My father had come back from a trip to Bombay and the 4th grader me asked him all sorts of questions. How was Bombay? Did he see any cricketers buying their groceries? My sister wanted to know if any filmstars had waved at him. As is my wont, I needed to know everything. The complete picture. He had a bemused look on his face. He assured us that he had not seen any celebrities on this trip but he said he was directed to stay at the Taj. We were floored. The Taj!!?? Really!!?? I needed to see some evidence. Unbelievable. I said 'Dude. You stay in a little, pretty university town. How do you get to stay at the Taj?' He patted me on the head and continued to read the newspaper. My mother looked at me patiently. Everybody had moved on from that moment. Not me. Reluctantly, I fetched my cricket bat and got ready to join my friends at the 'pit (our local cricket field) and if you know me you will know that 'reluctance' and 'cricket' for me never made it into the same sentence. Just as I was leaving he quipped, 'Tommy (he called me that), they give you a basket of fruits when you check-in'. My little heart leaped with joy at the introduction of this crucial piece of information. Wonders never cease. 'A bowl of fruits!' Wow. I had to tell my friends. I had to tell everyone.
That was the Taj feeling for the middle-classes. It was a notion, a concept, a dream. When one had a b'day or one got a raise or one had something good happen to them, we would tease them to take us to the Taj. The Taj was our purported gateway to the 'posh' life. The Taj Mahal Palace and Tower in Bombay was aptly located adjacent to the Gateway of India. I have never had the good fortune of entering it's hallowed portals, but it was like a mothership. A spring that replicated it's presence through creating the Taj chain of hotels throughout India. We never had to explain to anyone the particular Taj we visited. A mere 'We are at the Taj' sufficed.
In medical school, we had a Taj close by. We would wait with bated breath for them to announce their famous midnight buffets (also known as 'leftover buffets') and an army of hungry medical students would converge at the Taj at the stroke of midnight. We would go to the Taj to watch a game of cricket and even though the steward knew we would sit for eight hours and only order one coffee (usually cold coffee with ice cream) and one plate of fries (which would remain largely untouched) he made sure he gave us the best seats in the house. He would generously give us discount coupons and pamper us like only the Taj can. It was like taking the famous Indian hospitality and serving it to us in generous dollops. We have a tradition at our medical school, the class socials. One social at the end of year 1 and the second at the end of med school. They were always held at the Taj. The girls draped in their best sarees and the boys in their finest suits. This was the Taj to us. Sometimes, when I had a long, calamity-filled duty night - when I had been up for more than 24 hours and got off duty in the morning - I would get on my motorbike and ride down to the Taj and have scrambled eggs and coffee while politely turning down an offer of orange juice.
We grew older. We had more income (Lol). We would meet up at the Taj. We would catch up on old times. When two of my closest friends got married recently, we went to the Taj in that city and as we like to say 'chilled out'. The Taj gave us a home away from home. We were as comfortable in the Taj as we were standing at a 'gaadi' (mobile food cart) and sipping on chai.
To even begin to fathom what happened on 26/11 is close to impossible. I do not want to talk about my anger against the perpetrators of this nightmare, or rant against the failure of the system to protect it's own, or even explain to others how India has always cherished peace, or how everyday life is in India.
The tales of ordinary men and women demonstrating extraordinary bravery during this ordeal are many. Be it a railway-station announcer who dodged bullets to shepherd people to safety or the soon-to-be-married commando who stormed into the line of fire with scant regard for his own life or the staff at the Taj who served food and drink to people trapped on that fateful day. It is undeniable that the staff at the Taj saved many lives. They took their oath of service at the priceless cost of their own lives. I salute my Taj.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Ballad of the Violin-Maker
He seated himself on his bench. Doing what he did best. Better than anyone else. Maestro. They came for him from far and wide. He knew that each one he crafted was unique. Life of its own. Independent. They praised his skill to the sky. Ne Plus Ultra. Perfection. He never let them down. Never. Each one's need he made his own. Personal. His hands adroitly created these beautiful pieces.
This was all he knew. His life dedicated to genesis, to the birth of music so haunting it would melt the hardest of hearts. He worked till dusk and began at dawn while his clientele waited with a pretense of patience. Gently he would mould the wood, gingerly he would string the violin. Perfection every inch of the way. Carefully he would place it in eager hands. They would try. Joy would erupt in every sinew of his body. Create. Listen. Create. Listen. He learned to listen. All the time. To their tunes. To their stories.
One day. A little girl. Came across the violin-maker. He looked up and saw her. First time that someone came. Without needing a violin. He was puzzled. Unsure of what to do. What to say. She said all of one word. "Play". Shock. Clumsily he picked up a violin. Like a child taking it's first steps. Uncertain of direction. He picked up the fiddle. It felt strange in his hand. He had never held it in this way ever before. He looked at her again. Almost like she knew what he needed to do next. She was waiting. Oblivious to the turmoil in his mind. The realization, now fully formed struck him like an avalanche. A bolt of lightning.
He never learned to play. Too invested in making was he. Like a bird that would never flap its wings. Too tied up in serving others was he. Like love that was trapped in a heart. He never sat on that bench again.
Fin.
This was all he knew. His life dedicated to genesis, to the birth of music so haunting it would melt the hardest of hearts. He worked till dusk and began at dawn while his clientele waited with a pretense of patience. Gently he would mould the wood, gingerly he would string the violin. Perfection every inch of the way. Carefully he would place it in eager hands. They would try. Joy would erupt in every sinew of his body. Create. Listen. Create. Listen. He learned to listen. All the time. To their tunes. To their stories.
One day. A little girl. Came across the violin-maker. He looked up and saw her. First time that someone came. Without needing a violin. He was puzzled. Unsure of what to do. What to say. She said all of one word. "Play". Shock. Clumsily he picked up a violin. Like a child taking it's first steps. Uncertain of direction. He picked up the fiddle. It felt strange in his hand. He had never held it in this way ever before. He looked at her again. Almost like she knew what he needed to do next. She was waiting. Oblivious to the turmoil in his mind. The realization, now fully formed struck him like an avalanche. A bolt of lightning.
He never learned to play. Too invested in making was he. Like a bird that would never flap its wings. Too tied up in serving others was he. Like love that was trapped in a heart. He never sat on that bench again.
Fin.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A Writing We Will Go
So, I decided. To write. Letter.Note. Netter? Portmanteau. The hunt began. Had to find a pen. Pen had to have some ink in it. Nib had to be unbroken. Found! Glory. A battle won. The war, however remained. Needed paper. Parchment. Papyrus, where art thou? Obtained! Another kingdom conquered. I was on a roll. Sat myself in comfortable position. Favored beverage close at hand. Sara crooning to me. Ready.
Nib touched paper. My eyes opened in wonder. Wow. It started drizzling. The Gods themselves had opened a heavenly peephole to witness this rare event. Human writing letter by hand. I ignored them. Task at hand. Gritted my teeth. Furrowed brow. The rusty brain began noisily. Tongue slightly out. A la Michael. I went forward bravely. Began. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. Stopped to wipe sweat from forehead. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. I had to stop again. Like going to the gym after 7 years. Pooped. Word count. Nine. This was hard work. Not my forte. Must. Carry. On. I proceeded. Finished both sides of one sheet. The hand ached. The brain pained. I was done.
Spellcheck. Innocent thought. F7. No! Not available. Eepers! I was done for. Got over it. Looked again. Some lines went northeast, others showed a propensity for the south. The handwriting although never the best looked like it had been forced out of retirement while in the middle of a siesta. Egad! For a second, I entertained thoughts of a Control A, change font to Arial. 'No can do, Sir', said the letter. Got over it. Again.
Fine. Now the sending. Resources? Envelope? Nope. Stamps? A snowball in hell had a better chance. Panic. Suddenly. In the field of vision. A familiar silver-grey object. Scanner, baybeeee. Fancy me. Did the needful (describing scanning is trite). Emailed it as an attachment (do you feel more at home with that statement, Oh 5 people who read this blog?).
I was exhausted. Planned a vacation. Took a nap.
Nib touched paper. My eyes opened in wonder. Wow. It started drizzling. The Gods themselves had opened a heavenly peephole to witness this rare event. Human writing letter by hand. I ignored them. Task at hand. Gritted my teeth. Furrowed brow. The rusty brain began noisily. Tongue slightly out. A la Michael. I went forward bravely. Began. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. Stopped to wipe sweat from forehead. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. I had to stop again. Like going to the gym after 7 years. Pooped. Word count. Nine. This was hard work. Not my forte. Must. Carry. On. I proceeded. Finished both sides of one sheet. The hand ached. The brain pained. I was done.
Spellcheck. Innocent thought. F7. No! Not available. Eepers! I was done for. Got over it. Looked again. Some lines went northeast, others showed a propensity for the south. The handwriting although never the best looked like it had been forced out of retirement while in the middle of a siesta. Egad! For a second, I entertained thoughts of a Control A, change font to Arial. 'No can do, Sir', said the letter. Got over it. Again.
Fine. Now the sending. Resources? Envelope? Nope. Stamps? A snowball in hell had a better chance. Panic. Suddenly. In the field of vision. A familiar silver-grey object. Scanner, baybeeee. Fancy me. Did the needful (describing scanning is trite). Emailed it as an attachment (do you feel more at home with that statement, Oh 5 people who read this blog?).
I was exhausted. Planned a vacation. Took a nap.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
A Letter from the Prime Minister of Procrasti Nation
Loyal citizens of Procrasti,
Greetings! It is I, your Prime Minister. I meant to send this message two months ago, but true to form I am sending it now. I write this letter to bring to your attention an important legislation that I intend to introduce this Fall (er..maybe Winter). It is vital that you inform yourself of the nuances of this law-to-be. I intend to abolish all time-indicating devices. I think Procrasti will thrive without these infernal things. I am of course talking about clocks, watches, even the tiny spaces on your computers and cellphones that indicate the time. Off with their heads, I say. This will be followed by universal abolishing of the use of calendars. No more two week deadlines. No more finish-by-COB-Friday. Without this nuisance we will be blissfully unaware of when a week went by or even if today was indeed Friday. These measures would only serve the principles and values laid out by the founding fathers of this great nation. The forces of efficiency are upon us and threaten to shake the very foundations of our existence as a peace-loving, postponing people.
Therefore, I beseech you, my fellow Procrastinators to get behind me and the nation to support this crucial endeavor. Time is of essence now so that it need not be of essence in the future (Heh Heh Joke). Think about it. Now, you can keep putting off writing that SOP, delay mowing that lawn, keep adding to that to-do list and not feel an iota of guilt.
I have full confidence in you to do the right thing. Remember, together we can and we will..postpone.
Yours truly,
Your Prime Minister
Greetings! It is I, your Prime Minister. I meant to send this message two months ago, but true to form I am sending it now. I write this letter to bring to your attention an important legislation that I intend to introduce this Fall (er..maybe Winter). It is vital that you inform yourself of the nuances of this law-to-be. I intend to abolish all time-indicating devices. I think Procrasti will thrive without these infernal things. I am of course talking about clocks, watches, even the tiny spaces on your computers and cellphones that indicate the time. Off with their heads, I say. This will be followed by universal abolishing of the use of calendars. No more two week deadlines. No more finish-by-COB-Friday. Without this nuisance we will be blissfully unaware of when a week went by or even if today was indeed Friday. These measures would only serve the principles and values laid out by the founding fathers of this great nation. The forces of efficiency are upon us and threaten to shake the very foundations of our existence as a peace-loving, postponing people.
Therefore, I beseech you, my fellow Procrastinators to get behind me and the nation to support this crucial endeavor. Time is of essence now so that it need not be of essence in the future (Heh Heh Joke). Think about it. Now, you can keep putting off writing that SOP, delay mowing that lawn, keep adding to that to-do list and not feel an iota of guilt.
I have full confidence in you to do the right thing. Remember, together we can and we will..postpone.
Yours truly,
Your Prime Minister
Thursday, July 31, 2008
To.do.
12 months. Do things. Vide Infra. Blog about each experience. Idea.
In random order,
1) Learn Spanish. Visit Spanish-speaking country and achieve passing grade from local. Blog in Spanish. Estupendo.
2) Adopt a dog and call him Jack.
3) Work in a third country i.e. other than Country of origin and current country of residence
4) Learn the guitar. Learn 'Hotel California'. Gulp. Easily the toughest. Retire after.
5) Develop blueprint for a NGO. Supercool. Must. Find. Idea.
6) Run a half-marathon. Run, Bjorn, Run.
7) Salsa. Without stepping on her feet.
8) Volunteer. A lot.
Add more. You. I. Let's do this.
In random order,
1) Learn Spanish. Visit Spanish-speaking country and achieve passing grade from local. Blog in Spanish. Estupendo.
2) Adopt a dog and call him Jack.
3) Work in a third country i.e. other than Country of origin and current country of residence
4) Learn the guitar. Learn 'Hotel California'. Gulp. Easily the toughest. Retire after.
5) Develop blueprint for a NGO. Supercool. Must. Find. Idea.
6) Run a half-marathon. Run, Bjorn, Run.
7) Salsa. Without stepping on her feet.
8) Volunteer. A lot.
Add more. You. I. Let's do this.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
The Last Laugh
When I set my eyes on my father’s body, the first thing I noticed was the smile he still had on. For all posterity. I had never seen someone close to me die before this. There is this period when your emotional apparatus goes on a search to seek out the appropriate body language. The proper reaction. The areas governing grief in my brain were yet to be contacted and this gave me time to respond to my daddy’s smile. I smiled back. Almost chuckled did I.
My father and I, for 23 years of knowing each other (well 22 years and 355 days to be precise) had an ongoing battle of wits. Now, people who know me well will be quick to point out that I would be unlikely to contribute much to this war. This is true. I agree with this pedantic observation of my near and dear ones. I truly do. What made this competition far more lopsided were two things. One was that my father was just too quick for anyone. Champ. Two. I was a bit too keen to go to battle sans armor and shield. Foolish orangutan (No offence meant to orangutans). Throughout my life I would offer myself as meat to this merciless God and would be taken to the cleaners with amazing regularity. Be it cricket or politics or grammar or the weather or even questioning one’s parentage, I was clobbered. I always came back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. On Sundays even fifths. The defeats I suffered were not mere losses. They were massacres. Routs. Ruin-creating processes.
The man through his smile had left his lasting legacy apropos our tête-à-têtes like a tattoo in my cerebral cortex. You know what they say. He who laughs last, laughs best. You win dad. You got me. You got us all. Miss you.
For you, DBR. For you being you. For me.
My father and I, for 23 years of knowing each other (well 22 years and 355 days to be precise) had an ongoing battle of wits. Now, people who know me well will be quick to point out that I would be unlikely to contribute much to this war. This is true. I agree with this pedantic observation of my near and dear ones. I truly do. What made this competition far more lopsided were two things. One was that my father was just too quick for anyone. Champ. Two. I was a bit too keen to go to battle sans armor and shield. Foolish orangutan (No offence meant to orangutans). Throughout my life I would offer myself as meat to this merciless God and would be taken to the cleaners with amazing regularity. Be it cricket or politics or grammar or the weather or even questioning one’s parentage, I was clobbered. I always came back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. On Sundays even fifths. The defeats I suffered were not mere losses. They were massacres. Routs. Ruin-creating processes.
The man through his smile had left his lasting legacy apropos our tête-à-têtes like a tattoo in my cerebral cortex. You know what they say. He who laughs last, laughs best. You win dad. You got me. You got us all. Miss you.
For you, DBR. For you being you. For me.
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