The Cup Runneth Over

Licence to Live

Meet Mr. Mukherjee, a man in his mid-fifties, of a medium build and a fair complexion. He was said to have a business of his own of which I never asked him. I met Mr. Mukherjee, over five years ago, on my infrequent visits to Prayas, an NGO that works for educating 300 odd slum children. The children go to municipal schools but Prayas gives them the educational assistance since they do not find anyone to help them at home. There are no rooms where the children study but they sit under the open sky, outside shops which have not yet opened, on mats or in a local municipal park….monsoon classes are left to your imagination and a feeling how fortunate we were and our children are. This is truly a street school.

Mr. Mukherjee would come to Prayas every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday in an auto rickshaw. He carried with him two huge steel dabbas which were filled with khichdi which he would pick up from ISKCON, Juhu. The children would bring with them a tiffin box each and at the end of the class hours they would queue up while Mr. Mukherjee poured into each container a handful of hot fresh khichdi. The children relished the good food and then left for home thanking the teachers. There would be a little bit of khichdi left behind every day in the dabbas which went to the woman who washed the utensils. She has three small kids and this would be one good meal for her family as well.

Talking to Mr. Mukherjee, who was fondly called the Dabbawalla and had a permanent smile on his glowing face, I came to know of the concept of Licence to Live. He said that every morning when he woke up, the first thing he did was to take a handful of bajra and put it in the small bowl kept on the window ledge. This bajra was for the birds that come during the day in search of food. Our Dabbawalla said that by doing this every morning he felt he had earned his licence to live for the day.

If life is a journey and driving on the road needs a valid driving licence, Mr. Mukherjee believed, he needed to renew his licence to live each day. Life is all about giving and sharing. We are fortunate to have a good life and each one of us can do a bit of good every day. The Dabbawalla firmly believed that what he did for people beyond his own family brought him good fortune, the fortune of a smile from a stranger somewhere which he felt kept him going. Six months ago Mr. Mukherjee, went off on his eternal journey but his one thought left a huge impression on my mind and I often ask myself, “Have I renewed my licence to live today?

Proof of Life

Thimmakka was born in Tumkur District of Karnataka. She had received no formal education and worked as casual labourer in a quarry. She was married to Chikkaiah and the couple could not have children. She and her husband started grafting saplings from the banyan trees which were in the vicinity of their village. In the first year they planted ten saplings along a distance of five kilometers near the neighbouring village of Kudur. The next year fifteen saplings were planted and in the third year twenty. The couple would carry four pails of water over a distance of four kilometers to water the saplings and also protected them from the cattle by putting up fences of thorny shrubs.

Today, anyone driving from Kudur to Hallika, a distance of 3 kilometres, will find himself under a beautiful green canopy of tall trees. Thimmakka’s efforts not only earned her domestic and global recognition including Padma Shri in 2019 but having done something good not just for herself but for others and future generations gives the centenarian lady the greatest joy. She has been given the name of Saalumarada which means ‘rows of trees’.

“I planted 1,000 saplings then, and save a few, all of them have grown to be strong trees. They are like my own children,” says a smiling Thimmakka. “As we were unable to have our own children, we thought we should leave something behind as our memory. What better than plant trees that could give shelter to humans, birds and animals?”

Last line: In a time when life is endangered and most of us are hiding in the safety of our homes, we need to ask if we are doing anything for others to earn our license to live and leave behind the proof of life….and it does not take too much education or money to do it.

SS

Ode to a Donkey

We were in Class IX and the teacher gave us a project on ‘Excellence’. The best would be selected to be displayed in the school assembly hall. On the appointed date, the students of my section submitted their chart papers with their expressions on the subject painted in crayons and water colours. I had thought over the subject and had drawn a brave soldier in army fatigue with multiple medals on the lapel and put a heading, ‘Excellence in Gallantry’. Similarly, there were some others in the class who were good in painting, like Shakun and Indrajit, and seeing their charts made me feel slightly low. Surprisingly, the class teacher selected Harjiv’s drawing to represent the class,that got us all in a fit of laughter…he had painted a donkey and the subject read, ‘Excellence in Foolishness’. The teacher clarified that he had selected it, not for the quality of painting, which was pretty ordinary, but for the novelty and creativity. Since childhood, we have been ridiculed as being a gadha or donkey whenever we made mistakes or failed in some task. So, the word gadha is permanently fixed in our minds as a fool and Harjiv’s painting has left an indelible impression of excellence in foolishness.

How about Bravery and Foolishness coming together to create Excellence?

In the good old days in the army, mules provided the last mile logistics to the far flung units. But for them, the troops would have perished in the remote outposts, some of which were snow covered round the year. Pedongi was one such mule who joined the Indian Army in 1962 as part of the Animal Transport Unit under the Indian Army Service Corps. Pedongi was assigned work with troops to transport ammunition and stores to forward units and also carry the sick and injured soldiers to the military hospitals. Pedongi served in the army for twenty nine long years and in the armed forces, where names are a privilege reserved for horses, the mule earned a name for herself, based on a town called Pedong in north Sikkim. During this long tenure, Pedongi faced many an airstrike and bullets and became highly respected for being a brave and intelligent mule.

Pedongi’s greatest feat was achieved during the Indo-Pak War of 1971 when she was captured by the enemy forces. However, Pedongi escaped her captors a fortnight later and brought back to the Indian camp boxes of Pakistani ammunition. The commander of the Animal Transport Battalion reported the matter to the seniors and recommended Pedongi for a citation of bravery. In 1987, Pedongi was named the mascot of 53 AT Company and in 1989 her picture was put on the greeting cards of the unit. Finally in 1992, Pedongi was taken to Delhi to be presented with a bravery citation and a blue velvet ceremonial rug. It is said that an officers’ mess has also been named after the brave mule.

Whether Pedongi was brave or not or just did what she was asked to is immaterial. Now that her feat has been recognized by the army, I can now take the liberty to add a few medals to the painting of my friend Harjiv, who sadly is no more, and change the subject to just ‘Excellence’!

Every day, as I stand before the mirror, I ask myself a question,” Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most foolish of all?” The mirror cracked…possibly unable to tell me the truth. And so I did some introspection. If Harjiv’s painting was Excellent Donkey or eDonkey, the brave one was PeDongi and standing before me was the image of MeDonkey.

When the sun shines in the morning

And the night is on the run

I wake up with the birds chirping

And I am soon on the run

I run to get ready

I run to drive my car

I run to work

First to enter the altar

And almost last to leave

And in between

What does MeDonkey do?
Work work work work

Click click click the keyboard

Talk talk talk talk

Talkiti talk on the phone

Meet meet meetings

Meetings day and night

Meetings face to face

Meetings on the web

With all apps downloaded

Google Meet, WebEx, Zoom and more

MeDonkey is fully loaded

Ready to face anyone, anywhere

Ready to answer all questions

Ready to give reasons for failure

Ready to say sorry sorry sorry

Ready to say good good good

Show presentations

Show excel sheets and data galore

Never to stop

Never to halt

Some sips of water

Some morsels of food

Never to rest

Never to yawn

Never to remove the plastic smile.

MeDonkey is very useful

For he must carry to the world

He thinks he is important

And if he stops, the world will stop

Fool fool foolish

So typical of MeDonkey

So work work work

So click click click

So talk talk talk

Never to stop

Never to rest

MeDonkey is tired but never says so

Hits the bed and snores away

Ready to wake up before the sun shines

And run run run

Never to stop

Carrying the ammunition

For generals and brave soldiers to fire

To win the medals and glory.

But MeDonkey is happy

For Pappa n Mamma told me

Karm karo, phal ki aasha mat karo

So MeDonkey is happy

To work workwork

Never to stop

For I will someday somewhere

Get my citation or two

Don’t cry for me

For there are so many like me

Working tirelessly, carrying the load

My wife, his wife and the mothers at home

Who will not even get any medals

Never a citation to show

But they too will never stop

MeDonkey, TheyDonkey, UsDonkey

We carry the world

With Excellence, Bravery, Foolishness, untiringly.

SS

A Date with History

The Board examinations for Class XII have been scrapped this year due to the pandemic and then there was, sometime ago, the Chhichhore star who left a million fans saddened with his one fateful act. These two events of recent times brought back for me a tale from the past when all seemed lost and escaping appeared to be a better option than facing the world.

A boy in an all white school uniform with a green blazer was trying to sneak into the compound of All India Radio when he got spotted by a khakhi clad guard who shouted, “Kya chahiye, kya kaam hai?” “Uncle, what is the height of this tower?”Asked the boy. “Kyon, kya karega?  Koodega! You want to jump down from there? Get lost before I beat you with my danda.”

The boy walked away to the bus stop across the road, clambered on to a DTC bus and headed home. Sitting in the bus, his mind was racing from one thought to another, thinking like a cornered grandmaster in chess as he saw his king checkmated from all corners. How could he have made such an error? How will I face my father and my mother? Can there be anything worse than this? One question followed another, one fear greater than the earlier one crept in, one shame greater than the previous, gloriously walked through the shades of the mind of an eighteen year old boy.

Getting off the bus he went to a triangular park where he had played every game on land, looking out for people on balconies overlooking the field to applaud his skill with the football or dexterity with the cricket bat. But today was different. He did not want anyone to see him. He wanted to be alone by himself. Quietly, he gathered his thoughts and courage. But today was different. It was for him a choice of death today or living for another day. Cowardly, he chose the latter. He had always been good at lying and ten out of ten times his gullible parents would fall for his stories. Today was not so different as he concocted yet another story.

As he walked into the house, an expectant father asked him, “How was the exam today?” “The question paper was out of the syllabus. It was very bad. No one has done well.” “Don’t worry son, it happens. Keep your calm and do well in Paper 2 tomorrow after all History is your strong subject. I am sure you will get good marks overall in History.” The rest truly is history.

It was February of ’82 and time for Class XII Board examination, the mother of all exams for school kids as it decided their future subjects, college and often their own future. Those were good old days or should I say bad old days of Paper 1 and Paper 2 for each of the five subjects plus you had to mug up the class XI and XII together and no breaks in between exams. Pressure and load, especially for the weaklings like us, was bone crushing, to say the least. The Church and the Gurudwara outside the school offered little peace and comfort despite walking and kneeling inside almost daily. Dear God, save me this time, next time I will study hard was a prayer oft repeated as Our Father in Heaven...

First came the Hindi  Papers 1 and 2 , which somehow went off alright. This was followed by English 1 and 2 exams. Before the examination started for English 2, we were, like all other days, made to stand outside in an assembly as the cold Delhi winds lashed on our faces. Some of us got into chatting about the next exam, History. “Last year the Board did not give good marks in History,” said one, while the other remarked, “It is better to prepare for Political Science”. I, too, nodded in agreement. 

I went home that afternoon and opened up what many say is the biggest disease in History…VD…it is not what you think…it is a book by VD Mahajan which all would have read sometime or the other. History had been our man’s subject of strength right from times he could remember for in other subjects like Maths and Science he needed chits hidden all over or copying over the shoulders of the bright boys sitting around to pass and many a times even those did not prevent him from failing.  He was in a happy mood when he went to sleep and got up early. Father served him tea in bed while his mother made hot paranthas as he sat inside the quilt taking the last minute glance at the numerous lines he had highlighted in the book and notes while preparing for the Boards.

As the clock stuck 12 noon, he got out of the bed, wore his ‘lucky’ school uniform walked out with his bag hanging from his shoulders. Head held high, he caught a bus to Krishi Bhavan and went straight to 42 Rajendra Prasad Road to join his friend with whom he had been going to school for all previous examinations.  As he entered the bungalow, he saw his friend in  T-shirt and track bottom basking in the sun on a cane chair with a newspaper in his hand. What nonsense, he thought, there is no time left and here is the Lord of Kunchenjunga sitting as if he had all the time in the world.

“Jaldi kar or else we will be late for the exam,” he shouted and was stunned by his friend’s response…”Why didn’t you come for the exam in the morning? There is no exam now…it is all over!” “It can’t be, show me the calendar”. “See the Paper, man”, as he handed the exam question paper. On it was written, ISC History Paper I, Starting 9 am, 8^th February 1982. Indian History is replete with many mavericks and fools but none as big and foolish as our man today. History has seen many an empire crumble and many a king fall to his ignominy but none more than our man today….couldn’t even check the time-table of the most important exam of his life!

Crestfallen, he rushed to the school and went to the principal’s chamber and with tears pouring out explained what had happened. “Father, I mistook it for a 2 pm exam…please Sir do something…give me an hour to write at least…Father you can do it…please Father…,” he pleaded. “Son, seeing your empty desk we asked your friends for your telephone number to ring you up but they did not have it”, said the Principal in white robe. “We even wanted to send the school car to bring you but some of your friends said you wanted to skip this exam to prepare better for the next, so we didn’t and now we can’t do anything. It is completely out of our hands now.” 

And that's when the boy walked from the School Gate to AIR station at Parliament Street with just one thought in mind....only to be denied again entry to the Pearly Gates of Paradise...maybe to live again.

Next day, the boy came to give the History Paper 2, on the right date and time. It was World History and he rattled off one answer after another and was certain by the end of the day that Paper 2 would help him score over 80 percent and let him cross the Rubicon of overall 40 percent in the aggregate for each subject. He would realize his folly when the final results were declared after a month, History 2 was not marked for him….it appeared as ‘Nil’. Giving both papers was compulsory. When he saw the marks, as they hung outside the school gate, he calculated 67 percent in 4 subjects. He felt elated after a nerve-racking time in between exams and this day, so he rushed to tell his parents of the good news.

Sixty seven percent in Humanities, in those days, did please his parents. Seeing their happiness he felt bold enough to share what had happened that fateful day. Normally the mother would distribute sweets in the colony whenever the results of her daughter were declared but today she wept and said no more. No amount of consolation by the father worked and neither did the son’s holding her feet for hours.

History is truly a funny subject. With his mark sheet he couldn’t believe he had come into the cut off marks zone for admission and was standing in the queue for an interview of a good college trying to explain His-story to the History Head of the Department. “I can get you a letter from my class teacher in school, Ma’am, that I was good in History. Please do not reject my admission.” The teacher, possibly, saw the boy was, for once, speaking the truth and cleared him for admission.

It was the day that the mother herself went to the mithai shop and got laddoos packed for the colony and her office colleagues and felt happy as all said, “Badhai Ho! Beta ko Hindu College mein admission mila hai…sports quota mein nahin…merit pe? Wah Wah..Badhai Ho!!

Last Line: To all my friends, young and not so young, I wish to say that life is too precious to give away. It has its ups and downs, its joys and pains and we all must endure it. Remember, the sun will shine again tomorrow and give way to the moon at night…keep fighting, keep staying alive. A line I read that keeps me going is, “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.”

SS