Jolly Jack was a confirmed bachelor or so it seemed till, much to the surprise of his friends - married or otherwise happy - he suddenly announced his marriage. And then he just vanished ! His bachelor cronies were sunk in sorrow. We, marrieds, however, sat smugly in the knowledge that the moon does disappear from the sky for a few days only to reappear again in due course.
So did he, one fine morning. Only unlike the smoothly gliding moon, he just burst in.
"Well ! Well ! so nice to see you after such a long............
" Save it ! I am in no mood for pleasantries ", he cut in.
" Well, then what is the problem ? Why do you look like a nightmare ? I thought, you would be wallowing in wedded bliss ".
" Blast that bliss. Marriage is nothing but problems. you know how it is. For a few days after the event, it is all honey and milk but then it wears you down a bit. And then the nagging starts ".
" Go on, you are proceeding strctly along the normal channels of married life ", I encouraged.
" I therefore decided to do something about it. As a first step towards that end, I purchased a marriage manual...........
" A marriage manual " ?
" Yes, one has to make concessions and make changes in one's usual ways, you know ", was the pathetic explanation of that once cocky bachelor. Continuing, he said, " The manual says,in such circumstances to keep on reassuring the missus that one still loves her and to keep up the pretence of still wooing her ".
" Yes, so it says. Then where did you falter ?
" Well, last night there was a full moon and sitting out on tweet nothings to herhe lawn, it suddenly dawned on me that this was the time. So I took her in my arms and started murmuring sweet nothings to her. I did alright for some time but suddenly she slapped me and ran into the house, slamming the door shut on poor pursuing me. For heaven's sake, i don't know what i did wrong, Johnnie my dear friend, be a pal and tell me. Would you ? "
Elated at this sudden elevation to the advisory capacity, i assumed the proper amount of seriousness and probed, " What were you doing at the aforesaid moment ? "
" Well, I told you what I was doing "
"Repeat it " He repeated.
" But what exactly were you saying ? "
" Well, what does one say at such moments ? You are as sweet as honey, smooth, silky, - and all that rot ".
" Well that does not provide any clue. try and remember more ".
"Oh ! You are my darling, my own darling, you have hair like spaghetti, the figure of a Miss World, a face like the moon.....
: Ah ! There you are, my dear Watson ! One should not say to a girl any more that she is moon - faced ".
" Why ?"
" Haven't you seen the recently published photographs of Armstrong and Aldrin on the moon's surface ?
There are craters and craters all over the moon".
" A - a - h ! I dig it. You know, behind that male-up, she still has evidence of her childhood small pox. Yes ! It all comes back to me. she did mutter something about my going and getting another girl who was not pock-marked !
" That makes it all the worse ".
" Yes, indeed ! But what to do now /"
" Use your science, my dear boy ! Divide the size of the average crater by the size of the moon. Compare that ratio with the ratio of the skin pore size to the size of her face'.
" It compares ".
" Well, then tell her that when you mentioned the moon, you had her skin pores in mind vis - a - vis the moon craters and not the pock marks. If that does not hold water, just tell her that in any case, your lover's eyes could never notice any blemish in his beloved's face ".
" That's it " ! he said and burst out with the same violent rush as he had burst in. the detective - advisor in me beamed on his vanishing posterior.
Showing posts with label Anecdote. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anecdote. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
SOMA, THE UNUSUAL MAN
Soma was a farm labourer who fell in love with his master's daughter. Unlike in Hindi films, there was no hitch and he married her. In fact, his story is so unlike hindi film stories that I am tempted to narrate it as a story. For men like Soma are these days found in stories alone.
After marriage, he did not consider it fit to continue his job with his father-in-law. He therefore moved to a nearby town. He found a job with the Railways. As was the practice in those days, he was chosen to be attached to an officer of the Railways to do the latter's household work. Being directly attached to the boss was considered to be a prestigious position. When my father was posted to that town, Soma began to work for us. It was a spacious bunglow with a large compound. The bunglow had servants' quarters in which Soma lived with his family. He had a son and a daughter by the time we moved to that bunglow. His aged father too lived with him.
Soma's duties included all the household chores such as cleaning utensils, washing clothes and sweeping and mopping the floors. We were a large family. Apart from my parents and grandparents, we were six siblings. As was the practice in those days, one or two cousins too lived with for their schooling. In addition to the duties outlined earlier, one of his duties was to walk with us to the school which was a good 5 K.M.s away and non-availability of any public transport. Apart from all these, Soma's love for farming and gardening impelled him to look after our garden. We grew our own vegetables, fruits and flowers. There was one more servant to share his burden. His wife also lent him a hand.
One sunday in a month saw Soma turn into a barber. He dressed the hair of all the male members of his family. Twice a week, he shaved his father's beard apart from attending to his own on a daily basis. Twice a year, Soma would turn into a tailor and stitch clothes for his entire family with the help of a sewing machine borrowed from my mother. He believed in complete self reliance and practised it in toto.
The way he started training his son Vitthal was remarkable. Vitthal used to come to school along with us. As soon as Vitthal mastered the three 'R's to Soma's satisfaction, he was taken off from the school. He would have come to the secondary stage, had he continued. the boy was hardly ten years old. We all protested but Soma did not flinch. According to him, he did not want his son to become a softie with a lot of gas in his head.
Vitthal was first apprenticed to Soma's brother-in-law who hawked newspapers at the Railway station. On our way to school, Soma would explain to us his logic. The boy, he said, must first learn to speak boldly to strangers and learn how to deal with public. He must also learn to handle money and keep accounts. As the amount involved on a daily basis was not large after the departure ofa train, loss if any, would not amount to much. In the time interval between one train and the next, he would read the newspaper and keep himself abreast of what happened in the world around him. Once he formed a habit of reading the newspaper, for the rest of his life, he would remain uptodate with the latest information.
Vitthal picked up and did his job so well that his uncle-cum-boss gradually started leaving all work to Vitthal. Hardly a year had passed and Soma took Vitthal off that job. His employer protested vehemantly, even offered a share in the business but Soma stuck to his guns.
Next, Soma apprenticed Vitthal to a tailor, a barber, a mason, a carpenter and so on. He would explain to us that the boy should become deft with his hands and be able to look after his and his family's requirements himself. He can then choose any of the trades that he had picked up as his profession. He would never lack for work as he would be an asset to any employer. If he chose, he could even be an entrepreneur himself. The concept of multi-trade was taught to me by Soma. Vitthal, I realized, would never join a trade union as he would never have grievances. If something did not suit him, he could easily switch over.
Soma's wife became pregnant and Soma acted as the midwife without any fuss. We knew of the child birth only because Vitthal did not go to work that day and took care of his younger siblings. On being pressed, Vitthal gave out the story. Even such an event did not make much difference to his routine work He merely adjusted his timings. Later, he explained to us how he learnt the work of a midwife. For the birth of his first child, a midwife was hired on the condition that Soma would remain present during delivery and learn all about it. During the second child's birth, the midwife was hired not for the actual delivery but for monitoring Soma's performance. For the third delivery, he did not need any help.
The only incident that I remember in connection with Soma that had some excitement was when Soma's wife complained to him that a neighbour's servant had insulted her. Soma flew into a rage and ran after the offender. We were afraid Soma would have taken some weapon along, but no ! Soma had just gone off like that. After a chase, Soma caught hold of the man by his hair, shook him, slapped him on both cheeks and told him how to behave with women. When Soma came back, he was his usual self and without a moment's delay, continued with what he was doing earlier.
It is now nearly half a century since I set my eyes on Soma. This is a belated tribute to you, Soma, the unusual man ! I am sure, you would have been happy wherever you have been, since you know how to be happy by yourself. No Gurus or psychiatrists for you !
After marriage, he did not consider it fit to continue his job with his father-in-law. He therefore moved to a nearby town. He found a job with the Railways. As was the practice in those days, he was chosen to be attached to an officer of the Railways to do the latter's household work. Being directly attached to the boss was considered to be a prestigious position. When my father was posted to that town, Soma began to work for us. It was a spacious bunglow with a large compound. The bunglow had servants' quarters in which Soma lived with his family. He had a son and a daughter by the time we moved to that bunglow. His aged father too lived with him.
Soma's duties included all the household chores such as cleaning utensils, washing clothes and sweeping and mopping the floors. We were a large family. Apart from my parents and grandparents, we were six siblings. As was the practice in those days, one or two cousins too lived with for their schooling. In addition to the duties outlined earlier, one of his duties was to walk with us to the school which was a good 5 K.M.s away and non-availability of any public transport. Apart from all these, Soma's love for farming and gardening impelled him to look after our garden. We grew our own vegetables, fruits and flowers. There was one more servant to share his burden. His wife also lent him a hand.
One sunday in a month saw Soma turn into a barber. He dressed the hair of all the male members of his family. Twice a week, he shaved his father's beard apart from attending to his own on a daily basis. Twice a year, Soma would turn into a tailor and stitch clothes for his entire family with the help of a sewing machine borrowed from my mother. He believed in complete self reliance and practised it in toto.
The way he started training his son Vitthal was remarkable. Vitthal used to come to school along with us. As soon as Vitthal mastered the three 'R's to Soma's satisfaction, he was taken off from the school. He would have come to the secondary stage, had he continued. the boy was hardly ten years old. We all protested but Soma did not flinch. According to him, he did not want his son to become a softie with a lot of gas in his head.
Vitthal was first apprenticed to Soma's brother-in-law who hawked newspapers at the Railway station. On our way to school, Soma would explain to us his logic. The boy, he said, must first learn to speak boldly to strangers and learn how to deal with public. He must also learn to handle money and keep accounts. As the amount involved on a daily basis was not large after the departure ofa train, loss if any, would not amount to much. In the time interval between one train and the next, he would read the newspaper and keep himself abreast of what happened in the world around him. Once he formed a habit of reading the newspaper, for the rest of his life, he would remain uptodate with the latest information.
Vitthal picked up and did his job so well that his uncle-cum-boss gradually started leaving all work to Vitthal. Hardly a year had passed and Soma took Vitthal off that job. His employer protested vehemantly, even offered a share in the business but Soma stuck to his guns.
Next, Soma apprenticed Vitthal to a tailor, a barber, a mason, a carpenter and so on. He would explain to us that the boy should become deft with his hands and be able to look after his and his family's requirements himself. He can then choose any of the trades that he had picked up as his profession. He would never lack for work as he would be an asset to any employer. If he chose, he could even be an entrepreneur himself. The concept of multi-trade was taught to me by Soma. Vitthal, I realized, would never join a trade union as he would never have grievances. If something did not suit him, he could easily switch over.
Soma's wife became pregnant and Soma acted as the midwife without any fuss. We knew of the child birth only because Vitthal did not go to work that day and took care of his younger siblings. On being pressed, Vitthal gave out the story. Even such an event did not make much difference to his routine work He merely adjusted his timings. Later, he explained to us how he learnt the work of a midwife. For the birth of his first child, a midwife was hired on the condition that Soma would remain present during delivery and learn all about it. During the second child's birth, the midwife was hired not for the actual delivery but for monitoring Soma's performance. For the third delivery, he did not need any help.
The only incident that I remember in connection with Soma that had some excitement was when Soma's wife complained to him that a neighbour's servant had insulted her. Soma flew into a rage and ran after the offender. We were afraid Soma would have taken some weapon along, but no ! Soma had just gone off like that. After a chase, Soma caught hold of the man by his hair, shook him, slapped him on both cheeks and told him how to behave with women. When Soma came back, he was his usual self and without a moment's delay, continued with what he was doing earlier.
It is now nearly half a century since I set my eyes on Soma. This is a belated tribute to you, Soma, the unusual man ! I am sure, you would have been happy wherever you have been, since you know how to be happy by yourself. No Gurus or psychiatrists for you !
PREETY, OUR HOUSE MANAGER
Preety, our daughter is a spastic. I might enlighten all those of you who do not know what a spastic or a patient of Cerebral Palsy is.
A spastic is an individual who is fully developed mentally. In some respects, they are perhaps even more developed than average human beings.The word spastic owes its origin to the word 'spasm' or jerky movement. Muscular co-ordination is lacking in spastics. Their movements are jerky and quite often they can not make the smooth normal movements of their feet or hands or for that matter any of their limbs including the tongue.
Our brain has many departments. Some control our vision, some smell, some memory and so on. There is one that controls the co-ordination of voluntary muscles. We have voluntary muscles and involuntary muscles. Involuntary muscles are those, for example that come into play when we instictively withdraw our handswhen we accidentally touch a hot object. Voluntary muscles are those that we use consciously for carrying out some task. The centre of the brain that co-ordinates our voluntary muscles i.e. the one that makes the limbs to do what we want them to do is the one that is affected in the spastics. It does not work properly. As per present knowledge, when this function is paralysed due to one or more of any number of reasons, the person becomes a spastic.
My guess is that they either belong to a different species than the ones from which the present day human beings evolved. It is also possible that they are humans belonging to a different time scale, something on the lines of extra-terrestrial (ET) beings. We may call them extra-chronological (EC) beings.
Whatever it be, Preety is a spastic. She can not stand up, walk, sit up properly, eat or dress by herself. She can not even speak. Communication with her is by gestures or by asking questions whether this is what she means. By shaking her head she indicates yes or no. We have to find out what she wants by the reductio ad absurdum method!
She is either in bed or in a wheel chair all the time. She is fond of current Hindi film music, likes to listen to the radio or watch TV. Her reactions to films shown on TV are quite normal for a girl of her age. She likes the company of girls of her age, is extremely fond of her brothers and makes no bones about being partial to our elder son.
Whenever anything is misplaced in the house, we only ask her and as she observes everyone in the house, she is able to tell us where the misplaced article is. When a particular maternal aunt of mine visits us, she immediately instructs her mother to bring tea and Paan. Similarly, when my paternal aunt visits us, she is never allowed to go without partaking of a meal. The reason is that the aunt like her own self is a daughter of the family and traditions must be observed. She recognizes the steps of my elder brother on the staircase and makes a sound reserved only for him.
We can not scold anyone younger than her as it is her prerogative. the hierarchy must be maintained. If we intervene in any quarrel between her and her brothers, even if we take her side, she turns against us. she makes use of all the tricks at her command to see that her brothers study.
She remembers the birthdays of everyone in the family and begins planning the guest list, the menu and so on much in advance. The birthday boy or girl as the case may be must be kept out of all the planning as the celebration and the birthday gift must be a surprise. The gift has to be handed over by none other than herself.
Her sense of timing is very good as if a watch is implanted in her brain. She asks us to switch on the radio or the TV for her favourite programs without looking at the clock and is always right when she says that it is time for a particular program.
Previously she tried to manage the entire household whether it was cooking or looking after the guests. gradually, it has come down and now she tries to manage only those activities that are relevant to her. her every action tells us that she has perhaps been a manager in a previous form or birth.
Sometimes I wonder if our present day managers or leaders in any walk of life or for that matter our politicians would become spastics in some future birth. Think over. Similarities are many.
In reality, she is like a piece of modern abstract art. Only the painter knows what it is and that too at the time of painting it. In her case, God, our maker alone knows or knew while making her. It surely is not common to be a common man.
A spastic is an individual who is fully developed mentally. In some respects, they are perhaps even more developed than average human beings.The word spastic owes its origin to the word 'spasm' or jerky movement. Muscular co-ordination is lacking in spastics. Their movements are jerky and quite often they can not make the smooth normal movements of their feet or hands or for that matter any of their limbs including the tongue.
Our brain has many departments. Some control our vision, some smell, some memory and so on. There is one that controls the co-ordination of voluntary muscles. We have voluntary muscles and involuntary muscles. Involuntary muscles are those, for example that come into play when we instictively withdraw our handswhen we accidentally touch a hot object. Voluntary muscles are those that we use consciously for carrying out some task. The centre of the brain that co-ordinates our voluntary muscles i.e. the one that makes the limbs to do what we want them to do is the one that is affected in the spastics. It does not work properly. As per present knowledge, when this function is paralysed due to one or more of any number of reasons, the person becomes a spastic.
My guess is that they either belong to a different species than the ones from which the present day human beings evolved. It is also possible that they are humans belonging to a different time scale, something on the lines of extra-terrestrial (ET) beings. We may call them extra-chronological (EC) beings.
Whatever it be, Preety is a spastic. She can not stand up, walk, sit up properly, eat or dress by herself. She can not even speak. Communication with her is by gestures or by asking questions whether this is what she means. By shaking her head she indicates yes or no. We have to find out what she wants by the reductio ad absurdum method!
She is either in bed or in a wheel chair all the time. She is fond of current Hindi film music, likes to listen to the radio or watch TV. Her reactions to films shown on TV are quite normal for a girl of her age. She likes the company of girls of her age, is extremely fond of her brothers and makes no bones about being partial to our elder son.
Whenever anything is misplaced in the house, we only ask her and as she observes everyone in the house, she is able to tell us where the misplaced article is. When a particular maternal aunt of mine visits us, she immediately instructs her mother to bring tea and Paan. Similarly, when my paternal aunt visits us, she is never allowed to go without partaking of a meal. The reason is that the aunt like her own self is a daughter of the family and traditions must be observed. She recognizes the steps of my elder brother on the staircase and makes a sound reserved only for him.
We can not scold anyone younger than her as it is her prerogative. the hierarchy must be maintained. If we intervene in any quarrel between her and her brothers, even if we take her side, she turns against us. she makes use of all the tricks at her command to see that her brothers study.
She remembers the birthdays of everyone in the family and begins planning the guest list, the menu and so on much in advance. The birthday boy or girl as the case may be must be kept out of all the planning as the celebration and the birthday gift must be a surprise. The gift has to be handed over by none other than herself.
Her sense of timing is very good as if a watch is implanted in her brain. She asks us to switch on the radio or the TV for her favourite programs without looking at the clock and is always right when she says that it is time for a particular program.
Previously she tried to manage the entire household whether it was cooking or looking after the guests. gradually, it has come down and now she tries to manage only those activities that are relevant to her. her every action tells us that she has perhaps been a manager in a previous form or birth.
Sometimes I wonder if our present day managers or leaders in any walk of life or for that matter our politicians would become spastics in some future birth. Think over. Similarities are many.
In reality, she is like a piece of modern abstract art. Only the painter knows what it is and that too at the time of painting it. In her case, God, our maker alone knows or knew while making her. It surely is not common to be a common man.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
NAMITA, THE BORED BAMBINA
Fleece white as snow, shaggy wet haired, early teens, she stood among a group of four girls at the bus stand. The condition of their hair being similar to ours, I presumed that they too were returning from the swimming pool. What attracted to me was voice. A languid, bored voice, she managed to impart that quality to her tone even when talking animatedly.
I broke the ice and introduced ourselves - my wife and myself. They in turn, did likewise. " We are Chaturvedis from Rajasthan, pure brahmins ", she said in amplification of her surname. I told her that I too belonged to the most impure among humans, the pure brahmin breed known as Nagars fro further south - west.
The bus arrived and we got in. we had standing room only. I sensed a pair of eyes boring through my back. Instinctively, I looked back and met them. For a fleeting moment, heat radiated through the air gap between us and all was normal again.
Thereafter we met daily. Each time, I would give her a different name. Naomi, Manyeta, Natasha, Water Nymph, Bathing Beauty ...... and so on. Every time, except for a slight ripple, she would maintain her cool. Sometimes, I would tease her or pay handsome compliments. " Tell me Namita, how many boys have told you that you are a lovely girl ? " I asked her once. In a brief moment of weakness, she shook her mane, rolled her lips and said " Quite a few ".
" Good for them, otherwise i would have had a very poor opinion for Delhi boys ", I countered. By then she was cool again. ever smiling and though otherwise lithe and active, inherently she is more like a lioness who treats even the king of the jungle with a bored indulgence.
I once asked her to race with me in the pool. Like a typical female, she let me win. When diving together, I would point out her any flaws in her style as they appeared to me In response, she however, always praised mine even if she had not even watched my dive. Her attitude was that of a lioness encouraging a not too strong cub.
Namita, the bored lioness, has yet to graduate to being a playful dolphin. When she does, she would, I am sure, be a joy for the Gods themselves !
I broke the ice and introduced ourselves - my wife and myself. They in turn, did likewise. " We are Chaturvedis from Rajasthan, pure brahmins ", she said in amplification of her surname. I told her that I too belonged to the most impure among humans, the pure brahmin breed known as Nagars fro further south - west.
The bus arrived and we got in. we had standing room only. I sensed a pair of eyes boring through my back. Instinctively, I looked back and met them. For a fleeting moment, heat radiated through the air gap between us and all was normal again.
Thereafter we met daily. Each time, I would give her a different name. Naomi, Manyeta, Natasha, Water Nymph, Bathing Beauty ...... and so on. Every time, except for a slight ripple, she would maintain her cool. Sometimes, I would tease her or pay handsome compliments. " Tell me Namita, how many boys have told you that you are a lovely girl ? " I asked her once. In a brief moment of weakness, she shook her mane, rolled her lips and said " Quite a few ".
" Good for them, otherwise i would have had a very poor opinion for Delhi boys ", I countered. By then she was cool again. ever smiling and though otherwise lithe and active, inherently she is more like a lioness who treats even the king of the jungle with a bored indulgence.
I once asked her to race with me in the pool. Like a typical female, she let me win. When diving together, I would point out her any flaws in her style as they appeared to me In response, she however, always praised mine even if she had not even watched my dive. Her attitude was that of a lioness encouraging a not too strong cub.
Namita, the bored lioness, has yet to graduate to being a playful dolphin. When she does, she would, I am sure, be a joy for the Gods themselves !
Saturday, August 20, 2011
CRIMINALS
The other day, we had been to the Agri expo 1977 fair. In one of the pavillions, some khadi clad V.I.P.s accompanied by the usual paraphernelia of chamchas and cops in uniform, walked in.
Since the faces were not quite well known locally, the question on the lips of all V.O.P.s like us was, ' Who are these people ? " As if sensing this, a small boy spoke out rather loudly, " Must have done something really bad ! Look at all those policemen following them everywhere !
FOOTNOTE :- Was he making a prophecy of the era of Anna Hazare when that became the common perception of the common man ?
Or was he making a statement of fact that we were then, not aware of ?
I donot know.
Since the faces were not quite well known locally, the question on the lips of all V.O.P.s like us was, ' Who are these people ? " As if sensing this, a small boy spoke out rather loudly, " Must have done something really bad ! Look at all those policemen following them everywhere !
FOOTNOTE :- Was he making a prophecy of the era of Anna Hazare when that became the common perception of the common man ?
Or was he making a statement of fact that we were then, not aware of ?
I donot know.
THE GANG OF FOUR
I had just shifted to a retreat that I had built with many dreams. Some of those cherished dreams have not come true and some have gone awry due to change in circumstances. Nevertheless, a certain peace even if of the numb kind had descended on me when the encounter with the gang of four took place. No ! It was not the dreaded Chinese gang of four. Then, what was it ? Wait ! You will soon find out.
Evening of a holiday. I am sitting in the drawing room with its weather beaten, transfer seasoned, out of date furniture. My teen age sons keep me company to compensate for the loss of one whom I had dearly loved. Suddenly, Santosh our eighteen years old son got up and strode up to the door. He was welcoming some visitors. The curious smile on his face indicated that the visitors were unusual. His repeated welcoming gestures and monotones whetted my curiosity. I was however totally unprepared for the attack when it came.
The gang of four trooped in. Shy, hesitant smiles on their faces. Ajay, Amit, Pramod and Jenu. I welcome them forgetting the churning stomache that tormented me. Introductions follow. Ajay and Amit turn out to be twins. They are all trilingual - products of the trilingual formula and aged about five years.
Jenu and Pramod in turns occupy my lap while the twins stand. I talk to them in all the three languages but they talk to me in only one - the language in which they talk to their parents and such other backward people.
I start my standard ploys. I offer to play Antakshari but they plead innocence of all versified stuff. No ! Not even nursery rhymes. This despite the fact that only that afternoon, I had heard one of them singing a song from one of the latest Hindi films.
" Alright, Let's play the guessing game ". They nod agreement. They must think of a person whom I know and must answer questions only in either the affirmative or the negative and I would tell them who was the person they had thought of. They do so in turns and after a few questions, I tell them who the person was, with the air of a Houdini.
Then, I think of a person and ask them to pose questions to me. Suddenly they are all dumb. " Would you be able to tell me without asking questions ? " I prod them. In answer they all troop out. A short while later, I hear screams of delight that attract my attention. They come from the house opposite, abode of not a single member of the gang but that of a newly acquired teen age friend of my sons - the person I had thought of. Not only that . He was right there with them. This was the gang's way of telling me that they could read minds, a much higher form of communication than mere speech.
Next day, on my return from work, I am greeted by them in a language other than the one that they resrve for their parents. I still do not know whether they consider me more backward or more forward. In reply, I merely fondle their heads. If I speak, I am afraid of being labelled as backward while I am still being sized up.
Children, particularly nuclear age children, do not take long to size up people. i am dying to know the verdict that this gang of four passes on me. And I hope that I will be able to understand it in the form in which it is passed.
Stop Press :- The verdict has just come as this is being written. Jenu, the only female member of the gang has come to watch our TV and is lovingly snuggled in my lap ! I seem to have passed muster. Hallelujah !
Evening of a holiday. I am sitting in the drawing room with its weather beaten, transfer seasoned, out of date furniture. My teen age sons keep me company to compensate for the loss of one whom I had dearly loved. Suddenly, Santosh our eighteen years old son got up and strode up to the door. He was welcoming some visitors. The curious smile on his face indicated that the visitors were unusual. His repeated welcoming gestures and monotones whetted my curiosity. I was however totally unprepared for the attack when it came.
The gang of four trooped in. Shy, hesitant smiles on their faces. Ajay, Amit, Pramod and Jenu. I welcome them forgetting the churning stomache that tormented me. Introductions follow. Ajay and Amit turn out to be twins. They are all trilingual - products of the trilingual formula and aged about five years.
Jenu and Pramod in turns occupy my lap while the twins stand. I talk to them in all the three languages but they talk to me in only one - the language in which they talk to their parents and such other backward people.
I start my standard ploys. I offer to play Antakshari but they plead innocence of all versified stuff. No ! Not even nursery rhymes. This despite the fact that only that afternoon, I had heard one of them singing a song from one of the latest Hindi films.
" Alright, Let's play the guessing game ". They nod agreement. They must think of a person whom I know and must answer questions only in either the affirmative or the negative and I would tell them who was the person they had thought of. They do so in turns and after a few questions, I tell them who the person was, with the air of a Houdini.
Then, I think of a person and ask them to pose questions to me. Suddenly they are all dumb. " Would you be able to tell me without asking questions ? " I prod them. In answer they all troop out. A short while later, I hear screams of delight that attract my attention. They come from the house opposite, abode of not a single member of the gang but that of a newly acquired teen age friend of my sons - the person I had thought of. Not only that . He was right there with them. This was the gang's way of telling me that they could read minds, a much higher form of communication than mere speech.
Next day, on my return from work, I am greeted by them in a language other than the one that they resrve for their parents. I still do not know whether they consider me more backward or more forward. In reply, I merely fondle their heads. If I speak, I am afraid of being labelled as backward while I am still being sized up.
Children, particularly nuclear age children, do not take long to size up people. i am dying to know the verdict that this gang of four passes on me. And I hope that I will be able to understand it in the form in which it is passed.
Stop Press :- The verdict has just come as this is being written. Jenu, the only female member of the gang has come to watch our TV and is lovingly snuggled in my lap ! I seem to have passed muster. Hallelujah !
TRANSFORMATION OF AN ' ENGLISH ' GIRL
Rati was born in England of Indian parents. When she was about five years old, her parents returned along with her to India. Soon, a brother was born. Having been born and brought up in England, she was " English " whereas her brother who was born in India was an Indian.
As if the contrast between England and an Indian city was not enough, her father got a job on the construction site of a public sector unit in one of the most backward areas. Bewilderment of Rati in this place was complete.
Rati had however not forgotten the manners and social graces learnt by her in one of the smaller towns of England. She could be depended upon to stir out of the house in only the most proper dress for the purpose of the outing, all neatly ironed and starched. When meeting someone on the road, instead of sheepishly smiling like other Indian children, she would boldly greet an adult with a " Good Morning or Evening, Mr. or Mrs. or Miss so and so ".
If you were to call on her parents, she would answer the doorbell, greet you properly, a pleasant surprise written all over her face. She would usher you in the sitting room and after making you comfortable, inform her parents of your arrival. Then, like a good child, she would withdraw, leaving the grown - ups to their grown - up talk. Among us construction people in that small settlement, Rati was indeed a wonder, an example quoted by some mothers of what a good child should be.
Rati's little brother was however her despair. He was inclined to be merry, to be talking louder than in whispers and to be wearing ill-matched clothes. If she was not wary, Ravi would sneak out wearing only his slippers. Why ! She had once seen him playing barefooted. And horror of horrors ! Ravi had once openly and unashamedly expressed a desire to swim in a pond that the villagers used for bathing, and washing clothes as well as utensils.
Ravi was indeed a great burden for Rati's frail shoulders. Whenever and wherever possible, she attended to his attire, his manners and so on. But the moment her back was turned, Ravi lapsed into a behaviour that Rati had started thinking of as his " Indianness ". The more she tried to cure him of it, the more he lapsed into it. The strain on her mind was beginning to tell.
It was during this period that I went to Rati's house on some business. Her father was away but was expected back soon. I was therefore having a chat with Rati's mother in the meantime. Rati could be seen reading a book in the adjoining room.
Just then, Ravi barged in her room as was his wont, clothes splattered with mud, hair disheveled and a wild look of joy on his face. He shouted " Look ! Didi ! what I have brought for you ! Rati looked and found a small garland of wild flowers for Rati's hair.
For once in her ten years of existence, she forgot to notice her brother's untidy appearance, his abominable manners and even omitted to scold him. Instead, she broke one of her own rules. She walked into the drawing room, garland in hand and said excitedly, " Mother ! Look ! What Ravi has made for me !
No sooner she said it, she realized that an outsider was present. She was about to apologise and withdraw but the look of total approval on both the adult faces changed her mind. When I pulled her towards me, she came unresistingly and sat on my lap as naturally as the rest of the children in that small settlement did, her pyjamas notwithstanding. Ravi's genuine affection had after all overcome her inhibitions.
She was later to realize that one's behaviour corresponded to one's development on a number of planes, apart from time and environment. Behaviour natural to youself can never be considered as boorish except by boors or half-baked copycat people. Social graces that come from within and are a part of one's personality are what count. Acquired manners like gilded ornaments can last only as long as the gilt takes to wear off. The only way to be happy and to go up is to be true to yourself and the world would eventually be true to you.
By now, Rati is a big girl. Call her Indian, call her English, no matter what !
As if the contrast between England and an Indian city was not enough, her father got a job on the construction site of a public sector unit in one of the most backward areas. Bewilderment of Rati in this place was complete.
Rati had however not forgotten the manners and social graces learnt by her in one of the smaller towns of England. She could be depended upon to stir out of the house in only the most proper dress for the purpose of the outing, all neatly ironed and starched. When meeting someone on the road, instead of sheepishly smiling like other Indian children, she would boldly greet an adult with a " Good Morning or Evening, Mr. or Mrs. or Miss so and so ".
If you were to call on her parents, she would answer the doorbell, greet you properly, a pleasant surprise written all over her face. She would usher you in the sitting room and after making you comfortable, inform her parents of your arrival. Then, like a good child, she would withdraw, leaving the grown - ups to their grown - up talk. Among us construction people in that small settlement, Rati was indeed a wonder, an example quoted by some mothers of what a good child should be.
Rati's little brother was however her despair. He was inclined to be merry, to be talking louder than in whispers and to be wearing ill-matched clothes. If she was not wary, Ravi would sneak out wearing only his slippers. Why ! She had once seen him playing barefooted. And horror of horrors ! Ravi had once openly and unashamedly expressed a desire to swim in a pond that the villagers used for bathing, and washing clothes as well as utensils.
Ravi was indeed a great burden for Rati's frail shoulders. Whenever and wherever possible, she attended to his attire, his manners and so on. But the moment her back was turned, Ravi lapsed into a behaviour that Rati had started thinking of as his " Indianness ". The more she tried to cure him of it, the more he lapsed into it. The strain on her mind was beginning to tell.
It was during this period that I went to Rati's house on some business. Her father was away but was expected back soon. I was therefore having a chat with Rati's mother in the meantime. Rati could be seen reading a book in the adjoining room.
Just then, Ravi barged in her room as was his wont, clothes splattered with mud, hair disheveled and a wild look of joy on his face. He shouted " Look ! Didi ! what I have brought for you ! Rati looked and found a small garland of wild flowers for Rati's hair.
For once in her ten years of existence, she forgot to notice her brother's untidy appearance, his abominable manners and even omitted to scold him. Instead, she broke one of her own rules. She walked into the drawing room, garland in hand and said excitedly, " Mother ! Look ! What Ravi has made for me !
No sooner she said it, she realized that an outsider was present. She was about to apologise and withdraw but the look of total approval on both the adult faces changed her mind. When I pulled her towards me, she came unresistingly and sat on my lap as naturally as the rest of the children in that small settlement did, her pyjamas notwithstanding. Ravi's genuine affection had after all overcome her inhibitions.
She was later to realize that one's behaviour corresponded to one's development on a number of planes, apart from time and environment. Behaviour natural to youself can never be considered as boorish except by boors or half-baked copycat people. Social graces that come from within and are a part of one's personality are what count. Acquired manners like gilded ornaments can last only as long as the gilt takes to wear off. The only way to be happy and to go up is to be true to yourself and the world would eventually be true to you.
By now, Rati is a big girl. Call her Indian, call her English, no matter what !
Friday, August 19, 2011
MAY BE, SHE WILL FIND OUT
I first met Neetu a few years back. She was a neighbour. I remembered her as a sweet talking kid, rather a favourite of my wife. Recently, she came to our office with her dad. Dad was busy, so she was rather at a loose end. So was I. So I invited her upto my cabin. She said, she woiuld come as soon as she finished the coffee that had been ordered for her.
Returning to my cabin, I had almost forgotten about her. When she came in, she had a smile and an expectancy on the face as is proper for a girl out on her first date. We talked about the old days. Did she remenber our neighbours ? She did, except only us. she was however prepared to accept my assertion that we too were her neighbours. Establishment og friendly relations was not at all difficult. Very soon, she was cosy in my lap, chatting gaily and laughing a lot.
" What do you do in office ? " was a question that stumped me. I do not know how they do it but most children including my own, find out soon that all this talk about working hard in the office is actually a lot of humbug. So everytime that they ask this question, I am wary. " I read, sometimes I write and talk to people ' was my guarded answer. " Humphhh... " was her sole response which could have a variety of meanings. In the present case, it meant, " Well, you are a bit of alright. After all, you did not act superior and say I wouldn't understand. "
" Can you cook ? " I asked her.
" Well, I can make tea ".
" What about Rice or Chapatti ? "
" No "
" How did you learn making tea ? "
" Well, there was this Didi living next door to us and her mother was busy, so Didi let me make tea in her house. That was when I was young. I was only seven then. "
"How old are you now ? "
" I am eight ", making it sound like eighteen.
" Can you roast a papad ? "
" I have never done it but it is fairly easy. You buy a pair of tongs similar to the ones you use for picking up ice cubes and use them " , displaying her power of observation.
" Would you roast a papad for me when I come to your place ? ".
She nodded assent and our next date was made.
While this tete - a - tete was in progress, some people came into the next room and a rather loud discussion ensued among them. We had, therefore, to make our dialogue in some other form. Picking up a sheet from the desk calendar that she had carefully dusted earlier with her handkerchief, I made a doodle of a girl in pigtails and captioned it Neetu. I passed it on to her. In reply, she started to make one of me but did not succeed, so she gave it up. Picking up one more sheet, I wrote, Neetu is a naughty girl. She wrote back. No, I am not a naughty girl. Thank you.
After trading a few more insults, she came up with what she thought was an ultimate insult. She wrote, " You are my ontie ". I returned the paper merely correcting her spelling to Auntie. Disappointment and disbelief were writ large on her face. She was still unable to decide whether I was really feminine enough to accept her insult or whether the poisoned dart had made no dent in my armour when her father walked in to fetch her. May be, she will find out if and when she roasts that papad for me.
Returning to my cabin, I had almost forgotten about her. When she came in, she had a smile and an expectancy on the face as is proper for a girl out on her first date. We talked about the old days. Did she remenber our neighbours ? She did, except only us. she was however prepared to accept my assertion that we too were her neighbours. Establishment og friendly relations was not at all difficult. Very soon, she was cosy in my lap, chatting gaily and laughing a lot.
" What do you do in office ? " was a question that stumped me. I do not know how they do it but most children including my own, find out soon that all this talk about working hard in the office is actually a lot of humbug. So everytime that they ask this question, I am wary. " I read, sometimes I write and talk to people ' was my guarded answer. " Humphhh... " was her sole response which could have a variety of meanings. In the present case, it meant, " Well, you are a bit of alright. After all, you did not act superior and say I wouldn't understand. "
" Can you cook ? " I asked her.
" Well, I can make tea ".
" What about Rice or Chapatti ? "
" No "
" How did you learn making tea ? "
" Well, there was this Didi living next door to us and her mother was busy, so Didi let me make tea in her house. That was when I was young. I was only seven then. "
"How old are you now ? "
" I am eight ", making it sound like eighteen.
" Can you roast a papad ? "
" I have never done it but it is fairly easy. You buy a pair of tongs similar to the ones you use for picking up ice cubes and use them " , displaying her power of observation.
" Would you roast a papad for me when I come to your place ? ".
She nodded assent and our next date was made.
While this tete - a - tete was in progress, some people came into the next room and a rather loud discussion ensued among them. We had, therefore, to make our dialogue in some other form. Picking up a sheet from the desk calendar that she had carefully dusted earlier with her handkerchief, I made a doodle of a girl in pigtails and captioned it Neetu. I passed it on to her. In reply, she started to make one of me but did not succeed, so she gave it up. Picking up one more sheet, I wrote, Neetu is a naughty girl. She wrote back. No, I am not a naughty girl. Thank you.
After trading a few more insults, she came up with what she thought was an ultimate insult. She wrote, " You are my ontie ". I returned the paper merely correcting her spelling to Auntie. Disappointment and disbelief were writ large on her face. She was still unable to decide whether I was really feminine enough to accept her insult or whether the poisoned dart had made no dent in my armour when her father walked in to fetch her. May be, she will find out if and when she roasts that papad for me.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
BLACKIE, MY PET
We were enjoying Holi, the colour festival on the terrace of a house in our street. We had just moved in this neighbourhood and but for the shaking off of the inhibitions caused by the Holi festival, we might have taken some time to get acquainted with the neighbours.
After having played Holi among ourselves, we started ambushing the passes-by in the street with balloons filled with coloured water. We noticed the same activity from other terraces in the street as well. When there were no passers-by, we would fling balloons at people in adjacent as well as opposite terraces.
One little girl on the opposite terrace was valiantly trying to throw a balloon at me. Every time, her throw would fall short of me and i would encourage her to do better with the next one.
Next day, I found her standing in the street and crying. Asked what the matter was, she said that her father had not returned from the office and she did not have the key. I took her to our home. That ios how I acquired a new friend or how she came to adopt me and my family. She took to coming to our house every day and became more or less a member of the family. This is what happens wherever I am posted. Some or the other child gets attached to us and becomes an additional temporary member.
Her name is Shyamala and I call her Blackie. Blackie is 8 years old and very worldly wise for her age. Her mother, it seems, was away for quite some time and she lived alone with her father or " Fawther " as she would pronounce the word while referring to him. The father sometimes worked till late hours and Blackie would stay in one or the other house in the street awaiting his return. More often than not, ours was the house chosen by her.
By and by she took to helping my wife in the kitchen. Everyday she would come with a comb in her hand to get her hair dressed by my wife. She would play one or the other game with me. Mostly, it was cards.
Once I scolded her for some minor thing. Thereafter for a few days, she would address me as ' somebody '. If she was asked to enquire from me, if I needed tea, she would say " Does somebody need tea ? " If she wanted to play cards, she would say, " I shall play cards with everyone except " somebody ". Her feminine logic meant that I should force her to play as she associated coercion with masculinity. I would ignore her or try to placate her in a grandfatherly fashion or even cajole her in a little boy's fashion. This did not suit her. She wanted me to be a teen-aged male dominating his female playmate. My wife and mother would sometimes hint at the course to be adopted or rather not adopted with her but I would not budge. Finally we came to a compromise and she resumed speaking to me.
Once she seemed to suspect me of prying into her affairs. she assumed the role of a counter-espionage agent. Her first test on me was to bring a Panchtantra comic containing a story of a monkey who got his tail wedged below a heavy falling tree while prying into others' affairs. She expected me to behave in a mollified manner after this broad hint. I asked her bluntly why she wanted me to read this particular story. Why didn't she come out openly and say what she wanted. Her doubts dissolved, she served me my dinner to make up for her error of judgement.
I once told her that I wrote little pieces on women and children. " Would I write one on her ? " was her querry. " May be " I replied. Well, here it is, Blackie. Read it if you can find it, especially since you have gone into hiding expecting me to chase you like a Hindi film hero !
After having played Holi among ourselves, we started ambushing the passes-by in the street with balloons filled with coloured water. We noticed the same activity from other terraces in the street as well. When there were no passers-by, we would fling balloons at people in adjacent as well as opposite terraces.
One little girl on the opposite terrace was valiantly trying to throw a balloon at me. Every time, her throw would fall short of me and i would encourage her to do better with the next one.
Next day, I found her standing in the street and crying. Asked what the matter was, she said that her father had not returned from the office and she did not have the key. I took her to our home. That ios how I acquired a new friend or how she came to adopt me and my family. She took to coming to our house every day and became more or less a member of the family. This is what happens wherever I am posted. Some or the other child gets attached to us and becomes an additional temporary member.
Her name is Shyamala and I call her Blackie. Blackie is 8 years old and very worldly wise for her age. Her mother, it seems, was away for quite some time and she lived alone with her father or " Fawther " as she would pronounce the word while referring to him. The father sometimes worked till late hours and Blackie would stay in one or the other house in the street awaiting his return. More often than not, ours was the house chosen by her.
By and by she took to helping my wife in the kitchen. Everyday she would come with a comb in her hand to get her hair dressed by my wife. She would play one or the other game with me. Mostly, it was cards.
Once I scolded her for some minor thing. Thereafter for a few days, she would address me as ' somebody '. If she was asked to enquire from me, if I needed tea, she would say " Does somebody need tea ? " If she wanted to play cards, she would say, " I shall play cards with everyone except " somebody ". Her feminine logic meant that I should force her to play as she associated coercion with masculinity. I would ignore her or try to placate her in a grandfatherly fashion or even cajole her in a little boy's fashion. This did not suit her. She wanted me to be a teen-aged male dominating his female playmate. My wife and mother would sometimes hint at the course to be adopted or rather not adopted with her but I would not budge. Finally we came to a compromise and she resumed speaking to me.
Once she seemed to suspect me of prying into her affairs. she assumed the role of a counter-espionage agent. Her first test on me was to bring a Panchtantra comic containing a story of a monkey who got his tail wedged below a heavy falling tree while prying into others' affairs. She expected me to behave in a mollified manner after this broad hint. I asked her bluntly why she wanted me to read this particular story. Why didn't she come out openly and say what she wanted. Her doubts dissolved, she served me my dinner to make up for her error of judgement.
I once told her that I wrote little pieces on women and children. " Would I write one on her ? " was her querry. " May be " I replied. Well, here it is, Blackie. Read it if you can find it, especially since you have gone into hiding expecting me to chase you like a Hindi film hero !
Monday, August 15, 2011
PANTS DON''T MAKE A BOY
Four year old Preety is a delectable dumpling sweet enough to eat. She laughs a lot. She has also a lot of variety in her laughters. Only the discerning can understand what she means by each kind of laughter. She walked into my life one day last year, accompanied by her parents and a baby brother. Since then, she has been enchanting me with her laughters.
On that first meeting, I asked her, her name. " Preety " she said and laughed. This laugh meant, " Look at this silly uncle ! He does not even know that I am Preety. The next day, as I was about to leave for the office, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and found Preety at the threshold. She looked at me and feeling that I had not paid sufficient attention to her, laughed. Now this laugh could only mean, " Wow ! Aren't you glad that I have come ? " naturally, i had to make amends for my behaviour. I picked her up and announced her arrival to my wife.
Another day, I started telling her that I too had a daughter also called Preety and that she was in Delhi. " Then whose am I ? " she asked bluntly. I had to reply that she too was mine. To this, she laughed meaning " So now you have come round, eh ? "
Once she came in when we were having snacks. I asked her if she would like to join us. She gave no reply but walked upto the dining table, picked up a banana, peeled it, took one bite and laughed. This time it meant, " How amusing ! Soes one behave so formally with one's own ? " And with that laughter, she adopted my wife and myself as her own.
I have yet to see a person with such an expressive laughter. Each and every laughter of hers has a different ring, different meaning to it. Once she returned from a longish vacation. We came across each other in a public gathering. On seeing me, she gave me a " So glad to see you after such a long time " titter. Partly because she had changed somewhat but majorly because I was lost in a reverie, I responded with an automatic smile that was a bit synthetic. She seemed to sense this and laughed again. This laughter sounded different and my reverie was broken. Previously I had only looked at her but now I noticed her. it was then that her second laughter registered on my mind as " Is it so long that you do not even recognize me ? "
Her most memorable laugh was given when we all were going to a party together. She came in, dressed in pants and a bush shirt. " So, you have become a boy ! " I exclaimed. She smugly said " Pants don't make a boy " and laughed.
On that first meeting, I asked her, her name. " Preety " she said and laughed. This laugh meant, " Look at this silly uncle ! He does not even know that I am Preety. The next day, as I was about to leave for the office, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door and found Preety at the threshold. She looked at me and feeling that I had not paid sufficient attention to her, laughed. Now this laugh could only mean, " Wow ! Aren't you glad that I have come ? " naturally, i had to make amends for my behaviour. I picked her up and announced her arrival to my wife.
Another day, I started telling her that I too had a daughter also called Preety and that she was in Delhi. " Then whose am I ? " she asked bluntly. I had to reply that she too was mine. To this, she laughed meaning " So now you have come round, eh ? "
Once she came in when we were having snacks. I asked her if she would like to join us. She gave no reply but walked upto the dining table, picked up a banana, peeled it, took one bite and laughed. This time it meant, " How amusing ! Soes one behave so formally with one's own ? " And with that laughter, she adopted my wife and myself as her own.
I have yet to see a person with such an expressive laughter. Each and every laughter of hers has a different ring, different meaning to it. Once she returned from a longish vacation. We came across each other in a public gathering. On seeing me, she gave me a " So glad to see you after such a long time " titter. Partly because she had changed somewhat but majorly because I was lost in a reverie, I responded with an automatic smile that was a bit synthetic. She seemed to sense this and laughed again. This laughter sounded different and my reverie was broken. Previously I had only looked at her but now I noticed her. it was then that her second laughter registered on my mind as " Is it so long that you do not even recognize me ? "
Her most memorable laugh was given when we all were going to a party together. She came in, dressed in pants and a bush shirt. " So, you have become a boy ! " I exclaimed. She smugly said " Pants don't make a boy " and laughed.
THE UNSUNG BREADMAN
I call him Breadman because he gave people their daily bread. he was a cook employed by the son-in-law of our neighbour. Whenever the daughter and son-in-law of our neighbour paid a visit, they brought him along. He was a deaf-mute and hence could not be left alone. He could not hear even a temple bell rung next to his ear and could only make incoherent sounds.
Barring this handicap, he was in excellent health. He was a good cook with a strong sense of smell. He got a lot of pleasure when the food cooked by him was appreciated. His eyes would light up like a pair of diamonds and he would make guttural sounds. He was great fun to us children.
If he was annoyed, he would drop metallic utensils on the floor or start playing music with a roller pin on metal containers. We would rush to the kitchen and ask him to stop the noise. " What noise ? " he would gesture, thereby indicating that what disturbed us had no effect whatsoever on him. Very often, he would go on doing the work in hand without the slightest sign of disturbance.
Once, we were playing cricket in the compound. He came and watched us for a while. Then he asked us what we were doing. I wrote in the dust with the help of my finger that it was a game called cricket. " Can I play ? " he gestured. We were too happy to get a good fielder whom as a batsman, we could easily dismiss, being a novice.
Most of us thereafter, malingered in the fielding. The cook would gleefully hop in long strides to the ball anywhere in the field. he took a special pleasure in catching the ball in the air. he was at first perplexed as to why the batsman was not given out everytime he caught the ball in the air. It took us some effort to explain to him the rule that the ball had to be caught in the air before it touched the ground after leaving the bat. he violently disagreed with the LBW rule on the ground that being hit in the legs was sufficient punishment to the batsman. By the time his turn came for batting, he had learnt all the rules of the game even if he disagreed with some of them. He was the last to bat and we vied with each other to bowl to him in the hope of earning a cheap wicket.
One after another, we bowled. Leg spin, off spin, googly, pace and so on. He held the bat like a club raised above his shoulders. Unerringly, he would smack the ball whether it was short pitched, good length, over pitched or full toss. As we grew tired, we started bending the rules, then making new rules such as the batsman having to field the ball, if it crossed the boundary line and finally outright cheating. nothing worked. By this time, the news had spread and some college going boys joined in. The distance between the stumps was surreptitiously reduced. The older boys had even lesser compunction than us in regard to the rules. They threw the ball at him instead of bowling. The deaf-mute batted on.. It was getting dark and we appealed for bad light. He rejected our appeal on the ground that he could still sight the ball. Finally some bright chap suggested to him that it would be a great honour if he retired. he did so with a K-R-E-E G-A-H kind of sound.
Instead of us chairing him, he chaired us, two on his shoulders, one on his back and two in his arms. He romped his way to the kitchen and deposited us on the floor simply by shaking himself.
There and then we resolved that we might hazard being on the wrong side of Sir Donald's bat but never again, would we ask this breadman to play with us. How about sending such a one to rescue our tiring, tiring, tired players on their losing forays abroad ?_
Barring this handicap, he was in excellent health. He was a good cook with a strong sense of smell. He got a lot of pleasure when the food cooked by him was appreciated. His eyes would light up like a pair of diamonds and he would make guttural sounds. He was great fun to us children.
If he was annoyed, he would drop metallic utensils on the floor or start playing music with a roller pin on metal containers. We would rush to the kitchen and ask him to stop the noise. " What noise ? " he would gesture, thereby indicating that what disturbed us had no effect whatsoever on him. Very often, he would go on doing the work in hand without the slightest sign of disturbance.
Once, we were playing cricket in the compound. He came and watched us for a while. Then he asked us what we were doing. I wrote in the dust with the help of my finger that it was a game called cricket. " Can I play ? " he gestured. We were too happy to get a good fielder whom as a batsman, we could easily dismiss, being a novice.
Most of us thereafter, malingered in the fielding. The cook would gleefully hop in long strides to the ball anywhere in the field. he took a special pleasure in catching the ball in the air. he was at first perplexed as to why the batsman was not given out everytime he caught the ball in the air. It took us some effort to explain to him the rule that the ball had to be caught in the air before it touched the ground after leaving the bat. he violently disagreed with the LBW rule on the ground that being hit in the legs was sufficient punishment to the batsman. By the time his turn came for batting, he had learnt all the rules of the game even if he disagreed with some of them. He was the last to bat and we vied with each other to bowl to him in the hope of earning a cheap wicket.
One after another, we bowled. Leg spin, off spin, googly, pace and so on. He held the bat like a club raised above his shoulders. Unerringly, he would smack the ball whether it was short pitched, good length, over pitched or full toss. As we grew tired, we started bending the rules, then making new rules such as the batsman having to field the ball, if it crossed the boundary line and finally outright cheating. nothing worked. By this time, the news had spread and some college going boys joined in. The distance between the stumps was surreptitiously reduced. The older boys had even lesser compunction than us in regard to the rules. They threw the ball at him instead of bowling. The deaf-mute batted on.. It was getting dark and we appealed for bad light. He rejected our appeal on the ground that he could still sight the ball. Finally some bright chap suggested to him that it would be a great honour if he retired. he did so with a K-R-E-E G-A-H kind of sound.
Instead of us chairing him, he chaired us, two on his shoulders, one on his back and two in his arms. He romped his way to the kitchen and deposited us on the floor simply by shaking himself.
There and then we resolved that we might hazard being on the wrong side of Sir Donald's bat but never again, would we ask this breadman to play with us. How about sending such a one to rescue our tiring, tiring, tired players on their losing forays abroad ?_
Thursday, July 14, 2011
DADDY GOES TO OFFICE
BEDROOM AND BEYOND
Time 7-00 A.M. Everybody in the house alert except for Daddy who is asleep. Daddy has to leave for office at 7-30 A.M.So everybody else has to be alert and ready to do the jobs allotted to each member of the family. Daddy, of course does not like to be awakened abruptly ( Says it is bad for his nerves ). Daddy is an Efficiency Engineer, having specialized in Time & Motion Study. Everything connected with him has therefore to be done in the shortest possible time and in the most efficient manner.
Guddi, our four year old, is stationed at the bedroom door by 6-55 A.M. to report on Daddy's movements or the lack thereof. I am, in the meanwhile, squeezing the toothpaste on Daddy's toothbrush, laying out his shaving kit, laying out the morning newspaper by the side of the commode, taking out water ( warm in winter ) for his bath, laying out his clothes ... etc. Our eight year old son is busy polishing Daddy's shoes. Our twelve year old daughter stars making breakfast and our fourteen year old Prince Of Wales gets busy preparing Daddy's briefcase, changing the refill of his dotpen ( if needed )...etc. There is no servant, of course not because Daddy is a socialist but because no servants are needed in a well-ordered household of Daddy's conception.
INTHE BATHROOM
By about 7- 10 A.M. Daddy wakes up as is evident by the intelligence report conveyed by Guddi. Daddy rushes to the bathroom and gets busy with his morning duties. I station myself at the bathroom door. Daddy shouts across the bathroom door instructions about the letters he wants me to write to relatives, friends, the bank, the insurance company and so on. I shout back to him my instructions to him regarding the things i would like him to buy on his way back from the city. Daddy has perfected a technique for shaving with one hand while the other hand is brushing his teeth. He says his prayers while bathing and reads the newspaper while ........... . By about 7-22 A.M. he is out of the bathroom and into the dressing room; while I go into the bathroom to pick up the newspaper, fold it and shove it into his briefcase for him to finish reading it on his way to the office.
THE KISS IS IMPORTANT
The twelve year old is in the meantime bringing breakfast things on to the table. Daddy dressed, rushes to the dining table by which time, I am supposed to join him ( " BHOJYESHU MATA " ! ) While eating, he keeps a steady commentary on the day's news and current topics. I am, by then, far too weary to respond to his comments and merely nod to his views on the latest scam, the latest anti-productivity steps taken by the government, the inflation, the movements of the crony parasitic NGOs, licences secured by the crony capitalists, the latest anti-education agitation by student leaders and so on...... . Breakfast over, I pick up the briefcase to hand it to him while he sweeps me into his arms, briefcase and all, for a good bye kiss. Since the last morsel is still in the process of being chewed, the kiss tastes Omletty, Cheesy or Dosai or DESAI depending on the menu of the breakfast or whether the process of chewing has been completed by then. I expect the kiss to mean something else but being a traditional Hindu wife, I take the kiss philosophically. I even rationalize that a Hindu wife is supposed to feed herself on the leftovers of her husband's meals. Many a time have I pleaded with him to save a few seconds by omitting the kiss but then he would grow sentimental and lament at length on the lack of romance in our day-to-day life. " What use is all this hustle - bustle of a chap's life, if he can't even kiss his wife while parting for the day's work ? ", he would exclaim. After his missing the bus on such occasions and the consequent berating till a taxi was brought to our door, I now accept the kiss and the accompanying crumbs without any dissent.
Having turned himself in the direction of the door during the kiss, he deftly takes over the briefcase, depositing me on the floor at the same time. Now starts the dash to the bus terminus which is just across the park. It is a false start however. Little Guddi with clenched fists and dogged determination, pursues his steps, muttering threats to the ungrateful Daddy who always kisses mummy but never remembers Guddy. Daddy runs back, picks up Guddy in a sweeping turn, kisses her twice to make up for the lapse all the while running and depositing Guddy on the way.
C I D REPORTS
Our eight year old, stationed at the centre of the park, has all this time been passing the intelligence reports about the bus's arrival, the driver's getting back into his seat, the starting of the engine.....etc. through Guddi who, till she started pursuing Daddy was stationed at our gate. Our fourteen year old has been at the bus stand, pleading with the driver to delay the starting by a minute more. Time 7-30 A.M..... The driver, used to this daily drama, runs the bus a few feet to make Daddy run still faster. With the children urging him on, Daddy catches the doorpost of the running bus with one hand while waving triumphantly to anxious me with the briefcase brandishing other hand.
BUCK UP DADDY
The other regular passengers of the bus are also participants in the drama, being divided into "Encouragers " and " Discouragers ". Ever since his Daddy took our fourteen year old to the races ( to improve the latter's mind ), he has been accepting bets from Daddy's co-passengers on whether Daddy would make it. Earlier I was vehemently opposing this gambling bit but now I have learnt to accept it. It compensates for the occasional taxi fare when Daddy misses the bus !
THE AFTERMATH .................................
The bus out of sight, I struggle with myself for the last few steps to my bed and collapse. My last thought before falling into exhausted sleep is " Why in goodness can't Daddy wake up earlier. Eet eese baad for his nerves. His, of course. As for me, i am already a n..e..r..v..o..u..s w..r..e..c..k...........Grrr.........Grrrr.............
Time 7-00 A.M. Everybody in the house alert except for Daddy who is asleep. Daddy has to leave for office at 7-30 A.M.So everybody else has to be alert and ready to do the jobs allotted to each member of the family. Daddy, of course does not like to be awakened abruptly ( Says it is bad for his nerves ). Daddy is an Efficiency Engineer, having specialized in Time & Motion Study. Everything connected with him has therefore to be done in the shortest possible time and in the most efficient manner.
Guddi, our four year old, is stationed at the bedroom door by 6-55 A.M. to report on Daddy's movements or the lack thereof. I am, in the meanwhile, squeezing the toothpaste on Daddy's toothbrush, laying out his shaving kit, laying out the morning newspaper by the side of the commode, taking out water ( warm in winter ) for his bath, laying out his clothes ... etc. Our eight year old son is busy polishing Daddy's shoes. Our twelve year old daughter stars making breakfast and our fourteen year old Prince Of Wales gets busy preparing Daddy's briefcase, changing the refill of his dotpen ( if needed )...etc. There is no servant, of course not because Daddy is a socialist but because no servants are needed in a well-ordered household of Daddy's conception.
INTHE BATHROOM
By about 7- 10 A.M. Daddy wakes up as is evident by the intelligence report conveyed by Guddi. Daddy rushes to the bathroom and gets busy with his morning duties. I station myself at the bathroom door. Daddy shouts across the bathroom door instructions about the letters he wants me to write to relatives, friends, the bank, the insurance company and so on. I shout back to him my instructions to him regarding the things i would like him to buy on his way back from the city. Daddy has perfected a technique for shaving with one hand while the other hand is brushing his teeth. He says his prayers while bathing and reads the newspaper while ........... . By about 7-22 A.M. he is out of the bathroom and into the dressing room; while I go into the bathroom to pick up the newspaper, fold it and shove it into his briefcase for him to finish reading it on his way to the office.
THE KISS IS IMPORTANT
The twelve year old is in the meantime bringing breakfast things on to the table. Daddy dressed, rushes to the dining table by which time, I am supposed to join him ( " BHOJYESHU MATA " ! ) While eating, he keeps a steady commentary on the day's news and current topics. I am, by then, far too weary to respond to his comments and merely nod to his views on the latest scam, the latest anti-productivity steps taken by the government, the inflation, the movements of the crony parasitic NGOs, licences secured by the crony capitalists, the latest anti-education agitation by student leaders and so on...... . Breakfast over, I pick up the briefcase to hand it to him while he sweeps me into his arms, briefcase and all, for a good bye kiss. Since the last morsel is still in the process of being chewed, the kiss tastes Omletty, Cheesy or Dosai or DESAI depending on the menu of the breakfast or whether the process of chewing has been completed by then. I expect the kiss to mean something else but being a traditional Hindu wife, I take the kiss philosophically. I even rationalize that a Hindu wife is supposed to feed herself on the leftovers of her husband's meals. Many a time have I pleaded with him to save a few seconds by omitting the kiss but then he would grow sentimental and lament at length on the lack of romance in our day-to-day life. " What use is all this hustle - bustle of a chap's life, if he can't even kiss his wife while parting for the day's work ? ", he would exclaim. After his missing the bus on such occasions and the consequent berating till a taxi was brought to our door, I now accept the kiss and the accompanying crumbs without any dissent.
Having turned himself in the direction of the door during the kiss, he deftly takes over the briefcase, depositing me on the floor at the same time. Now starts the dash to the bus terminus which is just across the park. It is a false start however. Little Guddi with clenched fists and dogged determination, pursues his steps, muttering threats to the ungrateful Daddy who always kisses mummy but never remembers Guddy. Daddy runs back, picks up Guddy in a sweeping turn, kisses her twice to make up for the lapse all the while running and depositing Guddy on the way.
C I D REPORTS
Our eight year old, stationed at the centre of the park, has all this time been passing the intelligence reports about the bus's arrival, the driver's getting back into his seat, the starting of the engine.....etc. through Guddi who, till she started pursuing Daddy was stationed at our gate. Our fourteen year old has been at the bus stand, pleading with the driver to delay the starting by a minute more. Time 7-30 A.M..... The driver, used to this daily drama, runs the bus a few feet to make Daddy run still faster. With the children urging him on, Daddy catches the doorpost of the running bus with one hand while waving triumphantly to anxious me with the briefcase brandishing other hand.
BUCK UP DADDY
The other regular passengers of the bus are also participants in the drama, being divided into "Encouragers " and " Discouragers ". Ever since his Daddy took our fourteen year old to the races ( to improve the latter's mind ), he has been accepting bets from Daddy's co-passengers on whether Daddy would make it. Earlier I was vehemently opposing this gambling bit but now I have learnt to accept it. It compensates for the occasional taxi fare when Daddy misses the bus !
THE AFTERMATH .................................
The bus out of sight, I struggle with myself for the last few steps to my bed and collapse. My last thought before falling into exhausted sleep is " Why in goodness can't Daddy wake up earlier. Eet eese baad for his nerves. His, of course. As for me, i am already a n..e..r..v..o..u..s w..r..e..c..k...........Grrr.........Grrrr.............
Sunday, July 10, 2011
BRINGING UP GRANDPA
I met two year old Shailav in the suburban locale of a moffusil town. He looks like a well adjusted little Chimpanzee. In any case, who has ever heard of a schizophrenic Chimp ?
Shailav is extremely popular in the neighbourhood. Each one of his neighbours calls him by a different form of endearment. When he passes by, anyone in sight can not resist stopping and exchanging pleasantries with him. An exchange with Shailav seems to lift the gloom off the face of his interlocutor. Age groups do not bother him. He is equally at home with the children, the young as well as the aged. The fair sex is however, one of his weaknesses.
Shailav has an aged neighbour. As it happens in every neighbourhood, this old man is the one who detests children. They " spoil his garden, clutter up his walkway with dirt and make a lot of noise outside his compound."Even when they are playing silently, " They are scheming on some devilish plan to torment him." He therefore jealously guards his property, shooing off any children coming even within a mile of his property.
One day while the old man was attending to his fence, Shailav walked upto hom, looked into his eyes and said " Grandpa " in his usual calm and dispassionate manner. No more words passed. Before the old man could react one way or the other, Shailav had completely forgotten and got busy with some other activity. For want of any other excuse, since Shailav had never entered his property, the old man had been calling him " a pampered brat ." However this incident set him to thinking. At least, he is different. He has never vandalized my garden. Never picked any fruits. What if he is pampered ?
Then on, Shailav got one more person to smile at. What is more, the old man smiled back. The news of the transformation of the old man spread in the neighbourhood. Just then, one day, Shailav was not to be found. Everyone gathered near his house, speculating about his whreabots. All his usual haunts were checked but no luck. After a considerable time, he emerged from the old man's house, mouth properly splattered with Chocolate, hands and pockets bulging with toffees. To the various cries of exclamation, Shailav had very little to respond to. He merely pointed towards the place of his recent place of habitat and said " Grandpa. " In that one word, he was telling the children of the locality that there was always a way of tackling any grown up. To the adults, he was saying " Look, the old man is after all, not that bad " The old man is now ready for grandfathership.
Shailav is extremely popular in the neighbourhood. Each one of his neighbours calls him by a different form of endearment. When he passes by, anyone in sight can not resist stopping and exchanging pleasantries with him. An exchange with Shailav seems to lift the gloom off the face of his interlocutor. Age groups do not bother him. He is equally at home with the children, the young as well as the aged. The fair sex is however, one of his weaknesses.
Shailav has an aged neighbour. As it happens in every neighbourhood, this old man is the one who detests children. They " spoil his garden, clutter up his walkway with dirt and make a lot of noise outside his compound."Even when they are playing silently, " They are scheming on some devilish plan to torment him." He therefore jealously guards his property, shooing off any children coming even within a mile of his property.
One day while the old man was attending to his fence, Shailav walked upto hom, looked into his eyes and said " Grandpa " in his usual calm and dispassionate manner. No more words passed. Before the old man could react one way or the other, Shailav had completely forgotten and got busy with some other activity. For want of any other excuse, since Shailav had never entered his property, the old man had been calling him " a pampered brat ." However this incident set him to thinking. At least, he is different. He has never vandalized my garden. Never picked any fruits. What if he is pampered ?
Then on, Shailav got one more person to smile at. What is more, the old man smiled back. The news of the transformation of the old man spread in the neighbourhood. Just then, one day, Shailav was not to be found. Everyone gathered near his house, speculating about his whreabots. All his usual haunts were checked but no luck. After a considerable time, he emerged from the old man's house, mouth properly splattered with Chocolate, hands and pockets bulging with toffees. To the various cries of exclamation, Shailav had very little to respond to. He merely pointed towards the place of his recent place of habitat and said " Grandpa. " In that one word, he was telling the children of the locality that there was always a way of tackling any grown up. To the adults, he was saying " Look, the old man is after all, not that bad " The old man is now ready for grandfathership.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
A DAY TO REMEMBER
12th April 1961
I was smoking a cigarette ( called papirossi ) in a corridor in GIPROKOKS office, Kharkov, USSR. Time around 11 AM. Local time. My boss comes running, grasps my hand and makes me run along with him all of a sudden. To my anxious enquiries, he only replies, “Wait”.
Visions of the building being on fire or an imminent ICBM attack of the “imperialists” and so on quickly appear before my eyes, one after the other, only to be discarded when I am taken not to some fire escape ladder or to a bombproof shelter but only to my own workplace.
A radio is on. Everybody is excited in the office and to my anxious enquiry, the chorus of replies is, “Listen”. I do so. As seconds tick by, the well modulated vice of the famous Russian announcer Yuri Levin ( USSR’s Melville De Mello ) who had announced all important news on the radio for over a couple of decades, comes on once more.
“Pyerviy pilot-cosmonot Yuri Alexevich Gagarin litaet……………”
Despite my having picked up sufficient Russian language by then to understand the meaning of this announcement and my nodding in reply to his question whether I understood, my boss, in his excitement, could not help in translating to me in his smattering of English, “First man in space, ……….Gagarin”.
I am excited too, catching the infection quickly. I am proud that I am a human being- a contemporary of the first man in space, even if not his countryman. All work had stopped despite the customary office discipline, so great was the intoxication caused by the news. For the first time, a rule is broken. Someone brings a bottle of champagne ( called Sovietskovo shampanya ) and everybody vies with the next man in proposing toasts to Gagarin. People drink probably for the first time in a work place during working hours. The big boss, instead of fuming, joins in.
Slowly, however discipline reasserts itself without anyone’s prodding. People go back to their work but only leave their pens and pencils when the radio announcement is repeated and replenished with further information about Gagarin and his flight.
People are flocking in the streets, parks, restaurants and other public places. The conversation is all about Gagarin. Even the young men for once shun their favourite topic – girls. They are all agog with stories about a man instead – the first one in space. The girls are sorry that Gagarin is already married. The older people can not help reminiscing about the revolution, the Civil War, the purges, the World War and all the bad days gone by. They are glad to have survived the stark days and to see this glorious day as a sort of unexpected bonus.
A couple of days later, the grapevine passes the news. Gagarin’s reception in Moscow is being televised live. The whole office rushes to the common room, where a large size TV set is on. Once again discipline is forgotten.
The TV shows millions and millions of Musovites and people from surrounding places at the airport and on roads leading to it. All important party and government officials are there. The Central Committee, the entire presidium and the President himself are present. In the foreground is a short stocky man prancing about like an excited child.
The plane lands. Everybody watches with baited breath. The door opens. A fraction of a second of animated suspense passes and the hero alights. Guns boom in salute. Clapping is tumultuous and the noise created by the people competes with that of the guns.
The stout man suddenly comes to attention. So do the President, the Presidium and the Central committee. Everybody salutes. Gagarin comes forward with firm steps, his face emotionless and salutes in return. The stout man who is none other than Nikita Sergevitch Khruschev, First Secretary of the party and Prime Minister of USSR is no longer able to contain himself. He hurries forward but is stopped by the delivery of the report by Gagarin delivered in a firm tone:
“ I have fulfilled the duty given to me by the party and the Government by orbiting once round the earth….All equipment worked satisfactorily…I thank the party and the Government for the opportunity given to me to serve the nation”.
Khruschev runs, embraces Gagarin and kisses him on both lips in the Russian fashion. Like a proud father, he introduces Gagarin to his colleagues or rather his colleagues to Gagarin. Gagarin’s wife and parents are getting impatient in the meantime. Khrushchev notices, cuts short the introductions and escorts Gagarin to his family. The reunion is touching.
“What’s all this going on”? questions a shrill voice from the door of the common room. With a shock, the viewers come back to senses, as if waking up from a dream. It is a lady clerk from the personnel department. She has come to enforce discipline. She switches off the TV and the crowd begins to disintegrate, making faces at the intruder in a good humoured fashion. A tall man is trying to hide himself. The lady however espies him.
“You! Are you not ashamed? You are the Chief Engineer and you wasting time like this! Devil only knows what this world is coming to!, shouted the old lady. The crowd roars with laughter at the Chief Engineer's discomfiture but soon rallies to his defence, And “You! Yourself! How is it that you found time to shout only when the TV show was about to be over”?
For once, the grim old woman permits herself a smile. A guilty one! Even in a strictly regimented society, common sense prevailed on an uncommon occasion.
I was smoking a cigarette ( called papirossi ) in a corridor in GIPROKOKS office, Kharkov, USSR. Time around 11 AM. Local time. My boss comes running, grasps my hand and makes me run along with him all of a sudden. To my anxious enquiries, he only replies, “Wait”.
Visions of the building being on fire or an imminent ICBM attack of the “imperialists” and so on quickly appear before my eyes, one after the other, only to be discarded when I am taken not to some fire escape ladder or to a bombproof shelter but only to my own workplace.
A radio is on. Everybody is excited in the office and to my anxious enquiry, the chorus of replies is, “Listen”. I do so. As seconds tick by, the well modulated vice of the famous Russian announcer Yuri Levin ( USSR’s Melville De Mello ) who had announced all important news on the radio for over a couple of decades, comes on once more.
“Pyerviy pilot-cosmonot Yuri Alexevich Gagarin litaet……………”
Despite my having picked up sufficient Russian language by then to understand the meaning of this announcement and my nodding in reply to his question whether I understood, my boss, in his excitement, could not help in translating to me in his smattering of English, “First man in space, ……….Gagarin”.
I am excited too, catching the infection quickly. I am proud that I am a human being- a contemporary of the first man in space, even if not his countryman. All work had stopped despite the customary office discipline, so great was the intoxication caused by the news. For the first time, a rule is broken. Someone brings a bottle of champagne ( called Sovietskovo shampanya ) and everybody vies with the next man in proposing toasts to Gagarin. People drink probably for the first time in a work place during working hours. The big boss, instead of fuming, joins in.
Slowly, however discipline reasserts itself without anyone’s prodding. People go back to their work but only leave their pens and pencils when the radio announcement is repeated and replenished with further information about Gagarin and his flight.
People are flocking in the streets, parks, restaurants and other public places. The conversation is all about Gagarin. Even the young men for once shun their favourite topic – girls. They are all agog with stories about a man instead – the first one in space. The girls are sorry that Gagarin is already married. The older people can not help reminiscing about the revolution, the Civil War, the purges, the World War and all the bad days gone by. They are glad to have survived the stark days and to see this glorious day as a sort of unexpected bonus.
A couple of days later, the grapevine passes the news. Gagarin’s reception in Moscow is being televised live. The whole office rushes to the common room, where a large size TV set is on. Once again discipline is forgotten.
The TV shows millions and millions of Musovites and people from surrounding places at the airport and on roads leading to it. All important party and government officials are there. The Central Committee, the entire presidium and the President himself are present. In the foreground is a short stocky man prancing about like an excited child.
The plane lands. Everybody watches with baited breath. The door opens. A fraction of a second of animated suspense passes and the hero alights. Guns boom in salute. Clapping is tumultuous and the noise created by the people competes with that of the guns.
The stout man suddenly comes to attention. So do the President, the Presidium and the Central committee. Everybody salutes. Gagarin comes forward with firm steps, his face emotionless and salutes in return. The stout man who is none other than Nikita Sergevitch Khruschev, First Secretary of the party and Prime Minister of USSR is no longer able to contain himself. He hurries forward but is stopped by the delivery of the report by Gagarin delivered in a firm tone:
“ I have fulfilled the duty given to me by the party and the Government by orbiting once round the earth….All equipment worked satisfactorily…I thank the party and the Government for the opportunity given to me to serve the nation”.
Khruschev runs, embraces Gagarin and kisses him on both lips in the Russian fashion. Like a proud father, he introduces Gagarin to his colleagues or rather his colleagues to Gagarin. Gagarin’s wife and parents are getting impatient in the meantime. Khrushchev notices, cuts short the introductions and escorts Gagarin to his family. The reunion is touching.
“What’s all this going on”? questions a shrill voice from the door of the common room. With a shock, the viewers come back to senses, as if waking up from a dream. It is a lady clerk from the personnel department. She has come to enforce discipline. She switches off the TV and the crowd begins to disintegrate, making faces at the intruder in a good humoured fashion. A tall man is trying to hide himself. The lady however espies him.
“You! Are you not ashamed? You are the Chief Engineer and you wasting time like this! Devil only knows what this world is coming to!, shouted the old lady. The crowd roars with laughter at the Chief Engineer's discomfiture but soon rallies to his defence, And “You! Yourself! How is it that you found time to shout only when the TV show was about to be over”?
For once, the grim old woman permits herself a smile. A guilty one! Even in a strictly regimented society, common sense prevailed on an uncommon occasion.
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