Good Boy

I went to Ranchi for my first job. When I tell this to most people, they ask me if it was Mecon. Older people could ask me if it was HEC. Neither, I worked for a small private company.

Once I had settled down, I went around making friends and visiting people to whom I had been introduced - in absentia. One such was a professor who was my father's classmate. I was at home in his place. So much so that very soon, I was spending weekends under his roof.

On one such weekend, in December, it rained and it got very cold. I had hardly ever left Mysore in those days and this cold was really cold! We - his family and I - were sitting around chatting and the professor went in, brought a small bottle of brandy and gave a couple of spoonfuls of the contents to his son and daughter and then offered it to me too.

I declined. He wanted make me comfortable and hence cajoled me. "It is OK, it is purely medicinal, your father won't mind," etc,. I was resolute. He felt he could not persuade me and had a few spoonfuls of it himself and went in to replace the bottle.

His daughter, very pretty I must add, asked me with her eyes wide with wonder - "you never drink?" I said no. "Never? Not even as medicine?" she wanted to confirm, looking ready to be impressed

I said "No!" and added in a theatrical undertone, "At least, not in those quantities!"

Maaf Karo Saab

A few friends and I had been to Cal. No . . Not California, Calcutta. Cal being the undergraduate slang for Kolkotta nee Calcutta. A major book exhibition and a leather goods exhibition were the attractions. In the morning, five of us had reached the railway station on three bicycles. One the way back, we met another friend and hence we were six, we returned.

One was tired, another was not used to riding in the dark. Dark indeed, as there were no street lights either. We hired a rickshaw. A cycle rickshaw. We hated this inhuman mode of transport. Whenever we decided to hire one, we eased our consciousness by getting off it on upward gradients. We even pushed the rickshaw to help the rickshaw wallah (RW) cross the railway level crossing which was nowhere near level. We agreed to pay practically any fare the RW quoted and sometimes more.

As we started the cyclecade with two bicycle outriders, the unmistakable smell of alcohol and sweat hit us. The RW, obviously, had had a couple of shots.

We commented about it, made jokes about it. We speculated about our fate if the sozzled RW missed the gentle turn before a culvert and we all landed in the sewerage flowing undeneath. Vaitarani we called it.

After an incident free ride we arrived at the VS Hall (Vidya Sagar Hall) and alighted. I was about to pay the RW when he asked me, still breathing hard, sweat pouring down his cheeks - even on that cool early winter night, "Saab, you were talking about my being drunk, weren't you? You thought that I can not understand English. Saab, I can. I have passed BA. I can't speak English but I understand it well. What to do saab, I have to do this hard work for the sake of this traitorous stomach. I tried for a job. Without influence and money to bribe how can one get a job? I do this job. It is hard, Saab. At the end of the day, when I lie down, the whole body aches. The only way to ease the pain is to eat a little and drink. Pardon me Saab, I know it stinks."

He said all this without rancour, with very little self pity. Without anger. Without humiliation.

I have never felt smaller.

The Tendulkar

It was 1981. I was a member of a sales team of two, selling Sony professional and semiprofessional video equipment. My boss was one Minoo Adajania, a dapper, gentle, super methodical Parsi gentleman.

One day, he told me that he had got a lead that TISS (Tata Institute of Social Sciences) was looking for video equipment. He asked me to organise a meeting with the concerned. I called a contact in TISS. He told me that 'one Mr Vijay Tendulkar' was their adviser and should meet him. He gave me the phone number too.

I called the number and talked to Mr. Tendulkar. I got an appointment to meet him at his home. He gave me the directions to his house and was about to end the call when I said, "May I ask you something more sir?"

I asked him, "Sir, are you THE Vijay Tendulkar?" Pause on the other side.

"What do you mean by the Vijay Tendulkar?" he asked me gently.

"Shantata Court Chaalu Aahe and all that?" I said.

He laughed and said it was indeed he. Somehow, the sound of that easy laughter of his has stayed with me ever since.

Minoo and I went to his house on the appointed day. I knocked and we were asked to enter. There were footwear at the door and I automatically took my shoes and socks off. Minoo was horrified. He looked as if he was having second thoughts about trying to sell anything at all. Reluctantly he too took his shoes off but kept the socks on. I could visualise him going home and consigning his socks to the waste bin straight away.

When we entered the carpeted, Khadi - if I am not mistaken, hall, Vijay Tendulkar was sitting down on the floor leaning on a sloping desk. It was the kind of desk used by the 'Munimji' in Hindi movies. He indicated the floor - for us to sit down. The only pieces of furniture in the room were book filled shelves and some bolsters. I sat down comfortably, cross legged.

Minoo was at a loss. He kept his brief case down and slowly, very slowly, lowered himself to the floor. He looked as if he expected the stitches of his trousers to give way or his kneecap to fly off. When he had settled down, we began the most unusual business meeting I have ever attended - sitting on the floor cross legged.

Minoo did all the talking. Whenever he wanted to show a leaflet or a picture to our prospective customer I would go on my knees and point at the relevant thing to him. After about half an hour, suddenly Vijay Tendulkar asked, "Are all these things in colour?". We were eager to confirm that it was so, proud of the great Sony technology.

He said, decisively, "Then it does not suit us. You see, what we are trying to portray is poverty, hardship, the dirt and grime of the slums and such things. Colour glamourises everything. We don't want to glamourise all these things." That is it. It sounded final.

Even though I saw a business opprtunity slipping away inexorably, I could not help admiring the man's clear thoughts expressed so succinctly.

Perhaps Minoo's knees and ankles were hurting or he too was impressed by the definiteness in his voice, after a few feeble attempts to make him still consider the colour equipment, we had to leave. We did.

Minoo had great difficulty wearing his shoes again as there was no chair in sight. We walked to the nearest taxi stand and returned to the office. I was disappointed that we could not sell anything but elated that I had met THE Vijay Tendulkar.


The inimitable Vijay Tendulkar has passed away this morning. This is my small tribute to him.

Oracle

I was flying back from Mumbai to Bengaluru, in the company of a senior colleague. The thing started badly. When we got on to the aircraft, the a/c failed and it was unbearably hot. It was some time before it was set right.

We approached Bengaluru airport and then the aircraft started circling over it. No hint of landing. After some time, the captain announced that the ground staff had some problems keeping the runway lights on and hence we were circling. When we were over the airport again, I could see the runway lights go on and go off again.

After a few more flypasts, I told my companion, "Just watch. The captain will say that we are running out of fuel and hence we will fly to Chennai". It was just a hunch and I wanted to see if it would come true. It did.

After the captain had made the announcement, we could feel the aircraft straightening out on its trajectory and gaining height. There were whoops of joy and clapping by some co-passengers who were obviously from Chennai.

After we had stopped gaining height and leveled off, I told my companion, "Now, the captain will say that the runway lights are on and we will return to Bangalore". I could not believe it myself when that came to pass too. This time there were groans from Chennaiites and whoops of joy from Bangaloreans.

We could now feel the aircraft banking and heading back. After about ten minutes a logical thought came to mind. I had been in the Quality Assurance business for too long not to have great faith in the divine Murphy and his law. I asked my companion, "Sir, (he was my boss and that is how I normally addressed him) what if the runway lights go off as we near Bengaluru? The captain has already said that we are short on fuel. We can't even go back to Chennai..."

The poor man really paled. He was a particularly religious and superstitious man. To be fair to him a far more responsible man than I, by nature. Two of my predictions had already come true and now I was saying this! He protested and reassured himself that such a thing would not happen and I SHOULD not say such a thing.

I (cruelly, I admit) started laughing. His protests were stronger this time. He admonished me. "Don't laugh!? How CAN you laugh?" I could hear a sense of desperation in his voice. It tickled me further. I was and am an optimist. I KNEW (Don't ask me how. There is no sensible answer to that question.) that no such thing would happen. My first predictions coming true was mere chance. I laughed louder or at least with greater mirth. He now tried to order me not to laugh. The poor man was now sweating. He asked again, rhetorically, "How can you laugh?". I was insensitive enough to answer him. "Sir, if I have to die, I would rather die laughing.."

This direct talk of death was too much for him to bear. He ordered me to keep quiet. Finally some sense and sense of sympathy entered my thick skull and I relaxed and tried to tell him not to worry. He continued to sit stiff and perspire.

There is no need to tell you that we landed safely without much ado, is there?

Let me admit that the brave talk of dying laughing is as far as it goes. I wonder how I would have reacted if what I had predicted had come to pass too.

You would never know, would you?

Zürich Impressions

I had a large part of the day at my disposal. I saw the sights until early evening. I then visited a small company in rural Switzerland to deliver some PCBs for repairs. That was the reason for my visiting Zürich.

During the journey to and back from that village I experienced Swiss precision.

As I sat in the train, I was attracted to the clock on the platform. Its second hand did not move in jerks as I had seen in all other clocks before. This one moved evenly without stops for seconds. As I watched it, it touched 12. It was 1800 hrs and I could feel the pressure in the small of my back as the train moved. Wah, I thought. The ETD was 1800 Hrs.

It was a journey of about 40 minutes and delivering the PCBs took about 40 minutes. The train from the village back to Zürich was at 1952 hrs. It was due to arrive at the station at 1950 Hrs. My host from the company dropped me off at the station at 1940 Hrs or so. I bought the ticket and waited. The clock on the platform in this village was similar to the one in Zürich. Again, as I watched the clock, the train thundered in and the second hand reached 12 the trains came to a halt. It was 1950 Hrs. Wah!, I thought again. The synchronisation with the second hand was repeated at 1952 Hrs when the train started, the same pressure in the small of the back.

I was curious about the time the train reached Zürich and did as expected. Should I say that the clock did as expected? It reached 12 as the train came to a complete halt, at the designated ETA.

I walked in the cool quiet streets of Zürich and reached my hotel. After freshening up a bit I went to the small restaurant attached to the hotel. I went to a small counter where people seemed to be ordering food and drinks and a petite pretty girl came to me across the counter and asked me what I wanted. She looked as if she was a student who was earning some extra money a waitress in the evenings. She had that kind of abandon about her.

I said that I would have a beer as I looked at the menu. “Whatever you say Sir” she said and brought me my beer. I did not understand much of the menu anyway. I chose something that I thought would be good. The girl said “Sit at a table Sir and I will bring your order there.” I was actually surprised by her Sirs. It sounded very formal. At the same time, all through this interaction she had a casual carefree attitude and appeared to be flirting with everyone.

I took my beer to an unoccupied table and sat down. Zürich being full of tourists there were a lot of different kinds of people. I had an interesting time observing them. Soon, the girl brought me my single dish and placed it in front of me with a flourish, wished me a cheery Bon Appetit and went away. As I started eating the food, I realised right away that there was something wrong with it. I mean that there was something in it that did not agree with me.

I am allergic to the cooking medium that goes by the name Dalda in India. It is actually a hydrogenated vegetable oil. What happens is that my tongue becomes itchy and if I look at it in the mirror, I see a lot of small cuts on it. They do not bleed but they appear to be fairly deep cuts. Certain types of bananas also do this to me.

I went to the counter again and explained the matter to the girl. She went pale. She was profusely apologetic. It was almost comical. I said that it was not her fault but I had ordered it and there was hardly anything she could do about it. She was not ready to buy it. She said she would get a purely vegetarian salad for me and brought me a tomato salad. It had pieces and gratings of cheese and various herbs for aroma. It was bland but delicious. She also brought me another beer though I had not ordered it. She repeatedly came to the table from behind the counter to see how I was doing and to make sure, perhaps, that I had not conked out.

I really enjoyed that unusual meal, in spite of the fact that my throat was still itchy, a little.

At the end of the meal, I told her that it was good and asked for the bill.

She crossed her arms and said, “No bill Sir, compliments of the restaurant, Sir”.

You Men!

I flew into Zürich early in the morning. The flight from London was on time and the captain apologised and gave us some chocolates!

What happened was, once we were airborne the captain of the flight announced that the weather was excellent and we would be landing at Zürich twenty minutes ahead of schedule. However, as we neared Zürich, a ground fog crept in on the airport and hence there was a delay. With that delay, we landed on time. Still the captain sent large chocolates with his compliments, to all the passengers.

Once I reached the hotel where I was booked, I started the check in process and entered the customary details such as Name, Nationality, passport no. and then the date. I entered 22-10-1985. I then recalled that that was my birthday!

I knew that I would be in Zürich on my birthday but, the tensions of international travel had made me forget it, so early in the morning.

As I wrote it down I remarked to the dignified looking matronly receptionist, “Oh! I had forgotten. Today is my birthday.”

I must have triggered something deep inside her. Her shoulders sagged. She glared at me and the look was transformed to a look of pity and she said “Oh, you men, howwww cannnnn you forget your own birthdays. I can never understand this.” She shook her head pityingly and stared at an imaginary point, above my head, far away.

And then suddenly duty beckoned. She straightened up, forced a smile back to her face and shook me by the hand and wished me a happy birthday and a pleasant stay in Zürich.

I did have a great time except for a small hitch, which was also a pleasant incident, as the next post shows.

Silence

I landed in Heathrow and passed through immigration without a hitch and came out. I was supposed to catch a coach (aka bus) to Euston station and then catch a train to Staffordshire. I found my way to the bus stand just outside the terminal and boarded the bus.

Everything was strange. Whatever I had read and heard about England had not prepared me enough for the place. I was looking for something familiar. What I found was a factory of Brylcream! Unbelievably, the sight comforted me that I was not on an alien planet.

I started observing things around me - the seats of the bus, the glasses of it windows, the very few people on the bus…. In spite of all these things, I was feeling ill at ease. I was wondering what it was. Then I realised that it was the silence.

By this time, the bus had moved from the airport area outside the city to the city proper. There was a fair amount of traffic but no sounds. I had had problems with my ears on the aircraft thanks to the compression and decompression. I panicked as I thought that it had really affected my hearing. Then I tried to sort things out by listening to sounds that I was able to hear and estimate the extent of the damage. To my surprise I could hear the sounds within the bus. I could hear sounds such as the whirr of the blower of the air heater and the noise from the engine located outside the bus at the back. That meant that my hearing was functioning. Ah, that was a relief.

But then why was I not hearing any of the traffic noise - engine noises and horns being honked. Then it dawned on me that I could not hear all those things because there were no such noises.

Being accustomed to the noise of the then ubiquitous Ambassador cars and the incessant honking in India, I was not prepared for the silent traffic of London.

I stayed in England for three months and heard the horn being used only once. A very young cyclist rode on the wrong side of the road and came close to being run over by a car driven by an old man. The old man honked angrily and screamed at the boy – “you will kill yourself!”

That is it, for three months.

PS. I heard that there was a "hornless" day in Bombay recently. Wonder how successful it was. Please let me know, if you do.

Madrasi

My first job, Ranchi.

I was supposed to meet my new colleagues, for the first time, in the foyer of a hotel. I was supposed to meet a Bangali and a Sardar. The Bangali was also a new recruit of the company. This plan was made because the company did not have an office yet and the Sardar's house itself was the 'office'.

When I entered the foyer and asked for the Sardar at the reception desk, they had no clue. The Bangali was already there. He overheard me and came and introduced himself to me. Now both of us waited for the Sardar to arrive.

He walked in after the Bangali and I had the time to get to know each other and have a chat. As the Bangali and I introduced ourselves to him, there was some confusion in the Sardar's. I noticed it and wondered why.

After some days, the Sardar told me the reason for his confusion. When he saw a dark, snub nosed, short man and a fair, long nosed (Aryan, according to him) and tall man, it was “obvious” to him that these were the “Madrasi” (even though I was from Mysore, Karnataka) and the Bangali respectively.

When the introduction was the other way round, of course, there was confusion.

This is something that I came across very often in those days and those parts*.

*See “Mysore? Dirty Place!"

Made in …

I was, in October 1985, in the coastal town of Bude in the west coast of England for a weekend. I arrived there after a long journey by bus and train and was really tired. I checked into a small hotel and decided to take a shower before exploring the town.

I went into the small cubicle of the bathroom and had a hot refreshing shower. I pulled the huge turkey towel from the rack and started drying myself. The feeling was extraordinary. The towel was huge and soft and very absorbent. I was dry in a jiffy. I fell in love with the towel and decided to find out where it came from and buy one exactly like that – provided, of course, that I could afford it.

I looked for the label and stood there staring at it. Binny, proclaimed the label. And very helpfully clarified, “Made in Bangalore”. Right 'next door' from Mysore, where I came from.

Not “Made in India” mind you!

Marx

I was visiting London on a weekend. My aim was to see the grave of Karl Marx in Highgate cemetery. When I went there I discovered that there were two parts to the cemetery, old and new. I also found that “Marx is in” the new part and I made my way to the grave.

As I was walking along, I came across a lady and she cheerfully informed me, “Karl Marx is here you know!” “That is why I am here!” I informed her, equally cheerfully.

Her reaction intrigues me even today.

She gave me a ‘haughty’ “there are others too you know.” and stomped off.

Perhaps, the fact that the ‘devil incarnate’ Marx was buried there was of scandal value to her and the fact that this black man had come only to see the grave of Marx must have offended her.

I did discover that there were, indeed, ‘others’ too. Great men I admired and hero-worshipped in my boyhood: Michael Faraday, for instance.

As I was walking around, I heard one of the people say “Do you know? Bronowski is here?” For a moment I was confused. I thought Bronowski was dead. Then I saw what the person meant. There was a small square plaque marking the place where Jacob Bronowski is buried.

I also meat a dear old lady at the grave of Marx and she described herself as an American Communist. I made the mistake of saying, “I did not know that such a thing existed.” Of course, I was being flippant. I knew the many American communists past and present. I had read and heard a lot about their witch-hunt by MacCarthyism. And many more who were branded as a red, pinko, commie and persecuted - definitely one of the darkest periods in American history.

The lady later sent me a book written by her husband about his experiences in jail.

(Picture from wikimedia)

Propganda - Did You say?

It was the year 1985. I was in England for three months. As it was my first foray outside India it was an eye opener, in many ways.

While there, my colleagues and I had the opportunity to talk to many people. We talked about various issues and often both they and we had to question our basic assumptions about various things.

One day, I said something about what I had read about ‘Russia’ – the Soviet Union, in fact. Alan, a genial Scot, dismissed it with, “Ah, there is so much of propaganda there”. That was a red rag to the bull in me. “Do you mean to tell me that you people in the ‘west’ are not propagandised?” He felt that there was no propaganda in the west.

I asked him to do an experiment. “Watch the news for the next one full week and observe the camera work carefully, whenever there was any news about the Soviet Union. Come back after that and we will talk about it”, I said. He agreed.

At the end of the week, he was back and had the grace or honesty to admit that there was, in fact, propaganda on British TV too.

What you would see is this. There is some news about the Kremlin. The camera slowly zooms in on the tall tower inside with the red star on its apex. But the camera is behind a fence. There is a large tree nearby whose branches have bowed low and you see the Kremlin through the fence, through the leaves of the low hanging branches. This unconsciously gives you the feeling that the cameraman is actually hiding while shooting.

You come away with the feeling that Russia was a very secretive place (Compared to the west, it was) where the brave BBC team went and shot at some risk (completely incorrect).

Propaganda, did you say?

I am guessing here when I talk of the two following incidents, but I have strong suspicion that my guesses are correct.

One of my senior colleagues from the marketing department had to go to the Soviet Union on business. On his return, he was describing what he saw there. “It is such a drab place. Apartment blocks after apartment blocks, all alike, like stacked boxes of matches.

My guess is that he had never sat in the window seat while flying to or from Bombay. If he had, he would have seen the slums stretching for kilometres in all directions. Then, he would have probably found the drab identical apartments beautiful.

Another instance was when a director of the company visited Japan and came back with glowing stories about their quality consciousness and the training everyone he met had undergone in matters quality. “Ask anyone and you get the same answer. They have been trained so well” was how he enthused about it all.

My guess is, if he had been to the Soviet Union instead and had seen something similar, he would have come back and wrinkled his nose and said “Aw, they are all brain washed. You ask anyone and you get the same answer”.

I guess, I guess right.

Two Languages

In England, my land lady and I were having a chat about things Indian - the number of languages, the many dialects and such things. I took out a currency note and showed the languages on it.

My landlady, Sandra, asked how many languages I knew. Three: Kannada – my mother tongue, Hindi that I had (not) studied in school but had learnt in Ranchi, and English. I knew a wee bit of Bangali too as most of my friends in Ranchi were Bangalis. I had learnt the script and could read at least the name boards.

How about other Indians? Most educated Indians know two languages, at least, and many know more, etc. Not an exact picture, but the best possible one.

My landlady said, pensively and self deprecatingly, “I can manage only two languages myself”.

The daughter, Sarah, was incensed that her mother was lying. “Momma, what two languages do you know?”

“English and slang…..”

Sehr Gut!

I was returning from a sojourn in Europe. Three months in England and a fortnight “on the continent”. My port of exit was Zurich and I had hours to spend before the flight home. I had walked through the whole airport and found myself near a watering hole. Suddenly the idea of a beer felt very appealing.

I had never had a drink alone. I thought that it was as good a first as any and went into the bar. I pushed myself up on to the bar stool. Promptly, the burly bartender with a walrus moustache and huge belly came to me and asked “what can I give you sir?”

“A beer.”

“Which one sir?”

The only name that popped up (or the only one I knew?) was Heinekin. “Heinekin”, I said.

The bartender looked offended, almost.

“We serve only Swiss Beers here sir”, he said, imperiously.

I had to ask him.

“What do you recommend?”

“A Halden Gut* sir”, he replied without hesitation.

“Halden Gut it is, then”, I said. He did not look like a man one could easily disagree with, especially after offending him with the name of a Dutch beer.

He smiled and plomped a huge mug of beer, which looked appetizing. I was suddenly thirsty and took a long swig. It tasted good.

The bartender was scrutinizing me closely. “Good?”, he asked.

I decided to undo some of the offence I had caused by ordering a Dutch beer. He sounded like a German speaking Swiss. I decided to try my luck with my meagre German. I said,

“Halden Gut, sehr gut” and nodded with approval, vigorously.

Now he beamed. Nodded jovially and went on to attend to another customer.

The one and the only Halden Gut I have had in my life.

Sehr gut!

* I looked for Halden Gut on Google after writing this and find that it is brewed by Heinekin Switzerland! Did the bartender not know? Or did it change hands after 1985, the dateline of this story? I do not know!

Van Gogh? Who?

I was in Eindhoven, in the Netherlands, for a three-month long stay there. On a Sunday, I went to the nearby village of Neunen. Being an admirer of Vincent van Gogh, I wanted to see the house he lived in when he was in Neunen and the house of his first, unrequited, love.

It is a small village and I thought that it would be easy to find the place. I walked around the totally deserted streets and saw no road signs pointing to the place I sought. I had assumed that there would be. I came across a statue of the man himself, walking with a satchel with art material on his back. Click!

Further down the road I came across a pub promisingly named after the very man I was after. Confident of getting the directions to Vincent’s place I walked into the pub and asked the lady cleaning the floor if she could direct me to the place van Gogh lived in. She had a blank look on her face. She did not even seem to know what I was talking about. She looked questioningly at the small bearded man sitting on a barstool, smoking, (he almost looked like a small version of Vincent himself!) who shook his head with certainty - he too did not know what I was talking about.

How could I go back, having come to Neunen, without seeing Vincent’s house?

There was a small coffee shop nearby. I had a coffee (and the free biscuit that comes with it in many Dutch coffee shops) and without much hope, asked the young lad manning the shop about Vincent’s house.

Yippee! He knew and gave me directions.

I could then see his (father’s) house, his lady love’s house, the church where his father preached, one of the churches that Vincent painted while in Neunen…..

Mission accomplished.

At the end of the long walk I came across an organisation connected with Vincent and a small museum run by it. I even learnt that they organise a tour of the village with Vincent as the theme – on weekdays! Alas I had no time to visit the place on a weekday. I am thankful for even that one visit.

Rome to Which All Roads Lead

It was my second visit to Germany and the first drive on one of its famous Autobahn. As I and my colleague left the Frankfurt am Main Flughafen (airport) and were driven on the Autobahn, I saw a road sign that said Ausfahrt. I assumed that it was the name of a city or town to which the road below it led.

A little later, I saw the very same name again. I thought it was another road leading to the same place. Then every time there was a branch off on the Autobahn, there was the very same name on the board above it. As we drove further, it looked as if the very name was on the other side of the Autobahn. Now, how could that be?

I decided, almost in desperation, that Ausfahrt meant Rome. After all, don’t “all roads lead to Rome”? Our driver did not know much English. I gingerly asked him anyway. “What does Ausfahrt mean?”

My pronunciation must have been so bad that he did not understand me. As we were struggling to make him understand that, there was that board again. I frantically pointed at it.

“Ach zo! Auzfagggrt! Sat iss eggzit” he said.

Ach so!!!!

Read this for further enlightenment including a picture of the Ausfahrt

Mysore? Dirty Place!

Before I recount the following story, I have to declare that I bear no animosity towards my countrymen, whichever part of the country they come from. I have always been a bonglo-phile (to coin a term?) so much so that I even learnt the script and can still read a little. As for Bihar and Biharis, I have excellent memories of the friends I made there and later too. This story is just an incident that gives, hopefully, some insight into human nature - nothing more, if anything, a lot less. I hope it makes even Bengalis and Biharis who read this smile, indulgently.

It was the winter of 1979. I was living and working in Ranchi. I had been to Calcutta on work. I was returning to Ranchi by the night bus.

A Bengali old man sat next to me and the bus made its way out of Calcutta. The old man started a conversation with me. Typical bus conversation: “where are you going?” “When did you come to Calcutta?” And then, “Where are you from?”

I said that I was from Mysore. “Mussoorie?” was the query. I did not fit a “North Indian’s” (For South Indians anything other than the four southern sates is North India, even Maharashtra!!) concept of a South Indian and hence this was quite a common confusion. “No, no, Mysore, not Mussoorie”.

“Ah! Maishore. Darty plesh” Translating from Bonglish to English, it is “Ah! Mysore! Dirty place”.

This was news to me, who had lived almost all his life in Mysore. Like most Mysoreans, I too believed (and still do) that it was (is) heaven on earth. Now, here comes a man in impeccable white dhoti and kurta (Punjabi, as the Bengalis call it!) from dirty Calcutta and calls Mysore dirty?

I am not very quick when it comes to trading insults in earnest. It is something else when it is good friendly leg pulling. But, this was different. Stung by this undeserved insult to my beloved city, I was inspired.

I asked innocently, “when were you there?” He said, “During Dusshera”.

I was quick in my response. “Oh, Dasara? That is not the time to visit Mysore. It is always a clean city but, during Dasara all kinds of people, you know, like Bengalis and Biharis come to Mysore and make it dirty.”

End of conversation.

Bangalore? What a Lovely Place!

I was standing in a queue at a post office in Southampton. Being in a queue in England is a quintessential part of the memory of even a brief visit to England. One author, who should know, says that “an Englishman, even when he is the only one at a counter, stands in “an orderly queue of one”. But, I digress.

I had a letter to my wife in my hand. I wanted to buy stamps. There was this very handsome old gentleman, in a casual suit, behind me in the queue. He said, “Excuse me young man, I could not help noticing the address on the cover in your hand. Are you from Bangalore?” I said, “No, my wife is. I am from a smaller city about 150 kms. away”. “You mean Mysore?” he asked.

Ah, this was getting interesting. Bangalore was not so famous in those days as it appears to be now. I said, “Yes, how do you know?”

He told me that he was posted in Bangalore as a young RAF officer during the War (WW II). He had very fond memories of Bangalore. He had visited Mysore too.

It was such a pleasant interlude. His pleasant face with twinkling eyes, which had gone misty when he talked of his days in Bangalore, was a great sight. I was glad I had taken this man on a brief journey down memory lane.

The Fortune Teller

One of my favourite Sunday programmes used to be to go to Manasa Gangotri, sit under a tree and read something.

One day as I sat there reading, I was disturbed by a itinerant fortune teller. Usually these people are from the northern parts of Karnataka. They wear kachche panche and jubba (kurta) and a Gandhi cap.

This one was persistent. I tried to ignore him and realised that you can't ignore someone and read at the same time. I tried telling him that I was not interested. He did not believe it. I told him that I did not believe in it. He tried to tell me that I should try him once and I would know.

Finally I asked him, "You do not even know your own future - whether I will let you tell me my future and pay you for it. How could you know my future?"

He beat a hasty retreat.

Just One Word of French

Of a lazy Sunday afternoon, I was home reading a novel. A friend of mine, Niri, called me and asked me if I was game for a couple of games of chess.

This friend ran a popular arts and crafts shop (Mysore Curios, Arts and Crafts) in the city centre. It was strategically located and during the ‘season’, attracted many tourists, quite a few of them foreigners. One such tourist, Roger, a French speaking Swiss had struck up a conversation with Niri and had asked him if he knew anyone with whom he could play chess.

I played a lot of chess during the years of the great rivalry between Spassky and Fischer. Many of my friends were drawn to chess thanks to the unbelievable amount of media attention that the antics and eccentricities of Fischer generated. But I was never a good player.

I explained all this to Niri and he in turn to Roger, who said that it did not matter. So, we decided on the venue - the lawns of Hotel Metropole, at 3:30 in the afternoon.

I went there and played a few games. Roger went on sipping beer and I thought I had an advantage since I did not drink any. But it was not to be. He beat me comprehensively in all the three games.

We folded the board, packed the pieces away and chatted.

Roger asked me, “Do you have any French?” I said, “Unfortunately, I know only one word in French”. Roger was very curious. “What is that one word?” he wanted to know.

“Merde¹”, I said.

He held his head in his hands and groaned, “Of all the words in French!”

I laughed and consoled him, “I said that too only because that was the first word to pop up in my mind. In fact, I know Merci² too”. He was much relieved.

1: Shit

2: Thank you

Just a Word of Gujarati

Some friends and I had been to Calcutta (In the IIT Kharagpur – Kgp – lingo, we had been to Cal) and were returning to Kharagpur by train. There was a guy sitting next to me and as it usually happens, a conversation developed. Everyone was talking to everyone else. The guy next to me was multilingual and spoke fluent English, Hindi and Bangla. I tried to figure out what his mother tongue was but was unsuccessful. He could have been from anywhere in India.

Finally we reached Kharagpur and walked towards the two-wheeler stand and I asked him about his mother tongue. I was told that he was a Gujrati, born and brought up in Kgp. Being a businessman he knew all the mentioned languages.

As we were about to part, he on his scooter and I on my cycle, I gave him a cheery and confident “aaujo”. I don’t know if the transliteration is even correct, as I do not know the original correctly. However, it had the desired effect.

He stopped abruptly and asked me with excitement, “Are you a Gujju too?”

Alas, no but this is the only Gujju word I know…..

Just a Few Words of Tamizh

I was travelling from Ranchi to Bangalore by train. The train reached Madras a little late and I had to catch the train to Bangalore. There was very little time and there were no boards to lead me to the platform from which the train to Bangalore started.

I found a railway official sitting at a desk and answering queries from other travellers. I went there too and tried my luck. “Excuse me”… “Excuse me”…. No response. I tried a few more times. No luck. Then I realised that this would not work. I raised my voice a bit and said, “inge paarongo saar”. The reaction was immediate. I had caught the attention of the man. I asked my question, got the answer and was on the train straight away.

The trick was to talk to the man in his language and this was about all the Tamizh I knew!

Phew……

Just a Few Words of Bangla

I had just arrived in Nuremberg by train and was checking in at the hotel. Viktoria was the name, I think. There came another Indian to check in and as soon as he asked the receptionist about checking in, I knew that he was a Bengali. The accent and the sentence structure are dead give-aways.

I waited for him to check in and once he finished asked him, “apni bangali na ki?” (Are you a Bengali? I hope this is correct!). His face lit up like a 1000 W bulb. He said, “yes!” (of course) and proffered his hand and asked, “are you a Bangali too” in English. That made things easier. I said “No, but I can speak a little Bangla”.

He said, “Great, let us have dinner together! You will be my guest. I have been traveling for the last few weeks and am sick of talking to clients and only in English.”

My first job was In Ranchi and I had many Bengali friends. I had learnt some Bengali from them.
An hour or so later, we met at the reception again and he took me to a Chinese restaurant and we had a great meal. The conversation was tri-lingual. Hindi, English and Bangla. I had a great time. I was not a comfortable traveler in those days (I am not much better even today). So, his company was most welcome.

Not bad for just a few words of Bangla, eh?