taking a financial hit.

The other problem I encountered was that while the previous American tenant had demanded Whirlpool fridge and washing machine, the incoming Japanese expat wanted Mitsubishi or Panasonic equipment.  Nothing else would do. So, it became my responsibility to cater to their nationalistic preferences, as if I was running a high end equipment store.  No one was interested in dealing with the earlier equipment I had on hand.  Having gone through this a couple of times, I made the Solomon-like decision that future rentals will be shorn of furniture and equipment, come what may, even though my dear wife made faces every time we lost a good deal due to my intransigence.  So, in order to avoid more serious domestic discord, now I have an arrangement with my real estate broker that I give the apartment and if equipment is required, he rents or buys that for the renter and takes rental for that.  There are issues with this rather convoluted arrangement obviously because the broker is not a just a good Samaritan to pander to such requests and extracts his pound of flesh by demanding a sizable refundable security deposit and one year advance rental for all the supplies.  This financial cost erodes your rental income, but I still think this is preferable to being saddled with a sofa set, tables and chairs,  fridge, washing machine etc every time one tenant moves out (and one never knows which company expels which expatriate when), while you await the next one with trepidation.

Another context in which one does not know which way to go is when you are confronted with an option to invest in a start-up.  Especially, if the opportunity is brought to you by a good friend you consider financially savvy.  Not that anyone compels you to invest, but one feels left out if such an opportunity passes one by.  The tricky question is if such an investment will make any money any time soon, since most of these companies deal with untested ideas and have fierce competition in their domains.  Again, no one can answer this since this is akin to intensely peering into the crystal glass and  predicting if monsoon will arrive in Bombay on June 15th some five years later.  If you are investing in the initial stages of a start-up, even if you know the promoters and are somewhat familiar with their idea or product, there is absolutely no guaranteeing the well being of the company a few years later.  Which is why all such investments come from angel investors (angels do not worry about returns?) or venture capital companies (they have a greater risk appetite).  Even evaluation of such ideas, products and companies is difficult because one is more comfortable with conventional companies and the new ones are all so heavily skewed towards new or evolving technology. So I have taken the easy way out generally by letting them pass, preserving my hard earned capital.  But, after a few years, someone can rub it into you that there was an chance given on a platter to invest, you let it go and now the company is worth a hundred times.  That is the nature of the beast and there is this inbuilt conundrum with these always. 

My dear wife tells me that the best way to avoid all these is to sell all other holdings, invest in some bank FDs or Treasuries or tax free bonds and forget about all the hassles.  She cautions that I should look for solvent, good banks and avoid co-operative banks which offer one percent extra interest but are very likely to put the principal at great risk.  I thought may be she is right when yesterday my son called and asked me to look at cryptos to invest in.  Another conundrum to grapple with for the next few months.  That is life.  

Hair Care

 Over the years, I have been convinced that hair styling or hair care has become hugely critical for men and women.  Probably because one can do pathetically little to patch up the face one is born with, but hair is fair game for changes from time to time.  When we think that, we have to forget for a moment the `straight-out-of-the-bed' type men represented by the British Prime Minister, Boris Johnson.  He has no qualms appearing with disshevelled, unbrushed hair on global TV and has a following too; he did the same for his wedding photo also - so supremely confident or arrogantly indifferent.  Let us just talk of ordinary mortals who always labour under the belief that they can augment the appeal of their personality by tangling with their hair from time to time.  Men, even those with just two strands of hair on their pate, carry a small comb in their hip pocket and use it to bolster their confidence from time to time.  Women, of course, have to touch their hair a few times in a short span and do all kinds of assorted moves with their hair to feel comfortable in their space. 

During my younger days, there was one time when a particular hair-style was the rage - medium crop with a buff in front, as if a provision has been made for a small sparrow to build a nest there.  While we admired the Hindi film hero, Biswajit singing romantic songs to his heroines in the movies, not one of us had the courage to emulate the style in real life, for fear of retribution from the fathers.  But one really intrepid friend did try and asked the barber to cut his hair accordingly.  As he got back home, unfortunately the guardian angel was present near the gate with a keen desire to scrutinise the harvested head and decide if appropriate value for money has been achieved.  Fathers those days would have probably preferred to get back the cut hair to be brought back home as evidence of a satisfactory job done, but they could never be sure of whose hair was being presented.  The friend got down from the cycle and tried to move towards the entrance, when the father asked him with an impassive face `whom does sir want to see'?  The tone was so terminal that there was no mistaking `the absolute refusal to recognise' in that.  Without a word, my friend had to cycle back to the barber shop and convince the artist to do a repair job; and cajole him to do that without further compensation.  The barber got a verbal thrashing for his share from the father and the friend lost his abysmally low pocket money for a few months as punitive actions.  The friend and many of us could never `style' our hair as we wanted, because by the time we were independent enough to do what we wanted, the quantum of hair had dwindled rapidly.  Now this friend is completely bald (so are all of us), but any time we get together, this episode is retold with gusto and mirth, to the merriment of the assembly.

Ladies tend to splurge a lot more time and money in salons to tend to their hair.  My dear wife smilingly retorts that it is all in proportion to the hair people have.  But she is easy enough to laugh at herself saying `ladies with curly hair want a straightening-up job done, at a great cost'.  This actually involves nothing less than a dhobi's ironing machine among other things.  `And those with straight hair want to get it somewhat curled up'.  No wonder all the salons and beauty parlours are always busy because no one seems happy with the current state of hair for long and they keep changing their minds, keeping the salons blissfully occupied for ever.  There is a splendid opportunity for a swap operation here, but no one has divined a way of doing that without the intervention of the salons.

But the real killer is when men and ladies go berserk trying to hide greying hair. Initially this is done by plucking the grey strands, when there a only a few. But as grey inexorably encroaches on black, colouring becomes the way of life. Some men tend to do this in-house, using easy to apply colouring material; it is cheaper and also not many outsiders, including friends who visit the same barber shop, need to know that behind the jet black hair lurk grey linings. But, ladies don't seem to like the in-house treatment because it is very messy.  After the ritual is over, residual black stains are all over the bath room and the cleaning is not easy.  So, ladies prefer to leave the grey hair as well as the stains in the salon.  My dear wife argues there is no secret in sixty year old women having grey hair, right?  Actually, it is almost jarring that a seventy year old woman sports jet black hair, they know. Older women do not hide the grey hair story from other older women, because they exchange salon stories all the time; I guess they do this camouflaging to convince themselves they still feel young.

Another intractable problem faced by 50+ men and women is hair fall, which is a universal affliction.  Memory fades (we forget some very obvious names from time to time), brain fades (all of us do stupid things once in a while just because we did not think enough) etc don't matter and one does not run to a doctor for treatment. But hair fall is seriously damaging and scars your psyche badly. All kinds of dubious oils with unknown or unproven antecedents, are liberally used on the recommendation of friends to prevent or reduce hair fall. Some people soak halim seeds overnight and drink the water as if it is fertilizer to irrigate the hair.  After bath, people try to count the number of hairs that have fallen and compare notes as well as maintain historical records, in case posterity is interested. Until the count becomes something difficult to absorb, then they cease and desist. Whatever they apply or consume, most people invariably find that hair fall is a relentless ongoing threat without a known cure, but the effort to apply extraneous solutions persist for long just to support the rather persuasive hair-growth-products industry.

Men gradually come to realise that they can stop all pretence when salt-and-pepper hair continues its stoical march towards all-salt-and-no-pepper hair. Then starts the stage in life when almost-bald men carefully arrange two or three strands of hair along the sides of the head and across the head.  This is just a feeble attempt at displaying the bravado of men who used to have full crop of hair.  This also would normally pass, when they decipher that their unshaven moustache sprouts more hair than what is seen on the head and then it is the end. Soon all they have is a bald pate and all of a sudden, there is nothing to worry about.  They go around behaving as if they never had any hair ever and the best state of affairs is the current one.  They even try to assure themselves that they look more handsome with a hairless head.  No one else seems convinced though and they continue to sympathise for a few years that such a travesty of justice has come to pass for the man in question. 

During covid times, all world has gone topsy turvy and so has hair care.  Salons are closed, but being an essential service (who wants to see millions of Boris Johnsons on the road suddenly?) many are sending experts to homes to tend to the growth.  The snag is a covid premium of about 50% over and above the normal tariff.  If you wonder why would people spend more to look the same when they cannot even go out due to the restrictions, here is the answer.  Zoom calls.  It is not only hair that is on display, but what you wear is also under scrutiny.  Men change shirts even if they may be wearing only a towel below.  If there are multiple zoom calls on the same day and there certainly are, the scene at home is reminiscent of a Hindi movie song sequence.  Different hair styles (one has to manage with whatever little is left at this stage) and multiple dress changes take place. Afterwards everyone, my dear wife says, complains that there is so much additional work when you are working from home -- obviously there was no intra day hair styling or dress changes in the office, or at least in most offices.

Nirvana for men is when people joke about their bald head and they respond that `what is inside the head is all in tact and that is more important'...something they never acknowledged in all the years.  For ladies, it is when they get too tired and could not care less, let themselves age dramatically by 30 years one fine day and emerge from the bathroom with a plait of chalk white hair. With all the prior knowledge at their disposal, the husbands do get frightened out of their wits at the sight of the apparition and go around for a whole week speechless, afflicted by the spectre. I recommend that the ladies also have a heart and start `greying' gradually, much the same way men lose their hair gradually, instead of implementing an overnight unilateral decision and run the risk of a husband with a stroke or heart attack for the rest of their lives.

Taking Flight Again

The title is reminiscent of an incapacitated, stricken bird trying to fly again.  Desperately.  But I am talking about my dear wife and I boarding a plane almost after 16 months, during which time we had all developed a morbid fear of getting into a flight due to the raging pestilence.  While we, like hordes of others, were immobilised by overwhelming paranoia, we did notice that many others were indeed flying around as if things were very normal - be it for work or a vacation.  When we spoke to such people and wondered why they were being reckless, they looked at us in a very leering and mocking way to convey their contempt for lily-livered folks like us, for just being cautious.  Just before the breakout of this Covid 2 menace, we decided to loosen up a bit and take a flight ourselves, even though our mindset was that of one negotiating a minefield.

Seemingly the precautions being taken by the airlines were thorough and impressive.  But as usual they turned out to be only on paper, literally so.  While booking tickets, we are made aware of the need for a E-pass for travel, to be printed and kept ready for verification while checking-in.  Same was the case with a self declaration about flier's current relationship with Covid - to confirm that he or she does not suffer from the virus.  We were even advised to register the plate number and name + phone number of the driver of the vehicle we would use to get away from the destination airport.  Very pleased with the strict monitoring being done, we got everything ready and submitted the papers along with the single sheet boarding pass usually handed in.  Got a rude shock when the airline representative almost threw all the papers out, taking only the boarding pass.  She sweetly smiled and said she did not need anything else, since they were not asked to check them. For that matter, even at the destination airport nobody would have bothered even if one was carried out on a stretcher with a couple of oxygen cylinders attached to the nostrils.  So lax was everything, we just breezed into the outside world and our car without a soul asking us for any shred of document to verify anything.

The check-in line, as usual, had the normal bunch of eager beavers, jostling because there was not enough space for social distancing - three sets of passengers standing in a 6-foot line. I guess the airline staff were jut focusing on the 6-foot-rule without worrying about how many people were being packed into that space. People were pretending to be aware of the requirement but simultaneously trying to push their way through check-in quickly.  The chap directing people was very peeved when I refused to move closer to the counter, to stand two feet behind the previous passenger.  He probably found my conduct extremely inimical to the interests of the airline and passengers.  Some people behind us in the line were also expressing their discontent with my fussy behaviour in a well orchestrated chorus of murmurs. The security area was a better controlled because it was less crowded and the police khaki was omnipresent. 

All the seats in the waiting areas near the boarding gates were fully occupied, without any concern for social distancing and we realised that this was just a trailer for the seating inside the plane.  In the South Indian restaurant fliers were cramming idlis, dosas, assorted vadas etc into their mouths, as if they believed that meal to be the very last one of their lives.  Boarding process was very normal, a congested line waiting on the jetway to get into the plane, people scrupulously avoiding to leave even one foot space between them.  As we entered the plane, we saw the cabin crew clad in PPE gowns and they resembled personnel in a nuclear facility which has recently been decommissioned, but was rumbling to get rough again.  They generally stayed away from the passengers as if every one of us was thoroughly infected, to be best kept at as good a distance as the plane's interiors would permit.  I guess only they were trying to practise social distancing to the extent practical!

During the transfer from the terminal to the plane, somewhere along the line we all got face shields and PPEs for middle seaters.  The quality of the face shields coupled with our own breathing ensured that within a minute, our entire outlook became very hazy and misty.  Almost as if we were airborne with all doors and windows open.  The middle seaters who got the PPEs early, wore them grimly before occupying their seats.  Those who did not think too much about the process, tried to get away by waving the PPEs in the face of the cabin crew, without even opening the package.  When told to wear them, they had to do some acrobatic wriggling at their seats, sitting or standing, to squeeze themselves into the gowns. With space being scarce for a dressing room, some thrashing about wildly was inevitable, guys inadvertently hitting (or may be deliberately) the neighbours on both sides a few times in the bargain.  Some neighbours reacted angrily and the rest of the flight saw simmering tension throughout.  To add further discomfiture to others, the middle seaters invariably had the knack of boarding late, forcing the aisle seaters make way for the moon-walkers in white gowns.  

The cabin crew made the announcements much more rapidly than usual, being in a hurry to move away from the contaminating looks of passengers.  Not even a gulp of water was served.  And the flight itself was over quickly. The crew seemed to smile inside their PPEs for the first time, glad to be free of company.

My dear wife's assessment was that the only differences in a Covid flight were the face shield and white gowns.  And both those features caused more strain to the passengers.  We concluded we desired no more flights for a while.  Safer and more comfortable on the ground.