sob... sob......I'm retiring...sob..sob....

Now that the bewailing and lamenting is over, shall we pause, take a deep breath and look back? Perhaps it's time?

Sachin's case we shall presently examine, but in general, why do retirements bring forth a never-seen- before stress on the retiree's  lacrymal glands?  As if there is no tomorrow? As if this is the apocalypse?  As though there would arise no future occasion to flood the soil with that salty fluid?  Haven’t we all witnessed the spectacle of  even the iron men, stone men, super men and the spider men gingerly removing their spectacles and sob to their heart’s content? Melt and go weak on the knees?   This tear jerking phenomenon itself can be a subject for psychoanalysts to explore, but that’s another story.

One reason behind all this watery exploits   may be the sense of insecurity or inadequacy the retiree has all along conveniently hid deep inside, while being busy with his career. Retirement day is the closest thing to the experience of death, a near-death experience, before the actual event arrives unannounced.  You know, stuff the seers say, like the soul leaving the body, and observing one’s own corpse from aside, with deep disinterest.  Like, when at the precise moment of death, the entire life gone-by would glide by in a slide-show.  Who relishes such slide-shows?  We would rather be a hero in our own films thank you very much, rather than standing aside and watch our escapades of 60 years in a deathly slide-show.

Till today, 5 p.m., you were a Commissioner of Income Tax, wielding such godly powers. At 5.01, you are a nobody.  The designation sign-board will give you company only till you exit that corner office.  The colleagues of forty years would give you company only up to the building’s exit door. The chauffeur would give you company only till the doors of your home. Who will give you company thereafter? (curiously,  the Tamil song veedu varai uravu... comes to mind).

Why even the wife will not be enamoured of you after three days.  (It could be early, but we can presume that those 3 days immediately succeeding retirement will be spent by the spouse counting the farewell gifts). From the fourth day, while wondering who to send for fetching grocery and vegetables, you could be counted by her as one of the options.  From the seventh day, you would be mildly suggested to go out for walks instead of sitting glued to the TV, as that would be ‘relaxing’.  You would protest that you are already on the same pursuit but she would rather you relax out in the open, away from home.    From the tenth day, you would suspect (just a suspicion) that the coffee proferred to you has lost some of its viscosity. And on all days since the Aadhar camp opened in the neighborhood, you would be lovingly advised to join the queue at 5.30 brahma muhurtham (good for health, she would say, with so much ozone around) and pick up the token.  All this, despite the retiree being a pensioner.  If he retires without a pension, may God save him (no, I'm not referring to Tendulkar).  On second thoughts, God too would not dare.

It's natural that the very thought of all the above contributes to increased levels of stress.  And causes the retirees to cry and cry and cry on the retirement day dreading the days ahead. Forget the epithets such as men of steel, iron, stone, IAS, Secretaries, General Managers and all that stuff.  All the high and mighty are poor lambs and just that in the slaughter house called home, post-retirement.  So cry, cry, cry, cry to your heart's content.  Who said crying is sizzy?  It just became manly on Martyrs’ day, Nov.16, when half the country was crying and proudly at that.  The retiree was crying, the retirer was crying and the onlookers too.  Don't children cry enroute to school?  Don't slaughter animals cry when being taken to the abattoir? 

Now Sachin's case is different.  For one, he will not be sent by Anjali to fetch grocery and vegetables.  He will not be mildly reminded of the benefits of walking.  He will not be asked to drop children to school and pay the utility bills.  Anjali famously said she cannot think Sachin without cricket but she glossed over a vital point.  Sachin minus cricket is not zero.  He is a mini world bank on the move.  States like Tripura and Bihar might even consider taking loans from him at a better rate than what GOI gives.  Moreover, this retiree was handed an additional retiral benefit of Bharat Ratna.  It wouldn't look nice if a loaded Bharat Ratna goes shopping for aloo and bindi. So Sachin is different.  Even in his case, it's just that bit possible that the world might forget him after say 10 years, as Miandad gleefully pointed out. (He loves taking potshots at Indians, doesn’t he?).  Maybe Dawood’s Sambandi has a point there.

So Sachin’s  is different. But most other retirements are the same.  They creepily advance towards you, slowly and surely, inch by inch, day by day, till on the D day, you are firmly in its grip.  Retirement is surer than death, more painful than death, predictable, yet unescapable, and no Sati Savitri can save you from its clutches.  It is, therefore, in the retiree's interests to be prepared for it, by making some adjustments just prior to retirement. Like taking up the habit of walking, reducing the number of coffees per day, getting inured to watery coffees, knowing where the grandson's school is, knowing how much per kg onion costs and sharpening the art of bargaining.  Aloo brought home without bargaining is akin to a bride brought home without dowry in the average Indian household.

 If the prospective retiree does not prepare, he is doomed.  Beware,  hell hath no fury than a retired babu's wife!

கூட்டைப்பிள...., குருவிபோல் பற....

"சாலை கற்றுத்தருகிறது " மற்றும் "தயக்கம் தவிர்ப்பீர் " என்ற இரு கட்டுரைகளைப்படிக்க நேர்ந்தது  (இந்து - தமிழ் ) இன்று.  படிக்கும் நல்வாய்ப்பு கிடைத்தது என்றால் இன்னும் பொருத்தமாக இருக்கும்.

இருவேறு கட்டுரைகள் ஆயினும் இரண்டிலும் சொல்லப்பட்ட கருத்துகளில் பல ஒற்றுமைகள் உண்டு.  'அள்ளித்தந்த பூமி அன்னையல்லவா......' பாடல் கேட்டிருக்கிறீர்கள் இல்லையா ?  பூமியும் வானமும் அள்ளியும் தரும், சொல்லியும் தரும், நாம் தயக்கதைத்தவிர்த்து சாலையில்   இறங்கினால் மட்டுமே.  ஒரு பொறி மனத்தில் அடித்தவுடன் செய்துகொண்டிருக்கும் எந்த வேலையையும் கைவிட்டு அல்லது குறைந்தபட்சம் ஒத்திப்போட்டு வேட்டியை வரிந்து கட்டி சாலையில் இறங்குவதற்கு தைரியம் வேண்டும்.  

இறங்கும் முயற்சியையே கைவிடுவதற்கு அல்லது தள்ளிப்போடுவதற்கு ஆயிரம் நியாங்களையும் சால்ஜாப்புகளையும் நம்முன் வரிசைப்படுத்தும், மனம் என்னும் பிசாசு. குழந்தையின் முன் பலவண்ண மிட்டாய்களை வரிசைப்படுத்தி வசியம் பண்ணுவதுபோல.  'இப்போது எப்படி முடியும்?...',  'பிறகு பார்த்துக்கொள்ளலாமே ......', 'ரிடயர்மண்டுக்குபிறகுதான் நேரம் நிறையக்கிடைக்குமே...', 'லீவ் எடுத்தால் மேனேஜர் முசுடு திட்டுவாரே ...', 'அடுத்தவாரம் மைத்துனியின் மகள் கல்யாணம் முடிந்தபின் போகலாம்....'  - வரிசையாக வண்ண வண்ண மிட்டாய்கள்.

மிகச்சுலப வழி,  ஏதாவது ஒரு மிட்டாயை எடுத்து வாயில் போட்டுக்கொள்வதுதான்.

ஒத்திப்போடுவதுதான் ஒத்த தீர்வு.  தள்ளிபோடுவதுதான் தலைசிறந்த ஆயுதம்.  சிகரெட்டை விடும் முயற்சியைப்போலத்தான் சாலையில் இறங்கத்தீர்மானிப்பதும்.  '... புது வருடம் பிறந்தவுடன் விடுவோம் ....'  'அடுத்தமாதம் விடுவோம்...' 'இன்று மட்டும் ஒன்று, நாளை முதல் இல்லை...' 

காரணம், பயம்.  தயக்கம்.  மாற்றத்தை எதிர்கொள்ள பயம்.  இப்போதிருப்பதே சுகமாக இருக்கிறது.  இப்படி இருப்பதே பாதுகாப்பாக இருக்கிறது.  எதற்கு மாற்றம் ?  ஏன் இந்த வெட்டி முயற்சி?  கமல் சொல்வது போல், ஆயிரம் பயம்.  நிற்க பயம், உட்கார பயம், பயம், பயம்......

இந்த பயத்தின் சுனாமியிலிருந்து மீண்டு சாலையில் இறங்குவது எப்போது? அலுவலகத்திற்கும், வீட்டிற்கும், குடும்பதிற்கும் அப்பால் உள்ள உலகத்தைக்காணுவது எப்போது?  தள்ளிப்போட தள்ளிபோட நீண்டு கொண்டே போகும் அளவிற்கு வாழ்க்கை இழுக்க இழுக்க நீளும் ஜவ்வு மிட்டாய் இல்லையே.  மரணம் என்று? என்று தெரியாத வரை சாவே இல்லை என்கிற குருட்டு நம்பிக்கை தயங்கச் சொல்கிறது.  தள்ளிப்போடச் சொல்கிறது.  தேதி தெரிந்துவிட்டால் என்ன சௌகரியம்!  தெரிந்த நாளிலிருந்தாவது வாழத் தொடங்கலா மே, தேதி முடியும் வரை! அள்ளித்தர பூமியிருக்கிறது, கை நிறைய அள்ளலாமே!  சொல்லித்தர வானமிருக்கிறது, சுகமாக கற்கலாமே !  

சாலையில் இறங்கும் சாகசம் பெறலாமே!  நண்பா, இன்னும் தயக்கமென்ன!

A harem in my house!

One occasionally comes across   something profound in the oddest of places, at the oddest of hours -  some where in a book, in the bus, on the streets, and that something, at times gets etched into your memory.  Without any plausible rhyme or reason.   ‘A harem in my house’ is a small piece I once read in Readers’ Digest a long while ago.  While reading the original at that time it did not kind of make any significant impact on me, but somehow, to this day, the article remains fresh in my memory. Not word by word but the essence of it.   Probably because I now have a harem in my own household!  The only small hiatus in that memory chain was the name of the author.  I tried a google search but could not locate his name, but God bless the soul.  For I suddenly remember him and his piece today and find to my amazement that his situation very much matches mine.

About 18 years back, when I was quite out of my senses and ventured into a dangerous territory called marriage, I was mentally prepared for a few surprises, not prepared for several others but never in the wildest of my dreams did I imagine that I would end up with a harem in my home.  And here I am now, a full fledged samsari, pecked day in and day out by not one but three hens.  All belonging to one compact, homogenous family of eye-gorging, blood-sucking vampires, comprising my wife, and my two daughters.  They chase me, prey on me, kill me, devour me for breakfast, lunch and dinner, day in and day out.  They have an unfailing habit of reminding me daily that my worth on this planet is just about equal to that piece of plastic junk protruding from the street corner garbage bin.  They keep lecturing me, mostly on what not to do and how not to do things.  Their eyes develop a sudden cataract and their ears turn tone-deaf when I accomplish something worthwhile and admirable (that is, in my opinion).  The same eyes open wide awake and the ears pick up even the drop of a pin when I display some of my human foibles.  Like spilling the coffee, forgetting to switch off the fan, venturing out to office with unpolished shoes etc. 

“You can’t even buy tomatoes properly?  See, two rotten ones in the lot..”  - the mother hen.

“No, don’t you try to teach accounts to me“ – her elder offspring.

“But I’ve been working in banks for 23 years, I know some accountancy” – I protest. 

“ You and your bank .  I don’t trust your accounting skills”  - her sealing reply.

“Bring me the print-outs of Edison, Madame Curie, photosynthesis and India outline map pictures this evening” – my younger daughter’s orders.  For her, there is only one thing for which I have some utility value – which is bringing printouts of assorted web photos from the office computer, for her school record book. (Now this is a secret, don’t tell this to my office guys).  And when I proudly present the photos in the evening, she would invariably throw a few back at my face. “Was this the best photo you could get? Can’t you even do this small task properly in office?  What else you are kizhichufying there?”  I would be reduced to the role of a supplicant meekly seeking the King’s pardon.

Forget the disparaging remarks. Even ordinary pleasures become a herculean task in my household.  Exactly when I sit down, lean back and press the remote and tune to Murasu TV (for those 24x7 old songs), would my elder brat present herself beside me, snatch the remote and switch to FoxCrime.  Without even batting an eyelid or  a ‘by- your- leave’.  Ok, the next night when I switch on the same Fox Crime to avoid a war, the remote would again be snatched and a certain   Ranbir Kapoor   would  appear on the screen in Sony Music squealing out “khuda jaane mein fida hoon…”   I would be secretly left crying “khuda jaane ki mein ullu hoon…”

The list of atrocities this threesome inflicts on me is endless.  The condition of a famine- struck Somalia refugee would be better.  These three Hitlers do a thorough cleansing job of me day after day, that I begin feeling like the rag cloth battered on the washing stone.    The Government  calls me the ‘head of the family’ in the ration card but I actually make up the tail.  Wagging to the calls of the masters and running their errands.  I am the man of the house but the house knows who the real men are.  An amalgam of Ironmen, Supermen and Spidermen.  The three brutes owe half their names to me but that is just about all they owe me.  Why I can’t even have a separate protected enclosure for me and my male- belongings in the house.  Every single inch of space has been usurped by them.  My shoes have to fight for space with their sandals.  My shaving cream has to wage a battle with their shampoos.  My ties have to struggle with their talcum powders.  My frugal but manly earthly belongings have to jostle for space  with their feminine accessories. Fact is, my existence itself has to face a daily Armageddon  with their eccentricities.

With my cup brimming with  these woes, why am I still holed up in the midst of this harem?  Ah, there lies the secret.  I will let you out on that.  I am their play- thing and I love being that.  I am their Baba, boy-friend and buddy all rolled into one.  They roast me alive but can’t live without me.  I think deep inside they all love me.  No one has ever openly admitted to that but it is easy to spot the signs.  Like when my daughters trust only  me and not even the mother to select their dresses when we go shopping.  Like my better-half laughing not just at me but also with me.  And crying with me too, when things go awry.  They make fun of me but can’t bear some one else making fun of me.  They drive me up the wall but ensure I stay up there safely ensconced when the floor caves in.  They get their highs when life throws its small pleasant surprises at me.  They hit an emotional rock-bottom when the tide turns.  They carry on stoically when I am not present, even for years together.  Never once do they complain that I am not available when they need me most.  Office and career have eaten me alive all these years but they were with me all the way, at a far distance, though. 

I remember the day when my elder daughter was born and news reached me in Bihar where I was working.   “Ka hua Mohan babu?” my elderly colleague asked. 

“Ladki huyi hai”

“Mahalakshmi huyi hai bolilye na” – his retort.  Didn’t give much thought to that remark of his then, but its import strikes me now.  Mahalakshmi  is wealth – not just of the material variety but of wholesome prosperity and well-being.  No male equivalent name comes anywhere close.  And to think that I have three in my household!

Lucky me, the TDP, not Chandra babu Naidu’s party,  but the ‘Two Daughter Party’.  And unlucky those, who know not what it is to be engulfed by endearing  feminine presence on all  sides.  One is good, two is better and three is perfect bliss.  I know, because I experience it. Day in and day out!

Another day, another life, another bottle - Cheers!

He woke up from a splitting headache.  The room was spinning all around.  The eyes just could not focus on anything, every object appearing double and swirling around, like ghost-like apparitions.   It was as if a ten kilo dead-weight was tied around the shoulder and to top it all, a sledgehammer was constantly pounding down every ten seconds on the head..  The throat was parched. Eyes red, puffy and blurred. 

'Why do I inflict this on me every other day?' he asked himself.  As if the answer is just lurking round the corner, just waiting to be discovered..  Even if it were, he was shrewd enough to pretend none existed.  This is nothing is new, he has seen it all, a thousand times.    This is how it is this morning, this is how it was the morning before  and this is how it will be the morning after tomorrow.  Every alternate dawn  is bleak, dreary and dark.  Pity that such a beautiful human invention like alcohol has to come with such a terrible aftermath.  Nectar laced with poison. Evenings  whizzing past through shimmering light, suddenly ploughing into a dark-hole the mornings after.     The majestic flight over the mountains  suddenly culminating in a heavy thud.  That’s how life is.  Full of ups and downs.  Ninety nine percent times, it is the lingering phases of downs that succeed the fleeting  ups and never vice-versa.

But he could clearly remember the evening before. With all the practice acquired from meticulous, professional guzzling skills, he never, these days, gets stoned.  That stage has passed.  The drive along the ECR, the jokes, the banter, the  leg-pulling all along the journey, the checking into the sea-side resort, the glistening expanse of the  sea just behind, the warm caress of the breeze, dusk slowly descending.....and the uncorking of the bottles, the emptying of one glass, and then the next, and then the next and then the next….....that great feeling of  floating away, the animated discussions, the quarrels, the shouts, the laughs, the arguments, the skype conversations with a pal ten hours behind,  the collapsing on the bed, the relapse into that swooshy darkness....…. and now waking up from a reverie that lasted probably half a second, that too into this hell,  he has seen it all…....

He somehow pulled himself up, had a shower, and a large cup of coffee.  That seemed to just work a bit.  But he knew better.   It was all a temporary relief.  The body takes at least a few hours to flush out the toxins.  And with the quantity that was imbibed last evening, it might take this whole day to detoxify.  “Thank God, it’s a Sunday”, he thought. 

And when the friend suggested they drive further down to Pondicherry, rather than staying put in the room, he could not care less.  Remaining curled up on the bed for another   3 hours is not going to help, so why not grab the offer? After all, he will only be a passenger in the car.  And so off they started to Pondy.  He did not have a very  enjoyable journey. The concoction inside the stomach still churned.  He even tried to forcibly throw up to rid himself of the scum inside the guts and clear the head, but not with much success.  'The bloody hangover...' he thought.   Any amount of practice will not let you escape its clutches, the morning after.  What has to be endured, must be.  No way to escape the reaction of every action, that's what science says.  Somehow he and the friend reached Pondy.  They headed straight to Auroville to have a 'dekho'.

It’s a queer concept, this Auroville is.  The city, still evolving, has inhabitants  from a hundred nations.  All living or trying to live together, yet away from each other, maintaining their personal spaces.  No religion is practiced here, for ‘religion divides’, as they say.  They seek to discover that human unity amidst diversity. They seek to discover a method in the surrounding madness, a rationale in the randomness, a meaning where none exists.  God bless the souls.  And God bless us, who religiously, very touristily, did the rounds of the place, happy in spotting all the exotic animals inside a well-managed zoo, managed to marvel at the spectacle  and come back with a slight halo around the heads.  As if we were already half way towards salvation.

As they wandered around and did the mandatory darshan of that Matrimandir dome, did the rounds of the boutiques with high-priced merchandise, had food and were ready to depart, by that time, signs of normalcy had returned to our protagonist.  It has, after all, been nearly 5 hours since he woke up. By the time he could have some grasp of what the Auroville folks do in the name of living, the head cleared, the hangover became manageable, Aurovilleans seemed more quixotic,  the clock struck 12 noon and they decided to wind up and return home.

The return journey was eventless, save for the small tidbits of fun and bafoonery emanating from the car radio - a song from a Sivaji film, evoking hilarious  images of his 90 kg bulk cavorting around trees and trying to hug and kiss a 20 something....Ha, ha,ha  what fun to replay the song in the mind.... Forgive him, this was the Sivaji of the nineties.  Not of the same clan as   who went by the same name in the fifties and sixties in Tamil cinema.  

And then the Kumbakonam Degree Coffee they finally managed to have before entering the city, after skipping scores of such outlets on the way.  The sheer number of this Kumbakonam coffee joints dotting the highway, amazing.  Most of them fakes, just out  there to cash in on the name.  High time Kumbakonam got a patent for the trademark...

Thus began and ended his weekend.  Started without  fuss, reached a crescendo mid way, thudded down with a mighty fall, and ended colourless, tasteless and odourless, not unlike hydrogen (or oxygen or helium or whatever- he never shared a good chemistry with chemistry).  But he did not quite care for an eventful life, it will suit him fine if life  follows the documented regimen and never deviates to give nasty surprises.  Life is short, who wants to prune it further with surprises and heart attacks during its short span?  He tried to reminisce back by a month. The past month was equally eventless as the weekend gone by.  Still went back by a year.  Arey, the year was as eventless as the month that went by.  The year before?  Wah, same, same.  The last five years?  Hurrah, same, same,...Yesterday, same, same... Today, same, same..... the entire span of the past, same, same,.....

Same, same, same, same........the words resonated inside his head.  At times they sounded shame, shame... but he did not care.  He did not give a damn to illusions......

It's now a full forty eight hours after that Sunday afternoon. Sunday trough, Tuesday crest, Thursday trough, Saturday crest...what beautiful unflinching regular frequency!  Even his ECG would not be so perfect.  The last trough has been given a good bye. It is now past for him He is now waiting to ride the crest again this evening.  Looking forward eagerly to it.  Waiting for a mate who will ride with him this evening and every other evening. Sure, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday mornings would hit troughs but he is prepared for it.  Because he will not be surprised by these low patches.  Because he hates surprises.  He now knows for sure what's going to happen for the next 3 hours.  That exciting feeling of looking forward, that expectations, those moments will also carry him through the hell-hole hours of the troughs.  

They say he has a problem.  He sees 'them' as the problem.  They ask him to quit, refrain.  He asks them to clear away, come nowhere near.  They are concerned by the regularity, he sees comfort in that same regularity.  They say the crests should be at lesser frequencies, he sees no reason to interfere with nature's wavelengths.  He is happy and so are they.  Life goes on for all, some riding the crests, the others negotiating troughs but waves will confront all forever.....

Ah, he forgot to ask - Do the Aurovilleans too ever get hung over?

Hell hath no fury like a Babu scorned!

And God said “let there be light” and there was light. Those were of course, the pre-load shedding days. With light, the oceans and the rivers sprang up. Dales and valleys, mountains and deserts then formed. Thick forests sprouted. Venomous snakes and other dangerous animals came to inhabit them. And then God burst upon the idea of creating Adam and Eve. All was well till Eve ate the forbidden fruit and you know what happened thence.

One thing led to another and presently the earth’s population multiplied. And reached a stage where unless the current inhabitants vacated their places and made way for the new ones, there just would not be enough space on earth. Creation would stop and catastrophe would descend. Thus God then created a beautifully-conceived phenomenon called death. One by one, sometimes many together, started dying and left the earth. They had to be accommodated somewhere and so God created the Heaven. And, along with it, the Hell. And formed rules on which of the dead goes where – the good ones to the former and the sinned go to Hell. As the sinners invariably multiplied in geometric proportions, Hell became jam-packed very soon. God was fast running out of ideas. Surely, he cannot invent a second death for the already dead and send them to another domain! So, he started wracking his brains until the brilliant idea came to him, even though only as a stop-gap measure - why not create Hell in earth itself? That would save on transportation costs from earth to Hell of millions of sinful souls! And it would also be a kind of trailer for mankind to have an inkling beforehand (er...beforedeath) on what would follow, should one persist with his sinful ways!

And so the decision was made – Hells on earth itself. And God was kind enough to choose our country India, i.e. Bharat for this novel experiment. Thus came into being Sarkari Karyalays (Government Offices-GOs), the closest to Hell in intensity and ambience he could conceive of. What an idea, quite ahead of His times!

The striking similarity between Hell and the Indian Govt. Office cannot not escape any visitor. Take the visitor himself. Only the incorrigibly sinned could meet a fate of having to visit a Govt. office for getting some work done from a Babu. Take the place – cauldrons with boiling oil, Yamadhoots catching hold of hapless humans and rinsing them in hot oil, like deep-fried onion bajjis, wails of agony and pain….this typical narak scenario more than meets its match in the environment of a GO – creaking doors, groaning chairs, cracking plastering, tattered upholstery, dangling cobwebs, dingy corridors, stinking washrooms…. GO does manage to dish out good competition to Hell. More hellish than hell itself. The role of the Yama Dhoots is deftly handled by the army of our chaprasis, attenders and clerical assistants. The senior Bodo Babu (the Head Clerk, in capital H & C, in case you’ve not guessed) plays beautifully the Chitragupta’s role – going over the life accounts of the visitors, i.e. the relative weight of the wallets visitors would carry, balancing the credits and the debits and handing out appropriate retribution to each. Extracting from each according to his ability and driving out the vacillating and unrepentant souls by any, or a combination of several, or at times, all of these utterings – (i) Saab is in a meeting, come tomorrow (ii) Saab is not in town, come next week (iii) Saab has been transferred, don’t come at all (iv) Saab is dead but he will still see you, if you are monetarily inclined….

Being one among the tribe of such inveterate sinners, fate ordained me to one such Hell pretty early in my life – not as a visitor but as a visited. For two dreadful years of my early career life, I was consigned to an Income Tax Office in Madras. Next compound to where once stood the majestic Safire theatre edifice, in Thousand Lights area, Madras. With the right hellish flavor. The Chitragupta and Yamadhoots too were there aplenty in good measure. There I had the god-sent opportunity of sadistically relishing the travails of all the clueless sinned visitors to that piece of Hell – experienced Chartered Accountants, para-accountants (something like para-legals, in Grisham’s parlance), ex-bankers, businessmen, I have seen them all. Prince or pauper, millionaire or mendicant, pin-striped or the poorest, they must all submit humbly to our whims and do our biddings once they enter our hallowed Hellish portals. Why, upon entering, they would not even be able to spot us, what we being buried behind mountains of dusty files. The top-notch CA, having come with the assignment of gently cajoling me to locate his client’s file from among the millions stacked on my desk or from hundreds more haphazardly strewn on the wooden racks behind me and to forward the same to the Income Tax Officer, with my noting thereon. The para-legal, for that elusive refund order which has been made out two years back but has not still made its way to the post office and still hiding inside a file, waiting for its rightful owner to turn up and help it resume its journey. The poor auto-rickshaw driver with a passion for horse-racing, winning a jackpot for 25000 bucks but having got only 20000 bucks, patiently waiting for my audience for 2 hours so that I scribble a few words on his file and pass on the file to my ITO for that TDS refund of 5000…Yummy, what pleasure in seeing these wretched sinned ones suffer in silence! Coming to think of it, God need not have created a Hell far up in the skies in the first place. Our Bharatvarsh’s thousands of GOs could have served the purpose with more elan, far earlier. He should have known, for we had that uncanny ability to locate a file from among thousands and also to lose a file which was right on our desks a minute ago. We had greater skills in losing a file and once lost, not even God, forget about the lesser para-legals, could re-discover it. Sometimes, we ourselves could not un-lose what we just lost yesterday!

That particular unit of Hell where I worked had some scientifically evaluated contraptions to aid its routine functioning. The brass hemispherical bells on the tables used to summon a peon, rickety Remington Rands clickety-clicking away merrily, big 3’ x 5’paper card boards for each of the ITO and Assistant Commissioner, on which they placed their stationery and wrote out their assessment orders. The card boards occasionally also served the purpose of hiding their visages from the sundry Toms peeping into their chambers and also doubled up as the headrest one leaned forward on while power-napping. Our Saabs then used to make such mind-blowing assessment orders, which would give sleepless nights to the assessed. Assessment Orders which would witness appeals, appeals against appeals, appeals against appeals against appeals and would take 20 years to reach the unappealable stage. Not very unlike our death sentences, save for the Presidential reference. What pleasure, seeing these sinned mortals suffer! Each day in Office was one big picnic!









Another typical GO vestige is that Bombay Dyeing turkey towel always to be spotted at the back of the Saab’s seat. I don’t understand God’s purpose behind this, like where the practice all started– the towel on each chair. Typical of every GO’s every Saab’s chair! A perturbed visitor would glance inside the cabin of the Saab – if the Saab is visible on his chair, he would be worried about what assessment order he is writing; If the Saab is invisible but only the yellow striped turkey towel adorns his chair, he would be more terrified – about how many more months it would take to get his assessment order be done with…


Like the ‘Harry Potter and the sorcerer’ or whatever rubbish the film is called, sorcery, voodoo and black magic were very much to be seen in our Hell – perfectly enhancing the ambience. Like when you would sign a file, go out for a leak or a puff and return to your seat after 15 minutes and find to your consternation, that your right side drawer would be ajar with a 100 rupee note half jutting out. It certainly was not there when I left but I could perfectly understand why it is perched there right now. All due to the prowess of my scribbling my signature on a piece of paper, that’s it. Perhaps this is what Bible alludes to – ‘Ask and it shall be given unto you’. But I did not even ask….Fair play and honesty were to be found in abundance even in our Hell. If I find that mysterious 100 bucks to my right, I can be sure that 300 went to my boss, 50 to my head clerk and 20 to the Yamadhoot I was talking about in the first place i.e. my Chaprasi. Some mysterious guy from my unit (normally the dhoot in the last rung is assigned with such routine tasks) would have collected the ransom and would have shared the loot among all of us, in pre-determined ratios, and the loot would reach you, asked or unasked. Of this, I am sure about, even to this day.


I am suddenly reminded of another branch of God’s own Hell, this, a sprawling mansion on Strand Road in Calcutta, which goes by the name ‘Customs Office’ today. I had been there once, (long after I had abdicated my Thousand Lights throne of power) to invite a Commissioner of Customs to deliver a guest lecture at our Bank’s staff college. I could have as well attempted to cross the Great Wall of China. With a comrade in tow, I entered the building and was immediately greeted by two mongrels, scores of beggars and other scoundrels. Mobile tea-vending units were doing brisk business right inside the building. I reached a foyer and (mis)took it for the reception office. There was a big table and three guys were found parked on stools behind, chattering and smoking. I could faintly detect an odour of Four Square from the smoke and a Chekov from their chattering. You have to give it to Calcutta, their 10 year olds can (only?) talk of things which a 100 year old from the rest of India would not even heard of! .Digression apart, I gingerly approached the middle guy, mentioned the Commissioner Saab’s name and asked which way is his office.


“Suja giye bandheke” (straight and then left)

As we started, he interjected “Kintu apni paaben na unhake, aajke” (but you won’t find him today)

“Keno?”

“Jaanen na, ekhon to pujor samay-unhi bedathe giyechen…” (Don’t you know, this is (Durga) Puja time. He is out on a vacation)


But Pujo was a month away! And then I smacked my head. In Calcutta, the Puja fever catches on some 30 days before the actual Ashtami or Navami and so the whole Bengal goes on a celebratory mood a month before the actual festivities begin. For Govt. office mandarins, even much earlier. Go to any GO a month ahead of Puja and you need not even guess the standard reply to your questions of endearment- ‘pujor pore’ – after the pujas. Why, ‘pujor pore’ is much more than an expression of postponing duty or procrastinating. It beautifully reveals the Bengali spirit of “go home, forget the mundane, get ready for the celebrations, and then come back to reality. Even if it is a month before the bash..” The spirit, about time, the rest of India too latched on to.

It is another matter that I ultimately caught hold of an Assistant Commissioner in place of the Commissioner I originally envisaged and the guest lecture was consummated. Not that it made any big difference about who gave the lecture. For, all the lectured to were blissfully sleeping through the session.

Now where did I start? Ah, Hell and Govt. Offices. Yes, similarities abound as any casual visitor would observe, even today. But what the ‘Hell’, rather what the ‘GO’? We are Indians and we are like that only. We have survived these Hells this far and we would continue to. After all, God cannot crow about this ‘invention’ of his – these Hell units were discovered by the British and bequeathed to us long before God conceived of them.

And they, even today, after nearly 60 years of their consecration, continue to discharge their Hellish duty to the utmost satisfaction of the visitor and the visited. Souls are purged of their sins, their purses purged of their content. Only, inflation has ensured that the 100 rupee note jutting out of the right drawer of a modest Inspector of Income Tax 25 years ago has swollen to become a 1000 rupee note! But the ratio among the ITO, Inspector, Head clerk and the Yamadhoot still holds. Not a penny more to any one in the rung, not a penny less. Our Hell units are exemplary illustrations of honesty and fair-play!






image - from the web. But my office looked a lot better

Mid life crisis of a 47 year old Trishankhu!

Srinivasa Ramanujan became a wizard at 30.  Subramania Bharathi was dead by 39.  Dr.Abdul Kalam became known to the world when he turned 70.  TN Seshan became a phenomenon when he turned 65.  M.K.Gandhi was not even witness to the non-cooperation movement till he turned 50, and they say he is a great freedom fighter(!!)

Hundreds one can cite, who became rich and famous when they were just 45 years old on this planet.  Hundreds more, as history witnesses each day, become legends by themselves when they cross 60.  That begs the question - has anything ever been achieved by a homosapien when he just crosses that milestone of 47 years of age?  Neither 46 nor 48, neither old enough to be counted one among such tribe who have seen the world, nor young enough to pretend that the world is yet to see his very best?  Neither 46, nor 48,  but stuck on that deadly numeral 47?

Who cares for a 47 year old? Name one soul on earth’s 4500 million year history who achieved something note-worthy just after having been witness to  about 1130 full moons. Such tribe can as well be destined to junk.   Such tribe can as well cease to exist for reasons of their being notoriously not note-worthy.    Unfortunately, I now find myself one among such tribe, and hence my cribbing, till I reach 48, reaching which, I would discover newer reasons to crib about.

I don’t need the backing of evidence of history to convince myself about how worthless a 47 year old married Indian can feel.  I can experience the worthlessness of it all myself day in and day out. 

I get into a bus (you all know, I can’t drive, I love buses and all that bull-****).  I envyingly see the lucky 60 pluses being offered a seat by the gorgeous,  young female  species.  Life made further miserable by such species addressing me ‘uncle’…   what the hell, do a few grey hairs and a just-beginning-to-recede-hairline make one an ‘uncle’?  Sure enough, the 60 year olds too are addressed as ‘uncles’ by this tribe but that damning address is at-least accompanied by the offer of a seat which I am deprived of.

 I try to renew a health insurance – the company guys politely ask me to undergo sundry medical tests, which a 20 year old doesn’t need to and a 60 year old need not bother to.  I think of applying for a new job - you are rejected because either you are too old or you are too inexperienced to be classified a veteran with the requisite skills.   I see this inviting ad in the papers – “Enna Chennai, cycling polama..” and immediately a dilemma envelops me – would I be able to endure the 20 km marathon, what with the ticker inside not giving out clear assurances?  (again  a 60 year old need not bother or he is cycling in a  separate ‘senior citizen’ category where two miles equal twenty normal miles). I honestly feel decrepit and weak enough mentally but the railways charge me 100 percent of the fare while the more boisterous, “The Hindu-letters to the editor” regular 60 year -young fellas enjoy a 50% rebate for no apparent reason.    I tell my daughter to do something and she readily refuses.  I tell her not to do something and she readily disobeys.  I have a lurking feeling that this rebellion of my daughter has got more to do with my 47 years of age than her being 16 years of age. (Who on earth can take a 47 year old seriously, not even yourself!)

 There are a few more uneasy, unpleasant chores which cannot possibly be conveniently consummated by a 47 year old Indian male, which a 25 year old would only be too physically and mentally inclined to venture into and, equally, a 65 year old would not be much bothering about – as my fellow 47 year olds would concur readily, any night (or any day, if they have the time, the inclination or the one-upmanship!)

47 is wretched, 47 is dreadful, 47 is misery.  4+ 7=11=2 and this particular ‘two’ just does not tango.  This is that stage in life where one just realizes, albeit a bit late, that the past could have been more fruitful and purposeful, if only a re-winding option existed in life.  This is that stage in life where the future looks bleaker and blackier, and the faintest fear of the fast-approaching end of it all, going by the name ‘death’, just about lurks every day, much to one’s discomfiture, even for those who don’t dare admit it.  This is that stage where one endeavours to put up a brave face and barks at the world- “I have seen it all”  but inside one’s heart all 47 year olds know that they have not seen what ought to have been really seen and experienced during the course of their 47 year old sojourn.  This exactly is the stage when, the diabetes and erratic BP notwithstanding, one puts up a braver face and yells at the world, ‘…but life begins at 60…’   It might or it might not, but do you really wish to endure 59 excruciating cycles of 365 days each to wait for  life to begin  afresh at 60?..  Uncomfortable questions, I am addressing at myself…

In Tamil, there is a saying – 40 vayasil nai gunam – meaning you start exhibiting qualities of a dog when you are 40 and – 60 vayasil pei gunam – meaning you exhibit devilish traits when you turn 60.  There is no mention of the qualities one would display when he is just mid-way, say 47.  It ought to be certainly  somewhere midway between a dog and a devil, both the extremes not very endearing by themselves.   Suffice it to say, he would be barking at all good things in life that still manage to present before himself at this stage  and still be demon-enough to envy all those 60 pluses who do not feel shy of being ‘what they want to be, taking things the way they come and sipping a Bacardi rum…’

To think that I am just 45 days away from this dreadful mile-stone!  I shudder at the very thought.    I can already feel the ugly appendage developing at my posterior, which would  go by the nomenclature ‘tail’ and two sharp symmetric protrusions on my forehead which normally adorn the foreheads of a demon… The spirit is willing but the flesh just does not permit.  Permit relishing being a 47 year old….

Polam, righ rights!

Webster defines 'passe' as - "behind the times, out moded, antiquated, medieval...."

Webster does not venture to define the following, but my definitions can't be far from the truth:

1  public transport - "chaotic, inconvenient, passe"

2  pubic bus transport - "utterly chaotic, painfully inconvenient, passe"

3  public bus transport in Chennai - "all of the above + passe to the core"

But am I really approximating truth with my above definitions of MTC bus travel in Chennai?  Do I really mean what I define  MTC  public bus transport in Chennai to be?  I would be a hypocrite if I say yes.  For I love public transport, more particularly the MTC bus variety in Chennai.

Yes, I realise what crosses your mind at this very moment.  That  I am vain enough to actually like an abomination like MTC bus travel only because I can't drive!  Your reasoning  is sound enough but so is mine!  Especially since there are actually hundreds of reasons why one can even risk being branded a pervert on account of my actually  'liking'  MTC travel. Out of such hundreds, I give below only six for your consumption and contemplation:

i) Do my Tamil speaking brethren still remember the film song "en kanmani, en kadhali,...." from 'Chittukkuruvi'?  That masterpiece from Ilayaraja?  ( it's becoming cliched, hearing from me, isn't it, words like Ilayarajas and masterpieces, always used together? - well, Truth, the first time told, is a revelation.  The same truth, second time told, is  a reiteration. Hundredth time, a cliche.  Cliched it well might me, but truth is truth.  Dinning into one's ears a thousand times that the Pacific is the mightiest ocean on earth or Everest is the tallest summit on earth is pretty cliched too, but truth they are!).  Remember the interludes "emma Karuvattukkoda, munnadi  po" and "Teynampet super market irangu"?  So typical in the daily life of a bus conductor!  Well, travelling in MTC, I still hear these words day in and day out.  They goad me to remember that times have changed but the genre of bus travel has not, one bit!  The conductor still daily bawls  something along these lines, only the Karuvattukkodai has changed to Karbonn mobile and Teynampet does not boast of a  super market, nowadays.

The lesson - MTC travel keeps you rooted to your moorings, helps you realise that  more the times change, the more they remain unchanged!

ii) While I was school going, my home in Triplicane was abutting a bus stand,  hardly 50 metres away.   I can't say why, but I was besotted by those red-tinted monsters of Pallavan Transport.  My only pastime those days was to just stand and watch the buses arrive and depart from the bus-stand!  Sometimes I used to stand and watch in awe for such a long time that I would complete a full time-cycle of a route no 32 starting   on its journey, reach Mint and arrive back from the return journey!  A full span of about a hour and a half!  I still remember the thrilling wait for half an hour in Ice house bus stop for that 4F bus (later changed to 4H, since people complained E and F were difficult to distinguish on the name board) to go to my uncle's house at Tondiarpet!  What an ecstastic feeling upon spotting the bus arrive!  And that out of the world journey!  That particular bus travelled through the beach road, crossed Napier bridge which was a sight to behold and trundled along tunnels near the RBI (The road below the railway tracks were 'tunnels' for me, no less thrilling  than any tunnel dotting the mountainous ravines of the Meghalaya hills or the Mumbai-Pune expressway!)  And what to speak of route no. 39?  Those days, this bus route was the longest in Madras, what with 59 stops enroute!  If you board it at Hamilton bridge (our local lingo effortlessly renamed it as 'Ambattan Varavathi' and from there  to even 'Barber's bridge') and take the full trip to its two hour long destination Ambattur, your day would have been made!  For what better way to sight-see the entire Madras in all its glory, in say 50 paise! 

Lesson:  Buses help you connect with your city.  Buses unveiled that facet of Madras for me which could have been  perennially hidden had I travelled  by any other mode other than walk!

iii)  This is just an extension of (ii) above.  So enamoured I was with the PTC buses that I even knew by-heart the various depots to which those buses were attached merely by having a glance at their fleet numbers, painted on the sides. B for Adyar, E for Ambattur, H for Anna nagar, J for Mandaveli, L for T.Nagar etc. The other alphabets do not readily come to my mind but what the hell, that was 35 years back!  These alphabets have now been done away with, to be replaced by other codes like AN for Annanagar, MN for Mandaveli etc.  These trivialities would be well, just meaningless trivialities  for the common-folk, but they have a lesson.  Which is,

Lesson:  Buses help hone your observation skills.  How you put to good use those skills is entirely in your hands.

iv)  This is a phenomenon, unique only to MTC buses in Chennai.  In peak hours,which would be 90% of the time,  the buses would be jam-packed to the hilt, what with 150 people clinging to dear life inside a mobile contraption designed for 50.  The conductor would be invariably in the rear.  Those who boarded from the front gate, would pass on the money to his next bystander for the ticket.  He to the next one, he, in turn, to the next and so on.  The money would change hands ten times before reaching the conductor, who would dish out the ticket and the change which would then take a reverse journey passing through exactly the same ten hands which handled the onward journey.  This would be repeated for scores of passengers, each choosing a different combination of ten hands.  Never in Chennai's bus history has a bill passed failed to re-materialise in the avatar  of a  ticket and balance-change!  There is a great lesson to be learnt in this bit of orderly chaos one daily witnesses in MTC buses.

Which is:  Camraderie and fellow feeling are nourished in bus journeys!  Moreover, faith in humanity is restored, for no single link in the chain has ever vanished with the money till date.

v)  What is MTC bus travel without enjoying the moods of the fellow travellers?  If you happen to take a bus  especially after 9 p.m., you would happily find that half your fellow male passengers would be blissfully inebriated.  They would enlighten you on a hundred topics ranging from why Madras is going to the dogs, and what exactly is the reason for India's economic downturn to why Obama is the root cause of Kudankulam not starting operations.  To the uninitiated, this can be easily and patronizingly dismissed as  a drunk's gibberish but if you delve deep into, his reasoning and solution to the world's problems might after all have some point and worth a second look!  If you are equally inebriated, the exchange of ideas between you two, especially if heard by an uninebriated third party onlooker, might lead him to believe that with such great minds at work, deliverance from our troubles is not far off!

Lesson:  MTC bus is the place where half of the world's greatest ideas spring from.  If only these gems can be put to good use, the world would be a better place to live

vi)  You know what?  We Chennai folks believe in the socialist philosophy of 'Jo tumhara, woh humara' (what is your own should be shared with every one else, even if it is for free!) My fellow commuters in Chennai buses believe in this dictum to the core.  That is why in any given bus trip, one can listen to about 5 genres of music blaring off the mobile phones of the commuters - ranging from Thalaivar's 'Acham enbadhu madamayada' to Ganesan's 'Ponal pogattum poda', to Rajni's 'aasai nooru vagai', to the current day's latest version of Kuthu pattu.  Such generous souls do dish out a lesson to us,

Which is - The best place for free entertainment of different varieties is the inside of an MTC bus. More than that, 'partake of what little you have' should be today's credo.

I can go on and on but my Lord,  I rest my defence with the following final words:

Journey by public transport starts off as an inevitability in the early stages of life.  At a later stage, the inevitability dichotomises into two paths - the first being ability to acquire a transport of one's own and enjoying the fruits of 'comfort' and 'time saved'.  The second path being continuing to suffer the trials and tribulations of a crowded environs and reaching your destination late but enjoying, in the process, experiences such tribulations afford at minimal cost!  I agree friends, that having climbed up the ladder in professional life, it might seem uncool to be seen in a bus.  But I have a different take. Public transport allows you to see the world.  Public transport presents an opportunity to come out of your cocoons and observe life as it is, without the tinted sunglasses.  Public transport does not exactly help connect you with your priorities in time, but it connects you with the most precious thing, that is life!  And if you will, public transport, at least once in a while, helps shave off (i) those extra layers of fat on your belly, (ii) those extra bucks you just spent on petrol and (iii) that bit of extra carbon monoxide your owned transport just belched off!

After all, won't you agree that the journey itself is as precious as the destination, as some great soul declared?  Even if the journey is, in common parlance, cattle class?  If that be so, then hail the cattle!