MatheMagic Italiano

It has been a little more than a year since I relinquished office and it is time to sit back and see the world as it goes by. As I see the past four hundred days, I can say with a reasonable amount of conviction that this new phase can be described in Italian as ‘La vita e belle’ or life is beautiful and I am loving it. It is the time in life without the glamour and razzmatazz, grand victory parades, huge spread of food and stay at star hotels around the world. All that get replaced with calmness, togetherness and you becoming the master of your own life for once. Mathematics was never my strong subject in school, but still, I am juxtaposing some of my experiences with mathematical symbols and some interesting Italian phrases for no other reason other than the creative freedom my space allows me here.

Zero

The concept of zero is India’s gift to the world of math and science and that is something I have started to enjoy. Old colleagues and family members ask me this one question each time they meet- What are you doing now? I smile and tell them- Nothing! In Italian, there is a beautiful phrase that reads, Dolce far Niente…the sweetness of doing nothing. Earlier, every night before hitting the bed, the mind would conjure nightmares of business growth, profitability, attrition, reviews…all of which often made me sit up at night and then I would keep on twisting and turning till the alarm clock woke me up physically. Today, the time is well spent, sitting for hours on the couch with my partner in crime, watching movies and serials, often ending up doing binge watching till late in the night when it is impossible to keep the suspense out for another day. It is fun doing the afternoon siesta at any time from morning hours to post lunch or early evenings. And yes, I do get up in the middle of the night but now it is only to relieve my inflated bladder and at times to see the football maestros playing in the UEFA Champions Trophy starting at 01.30am. Doing nothing is actually doing much and is surely more fun.

Subtraction

When at work, there was always a concern about the reporting system and, as luck would have it, I always ended up having multiple bosses. The matrix system is quite like the jumble in the movie Matrix where the employee called Keanu Reeves flips, shoots and tries evading the bad guys from the first shot to the last. And so, it was with me, with three to four reporting heads and then on top were the so-called top-level guys. No matter how hard I tried to impress these multiple bosses with hard work, I always ended up on the wrong side of a couple of them. Hard work has now been replaced with a term called smart work which also includes a high dose of sycophancy which is an essential art of survival and success in the corporate world. Since, I failed miserably in this highly skillful and social art form, there was no way I hoped to thrive in the order where multiple bosses meant multiple goal sheets and multiple mine fields. But now in my new avatar, the multiple reporting system has been reduced to a single chain of command - One Boss and She speaks, She decides and She reviews everything and She is always right. She has put up two big posters in the bed room which reads Rule 1: Boss is always Right and Rule 2: In case of confusion, read Rule 1. This state of affairs is much more manageable as there is no confusion. I know that my well-being and success depend on my ability to manage this one Super Boss at home.

Compound Interest

When we were both working, we always envied a couple living across our house at Delhi who would be sitting in the balcony, reading the newspaper while enjoying the morning cup of tea while the two of us were rushing out to catch the 9 am chartered bus to reach our office on time. Today, after almost thirty-six years of toiling, we are able to sit together on the dining table with the newspaper spread before us as we enjoy our morning round of fine Darjeeling tea. There is no rush to get the kid ready for school, cook and pack tiffin boxes hurriedly for ourselves, then stuff some breakfast in a jiffy not knowing what was being eaten as long as something went down the gullet and then take long and brisk strides to the bus stop that was half a kilometer away, reach there well in time to board the Chetak bus driven by a sardarji who would not wait a minute extra for anyone. While having tea in the mornings, we like to dip the Britannia Marie biscuits in it but lately are finding the pieces growing thinner by the day resulting in portions of it just melting and disappearing into the tea mugs. We then try to pull it out with the remaining part of the biscuit it results in another portion falling off. This reminds me of Jerome K Jerome’s Uncle Podger trying to hang a picture. We also get to taste the fine filter coffee at 10 am and a final round of fine tea at 5pm. Now getting rewarded three times over for all the years of toil surely can be said to be more than simple interest.

Multiplication

For more than three decades, life in metros has been all about rushing to work, then work, work, work and then returning home late in the evening, tired and exhausted, having dinner and hitting the bed. We used to meet people in the places we lived mostly in the streets, elevators and at times during the Durga or Ganpati celebrations. Life revolved around work place and we gradually reduced our social acquaintances to a handful. Gradually, WhatsApp became the dominant connecter to the people beyond the tiny Home group. Things have now changed. Every evening, we go for a walk around the society campus for about forty-five minutes and, during this time, we get to meet toddlers in push chairs or in the arms of their mothers. We make it a point to interact with these little angels who are so pure and cute that they bring undiluted joy. There are a couple of panchayats of old men and women sitting at different places in the housing complex. A few of these octogenarians and nonagenarians make it a point to wave their hands at us every time we walk past them and then wait for us to reciprocate. Over the course of the year, a few of them have begun speaking their hearts out to us and we, too, give them a patient hearing and seek their blessings on important days. We now come down to the common space to celebrate much beyond Ganpati- be it Independence Day or Holi. We make it a point to go to our neighbours’ flats when babies are born or on the passing away of an elder. Today, we can say with reasonable amount of certainty, that our social circle in the place of living has multiplied many times over. People often ask us where we were if we missed out on our evening walks on a couple of days in succession. We have become the universal Uncle-Aunty of the society and get a knowing smile from almost everyone we meet. Our so-called social networking has flourished beyond the world of Apps. As the Italians recommend for a good life, Fare una passeggiata or Go for a walk. Walking clears the mind; eases stress and helps you reconnect with the world around you. It truly does!

Time and Motion

In climbing a twenty-one metre slippery pole, a monkey climbs five metres in one minute and slips down four metres. How long will it take the monkey to climb the pole?

I am sure, we have all faced such silly questions in school. Then came the office game where multiple people are trying to reach the corner office. Some reach there quickly, some take longer and then there are others who never make it beyond a point in the pole. Similar is the case with making money and more money. There are some who hit the jackpot early and then there are others who are left behind but all of them are still running the race.

For me, today, this new innings is not about joining another race for power, position and money. It is about being free from the stress of competition. My race is over and I enjoy my new world of doing trainings and guiding some youngsters who come to me. I am happier to see so many of the youngsters who worked with me during the long innings do so well and reach the top of the pole. Even while driving, I let anyone honking behind me to pass easily. I do not need to drive with speed and yet take phone calls and attend video meetings. Days of multi-tasking and doing things immediately are over. I am in no hurry to be someone or to be somewhere. I have the greatest asset, Time, on my side. The Italians call it Festina lente or Make haste, slowly. Don’t rush, break up the tasks into smaller ones, take steady steps and avoid doing everything at once.

Infinity

Months before retirement, I was told by many that I must mentally accept the reality that all the so-called love, affection and respect that the people at work show are not for you but are directed towards the high chair you occupy. Once, you hop off the chair, all would be lost as their alignment would in no time shift to the new man in the same chair. In short, it is the high chair that commands loyalty and respect and there is nothing called love for the person occupying it. So, I was prepared for accepting the treatment of being a nobody. Firstly, let me admit, my seat was never too high and my proximity to the ground level helped me connect closely with people beyond the officialdom. And, thankfully, after 365 days of retirement, the number of folks who called me, not texted, on my birthday was a rejoinder to all the naysayers who told me of the importance of the chair alone. In another instance, there was this lady who despite my protesting year after year, would leave a small Diwali token gift at the office reception. This year, I told her, specifically, that I am no longer working and she should now put an end to the annual ritual. She still insisted on leaving the gift with another old colleague and said, Sir, when I started my career, you believed in me when others did not and so long as I continue working, I will remember you on every Diwali and more. And then there was this colleague from my earlier company, someone I have not met for over a decade now, who continues to send me a set of diary and desk calendar with Lord Jagannath’s pictures as he would do when he reported to me. When I spoke to him again this year asking him not to send it from now onwards, he said, Sir, this is one thing you cannot ask me to give up. I do not do this for anyone but for you; it is out of my respect and love for you. For this infinite and unending love and respect, I am yet to find a suitable Italian phrase. Maybe, the closest phrase in English that comes to mind is- Be good to people without reason and good will happen.

SS

Pictures: Courtesy internet

The Old Man and the Sea

The old man sat on the sand, under the shade of a coconut tree, with a story book in hand to enjoy as the waves gently caressed the shores. He had reached a point in the story when putting down the book was almost impossible and, with a whole lot of time in hand, the man thought of finishing the same before heading back to the hotel. He lit a smoke and took one look at the beach before he started flipping the pages of the book. He saw a toddler sitting on the shore, with the tiny strands of his hair blowing in the wind, playing in the wet sands, dirtying his hands and clothes. The man got reminded of a similar scene in his life a long time ago.

It was his kid’s first birthday and the family had gone to Goa to celebrate the big day. His kid loved sitting in the sand and playing with the plastic shovel and bucket, picking up sand from one place and then pouring it at another spot while the mother was trying her hand at building a castle but was failing miserably, much to the merriment of the father and daughter. The man had just bought a camera and a Kodak film reel that he fitted in the slot in the back of the small magic box. This was the moment and the day he wanted to capture for eternity and out came the camera from the pouch and he started clicking candid pictures of the kid and the sea relentlessly. In no time, he had taken over thirty pictures and then he decided to keep the last six for the evening when the cake would be cut in the hotel room. A specially designed cake in the shape of a bunny had been ordered, balloons and streamers were hung across the room and the family wore their bright coloured clothes along with birthday caps. A candle was lit on the cake and the kid enjoyed the cutting of the cake and tasting it too. The man took six or seven pictures of the evening party before they all retired for the day. The next morning, the man went to the photo shop in the market nearby and handed over the camera to the man at the counter asking for express printing. He was keen to show his family the pictures of the beach and the birthday party. The storekeeper opened the pouch and took out the camera and then proceeded to take out the film roll to develop it. His mouth went agape and he told the man…I am sorry but you seem to have made a mistake in loading the film roll. The film was not fixed properly to the slots on the roller which means that all your clicks were blank. There is no picture captured in the film and now that we have opened it up, it is exposed to light and is a complete waste.  The man was aghast and requested the man to check if he could develop a few pictures for there was no way to capture those precious moments again. The man just shook his head and handed over the roll and the camera to the man who walked back not knowing how to explain his blunder. All that remains of the first birthday is a huge card sent by the kid’s uncle that the mother had preserved over the years.

But, today was another day and time when he did not need a separate film roll. His automatic digital camera that lay beside him did the trick. He picked up the camera and zoomed in to capture some beautiful moments of the toddler playing in the sand. A bright smile came to his wrinkled face and he got up and went to the shack nearby to get himself a beer to celebrate the good old times.

The midday sun was blazing but the old man was well protected under the canopy of the coconut trees and he got busy with the thriller in his hand. He always preferred the physical books even though his kid had sent him the latest Kindle from the US of A. After a while he heard the sound of the waves loud and clear. He knew it was high tide and people on the beach were slowly making their way up the higher slope of sand. His eyes caught a young couple who looked very much out of place in this beach where people were either in their beach clothes and others who wanted to tan their bodies had no more than a towel covering them as they lay on the beach chairs with their bums looking up at the blue sky. This young man was wearing a well creased trouser, full-sleeved shirt and his young maiden was in a silk saree, all of their clothes looked new. The old man realized these two were newly weds and were here on their honeymoon.  He picked up his camera as the duo gently walked past him with the waves rolling in with gusto. With every click of the camera, his mind did a rewind of five years and by the time they walked away, he remembered his life almost forty years ago.

They had been married after a year’s courtship and while his better half had saved on her office leaves for the wedding and the honeymoon to follow, he had no leaves left. He barely managed three days of casual leaves for the wedding and on the fourth day, off he went to work. They were fortunate to have some good friends who saw the young lass’ tragedy and they decided to take matters in their own hands. One of them booked an overnight train from Kolkata to Cuttack for a weekend honeymoon to the eastern coast of Puri. But then as luck would have it, the late evening train on Friday was cancelled and, without confirmed tickets, they boarded the next early morning train and somehow landed at Cuttack from where the friend drove them to the bus stop to take public bus to Chilika. The young couple, dressed in terry-cot shirt and trouser and silk saree, were overjoyed at the prospect and somehow reached the beautiful lake, walked along the long shore and even took a ride in a boat. Now the challenge was to return to Bhubaneswar where their hotel was booked. They did not have enough money to pay the tourist cabs and public transport was infrequent. The man hailed a big truck carrying goods on the highway and somehow the good driver allowed them to sit in the cabin as he drove to the capital city. Climbing into a full-sized cabin of a Tata truck for the lady in silk saree was something she never forgot or forgave the man for but, much later in life, laughed at the whole episode as a honeymoon trip worth remembering.

The old man was now feeling hungry and so he went into the shack and ordered his usual sea food platter and a couple of beers to gulp down.  Some youngsters had also dropped in and they were having a good time doing the karaoke. One girl in particular would somehow force herself on the microphone and sing just one song…Summer of Sixty-Nine…a song the old man could also relate to. Despite the noise and music all around, the man dozed off in his easy-chair at the shack and, by the time he opened his eyes, evening was setting in. He once more diligently picked up his book and this time went closer to the water that had calmed down. He sat down and opened his book that now had only a few pages left to finish. With the sun beating down gently and the cool breeze blowing on his face, the old man loved this time the best. Soon he wrapped up his book and saw another couple in their fifties. While the man, with a receding hairline, kept wading into the water till his knees went wet, the lady, with short salt and pepper hair, kept shouting on the shore asking him to return quickly. It looked quite funny to the old man now. He took out his camera and took a few shots of the couple having fun on the beach. He then noticed that the woman stood still and looked straight at the sun slowly softening by the minute and going down the horizon. She was enjoying the sunset more than the water kissing her feet. The man suddenly went emotional as he saw the woman on the shore, looking at the setting sun. He took a few pictures of her silhouette and remembered an important part of his life story.

They had been to Kovalam and were staying in a good resort overlooking the sea. Every evening, his better half refused to go anywhere. She would sit down at a high point overlooking the sea and spend an hour every evening watching the setting sun. She loved this time of the day the most and often spoke how the sunlight in the morning differed from that of the evening. The last bright orange glow was a sight she would wait for. She said this was the ‘godhuli lagna’ or that time of the day when the cattle would return home and, in the olden days, parents would bring out the would-be brides to the prospective grooms and their families as, in the soft glow of evening light, the young maidens would look the brightest and prettiest. She would even take pictures of this hour of day from her high rise flat in Mumbai and complain about the multitude of high-rise buildings that kept cropping up around their house, obstructing her view of the horizon and the setting sun.

The old man put his book and the camera down and walked to the point where the water was touching his feet. He folded his arms tight and looked at the sea before him and wondered what the sea meant to him…was it an endless mass of water, fearful and deep or a place that was beckoning him to ride the waves and see the world beyond or was it that with every incoming wave, a part of his life’s story was unwinding and taking him into his beautiful past. He walked back to his hotel room and started enjoying the photographs he had clicked and told himself what a beautiful day it had been…a good book to read, good food and drinks to go with it, lovely people on the beach, water fast, furious and gentle flowing in and out and a plentitude of happy memories. What more could he want from life…!

SS 

Return of Poirot

It was around seven in the evening, near the French Memorial, a number of tourists were taking pictures. One man stood out in the crowd. He was a portly man in his sixties, wearing waist coat, overcoat and loose-fitting trousers, who had much resemblance to a penguin and looked completely out of place. Even more strange were his upwardly curled moustache and many a tourist thronged to take selfies with him. The man rudely brushed them aside and walked into the huge French Consulate with the guard standing at the gate giving him a tight salute. The gentleman went straight to his room and dialed a number…

Yes, I have reached Puducherry and I shall be here for the next two days. Hopefully it would be enough to solve the death of Francois Martin, a French citizen, who had come here on a vacation. I shall keep you posted with the developments and now I must take leave for my dinner.

Thank you, Monsieur Poirot…said the voice on the other side…let me just give you a brief about the place and the incident about which the local police have been informed and they will give you full cooperation in the case.

Ok, please go ahead but keep the brief, very brief.

You see Monsieur, Puducherry, as the locals now call Pondicherry, comprises of the erstwhile French colonies of Puducherry, Karaikal, Mahe and Yanam. While Puducherry and Karaikal regions are in Tamil Nadu, Mahe is in Kerala and Yanam is in Andhra Pradesh. The foundation of present-day Pondicherry was laid in the year 1673 after the “La Compagnie française des Indes orientales” (French East India Company) successfully obtained farman from the Qiladar of Valikondapurarm under the Sultan of Bijapur. During the French Revolution in the year 1793 the British East India Company took control of the region but returned it to the French East India Company in 1814. When India gained independence in 1947, Pondicherry remained a French enclave. On a de facto basis, the local bureaucracy had been united with India’s on 1 November 1954 and the de jure union of French India with the Indian Union took place in the year 1963. Puducherry is the Tamil interpretation of "new town" and mainly derives from "Poduke", the name of the marketplace or "port town" for Roman trade in the 1st century AD.

Merci, my friend, I have had enough history for a single day. Now am off to meet the cops.

Poirot walked into the police station nearby. He was shown the post mortem report which clearly showed Francois Martin had been knifed by multiple people. Poirot had a good look at the shapes and sizes of the cuts inflicted, he agreed with the police that at least there were four people if not more who were involved in this brutal murder of a French nobleman. He then checked the plastic bag containing some knives and other items recovered by the cops for a long time and then a smile appeared on his face.

Merci…I am hungry now. The investigation can wait but not my food.

The man once again took to his feet and walked through the heavily crowded boulevard next to the Rock Beach, saw the statues of Gandhi and Nehru, before entering the Coromandel Café at La Maison Rose.This pink-coloured villa on Romain Rolland Street was once the home of a French judge. Poirot had heard a lot about this exotic place and wanted to enjoy some good food, some Indian and some French, with the finest wine. He spoke to one of the waiters and ordered a crispy prawn starter and fillet steaks and beef tenderloin for the main course. He loved the ambience and the food and the wine collection truly surprised him. No wonder this place ranked among the best restaurants of the world. He spoke to the person serving for some time, tipped him handsomely before leaving for the consulate.

Next morning Monsieur Poirot woke up early, got into his comfortable running shoes and clothes and refused to eat the food served at the consulate. Instead, he checked his map and started following the narrow streets of the French town before reaching 123 Bussy Street where he looked up at the board and smiled...Baker Street, French Delicacies Concept Store. He looked at the counter with varieties of croissants, cakes and pastries kept tastefully. The man could not hide his happiness as he started chatting with the man behind the counter in French. By the time the talk ended, the man had put strawberry pie, chocolate eclairs, baguette, muffin and quiche on a tray before ordering for cold coffee. A swipe of the credit card was all he needed before relishing the delicacies. The other people in the store were all looking at the strange man who seemed to have an insatiable appetite and was relishing every morsel.

Aurobindo Ashram

With his tank full, Poirot now explored the French town, the colourful houses, carved doors and narrow streets. The paintings on the walls of the houses were eye catching. He stopped at various points to read the names of houses, streets, public buildings, banks written in French- Petit Palais, Bibliotheque Publique, Pompiers de Puducherry, Rue Dumas, Banque de l’Inde- the detective smiled and said to himself c’est incroyable!  His first stop was the famed Aurobindo Ashram where he reluctantly took off his shoes and switched off his mobile before entering the sacred space. Under a big tree was a floral decoration on what appeared to be the final resting place of Shree Aurobindo. He saw a number of people going down on their knees, and with closed eyes and folded hands saying their prayers. After taking a round of the cemetery, a large section of people would go and find a place nearby to sit down and meditate. Poirot, too, sat like the others but soon realized that his mind was busy thinking about Martin’s murder, the plot and the perpetrators. He stood up and walked around the book store before going out of the ashram. The ashram appeared huge from the exterior but only a very small part was kept open for visitors, which Poirot found slightly disappointing.

Notre Dame Des Anges- 1738

After walking around the place that was crowded with tourists, most of whom were either making videos, taking pictures of themselves standing before the doors and wall motifs of the heritage houses or were busy chatting on their mobiles continuously. In search for some peace, Poirot went to the Rock Beach again and he stood there for a long time admiring the white sands and the blue sea. He wanted to go to the place where the waves crashed against the rocks but the policemen stationed were very alert and started blowing their whistle like the referee on a football pitch…. that’s a foul…stop!

Monsieur Poirot, Stop!

It was now almost lunch time and the detective needed another round of some special dish that Puducherry had to offer. He knew the next destination on his food voyage… Villa Shanti on Rue Suffren. The name sounded very Indian but Poirot knew the food served there was genuinely authentic French. He took the best seat in the centre of the courtyard under the shade of the trees with the sun blazing down. He was quite enjoying the sunny weather at a time when most of Europe was enveloped in a complete cover of snow. He ordered for a round of red wine and for food, as usual, he went overboard with a roasted fish with ratatouille, grilled beef tenderloin and chicken risotto. While ordering, he spoke at length with the floor manager there, possibly to give him an idea of how he preferred the dishes to be prepared. Don’t ask how, but the man devoured every bit of the food served till the last bite and the other guests and people serving were all in awe. Once again, he tipped the person well and walked out wiping his mouth with his silk handkerchief.

Villa Shanti

Poirot never slept in the afternoon and so he booked a cab and went off to see Auroville which was quite some distance away. After getting off the cab, he followed the walking trail to the golden globe like structure called the Matri Mandir which he saw from almost half a kilometre away. He felt cheated somewhat for he thought he would see a wonderful village full of people, living a peaceful life of meditation and spiritualism. Fortunately, he was given a lift to the pick-up point in a bus which saved him the trouble of doing the long walk back. On his way back, he stopped at the Aurovillie Bakery and Café for some hot coffee, croissant and cake and he also picked up a few varieties of cheese from the store nearby.

Matri Mandir

Serenity Beach

He ended the day by going to the windy Serenity Beach where he enjoyed a round of peace and tranquility as he saw the sun go down. He sat there on the black rocks, thinking about the mystery he had come to solve. He now had a clear picture of the case which meant that he could now go back to the room after another sumptuous meal and sleep well. For a change, Poirot went to a place that was on the outskirts of the heritage town and was serving drinks more than the food. This was Catamaran Brewing Co which looked quite dark and had loud music playing. He was in a celebratory mood tonight and called for the taster set of six beers…all different and unique. With that he called for two local starters, a plate of burnt garlic prawns and barbequed bacon wrapped chicken sausages. On reaching home, the happy detective sent out messages to a host of people he had met at Pondy.

Catamaran Brewing Co

Next morning, Poirot reached the Chunnambar Boat Club well in time and asked his driver and the crew of the boat he had chartered to unload and shift the champagne bottles and food packets from his car to the waiting boat. Slowly a crowd of twenty odd people arrived, all had a surprised look on their faces when the detective spoke up… Thank you all for coming at such a short notice. Since I will be flying back home later tonight, I wanted to thank you all for all the hospitality extended during my stay in this place that is ranked among the top three travel destinations by Lonely Planet. And of course, I will also tell you about the murder I had come to investigate, a case that I have now cracked.

Chunnambar River

People were startled at his last announcement and started looking at each other, who could be the murderer among them. They were even more worried that they saw in their midst a couple of cops with their funny red top including Inspector Selvan whom the locals feared. But now there was no going back and they boarded the finest boat on the jetty that Poirot had hired for the picnic and one that fluttered both Indian and French flags. As the boat started to slowly surge ahead and picked up speed, a few waiters appeared who went around handing the guests glasses of best champagne that had been flown in from France by the famous detective. With a glass in hand, Poirot now took the centre-stage and rang a bell to catch everyone’s attention.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make and am requesting Inspector Selvan to come beside me. I will be calling out four names, each of them should step ahead for they are responsible for my coming here. May I also warn these four people not to make any attempts at escaping as Inspector Selvan has his cop, disguised as tourists, in the other boats in the river around you.  And now here goes the list… Sukumaran from Coromandel Café, Jean of Baker Street, Jackie from Auroville Bakery and Café and Govindan from Villa Shanti…

The four men reluctantly came forward and each one of them repeatedly said that they did not know anyone called Francois Martin, leave alone murdering him. Inspector Selvan and his two men made a circle around the four named convicts with their hands, when Poirot started laughing aloud.

Don’t worry gentlemen, you are all safe. Francois Martin was the first Governor of French East India Company in 1673 and yes, he is long dead. I came here because the French chefs in Paris had complained that the chefs of Pondicherry were giving French cuisine a bad name. They connected with the local French consulate and sent me here to investigate if anyone was not cooking French food in the authentic traditional way. Those people should be warned and their establishments closed. The so-called forensic evidence bag contained nothing but items of food and cutlery from these four famous eateries here. I must, however, confess that I have tasted food in many French colonies of the world but the food the four chefs serve is amongst the best. I apologise for my hiding the true reasons of my visit and on behalf of all the Michelin Star Chefs of Paris, I am extending an invitation to Sukumaran, Jean, Jackie and Govindan on a seven-night all expenses paid stay in Paris. Congratulations and now enjoy the Paradise Beach.

Paradise Beach

SS

NB. All names used at fictitious.

Mahakumbh

The other night I downed a double Patiala peg neat and walked up to my one and only wife to, finally, say something that I had been holding back for many a month…. I want to go to the Mahakumbh at Prayagraj and want you to accompany me.

What followed was a stampede where the casualty was of one poor soul, that is me.  Here’s some censored and edited extracts of the fateful night.

Why do you want to go to Mahakumbh?

I want to take a dip there.

Dip…did you say dip? Do you know that your financial portfolio has taken its biggest dip? You’re in deep sh*t! Do you know the airfare from Mumbai to Prayagraj is fifty thousand one way? You are willing to blow away a lakh of money on airfare alone to take a dip. That is ok with you, but when I ask you to buy me a Kanjeevaram from Nalli’s, your face takes a dip and suddenly you remember all the outstanding payments.  Anyway, do you really have to go there for the dip? Have the seven lakes surrounding Mumbai dried up and you don’t have enough water coming from the shower that you have to go so far for a dip?

I did not know which question to answer first. I therefore took the path that I felt would pave the way for my departure easy and smooth and said that the BMC water at home cleanses my body but I want to cleanse my soul. The water of River Ganga is the holiest of all waters of the world and a dip there during Mahakumbh will surely help to turn over a new leaf, a new clean and good chapter in my life.

Oh, a new and changed man is what you want to become. And what do you plan to do after that because if you surely do change by becoming an honest insurance claims consultant who will no longer make money from getting the wrongful claims settled, then you will be a misfit in this current role. Maybe, you have plan to join one of the Akharas of sadhus and babas post the dip.

Having to fight every night in the akhara at home with this one almighty pehelwan who surely must have genetic connection with the famous Phogat sisters. She not just beats me but thrashes me just like the dhobis do while washing away the dirt from heavy clothes… scrub… heave..splash and bang on the stone slab till I beg for mercy. Yes, she is right, why not go to the Sangam and after the holy bath, become an ascetic, join one of the Naga akharas and never return home. But how could I say all this to her at such a juncture, so I just stood meekly and smiled sheepishly.

So, you think what I am saying is funny…your smile says it all. You will go there and join Kinnar Akhara because Mamta Kulkarni has signed up there. You think she will sing and dance for you there under some waterfall and you will keep seeing her as you saw Mandakini in the Raj Kapoor movie. Do you realise how easily you will get caught being a peeping Tom with just leaves to cover your vitals? They will make a kinnar out of you in no time.

I think you are going beyond the limits of civility. Please control yourself.

Control…I should control myself…or what? And why do you want me to accompany you? You are hoping that I will get lost in the crowds there. Forget it. Yogi ji has made perfect arrangements this time. He has said not one Ram-Shyam and Karan-Arjun scene will get repeated. Everyone going there is being given QR codes, RIFD enabled wristbands and digital ‘lost and found’ camps to reunite people who accidentally or intentionally get lost.

Neither for Mamta’s sake and nor for any personal gain but I have come to conclude that it is now time for me to take sanyas. I have seen brahmacharya and then grihastya ashrams. Lately, I have also experienced vanaprastha ashram as well and so it is logical that I now go into the last stage of cycle of life early. Who knows when the next Kumbha happens after twelve yeasr, you may find me riding into the mela placed atop an elephant with a trishul in one hand and ash smeared all over my face and body?

So now I know why our house gave out a strange smell whenever I returned from outside, leaving you alone. You have been smoking hashish behind my back and planning for this encounter with me…haan…I will in no time bring you out of this narcotic spell and illusion of living a spiritual life away from home in a world where I do not exist…

Are you out of your mind? I have not even smoked a cigarette and you are accusing me of smoking hash! How could you even think like that? Chhi chhi!

Oh, so it is my thinking which is gross and what about this nut head of yours that keeps throwing up insane ideas and you start jumping without thinking about us? You want to become a sadhu baba… and where do you suppose you will go and live?

I will go where the other sadhus go…maybe deep into the jungle or even atop mountains. I will adopt their way of life.

You can’t stay one meal without meat or fish and you want me to believe that you will roam from place to place and survive on fruits and vegetables?

The big akharas have their big ashrams which have kitchens and they have benefactors who fund them for their activities.

Have you already given away your pension fund in favour of the akharas? I am sure that you would have parted with your monies and are planning to run away from here leaving us with empty bank balances and to fend for ourselves on a day to day basis.

I have not done anything of this sort. In fact, I have made my will and signed off everything thing in your sole name. I will not be taking my wallet or my credit card.

Will you leave behind your PAN and Aadhar card as well?

Yes, for I will have no use for them in the new life. I will get a new name and identity which will bear no resemblance to my current name, look and address that is there on my Aadhar card. Since I will have no taxable income, my PAN can be thrown into the Mithi River. I will get to live a bindaas life, singing bhajans in praise of Bhole Baba and dancing to the tune of the damru.

Quite a transformation, I must say, from Chole Bhature to Bhole Baba! You cannot walk five minutes barefoot on the lawn outside and  from now on you will  move around bare foot, singing and dancing….my foot! Just see the number of shoes you have…you could put Imelda Marcos to shame and now you wish to renounce everything and become a dancing minstrel.

Believe me, I have thought through this for almost a year since my superannuation and I wish to follow my heart now. I have done all my duty both at work and home and now is the time to be myself.

Will you be carrying your mobile phone with you, just in case we need to speak to you for something?

No, I will not carry the phone. That is one more reason why I wish to go away from this world of WhatsApp, FB and Insta. I am hooked on to these for hours together and there is no way I seem to get free from these worldly clutches. This will be my salvation from Moh, Maya and Mobile.

Meanwhile, a last piece of warning… do you know how cold the water there will be? You need the geyser even in Mumbai summers and are now willing to take a plunge into freezing cold water at Mahakumbh.

The Lord will give me the strength.

Will he also give you Dolo?

Who needs Dolo…just chant Bhamm Bhamm Bolo and all your pains and ailments will vanish.

Will you be coming to sign your life certificates every year or else all your pension and annuities will go abegging?

Hmmm…had not thought of that…what else could be a problem? I shall bequeath them all to you before I leave.

Your passport comes up for renewal. I have heard the big sadhus are invited overseas quite frequently.

Oops…that’s true. But surely, I will soon have supernatural powers to fly away to any place without passport and visa.

How will you watch Man U matches in the jungle?

That’s not a problem because they have been playing badly for many years now and whenever I watch, they lose. Maybe, my going away and not watching them play will do them some good.

Ok, since you are so determined to go and lead the life of a sanyasi, I will let you go but remember once you step outside the Lakshman Rekha of this house, your entry will be banned forever. 

Bhamm Bhamm Bhole!

SS

NB. Pictures courtesy internet 

Po Chennai Po!

The Last Bastion

In ancient India, the Mauryan empire spread across the length and the breadth of the country. Similar were the medieval Indian empires under the Mughals and the Marathas. Only the southern portion of the country remained elusive to these great empires of the past. Possibly, the British hold over the entire country was an exception. Around the 10^th and 11^thcentury AD, there was a dynasty that ruled in the eastern part of the country, the Sena Dynasty which held sway over Bengal, Bihar and Odisha. The Senas have now re-surfaced in the 20^th   and 21st century AD and have over the last four decades hoisted their flags over all the five geographical segments of the country. In the East, their flag can be seen in Kolkata, Delhi in the North, Mumbai in the West, Hyderabad in the central part and now finally with their landing in Chennai in the South, this dynasty of Senas, Baba Sen, Mama Sen and Baby Sen, with no connection to the erstwhile ruling class ten centuries ago, can be said to have conquered the country with their Sensibilities. 

Before their landing on this last bastion, they had heard from a lot of people that Chennai is dull and boring as compared to the livelier outposts of Mumbai and Delhi.  The Senas began exploring the new-found land and found to their utter dismay the ignorance and apathy of the opinion givers they had met earlier. They saw and experienced the city, its people and the vibrancy and have got enamored by its beauty and culture. Here’s a glimpse of what they saw recently and by the end of the two weeks, a friend texted, you’ve become a Chennai-wala now….and I said…Yes, happy to be one.

Booksville 

Many, many years ago when most of us used to travel by trains, we would pick up a magazine or two from the railway stations. Apart from the name Indian Railways, there were two names you would not miss…AH Wheeler in the North, West and the East and Higginbothams in the South. These two book sellers had stalls in every station and every platform. Times have changed and so have the reading habits of people. It was sad to see the Wheeler stalls at Mumbai stations selling Haldiram’s sev and Britannia biscuits instead of books, magazines and newspapers. When we saw the majestic building of Higginbothams in Chennai, we were determined to visit this historic place. And so we did and came to know that this is the oldest bookstore in the entire country. Books of all genre are spread over a massive twin storied hall where my better half could not stop from going from shelf to shelf. She, finally, picked up beautiful hardbound editions of The Iliad and The Odyssey and a couple of other books. In all the excitement of being in a grand historic book store, she had forgotten that the Homer classics were already there at her Kolkata home, bought long ago at the Calcutta Book Fair. 

If the illustrious book store visit was not enough, we landed ourselves at the 48^th Chennai Book Fair. The crowds at the venue were huge and the number of stalls put up by local and international publishers was heartening. With unique stall like the one on Van Gogh and another on Cinema, this place was throbbing with children and their parents, youngsters in groups as well as oldies scanning the pages before buying. We, too, walked into a few of the larger stalls selling English books and once more picked up a couple of books that we had missed picking up at Higginbothams.

Beauty of the Blooms

Chennai in early January is a pleasant city with a cool breeze blowing and the mild sun gently caressing your back. It was a good time to go to Shemmozi Poonga to see the 4^th Chennai Annual Flower Show. It was indeed a spectacular sight of flowers big and small, bright and brighter covering the garden beds. From the entrance, the place was tastefully decorated and the floral models of cars, railway wagon, insects and animals made the spectators pose for the perfect selfies and family shots.

Musically yours

Come December, Chennai dons a festive, almost spiritual air. This is Margazhi season (16^th December to 13^th January)— a month devoted to music, dance, devotion, and the delicate art of kolams. This is the time of the year when people from all over the world come together to listen to music played at various sabhas. Apart from the music, the sabhas or auditoriums have arrangements for a good spread of food served by well-known caterers which attract not just the music lovers but the foodies, many of whom jump from one venue to another to enjoy the food and often giving the music a miss. Having landed on 28^th December, late in the evening, we were told that the musical programmes get over by the 31^st and thereafter it is time for the dance performances. We felt slightly disappointed for a moment but someone up there seemed to have intervened and we could book ourselves to a musical by Sanjay Subramanian at the R.R. Sabha. We landed well before the show time and saw the ladies elegantly decked up in some of the finest Kanjeevarams and silk salwar suits and despite having eaten breakfast at home, we had a round of vada and filter coffee. The music concert lasted almost for four hours and we, the duo, who had no prior exposure to Carnatic music live performance, were completely mesmerized by the singing of this Rockstar classical vocalist who sang effortlessly and his intermittent jugalbandi with the mridangam and violin were a treat to watch and listen. We came out and had a round of tamarind and lemon rice plus a plate of kesar bhaat. Treat after treat!

Checkmate

Chennai is the Chess capital of the country with a regular flow of champions being produced here including world champions Gukesh and Vishwanathan Anand. While enjoying the musical, we had a family of four sitting next to us. The elder son, who sat adjacent to my seat, was musically inclined and was tapping his hand in sync with the maestro on the stage. The younger one, no more than four or five years, was completely oblivious to the musical performance on the stage. Instead, he sat on the lap of his father who pulled out some sheets of paper and I saw the duo playing on the sheets with pencil. On closer scrutiny, I saw that the bunch of sheets were from 64 Square Chess Academy and the youngster was practising his moves on some fixed situations. If this was not a good enough explanation for Chennai’s love for chess, while walking on the streets of this beautiful city, you will find the zebra crossings painted like chess boards. It seems chess runs in the blood and sinews of this city.

Aqeedat: Love, Divinity and Dance

Finally, we wrapped up our Charming Chennai trip with a visit to The Musical Academy with two dance performances. One was a colourful and brilliantly choreographed Bharatnatyam by Shijith Nambiar and Parvathy Menon, and the second was a Kathak performance by Divya Goswami. While the Bharatanatyam performance was dazzling in colour, elegance and perfection personified, the Kathak main performance was the rendition of the love story of Fazal Shah’s Sohni-Mahiwal and at times we were listening more to the heavenly singing by Siddharth Balmennu despite the dancer putting up a beautiful and graceful show. 

There is still so much more to explore and write about, the beaches, the street food and the nearby getaways...but those are for another day. Wishing all our readers, a Happy 2025 and Happy Pongal. 

SS

Dinpanah

I had reconciled to the fact that soon I will have to voluntarily renounce my post-graduation degree and be content with my academic qualification being downgraded to BA History Honours.  Firstly, I did not earn this degree in the rightful manner. Having attended a mere six classes in two years of post-graduation and clearing sixteen sets of question papers by just glancing through the tutorials given by friends a night before every examination. But, then I suppose, this was quite normal in Delhi University. The more important reason was the recent revelations in many parts of the country by the new-age erudite scholars who are busy changing historical facts in Medieval Indian History, which happens to be my area of specialisation.

It was at that moment, when a fatwa was issued by a close friend of mine during our recent visit to Delhi. He said, “You will not leave Delhi without visiting Humayun’s Tomb and the underground museum opened recently there, thanks to the wonderful work done by Aga Khan Trust, ASI and other Indian corporates.” And so, on a bright sunny December morning, we landed at Humayun’s Tomb and bought tickets for the famed mausoleum and the museum. A walk around this place made me pause and rekindled hope and love for the glorious life and times in Medieval India. Sharing some of the highlights of the visit based on the monuments seen there and the quotes from some of plaques in the beautifully curated museum.

Humayun's tomb (Maqbara-i Humayun) was commissioned by Humayun's first wife, Empress Hamida Banu Begum in 1558 and completed in 1572, with the patronage of Emperor Akbar and was designed by Persian architects Mirak Mirza Ghiyas and his son, Sayyid Muhammad. The tomb is a precursor to the Taj Mahal. It stands on a platform of 12000 mts and reaches a height of 47 mts. The complex encompasses the main tomb of Emperor Humayun, which houses the graves of Empress Hamida Banu Begum, and also Dara Shikoh, great-great-grandson of Humayun and son of the later Emperor Shah Jahan, as well as numerous other subsequent Mughals. In all, there are over 100 graves within the entire complex earning it the name "Dormitory of the Mughals".

The main tomb was placed at the centre of a 30-acre Charbagh, a Persian-style garden with a quadrilateral layout. It was the first of its kind in South Asia on such a scale and the plaque describing the significance states…"A ‘hasht-bihisht’ meaning ‘eight heavens’ in Persian was a geometric plan for gardens, pavilions and mausoleums consisting of a central square, divided into nine sections. It also represented the astrological concept of eight planets corresponding to eight heavens. Akbar envisioned a paradise garden on earth as his father’s final resting place. The essence and beauty of this Chaharbagh is its spiritual importance as a symbol of paradise; through geometry, flowing water and life itself. The garden is divided by four channels of flowing water representing the four rivers of Quranic Paradise. The river Yamuna to the East gave access to boats to directly disembark at the garden. The Mughal royals cherished their time in the gardens conducting court, entertaining, meeting with family and friends.”

Humayun’s Tomb stands in an extremely significant archaeological setting, centred at the Shrine of the 14th century Sufi Saint, Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya whom he revered and he also set up his fort Dinpanah at what is now known as Purana Qila. The city of Delhi has since developed over the centuries with this shrine as the focal point. The museum has a replica of the Sufi Saint’s final resting place and a plaque there burst a myth of old. Everyone quotes Jehangir on what he said about Kashmir that, “If there is a Paradise on Earth, it’s here, it’s here, it’s here.” I learnt that these immortal lines were actually penned by Amir Khusrau, many centuries ago, as a tribute to Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, who lived in this area.

“The dome of Humayun’s mausoleum is crowned by a majestic gilded copper finial. The finial is an exemplar of the incredible scientific achievement in metallurgy of Hindustani craftsmen. Inspired by the Hindu and Jain temples, the grandeur of the six-meter-tall finial is of a design and scale not seen before. It is also said to have served as a lightning conductor. Following the damage to the finial in 2014, an exact replica was restored to the dome. This required a 22 feet log of teak, especially manufactured copper sheets of 99.4% percent purity, the application of eight layers of gold leaf- and, the most challenging effort to fix the finial at a 50-meter height atop the dome. The conservation of the damaged finial was achieved after a two-year effort by 10th generation coppersmiths using traditional hand tools. The repaired finial still retains gold leaf.”

Another interesting fusion seen was the six-pointed star which was significant to Humayun, who first used them prominently on gateways of his citadel of Dinpanah in Delhi. The six-pointed star is known as ‘Shatkona’ in Hinduism, and the ‘Star of David’ in Jewish religion. At Humayun’s mausoleum they are the most prominent ornamentation – seen on the spandrels of the arches of the gateways and mausoleum; and those on the principal arches includes a lotus bud in the centre. 

Emperor Humayun was greatly influenced by astronomy and much progress was made in this science during his time. There are on display seven bronze figures of Humayun wearing colours of the Planetary Lord of each day of the week: Moon (white) on Monday, Mars (red) on Tuesday, Mercury (blue/purple) on Wednesday, Jupiter (beige) on Thursday, Venus (green) on Friday, Saturn (black) on Saturday and Sun (yellow) on Sunday.

Another plaque told us about the story of Nizam, the water carrier. “After the defeat by Sher Shah, Humayun nearly drowned while fording the river Ganga at Chausa. Weighed down by his heavy armour, Humayun was rescued from drowning `by a water carrier named Nizam. In gratitude, Humayun respectfully referred to him as ‘Nizam Auliya’ and to show his gratitude, made the unprecedented gesture of allowing him to sit on the throne of Hindustan for a day. This revolutionary act of generosity by Humayun was contrary to the strict norms of social order.”

There is one plaque in the museum containing the letter that informed Akbar of Humayun’s fall, which led to his demise, written on 24th January, 1556. It stated…"We went up to the roof of the library…and there we held interviews until the evening prayer. When it was time for the evening prayer and we were in a hurry to get down, we had gone a few steps down the stone staircase…when the call for the prayer was given. We wanted to sit down and as we were in the act if sitting, our royal foot caught in the hem of our fur coat and we rolled down the stairs to the bottom…”

It will take any visitor an entire day if he were to do justice to this entire complex containing multiple tombs, museum and a massive garden complex known as Sunder Nursery. Since, we did not have the luxury of time, we gave the garden a miss and apart from the main mausoleum of Humayun, visited Isa Khan’s Tomb and mosque. Isa Khan Niyazi was a noble in the court of Sher Shah Suri. The octagonal tomb is positioned within an octagonal garden, which was built during his own lifetime and the reign of Islam Shah Suri, son of Sher Shah. It later served as a burial place for the entire family of Isa Khan. On the western side of the tomb lies a three-bay wide mosque, in red sandstone. 

Standing outside the boundary of the mausoleum complex is the impressive tomb known as Sabz Burj. This tomb bears no date but its architectural styles with its ornamental tile work is possibly Timurid and similar to octagonal structures seen across Central Asia. As with Humayun’s Tomb, Sabz Burj has a double dome with the outer dome and the tall drum covered with blue tiles. Some historians attribute this monument to have been built by Humayun in memory of his mother.

After Humayun and Akbar, can Shahjahan be far behind? I asked the cab driver to take us to Old Delhi or Shahjahanabad’s famous eatery of Karim’s. The driver did not know about the place, so I guided him to a place not far from Jama Masjid and then took a toto, an electric autorickshaw, that took almost twenty minutes to reach the spot after meandering through a heavily crowded street which has infinite number of stalls making fresh barbeque….no wonder the address is Gali Kababian. Karim Hotel was established in 1913 and this original place is a must go for all foodies. The place is simple and has the old-world charm but the food is finger licking. We were spoilt for choice and finally narrowed down to Mutton Burra Kebab and Seekh Kebab for starters, and Nalli Nihari with Sheermal (sweet bread) and Roti. I am very sure, the re-writers of history will not claim this Mughlai food to be theirs!

Our next destination was Khan Market and, fortunately, this had nothing to do with the Khans of Medieval Indian history. This is a large and upmarket shopping place named after Khan Abdul Jabbar Khan who was also known as Khan Sahib and was the elder brother of Frontier Gandhi, Khan Abdul Gaffar Khan, but lately is in the news, again for the wrong reasons, and some elites who visit here are categorized as the Khan Market Gang. My family just wanted to take a look at the place and we walked into a shop selling shoes. While they were talking to the salesman, I walked up to the man at the counter and asked…Is Richard Lee there? The man asked, as to why I was looking for Richard and I said, we were in school together. He gave a shout and a man in glasses walked in from the back door…that was my kindergarten buddy Richard Lee. I met him after almost half a century and took a picture with him and aptly named it, the ‘Real Khan Market Gang!’
Finally, we managed to reach the airport well in time and called up my fatwa issuing buddy. “We did all that you asked us to and more.” He was delighted and added another chapter of my personal history, “Your mother used to make the best Mughlai Parantha and that was a real treat during school days”…and so my Mughlai connection continues as I am once again proud of my academic qualifications in Medieval Indian History.

SS