Uplifting experiences

My office is on the tenth floor and I have not been inspired enough by the fitness freaks to use the stairs, thanks to the pull of gravity on a lost battle of bulge which rules out walking up, and creaking knees that stoutly warn against attempting the reverse. I have therefore opted for the elevators, though I have to jostle for space with numerous women who get into the one going up even if they had to descend or vice versa, because this gives them the chance to catch up with the world and their aunt on the way. 

There are four elevators in this building and I have named them Speedy, Snappy, Grumpy, and Slow-coach. It stands to reason that I would opt for Speedy every day. Speedy does its job briskly and efficiently and even its doors clang shut with an air of professionalism. Alas, Speedy has proved to be devious by nature and cleverly given my floor a go-by. I would have had to chuck my ego aside and take the lift to and fro the ninth floor, if I wanted to make the nodding acquaintance blossom into a permanent relationship.

Instead, I toyed with the idea of showering my affections on Snappy, because it is the newest kid on the block, visits only the even-numbered floors and does so stylishly, to the tune of a peppy jingle. But being too smart by half, Snappy, has a spat with the lift operator ever so often, and then sulks all day in the basement. If brought back into the fray, Snappy insists on making a whooshing sound up and down, a sort of cheeky ‘My bad’ statement. How can you win allies if you persist in being irreverent is something no one has taught this brat.

That leaves me with the difficult choice between Grumpy and Slow coach. You might, at this point, stop to ponder about the similarity between Snappy and Grumpy, given the fact that their names are so similar. I must hasten to clarify that Grumpy is not given to fits of temper. It is always in a bad mood. For the life of me I have never been able to read the digit on the panel that indicates whether Grumpy is coming or going, and if so, which floor exactly it is gracing with its presence. Perhaps its sensitive nature has been offended due to muttered epithets uttered in its confines, but that can only be expected. If you do happen to favour Grumpy even one day, it thumbs its nose at you and stops at every floor, regardless of whether that floor has any takers. The tune belted out is melancholy and Grumpy draws a deep, shuddering breath every now and then, giving you the sinking feeling that you are about to join the netherworld shortly thereafter.

Ideally, Slow-coach should win the contest hands down with its consistent style of operation. It doesn’t have any moods, being stoic by temperament. The fan is slow and you are not subjected to gusts of cold or hot air that leave you shivering and sweating in the wrong season. There are sonorous announcements at every floor and the doors swing open courteously for every latecomer; our good friend frowns upon all expression of unbecoming haste. But the flip side to this abundance of dignity is that too much gravitas makes Slow-coach a dull boy.

At the end of it, nail-biting decisions stare me in the face every time I face the elevator doors. Whichever lift I opt for, I’m agonized by the thought that I could have been zipping up or down, had I but chosen any of the others as my friend, philosopher and guide. After stepping out finally, I invariably stop, swivel around and stare at their individual panels to find out the status, discover that as usual I had made the wrong choice, and then proceed to wallow in my own misery. The daily stress has become quite nerve-wracking. I think the solution to mastering these ten floors, is to enroll for a crash course in wall climbing with Spiderman. Either the course will take care of the daily problem or the crash will solve the issue for all times. 

Birds of a feather

Whoever coined the phrase ‘bird-brained’ ought to have his head examined. It goes without saying that the person must be the male of the species Homo sapiens; women would never have dismissed the opposition so summarily, lulling us into a false sense of complacency as it were, about our superiority vis-à-vis the inhabitants of the sky. This last is written with considerable passion after having waged a futile war with the romantic pair of pigeons that came home to roost---only their idea of home and mine clashed horribly. My open and transparent admission of my feelings did not deter them one bit from cooing in tandem, all the while gazing unblinkingly at me with ruby-red eyes.

I always knew I was popular; friends are forever flocking to my home to enjoy evenings of merriment. But how magnetic a personality I am was, alas, never fully revealed till very recently. Every morning there were tell-tale signs of our nocturnal visitors who left their calling cards in the balcony. Initially, I airily referred to them as shy denizens of the neighbourhood who hesitate to strike a conversation in the bright light of day. It became less and less a laughing matter when the volume and frequency of their unannounced visits began to take a toll on the general upkeep of their favourite pecking place. Light laughter gave way to clenched jaw, till finally the lady of the house progressed from a frazzled bundle of nerves into a hard-eyed foe of the romancing pigeons.

My first strategy was the use of shock tactics. Without warning, I’d spring into the balcony, letting loose blood-curdling yells. But every such action had the same reaction. Emitting squawks of disapproval, my feathered unfriends would rise high and settle down in the near vicinity, to glare reproachfully at me from a respectful distance. Needless to add, they inevitably winged their way back the moment Enemy Number One was out of the picture. Scream I, II and III thus fell completely flat; in any case, the family was always more startled by these piercing screeches and the birds only warbled in appreciation of the shrill pitch of voice.

Stage Two of the war of nerves commenced. I now attempted to run them off my property by brandishing a pelmet rod above my head every time I declared war. And I did it silently, sans the warning battle cry. The result was the same to a‘t’. Except that I almost gave a nasty gash with the rear end of the aluminum rod to hubby dear and he had rather a lot to say on the matter in his habitually forceful tone. It made me quail while the undivided objects of my affection smirked from their perch on the window sill, to which they had fluttered away in deliberate slow motion.

By now the grey matter was fully occupied with the task of out-witting and out-maneuvering. One concerted attempt was made to get the maintenance guys to install a grill but they were unmoved. Finally I decided that warm winter afternoons and pleasant summer evenings must perforce be relegated to the past. Using the best innovative skills at my command, I got hold of a gaudy bedcover and blocked the entire balcony entrance with it, doing a veritable song and dance a la Anarkali in the bargain. Sadly, the audience didn't comprise an adoring Salim. Suffice to say, at the end of the exercise, I could empathise with her walled-in feelings.

The one thing I could now be smugly certain of, was victory; the birds were sure to die of embarrassment when spotted haunting a home which displayed such garish colours. But there’s no accounting for taste. My morale was shattered when I spotted a familiar figure trying to sidle in through the brick-high space between two horizontal slabs of the balcony wall. I have personally found the space neither an architectural marvel nor the answer to a housewife’s prayer, but obviously the contractor was a closet ornithologist and it was of great use to some living beings who I-do-not-wish-to-name-but- whose-identities-can-be-guessed.

Tiredly I told my chappie to block the space with bricks, so he stole down in the dead of night to do the needful. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that I’d probably end up behind bars for appropriating public goods, but I was past caring by now. There was heavenly respite at last—and a halt to unwanted fly-by-night operations. I heaved a sigh of relief and since the thought didn’t seem to have struck anyone else, was lavish in praising myself for never giving up. The next morning I sailed into the balcony with a smile on the lips and cheer in the eye, to be greeted by a slumbering bird which flapped its wings in annoyance at this thoughtless intrusion. The selfsame creature then went unerringly to the edge of the violently pink bedcover and pulled it aside with its beak, finally exiting into the great blue yonder with a backward triumphant glance at me. In complete silence, I re-assessed my options and then put a brick on the edge of the bed-cover to fix it tight against the wall. I didn't bother to flash the Victory sign this time round.

Next thing I know is the patter of little feet on the false ceiling of my office chamber. I’m absolutely certain it’s the same dratted duo. After all, if they can carry Salman Khan’s love messages across hundreds of miles; why not fly a quarter of the distance to persecute the one who has hard-heartedly disrupted their lovey-dovey plans? I fancy I espied one of them yesterday, staring balefully at me from the office balcony, and am now waiting for the next close encounter with the featherweight champions. They will, undoubtedly, coo the last laugh!          

Bijli chali gayi

This is neither an epitaph nor a tribute, as words can never hope to capture the effervescence and sheer liveliness that characterized Nupur—my chirpy and sparkling cousin, who, with her ready repartee and infectious laughter, brightened up any gathering, and succeeded in bringing a reluctant smile to the face of even the most serious souls.

But why say ‘bijli chali gayi’? Nupur’s dazzling complexion made her the cynosure of all eyes, and simultaneously, the envy of all the numerous cousins in our larger-than-life family. (In fact, it was during one such family wedding, that she earned this befitting sobriquet.) Coupled with a bubbling personality and an irrepressible zest for life, it led to her being compared to ‘bijli’ in more ways than one. During any family wedding, she would flit around the wedding arena, dressed in a bright pink or dark purple lehenga, laughing, joking, and pulling the leg of many a hapless individual. No sooner would the wedding procession led by the bashful groom arrive, than she—with the rest of us hovering around like coy companions—would greet them with the lively folk songs that characterize a typical marriage in Bihar.

The word ‘Nupur’ means the tiny bells on an anklet. And the gracefulness, with which she did the bamboo dance for Sports day in College, proved that Nupur had not been wrongly named. Her nimble footwork and agile steps enthralled all—so much so, that our Principal sought her out and specially congratulated her on her performance. This singular honour would have gone to anyone’s head, but Nupur, with her characteristic simplicity, just took it in her stride.

Basically, she was one mischievous kid. The nursery school she attended included, among other examinations, a test on how neatly a child ate his or her food. Nupur, all of six years old, was the first to finish her food, and, angelic smile firmly in place, shyly accepted the teacher’s compliments. With her trademark grin, later she confided that she had gently brushed aside all the remnants with her foot, so that they were found below the table of her unsuspecting neighbour.

As children, our main activity was to do a vanishing act at critical moments, so as to avoid getting caught for the mundane and humdrum household tasks, which are the bane of any summer holiday. This involved quick thinking, and Nupur was a master in that. Mysterious disappearance in the morning, and a silent reappearance in the afternoon, when Chachi was asleep, was the winning formula. Nupur would creep in quietly and smuggle out two large mango pickles before she was noticed and uncomfortable questions asked. If we were caught in some naughty endeavour, her quick-wittedness extricated us from the sticky situation and concomitant ire of a heavy-handed relative.

The mischief did not give way to sobriety even after she became an adolescent. My mind goes back in time and space to one classic occasion when she was traveling on rickshaw with her father, a professor by profession and a strict disciplinarian by nature. The rickshaw almost overturned on one horribly potholed stretch, and Chacha exclaimed angrily that she had almost knocked him off. “Papa, don’t give me ideas!” was the saucy rejoinder, vintage Nupur style.

Nobody could remain angry with her for long or even indifferent. Though during her illness, the sparkle was subdued, traces of the old Nupur surfaced every now and then, and one felt that nothing had changed much. If you were burdened with worry, she was ready with a smile and a joke to lighten up the moment and make you believe that this too shall pass.

  

It is now more than seven years since Nupur decided to leave us to our earthly pursuits. Her passing, for me, is the passing of an era--of laughter, of childhood pranks, of enduring innocence. Like a bird, she has winged her way to the eternal blue skies, while we grapple with the unvarnished truth—that there will never be another like her.

                                     

You've got to be Dillogical

She had always had an unblemished record of efficiency but over the years, age had taken its toll. She no longer inspired confidence and looked worn out, even imbalanced, as though one shoulder was higher than the other. Worse still, there was a distinct asthmatic wheeze which escalated into a rattling cough, when performing the smallest task. It was all very distressing but everyone glossed over it, not wanting the question to be raised, as to why at all she was still around. 

But sooner or later all hell was bound to break loose. The irritant became a full-blown crisis one day, when she seemed to have had a complete breakdown. What was appalling was that she had even forgotten all the instructions given! ‘A classic case of short term memory loss’ I joked to the spouse as his brows drew close in a familiar frown. The line, which normally never failed to evoke a smile, fell completely flat and he left the room muttering something about not putting up with the situation any longer. I thought this was it—finally. My mind went back over the last several years of our association. The children had been so delighted when she first joined the household. How had the deterioration taken place to this extent that we were now forced to move on?

I decided to try and reach out to her one last time. With infinite patience, though that has never been my forte, I tried to coax some response. My efforts seemed to be stonewalled initially, but I persisted, my confidence growing by infinitesimal bits. There was one faint positive reaction and then the final breakthrough. The problem was nothing more than slight fatigue in coping with additional physical burden, and some amount of memory slippage. I announced triumphantly to the spouse that the secret was to be patient and not start banging your fist on the table, upsetting the fragile balance even more.

That was the only understanding the old lady had craved, but we were too impatient and busy to read the signals correctly. However, empathy had won the day and declared me the winner. It was a Eureka like discovery in terms of diagnosis and treatment, and ridiculous in its sheer simplicity—keep only one sheet of paper in the paper tray and give a command to print only one page at a time. Armed with this sure-shot formula for victory, I printed out the 60 pages of my daughter’s assignment, well in time. The pages came out crisp and without a crease, with every line in sharp focus—a very smart looking document in all.

And thus will our grand old lady, the HP DeskJet printer live on, to teach many an impatient younger generation about being intuitive rather than only analytical—and more importantly, that the old are more than worth their weight in gold.

At sea on the road

It is better to travel than to arrive is a trite statement most of us use when in a philosophical mood. In Delhi, one recites this like a mantra whenever out on the roads as a sort of chant to ward off the evil eye, namely, the skyrocketing blood pressure. A mundane thing like venturing out on a dinner invitation often makes one feel like the original intrepid explorer. Dozens of vehicles all anxious to clear the traffic signal obligingly clog the free left lane. Buses growl and cars blare shrilly at each other. Ladies driving their cars are gainfully employed in checking out their make-up in the rearview mirror; the male drivers, with fists balled up, are more than ready with a string of curses. Should you miss the ‘cut’, you’ve to battle with one-way roads as hostile as enemy territory, feeling totally at sea quite like the ancient mariner. Finally you arrive, triumphantly shouting ‘Eureka’, by which time the harried hostess has served dessert. No, there’s no food at home; I’ve given the maid off, you hiss to the spouse who seems determined to head for the exit.

Traffic pangs have, however, the proverbial silver lining, in the form of empathy-laden conversations between the most incurable wallflowers. Tongue-tied souls lay bare their emotions about life in general, and this dinner invitation in particular, being nothing but one long journey. Determinedly cheerful hostesses trying desperately to enliven the desultory conversation, look gratefully at garrulous guests warming to the theme of the ubiquitous Ring Road. One has personally found the Ring Road a singularly uninspiring topic quite lacking in passion and romance, but is in an absolute minority here, as even the archetypal men of few words wax eloquent on the subject. A guest arrives inexcusably late but launches into an impassioned explanation about how he took a wrong left turn. The ladies don’t much care for it; they are anyway busy looking daggers at the latter’s wife who obviously took a detour via the beauty parlour.

The men react as one to the red herring about the route; there is a cacophony of voices, as two chaps point out the way with vigorous gestures and almost put the hapless fellow back into his car to do a replay following their directions. It’s all a question of perspective, states an opinionated gentleman taking the discussion to the realm of the abstract. Another Good Samaritan takes the lucky object of everyone’s attention aside and after writing his memoirs on the spot, proceeds to give him some inside information for the return journey. The guest is by now heartily cursing himself for not having made a beeline for the bar instead. Just then the last latecomer arrives and history repeats itself. The host joins in the fray, hospitably digging out a few dog-eared maps for good measure and the party truly begins to rock.

Fear is the key

Today’s hectic life demands that holidays also have a killing schedule. Art is long and time is short, so I chalked out a thrilling itinerary, wherein the children and I visited monuments at a break–neck pace. By the end of the second day the girls had become rather querulous, and finally lapsed into glassy eyed silence. Faced with the prospect of a mutiny, I was finally forced to wave the white flag in the form of a query as to whether they were interested in going to the Mall. The effect was magical. They discovered afresh the qualities of the aged relative which had hitherto been hidden under layers of history. Within no time, we were in a crowded Mall peopled by youngsters wearing impossible clothes. The object of the kids’ attention was the ‘Scary House’ show being touted as an experience to remember, so I bought four tickets—for my daughters Tanvee, a sedate youngster if ever there was one, Jayati five years her junior, and for Jayati’s bosom pal, Upasana, who had already seen the show and was therefore doubling as our friend, philosopher and guide.

We entered the dim interiors, heartened by Upasana’s whisper that it was going to be such fun. A ghost leapt at us with a blood-curdling yell—Jayati’s equal and opposite reaction was to bang on the door and scream to be let out. So we left her outside the entrance and came back in, with markedly less enthusiasm than before. There were some faintly lit stairs to be mounted and as we neared the top a mummified hand brushed across our faces, causing Tanvee to drop her spectacles and do an undignified jig around, screeching all the while. I told her to stand still and not crush the sole pair she possessed. Thereafter the thrills awaiting us had to be put on hold in favour of some more mundane business, namely, rummaging round on the floor. Finally, I located her spectacles and put them inside my bag, because something told me there would be repeat performances.

Determined not to be shaken by these developments we carried on and came up bang against the wall, so Upasana squeaked ‘which way do we go?’, to which a ghost, disgusted at having been pre-empted, said in as menacing a whisper as it could manage, ‘turn right.’ We turned the corner and there it was—a corpse, hanging by his neck and swaying gently from side to side. Tanvee let out a horrified shriek, slipped her hand into mine and then with another piercing yell, demanded to know whether the hand was mine or of some ghost that had crept up behind us. These chilling notions made the intrepid Upasana tremble with fear and she said ‘Aunty, please hold my hand as well.’ I gave both a brief lecture on how monuments had been far more enjoyable than this.

And thus we crept forward, with ghosts hissing sibilantly all around, until we came to the high point of the whole affair—a dead body on a cot which shot into you the moment you stealthily inched your way towards the exit and freedom. The ghosts luckily, had by now become unnerved by the prospect of getting a dressing down from this scolding adult and meekly let us go when I said sternly that enough was enough. Finally we were out, the two girls a quivering mass of nerves blithely greeted by an enviably cool and composed Jayati. Needless to add, we spent the rest of the holiday visiting museums and admiring objects d’ art sedately confined to glass cases. In management jargon, the takeaway from the experience was a distinctly reduced admiration of the redoubtable Harry Potter as it had been keenly felt by all that meeting up with ghosts on a one-to-one basis was a lot less than fun.

Ring, ring, why don't you give me a call

The excitement in the air was palpable whenever the telephone rang. This was the dinosaur era, better described as P.T.D, or Pre-TV Days. No doubt All India Radio was alive and kicking but it only occasionally broadcast songs, probably believing strongly that students should study in preparation of the infernal exams, and elders should meditate in preparation of their inevitable passing on. So radio programmes were either informative or spiritual lest the captive audience fall prey to the lures of vulgar entertainment. A critique of the simple living high thinking days of yore which made most people such crashing bores, is only too tempting a subject; one somehow drags oneself back to the topic of the ubiquitous telephone, our window to the world.

The shrillness of its ringing tones notwithstanding, there was an instant sense of anticipation as to who the lucky object of its affections would be. We would fall over ourselves in trying to reach the jangling instrument pronto, each mentally rehearsing the casually sophisticated tone in which ‘Hello’ would be essayed. However, the greeting was invariably a breathless one, the underlying note being one of triumph at having outpaced the siblings and reached the finishing line first.

The P&T department had generously allowed the consumer to choose any colour as long as it was black. And so, unprepossessing black instruments, quite frog-like in appearance, had pride of place in every home. This pompous bearer of tidings smugly looked down its nose at its humble companion, the sofa-cum-bed. Like rice on the dining-table, the sofa-cum-bed was the staple diet of every household since house guests tended to outnumber the host family at any given time. But the selfsame piece of furniture, though sedate in appearance like a quintessential aged relative, played its double role with élan.

One had never been the sociable, gregarious kind, and tended to retreat into the interiors of the home when guests descended. But the ringing tones of the phone were like Lorelei and drew one out like a magnet. Even at the risk of having to converse with the eagle eyed aunts of the colony, one dashed out in time to pick up the receiver and drawl a cool ‘Hello’. There was no caller ID or mobile phone screen to give a clue, and the anonymity of the caller added to the excitement. Was it a class-mate, friend, or—palpitations here—an admirer? Of course, it could very well be the neighbour, asking if we had any extra milk, or simply wanting to share the intricate design of the violently coloured sweater she had just knitted.

The suspense was always killing.  More often than not, the calls were from the control room, giving the lowdown on the transformer and frequency situation, and one mutely held out the receiver to Papa. Temporary setback no doubt, but it never deterred one from making the fifty metre dash next time round too. The very idea of Someone Calling Up made the most stoic heart go pitter-patter and the laziest feet, clitter-clatter.

But God forbid if you needed to place a long distance call through the telephone exchange. Subscriber Telephone Dialling had made its first, tentative forays only into large cities, and we had to content ourselves with booking trunk calls. So one’s stroke of luck started with any of the staff being present in the exchange to take note of the request. The average pleasant morning/ sunny winter afternoon were your determined rivals for their attention. Chatty ladies exchanging notes on recipes were apt to pick up on your fifth attempt and inform you helpfully that all lines were down since the past week and if they had their way,  for the foreseeable future as well.

I vividly remember the time I was expecting to get the results of one of the competitive examinations I had appeared for. The phone rang; I grabbed the receiver and held on to it with clammy hands. The gentleman at the other end proceeded to establish first that I was neither spy, alien nor criminal- in- the- making. He then melted sufficiently to ask me in tones of extreme friendliness whether I had decided to sit for a certain bank recruitment exam—‘Intehaan diye the ka’ is what I recall. Throat dry, I managed to croak a ‘yes’. He then said Papa had asked him to convey the result telephonically as the direct lines weren’t working.

My heart was hammering so hard I could barely hear him. Just then a long awaited ‘Shukla ji’ apparently decided to drop in, so Mr. Singh, my friend, philosopher and guide, decided to clarify the position on various sundry issues that had been niggling his conscience for a while. I was by now contemplating wrapping the dratted telephone cord around someone’s neck—no prizes for guessing whose—when Mr. Singh came back to the subject in hand with much reluctance and said ‘Haan to phir hum bata na rahe the, ki aapka ho gaya hai’. Whew! I had almost passed out by the time he imparted the news that I had been selected. But then I guess that’s why it’s all so fresh in the mind even after almost twenty-five years have elapsed since that momentous day.