The Eye in the Artist

“I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.” Frida Kahlo

Wherever I go, there are two things that I ensure. One, I keep a day to explore the city on foot and two, I book for museums in advance, exploring at leisure. Over the years I had the pleasure and fortune of visiting the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, the Borghese Gallery in Rome, the Vatican Museums, The Philadelphia Museum of Art, The Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam, The Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam and the Museum of Modern Art, New York. 

Why did van Gogh draw swirling clouds? Why were Monet’s bridges suddenly darker in tone than the water lilies in the pond? We often wonder if they drew what they saw or what they perceived. Several studies have tried to analyze these, and many have hypothesized the medical reasons for some great artists which could have influenced their way of art. In the absence of any documented details or medical diagnosis, many of them remain speculations. I started reading up and here is a brief account of the world of art through the eyes of some of the greatest artists in history. 

Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890)

Perhaps the most talented and tragic of the lot, van Gogh, attained recognition posthumously having sold only a single painting in his lifetime. Nonetheless, his art is a reflection of the beauty and turmoil that lay within one of the most misunderstood artists of his time. The Sunflowers, 1888–1889, a set of five paintings that Vincent envisioned and drew, have fascinated connoisseurs and even lay persons for years. A stark contrast from the large, blooming blossoms that one associates with sunflowers, van Gogh drew them in a more subdued form. He found the beauty in the drying or budding flowers. But what stands out to anybody who lays eyes on them is the color yellow! The yellow color also dominates many of his Self Portraits, The Bedroom, and The Yellow House. Historians and scholars have suggested that van Gogh was suffering from a condition known as xanthopsia, which results in the person seeing yellow. Medical textbooks list 13 chemicals that can result in xanthopsia. A possible cause could be that he was being treated for his manic depressive state by a medicine called digitalis. One can see the foxglove plant, from which digitalis is derived, in the painting of Dr. Gachet, Portrait of Doctor Gachet, 1890. Prolonged and toxic doses of digitalis are known to produce xanthopsia. Additionally, the consumption of absinthe, a popular liquor in France in that period, could have also resulted in his xanthopsia. Santonin, a drug used to treat gastrointestinal disturbances, which the artist was known to suffer from, could also be the drug responsible for his xanthopsia.

Vincent van Gogh’s Sunflowers, 1888-89, van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam, painted in 3 shades of yellow. (From https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/collection/s0031v1962) 

While in an asylum in Saint Rémy, he drew one of his most famous and beloved masterpieces, The Starry Night, 1889. Anything said or written about the painting fails to bring any justice to this piece of work and I will refrain from it. However, a striking feature that cannot be missed is the swirling clouds, and the bright halos around the moon and the stars. Many scientists believe that this was the diffraction of light seen by the artist. Van Gogh used lead‑based paints and lead poisoning could have very well resulted in retinal inflammation, which could explain the halos that he possibly saw around bright objects. There are also theories that suggest that van Gogh was suffering from narrow‑angle glaucoma attacks, which could produce episodes of blurry vision. Their appearance in paintings set at night, The Starry Night or The Night Café, also supports this possibility, when a pupil in the mid‑dilated state in low illumination could precipitate attacks of angle closure. Visual hallucinations of the artist could also produce the scene. However, one must consider that the village he drew in the painting The Starry Night was also not the view seen through his window and therefore the entire painting may just be a product of his vivid imagination.

Vincent drew multiple self‑portraits. These were more of a form of practice of his technique because he was not able to afford models. In each of his portraits, the eyes are of a different color. It may be that van Gogh had heterochromia, a condition where the two irises are of different colours, or simply eyes that saw the world differently.

The Starry Night, Saint Rémy, 1889, Museum of Modern Art, New York, Vincent van Gogh (From https://www.moma.org/collection/works/79802)

Self-Portrait with Grey Felt Hat, 1887-88, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam, Vincent Van Gogh (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portraits_of_Vincent_van_Gogh)

Claude Monet (1840–1926)

When Claude Monet revealed his painting, Impression, Sunrise, 1872, he started a new era of art, Impressionism, where artists diverted from religious motifs to scenes from real life. Monet, known for his faithful portrayal of nature, developed age‑related cataract that affected his vision and sense of contrast. This is best appreciated when one compares his paintings Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies, 1899, drowned in the soothing cool tones of blue with The Japanese Bridge, 1922, painted at a later stage of life, with darker hues. Monet was aware of his failing sight, as he wrote, “My bad eyesight meant that I saw everything in a fog. It’s very beautiful and it’s what I would like to be able to represent in my art.” Even in Water Lilies, 1919, the scene is blurry, details less accentuated, which adds to the beauty of the painting. He refused to be operated on for his cataract for a long time, understandably because of poor success and crude techniques of surgery in that period. “(I could) no longer perceive colors with the same intensity. Red appeared muddy to me, pink insipid, and the intermediate or lower tones escaped me. What I painted was more and more dark, more and more like an old picture.” Ultimately, when he could no longer make out the color of the paints and relied on his memory for the order he kept them in, he agreed to undergo cataract surgery in the right eye. There were no intraocular lenses at that time, and he had to wear high powered glasses with poor visual recovery. He refused to get the left eye operated, and the two eyes had differing color perception with the right eye now more sensitive to blue and violet, which were earlier being filtered by the dense cataract. In Monet’s own words about the surgery, “criminal to have put me in this situation,” and “if I was condemned to see nature as I see it now, I’d prefer to be blind and keep my memories of the beauties I’ve always seen.”

Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies, 1899, The Met, New York, Claude Monet (From https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bridge_Over_a_Pond_of_Water_Lilies,_Claude_Monet_1899.jpg)

The Japanese Footbridge, 1922, Museum of Modern Art, New York, Claude Monet (From https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Claude_Monet_-_The_Japanese_Footbridge,_Giverny_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg)

Edgar Degas (1834–1917)

The artist, who was known for his ability to capture the heart and grace of dancers, developed progressive loss of vision from diseases of the retina, age‑related macular degeneration and chorioretinitis.  An English painter, Sickert wrote, “It was natural that during the years when I knew him [Degas], that he should sometimes have spoken of the torment that is to draw, when he could only see around the spot at which he was looking, and never at the spot itself.” Although his vision failed him, his spirit was not broken. He started making sculptures because he could no longer work as a painter. Michael F. Marmor, an ophthalmologist, studied Degas’ correspondence and using computational simulations tried to unravel his visual deterioration.  Although his central vision became blurry and his paintings became more coarse, it is possible that the painter himself did not notice much difference in his work. Marmor also suggested that because the painter realized his poor vision in his thirties, when he could not fire a rifle using his right eye, it was a macular disease other than age‑related macular degeneration, like Stargardt disease. This is supported by the fact that his cousin also had poor central vision.

La Classe de Danse, 1873-76, Musée d’Orsay, Paris, Edgar Degas. The central 1/3^rd of the painting has fuzzy details as compared to the periphery which has perfect contrast and colour. (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ballet_Class_(Degas,_Musée_d%27Orsay)

Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519)

A painter, a scientist, an engineer, a sculptor, and a genius in every sense, da Vinci is believed to have had strabismus or squint. According to a study at the University of London, the squint was a boon rather than a bane for da Vinci. The three‑dimensional effect in his paintings that has captured the attention of millions and has, in fact, remained unmatched could be attributed to his strabismus.

Annunciation, 1472-1476, Uffizi, Florence, Leonardo Da Vinci 

(From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Annunciation_(Leonardo))

Rembrandt van Rijn (1606–1669)

The Dutch master is said to have also suffered from strabismus, as seen in his self‑portraits. Artists often close one eye to represent three‑dimensional form on the canvas in two‑dimension, which explains why the misaligned eye never affected his work. Neuroscientists Margaret S. Livingstone and Bevil R. Conway have shown that artists often have poorer stereovision or binocular vision with depth perception. Rembrandt’s paintings in the later stages also became darker that have led scientists to speculate that he also developed age‑related cataract and macular degeneration.

Self-Portrait 1660, The Met, New York, Rembrandt (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Self-Portrait_%28Rembrandt,_Altman%29)

Paul Cézanne (1839–1906)

A myope, Cezanne’s work reflects his near‑sightedness. The closer objects in his paintings are in sharp focus while his landscapes are blurry.

Mont Sainte-Victoire and the Viaduct of the Arc River Valley, 1882-1885, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Paul Cézanne (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mont_Sainte-Victoire_and_the_Viaduct_of_the_Arc_River_Valley)

El Greco (1541–1614)

The Mannerist artist of the Spanish Renaissance, El Greco’s work is striking for the vertical elongation of the figures in his paintings with religious and mystical elements. In 1913, Germán Beritens, an ophthalmologist, suggested that this could be attributed to his astigmatism (cylindrical power), and he demonstrated this using an optical lens. However, his theory is countered by the argument that astigmatism would affect the artist’s perception both of the subject and the canvas, thereby negating the effect. In addition, in his paintings, even horizontally placed objects, such as hands, were often elongated, which makes it more probable that this was El Greco’s style rather than the outcome of a visual pathology.

It has also been suggested that the artist’s refractive error was overcorrected with a lens that caused the images to be stretched horizontally. To counter this, the artist ended up painting subjects that were vertically stretched. Stuart Anstis, a vision scientist at the University of California, tested this hypothesis using specially designed telescopes that would stretch the retinal images horizontally by 30%. When the subjects attempted to draw a square from memory, the drawing was a tall and thin rectangle. But when the subjects actually visualized and copied a square, it was a perfect replica. This is described as the El Greco effect where drawings from memory are different from the original. When the same subject was made to wear this telescope for two days, the visualized square remained unchanged but that drawn from memory progressively became shorter and at the end of the second day, became exact replicas. Thus, even if El Greco suffered from astigmatism, he would have adapted to it. The fact that angels and religious figures were painted taller than secular people also suggests that El Greco adopted this style by choice.

El Greco’s St. Jerome, 1609, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. While the figure is vertically elongated, the hand is also elongated even though placed horizontally. (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Jerome_%28El_Greco%29) 

El Greco’s St. Andrew and St Francis, 1595-1598, Prado, Madrid (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Andrew_and_Saint_Francis)

Charles Meryon (1821–1868)

The artist, whose work dazzled even Victor Hugo, suffered from X‑linked red‑green color deficiency. The longer wavelengths of light such as red and orange are perceived as yellow or gray and Meryon’s etchings were a result of this, where the artist retained the contrast sensitivity of light and dark. Meryon was able to tug in the depths of emotions with just grades of black and white in his etchings.

 

Georgia O’Keeffe (1887–1986)

The paintings of the American artist became progressively flat and less detailed as she developed bilateral age‑related macular degeneration.

 

Francis Bacon (1909–1992)

Margaret Thatcher once described Bacon as, “The man who paints those dreadful pictures.” Bacon’s works are no doubt haunting and unsettling, with the distorted representation of the human body, specifically the face. According to Safran et al., from the University of Geneva, Bacon suffered from dysmorphopsia, a neurological disorder. Bacon himself described his perception of faces as ever‑changing.

Three Studies for a Portrait of Henrietta Moraes, 1963, Francis Bacon. (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_Bacon_(artist))

Francisco Goya (1746–1828)

The Spanish artist suffered from a mysterious disease in his mid‑life with loss of vision, hearing, hemiparesis, vertigo, abdominal pain, confusion, and malaise. His symptoms have led to the differentials of late acquired syphilis, Vogt-Koyanagi-Harada Disease, Cogan’s syndrome, lead toxicity, and malaria treated with quinine with resultant quinine toxicity. The artist recovered and went on to live until 82 years of age; however, the themes in his paintings became darker with elements of psychosis and horror. One wonders if the illness left a permanent mark on the way the world appeared to him.

Goya’s The Bewitched Man, 1798, National Gallery, London (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bewitched_Man)

 Edvard Munch (1863–1944)

The Norwegian painter, known for his paintings with psychological themes with striking colors, had an amblyopic or lazy left eye. In 1930, he suffered from a vitreous hemorrhage in his seeing right eye (bleeding inside the eye) and was not able to work for several months. The vitreous hemorrhage could have been because of hypertension, retinal tear, vascular malformation, or wet type of age‑related macular degeneration. Known as the Father of Expressionism, Munch drew a series of sketches, depicting the course of the intraocular hemorrhage and how it changed over time. Several of his paintings during the healing phase had a sinister bird that is believed to be a scotomaor a black spot in his visual field from the vitreous debris from resolving hemorrhage. In another painting where he shows himself in bed, checking the vision of his right eye with his left eye covered, he painted Death’s head at the foot of the bed. The bird and the dark scotomas disappeared from his paintings by 1931.

The Scream, Edvard Munch,  1893, National Gallery, Oslo (From https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edvard_Munch) 

The Artist with a skull: Optical Illusion from the Eye Disease, Edvard Munch 1930, Munch Museum, Oslo, (From https://www.tate.org.uk/tate-etc/issue-25-summer-2012/inside-eye-beholder)

Many conditions such as cataract, glaucoma, macular degeneration, astigmatism, and strabismus are easily diagnosed and treated now. Revisiting the lives and works of these artists not only makes us laud the scientific advancements made but also makes us understand that a doctor must retain his humanity and go beyond the objective treatment of the disease to addressing the concerns of the patient. One also marvels at the tenacity, the will, and the passion of the Masters. The work of an artist sometimes sings a soothing hymn, sometimes mirrors his thoughts, and at times Screams out the turmoils in his heart. When, how, and who actually hears and sees them, he does not know, for the world wears a blindfold while a failing eye draws the most terrible truths with clarity.

 

“I do not paint a portrait to look like the subject, rather does the person grow to look like his portrait.” Salvador Dali

 

MS

 

P.S. This is part of a monthly column I write in the Indian Journal of Ophthalmology, Tales of Yore, that delves into the lives and works of the legends of ophthalmology and the mysteries of histories!

Sen M, Honavar SG. The Eye in the Artist. Indian Journal of Ophthalmology. 2022 Sep 1;70(9):3182-7.

https://journals.lww.com/ijo/Fulltext/2022/09000/The_Eye_in_the_Artist.4.aspx

 

Azadi Memoirs

Having lived almost sixty of the seventy-five years of Independence, I look back at some defining moments of our country’s history and how each one of them impacted me as a human being. Since in the sixties, I was way too small to understand the events, I have picked an event from each of the remaining five decades.

70s and Nepal- Pakistan-Bangladesh-India

No, this is not a lesson in geography. East Pakistan was in turmoil and the Indian Army had rolled into the eastern part to support Mukti-Bahini in the liberation of the Bengali speaking part of Pakistan. My father got a letter which said that his nephew, Nepal, would be reaching Calcutta from Dhaka by train. Dad quickly got in touch with one of his relatives in Calcutta who arranged for his shelter for a few days. He was then put on board a train for Delhi where I was busy with my friends digging mud trenches to hide just in case the Pakistani planes were to drop bombs over us. Others at home were sticking black paper on glass panes so that we could put the lights on at night even after the blackout siren had been hooted. In short, it was good fun being young and at war.

Nepal da came to our house and we soon became good friends even though he was about twenty years older than me. Eventually, India won the war on both the eastern and the western fronts and pictures of the historic surrender on the front pages meant the creation of a new nation called Bangladesh. Patriotic fervour was at its peak and Ma would always take Nepal da with her to markets where she would ask the shopkeepers, including vegetable vendors, to give discount for the refugee and simple people never disappointed her even though we all felt amused and embarrassed at the same time. Things settled down and the new nation beckoned the people who had fled the war. Nepal da wanted to stay back in India but Baba insisted that he return as all his educational degrees were from there and getting a job would be easier there rather than starting a new process here in India. Ma went one last time to the market with a box to collect funds for Nepal da that he may need for his re-settlement in his new world. I do not remember how much she collected but surely it saw to Nepal da’s return home. Nepal da kept in touch for some time with Baba and then it went all quiet. Last we heard, he was married and working in the External Affairs Ministry at Dhaka. It is now over half a century since we last met but I now long to find him and his family one more time.

80s and Blue Star- Assassination- Shaking Earth Riots

In the early June of ‘84, the Indian Army launched Operation Blue Star to remove Sikh militants led by Jarnail Singh Bhindrewale from the Golden Temple. Pictures of the aftermath with bullet holes in the sacred precincts are still vivid in the minds of many countrymen who had been living in a state of militant terrorism and secession.  But then there was a small section of Indians who felt their revered Harmindar Sahib had been desecrated and their hearts were filled with hatred that culminated in the assassination of the then Prime Minister, Mrs. Indira Gandhi, on 31^st October ’84.  What followed next was mayhem of the worst kind, possibly, last seen during the partition of ’47.

Our house was on third floor and next morning some of us went to the terrace to see Delhi’s skyline covered with black smoke as far as the eyes could see. Despite Baba’s vehement opposition, I carried my bicycle down the staircase to move around the government colony and nearby places along with friends watching mobsters burning vehicles, shops and moving around freely without any fear of the law-makers. After all a big tree had fallen, the earth was bound to shake- this was the justification given by some for the horrors on the streets of Delhi and other parts of the country targeting a section of people. By evening, people in the colony got together to form vigilante groups to keep an eye for any untoward activity and preventing the mobsters from entering our area and targeting Sikh families living there. I put on an army shirt Ma had got me from the office with nice big pockets on both sides and shoulder flaps, and with a torch in one hand and a wooden baton in another, out I went to join the others. There was a sense of pride in believing you were the sole guardian of humanity.

Our next-door neighbours were the Gills who we had been living with for over twelve years peacefully. They were possibly the gentlest Sikhs we had ever met.With the news of Sikhs being tortured and killed in various parts of the country pouring in through newspapers and television bulletins, Ma asked the Gill couple to come and live in our house. Reluctantly, they came with nothing in hand except a photo album. At night when I went to their room, the old couple were flipping through the pages of the family album with pictures of their children and grandchildren who now lived elsewhere. The lady looked at me and wiped a tear from her eyes as she reluctantly took the food plate in her shaking hand. In the face of brutality happening around, it was not the earth that shook but my faith in humanity.

90s and Demolition- Walkathon- Schism-Love

It was a nice happy weekend with D and little M going off to my in-laws’ place,leaving me to have a ball of a time with friends in Salt Lake, Calcutta. It meant having good food, gossip and night long video movies that we hired from a nearby library. On Sunday, the 6^th of December ‘92, the news came that the Babri Masjid at Ayodhya had been demolished and riots had broken out in many parts of the country. The governments in most states had declared curfew and holiday the next day. People were asked to stay indoors and maintain calm. Calcutta, with a sizeable population of both communities, had seen the worst of human tragedies when the country had been partitioned and it took Gandhiji to go on a complete hunger strike to bring the two warring factions to declare peace.

I longed to see my little one. Despite the protests from my friends asking me not to venture out, with little money in my back pocket and slippers on feet, I set out on a long walk to Barasat, my very own Dandi March. It was a journey of eighteen plus kilometres. With no trucks or buses plying and a handful of people on the street, I kept walking on and on, always keeping an eye for any sign of danger. At a couple of points, the armed policemen asked me to return home and I somehow convinced them that I was going back home on a personal emergency and had to definitely go ahead. They cautioned me but were nice to let me continue. Calcutta weather in early December is not Delhi where the air is chilly. Here, the sun beats down at over 35 degrees during the day and walking with zero hydration and rest could be challenging for others but not for one who longed to see the love of his life. It took me over three hours to reach my destination where my little one was playing with Ike, the Doberman, in the garden. The moment she saw me standing at the gate, the toddler started running and so did Ike. I opened the gate and took her in my arms and Ike kept jumping in joy, maybe he too wanted me to lift him in my arms. I forgot the pain of blisters on my feet and the thirst in my throat to see this unbound love around.

Those who demolished in 1992 kept on their path of re-writing history and finding new archaeological and textual evidences, while I found love and a new spirit of taking long walks that culminated in me, challenging my body and age to successfully complete two marathons in Mumbai twenty-three years later.

00s- Deluge- Lost- Alone

The phone rang…it was all dark and I saw the time…it was 3.00am…who’s calling at this hour?

Mejo Mama read the phone screen.

Hello…hope all of you are safe?

Why, what happened? I am in London now.

We saw in the news that Mumbai has had torrential rains and so we were checking if all of you are safe. We were worried about you all.

Mama, I know nothing about it. Let me speak to D and call you back. Thanks.

Before making the call, I switched on the television in the hotel room which was showing Mumbai under water and tragedy everywhere. A thousand millimetres of rain in a cloud burst in a single day!

I dialled D’s number a couple of times, but there was no response…no signal. Then I dialled the home landline number and the response was the same.I kept trying but the blank response on the other side told me the same story over and over again…all had come to a halt…the city…the people…the world.

Back home that dreadful day of 26^th July 2005, D was returning from work when the train stalled mid-way close to Mahim. She then started walking on the flooded railway line along with other passengers. Walking in almost waist deep water without any clue of road or drain below for hours together, she slowly inched her way till about a kilometre from home. The phone battery had died, the signal had been lost for many hours anyway. The BMC people asked her and many others not to venture any further as an electric wire had snapped and also the current in the water would sweep people away. D, along with other stranded people, was taken to a school in Andheri where they were offered some biscuits and water and asked to rest for the night. At home, M was alone as her mom could no longer be contacted. My mother who was sick was quite oblivious of the tragedy that was happening and kept asking M why D was not home.  Next morning,before daylight broke, D stepped out of the night shelter and walked home through flooded streets. Joy returned home and then after charging the phone she made a call to me…she was home safe, finally.

Next afternoon, I flew back home and brought with me a gift for D…she always wanted a nice strong English umbrella…I handed the smart gift knowing fully well that in case of another cloud burst, she would have to open my gift upside down to make itlook like a boat and sit atop it to sail home. Since that fateful day,the only thing Mumbaikars fear is paus…a red flag by Met Department is the green signal for them to rush home to safety.

Noah's New Ark

Next Decade- Dance of Death- Survivors

The euphoria of family and friends coming together to celebrate the joyous occasion of M’s wedding had just about settled down with all the guests from the country and abroad reaching home safely when the dance of death began…first it was slow and gentle steps and then the beats got faster and frenzier till hospitals had no beds left to give and makeshift ICUs came up at people’s homes. COVID had struck the world and on 24^th of March 2020, a total countrywide shut down was ordered. Roads became deserted, shops and establishments shut, with transportation almost off the roads and hordes of jobless men and women with their families started their long walk home. We had never seen or experienced death at such close proximity. Earlier, we had heard of ailments where people died in different shores but now you got regular news of the demise of friends, colleagues and family in your vicinity. Death was not discriminating against the rich and the poor, old and young, sick and healthy…it stung with its venom sweeping everything in its path. Where it came from, how it spread, what could halt its spread, baffled the world.

The pandemic did many things bad and left us all sad but it taught us a few good lessons… to be grateful for what you have- you do not need too much to survive- a roof over the head, some clothes to cover yourself and some simple food for life…thoda hai, thode ki zaroorathai! Staying close to family and friends is the other lesson learnt- hold them tight, hug them while they are around for you never know whether you will get another chance to do it.  Finally you re-learnt to pray…atheist, communist, rightist and all, we prayed every day, every moment for survival. To fight the Enemy Unknown, we turned to Seen Saviour in white apron and the Unseen Saviour for good health and safety. And then by the year end came the magic prick and we survived and rolled into another decade to celebrate the Mahotsav of Life.

Jai Hind!

SS

10 Things I Hate About U-SA

Dear Diary

The year has been full of fun, adventure, surprise, love, and laughter. And the laughter has also been because of small incidents which were extremely frustrating and incredulous in the USA and I thought I would write about those today. The following observations are very personal views of an Indian student with malice to none. For those who will happen to peek into this diary, take it with a pinch of salt. 

1.     MMDDYY

I am sure all of you would have faced the initial hiccup of trying to adapt to the American date system. Yes, 9/11 did introduce most of us to the concept but using the system daily is a task, especially if all your documentation requires a date, like in my case, a doctor’s office. April 8^th can become August 4^th if you forget the order and the implications for both a patient and doctor would be obvious to all. I, for one, had to change the settings in my excel and numbers to ensure that the data entered had the USA format when I realized that the auto calculation of age and follow up period was suddenly coming up with negative values!

2. Casting the Wrong Spell and Choosing Sides

You write ‘Color’, I write ‘Colour’, you write ‘Tumor’, I write ‘Tumour’, you write ‘realize’, I write ‘realise’ because I have been doing that for the last 28 years of my life! I cannot suddenly usurp the Us or sleep away my Ss with Zzzz. The most irritating part, however, is the squiggly red line that comes on all your documents, recognizing the spelling as wrong! It is NOT wrong; it is technically the correct spelling that they have decided to be too tough for them to remember!

The next one is more ‘smirky smile’ experience than a truly frustrating one. Yes, the driver’s seat is on the left, but for someone who did not have to drive there, it hardly made any difference. But in America, it is not just the driving side that is flipped. The switches are flipped- what was on for you is actually off there. When you pick up a hole punch to punch two holes in your paper, remember to put the paper in from the other side because, yes, they have even flipped the sides for this simple object!

Talking about sides, Americans do not use even the SI units that is universally followed throughout the world. The km become miles, and the kg become pounds...you get the gist. If converting dollars to rupees and vice versa was not enough, you must now convert the pounds of chicken you are buying to figure out if the quantity matches the requirement of the Indian recipe your mother has just sent!

One World Trade Centre, New York

3. Hi! How are you?

It is amusing how every single person, known, unknown, will greet you with "Hi! How are you?” But none wait for your reply. You open your mouth to say something, but either they are already gone or moved on to a different topic! I really do appreciate the politeness, but what if I am not fine? Or I would like to ask how you are doing?

4.   Options Galore

The options available in the stores can be both wonderful and woeful. You make a list of things to buy, say cheese, bread, eggs, tomatoes, onion, coffee, chocolate, and ice-cream. Now add to this, 20 options for each of these! I must have probably decided on my wedding clothes faster than the type of cheese I would want for that week. One thing is for sure, you will become quite decisive by the time you return from America!

5. Be Specific with only 3 letter words

Yes, we all know that Starbucks will not spell your name correctly and having made multiple attempts I just decided to stick to MRI for Starbucks. I once had to go to the post office to make a money order for making my rent payment. Again, it was strange that they were not willing to accept online transfer of funds. I went a day in advance to find out the documents I would require. I specified the amount, and very clearly asked if they would accept credit card and what kind of identification proof I would require. The person at the counter told me and I returned the next morning with the necessary details and papers. But now of course, with a larger amount, they would need my social security card! When I told him that I was not asked to bring it, he simply said that I had not asked about it! As I walked back to get the slip of paper, I realised for the first time that you have to be very specific and preferably ask ‘Yes’, ‘No’ or ‘OK’ type of direct questions! Speak slowly and follow the order that they know, even when placing an order in a restaurant. We once went for lunch and after placing the order, we asked “Could you please bring the fries first, we are really hungry.” After almost 45 minutes, when we could not fathom the reason for the delay, we asked what was taking so long. In the most matter of fact manner, she replied, “Oh would you like me to bring your sandwiches? They have been ready for a while. I was just waiting for the fries to get done because you wanted that first!”

Washington Monument through Cherry Blossoms, Washington DC

6. Race to the Finish, but Ignorance is Power

Diversity exists and for most parts the culture is inclusive. But racism does slip out, once in a while, in the most inadvertent manner. It is unnerving when they make statements like, “Oh you have buildings in your country?” or “Do you know what a hot dog is?”. Yes, we, the citizens of developing countries, do, and I am surprised you are not aware of it. A neighbour was once having trouble with his Wifi connection in our residential building and had contacted the University IT department. He handed the phone to me because the customer service person wanted to know if I was able to connect to Wifi and my university ID. As I was searching for the details I said, “Give me a minute, let me look it up. Although I am not sure if the WiFi is working for me because at the moment I am just using my network data.” I was shocked to receive the reply, “Just give me your ID. Why don’t you Indians just follow the instructions?” I very firmly pointed it out and did receive multiple apologies, but these small incidents do make you wonder where we are in the 21st Century.

Being ignorant and believing that the knowledge you have is ultimate, is the biggest weapon that you can wield! And Americans have abundance of it. Surprisingly, they have little interest or awareness of cultures, people, places and practices outside their own state or country. Simple acts, especially during interactions with patients, in department stores and even airline crew make you realise the confidence despite the dearth of awareness. I went to buy a suitcase to bring back the stuff I had bought in America. I asked the staff, “Could you tell me the dimensions of this suitcase?” After a good 30 seconds, he replied, “Do you want to know the price?” “No, the dimensions.” After another 30 seconds, he disappeared and came back with a senior. I repeated my query, “Why do you want to know the dimensions?” “I need it to make sure I meet the specifications of the airline.” “Which airline asks for that? I travel all the time, nobody has ever asked me for the dimensions.” I calmly replied that airlines specify, especially international flights. “It’s small, medium, or large. Which one do you want?” I realized I should come back with a measuring tape or conduct a search of the suitcase myself to find the written measurements. Finally, I did find one which had the measurements mentioned in the tag.

The skyscrapers along Chicago River, Chicago

7. Indians in America

It is funny when you interact with newly arrived Indians in America. They want to live there permanently, but they look down upon their own people and become judgemental. I was staying in the University campus and there was a common kitchen on our floor. It was good to interact with others occasionally. “You have already become American. Having bread and cereal for breakfast.” “You listen to only English music.” “She comes back late, she roams around by herself.” I did try to explain the initial few times, but later, would just smile and let things be. I would make the same breakfast and listen to same music even in India, America did not do that to me. I look to make things which are simple and quick. I listen to Hindi, Pakistani, English and Spanish music. Yes, I like to go to different places and am confident enough to do that alone, it is who I am, not what America has made me.

8. Find a Ride

I have seen four major cities in America on foot, Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, and Washington DC. Walked 17-23km in a day, got heavily tanned, much to my mother’s anguish, and enjoyed all sights and sounds thoroughly. I have travelled by Septa, Patco, Amtrak, Megabus, New York Subway, Metra, United and American Airlines. But very honestly, public transport is really not great in America. For people without their own car, a lot of places become inaccessible which is not the case in UK, Europe or South East Asia. 

City Hall, Philadelphia

9. Push the Panic button

Nearly 80%, if not 90%, of the patients mark anxiety and depression as their existing medical problems. Almost every patient expects or wants narcotics as pain killer. While these issues are known to most and it also shows the awareness of mental health problems in the country, having worked here, I realised that the threshold for stress and panic is extremely low! Minor things can trigger ‘stress’ among people. If you ask somebody to do more than one thing at a time, panic and anxiety are bound to result. It may be the way we have been conditioned here, but we are definitely better equipped to handle the ‘stress’. 

10. Gun-de,

“Don’t go anywhere. Just your hospital and the airport to come back home.” This was the response I got on the night of 4^th of July. Some of us had gone to the Benjamin Franklin Parkway to see the fireworks. We saw the Jason Derulo concert from a distance and, finally, made our way to the middle of the street to see the fireworks against the backdrop of the Philadelphia Museum of Arts. Five minutes into the display and the crowd suddenly started running madly. Unaware of what was happening, we also ran to make our way out of the crowd and chaos. We got separated and made are way back home alone. Later, we came to know that two police officers had been shot at. How do you not go to a supermarket or a mall? How do you not send your kids to school? How do you not celebrate a festival? These are questions that I believe even the Americans are waiting for an answer. 

I am grateful for the experience, I learnt a lot and I do not regret a single minute. But these were all part of the same experience and so deserve a mention. The fact that our group was a diverse lot, from India, Colombia and England, the non-Americans added to the fun of the moment.

Like we all fell in love with Patrick Verona, I, too, fell in love with America and most of all, its wonderful people!

In Kat’s own words,

“But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you, 
Not even close, 
Not even a little bit, 
Not even at all”

Love

MS

Pictured Rocks on Lake Superior, Michigan

डरपोक कहीं का

उस दिन सुबह हुई तो देखा बाहर बारिश हो रही है 

हर दिन की तरह दफ्तर जाने की तैयारी में जुट गया मैं

नहा -धो के , इस्तिरी किये हुए कपड़े पहन , नाश्ता किया 

घर से निकलने से पहले एक बार खिड़की से बहार झाँकने गया 

यह देखने की कहीं  बारिश कुछ कम हुई या नहीं

मुंबई की बारिश है जनाब , इतनी जल्दी कम नहीं होती

पहले बारिश को कोस रहा था की दफ्तर के रास्तों में जाम लग जायेगा

फिर जाने क्यों बारिश को थोड़ा निहारने लगा

तभी अचानक एक लड़का मेरी अपनी खिड़की से बहार कूद गया

जाने कहाँ से आया था वो?

तेज़ बारिश में खड़े होकर और भीगते हुए उसने मुझे इशारा किया …

बाहर आओ और खेलो मेरे साथ

मैंने हाथ को सर की तरफ इशारा करते हुए कहा …पागल है क्या ?

इतनी  बारिश में बाहर? अभी मुझे दफ्तर जाना है , काम करना है

अब उस लड़के ने ज़ोर से दस्तक दी … बहुत मज़्ज़ा आएगा …बाहर आके तो देखो

पागल है क्या ? इन  साफ़ –सुतरे कपड़ों में मैं नहीं आ सकता और दफ्तर में बहुत काम है

अब उस लड़के ने एक पत्थर मेरी तरफ फेंका और बोला …. डरपोक कहीं का!

मैं और डरपोक … कभी नहीं … अभी आता हूँ तुझे सबक सिखाने 

बस फिर क्या था , मैं उन्ही कपड़ों में दरवाज़ा खोल, बाहर निकल गया

न छतरी, न रेनकोट …मैं उस की ललकार सुनके मुसलाधार बारिश में निकल पड़ा

अब दिखाता हूँ तुझे …डरपोक बोला तूने किस को

मैं उस लड़के की तरफ आगे बड़ा  और जैसे ही पास पहुंचा

वह ज़ोर ज़ोर से मट्टी में पड़े  कीचड़ में कूदने लगा

कीचड़ छिड़कने लगा और मेरे कपड़े  जो अब तक गीले थे , अब मैले भी हो गए

गुस्सा छोड़ो और मेरी तरह एक बार कूदके तो देखो

मुझे जाने क्या हो गया और मैं भी एक बार कूदा

और फिर कूदता ही गया … जाने क्यों

मेरा गुस्सा अब शांत हो गया था 

अब मैं उस लड़के की नक़ल करने लगा

लड़का अब  एक पेड़ की ओर चलने लगा …वो आगे आगे , मैं पीछे- पीछे

उसने नीचे पड़े दो जामुन उठा लिए और एक मुझे दे दिया

बिना साफ़ किये , मैंने जामुन को मुँह में ढाल दिया …बहुत अच्छा लगा

एक से दो और दो से चार जामुन खाता  चला गया

अब वो लड़का जामुन के पेड़ पे चढ़ने लगा

और मैं उसके पीछे पीछे …

थोड़ी देर में उस लड़के ने पेड़ पे दो रस्सियां लगा दी और झूला बना दिया

मैं उसको ढकेलता बारी बारी … हर बार कुछ ज़्यादा ज़ोर से

लड़का बहुत खुश होता और चीख  लगाता मेरे हर धक्के पे

नीचे काफी पानी जमा हो गया था और हम उसपे चलने लगे

कुछ गाड़ियां  पास से गुज़री और हम पर पानी के छोटे सैलाब छिड़कते  चले  गए 

पानी बहुत मैला था , पर हम को कोई फ़िक्र न थी

अब उस लड़के ने एक छोटा लोहे का सरिया अपने पिटारे से निकला

और मट्टी में फेंकता हुआ , गाढ़ता   हुआ आगे चला गया 

मैं वहीँ खड़ा रहा … कुछ देर में वो  मेरे पास आया और इशारा किया

मुझे अपने कंधे पर उठाओ और जहाँ मेरा सरिया अभी पड़ा है , वहां तक ले चलो

मैं नीचे झुका और वो  छलांग मार मेरी पीठ पे चढ़ बैठा

पानी घुटनों तक था और मैं चलता रहा उसको पीठ पे बिठाये

सरिये के पास पहुंचा और उसको नीचे उतार दिया

अब मैंने सरिया उठया और मट्टी में गाढ़ता हुआ आगे निकल गया

उस लड़के को अब इशारा किया …अब तू मुझे अपनी पीठ पे उठा 

हम दोनों ज़ोर से हंसने लगे और हँसते हँसते ज़मीन में बैठ गए

और फिर वहीँ पे लेट गए … हँसते हँसते

अब बारिश कुछ धीमी हो गयी थी

मैंने अपनी घड़ी को देखा …वह भी मुई मज़े ले रही थी

उसने भी भीगते हुए चलना बंद कर दिया था  

अच्छा लग रहा था

बारिश …भीगना …खेलना …हंसना

ज़िन्दगी की भेड़ –चाल में सब भूल सा गया था शायद

नज़र उठाके देखा तो वो लड़का कहीं भाग गया था

दिखाई नहीं दे रहा था

मैं उठ खड़ा हुआ और घर की तरफ चल पड़ा

हलकी बारिश में मेरी कमीज़ जो मैली हो गयी थी

बरसते पानी से अपने आप ही धुल सी गयी और साफ़ हो गयी

मैंने सोचा की क्या यह बारिश मेरे मन का मैल भी धो पायेगी ?

बरसों की गाढ़ी मैल है …वो शायद ना धो पायेगी यह बारिश

क्या यह बारिश मेरी ज़िन्दगी में पड़े ज़ंग को धो पायेगी ?

बरसों की गाढ़ी ज़ंग है … वो भी शायद ना धो पायेगी यह बारिश

फिर मैं घर वापस लौट आया और ज़ोर से बीवी को आवाज़ लगायी

आज मैं दफ्तर नहीं जाऊंगा

वह मुझे देख के  चिंता में पड़ गयी

इसको आज क्या हो गया ?

आपकी तबियत ख़राब है क्या … क्यों नहीं जायेंगे दफ्तर ?

नहीं जाऊंगा बस …आज  'rainy day' है

आज घर पे रहूँगा तुम्हारे साथ

चाय- पकोड़ी खाऊंगा और बारिश का मज़ा लूँगा

लो …फ़ोन को भी स्विच ऑफ कर दिया

और लैपटॉप को भी किया बंद

आज  rainy day है …सब कुछ बंद

ज़िन्दगी शुरू!

SS

Remarkable Mr. RAY

 

It is completely dark outside and I turn to check the time on the mobile phone… it is 4.25 am. I quietly slip out of the room after switching off the two alarms set for 4.30am…one on the mobile and the other on the small clock on the dressing table. This has become the norm to wake up before the alarms go off, be it at home or hotel, where you’re generally awake to take the wake-up call from the front desk. After all, I have to take the morning flight out…. that’s life in a metro, for me and many like me in the rat race for what no one knows but we never stop running.

The geyser switch is turned on and after a quick shave and shower, you slip into the clothes kept ready since last night. Everything happens one after another and by 5.15 am you are ready to leave even though you had planned for 5.30 am to take the 7.30 am flight to Hyderabad. By now the wife is up and she does the last-minute check box….

Tickets and boarding pass… Check.

Money and change…Check.

Medicines and an extra set of clothes…Medicines yes but not the next one.

Shall I make you a cup of tea? ...No, not required.

Let me call the Uber…No don’t, they badly over charge.  I will take an autorickshaw to airport.

Should come down with an umbrella…. No, it is not raining now.

Why don’t you book the office transport? Why do you go in a rick?

Before the talk went any further and louder, I picked up my suitcase and bid her goodbye with a broad smile on my face…Aashchi… that is coming in Bengali…. Funny way to say I am going now but will be back soon.

I come off the lift and go to the main entrance to the building and in no time the magic buddy in yellow and black on three wheels stops and I hop in….Airport… T2 chalna hai.

The reason why I prefer the auto are three-fold: 

Firstly, I find the Uber exorbitantly priced. They charge anywhere upwards Rs 400 where my auto charges me a paltry Rs 165. The office booking would have cost Rs 1000.

Secondly, I do not feel like billing the office for the short airport rides…. Lazy… careless or damn care, you may say, but it is fine by me considering I get to enjoy so many other luxuries thanks to the office credit cards and bookings and, it goes without saying, the car that is provided at the destination for the entire stay. 

Thirdly, and most importantly, I get to talk to the men driving the autorickshaws. These according to my wife are politically most literate people in Mumbai for they predict if Yogi will win or Nitish Kumar will win with proper reasoning. I, too, enjoy my early morning conversations with them. 

Here’s one of the latest I had a week ago on way from home to airport on a rainy Mumbai morning. 

You drive very carefully and not like the others who speed away.

I have to be careful. I had a major surgery a couple of years ago. Look here, I always sit with one leg crossed on the seat and have this bag hanging from the steering. This contains my medicines I may need at any time.

Oh…what happened?

I was returning from Mumbra at night when I saw a lady trying to run cross the street. I pressed the brakes of my auto and somehow managed to evade hitting the lady but the truck from behind crashed into me. I was later told that the truck fellow took me to the nearby hospital where they found my identity papers and called my people at home. I was later shifted to Ambani Hospital where they estimated the cost for my surgery and hospitalization at about Rs 85 lacs, which my family were willing to pay, but the doctors were not giving any guarantee of my getting fully fit. So, my son then took me to a well-known civic hospital where he works.

Achcha, you son works in a government hospital?(assuming him to be in the administrative or nursing staff)

Yes. He is a doctor there. I was operated and treated there and could resume driving after six months. My son ensured I got the best care in the hospital and was operated by his Head of the Department.

Wonderful… my daughter is also a doctor. She is presently at US completing a Fellowship. From where did your son do his studies?

Uttar Pradesh. After that he came here and, thanks to some political clout, he got his placement at this hospital.

Where do you stay?

Premnagar.

Where does your son stay- somewhere close to the hospital?

No, he stays with me at Premnagar.

So, he must be taking the train to Dadar and then changing?

No. He drives his car to work…. Wagon R.

I was looking at the man on the rear-view mirror and was amazed how this man migrated to an unknown city where he built his life and gave his son such good education despite driving an auto and living in Premnagar, which is a mini-Dharavi at a walking distance from my house.

My daughter is also studying medicine at Pune. She will complete here studies next year.

Arrey wah… two doctors in the family. That’s remarkable.

My youngest son is no good. I did not give him much attention. He is into body building.

You work so hard every day and have given your children the opportunity to study and live a life different and better than what you have experienced. I am completely at a loss of words to express my happiness and respect for you. Please do not mind but how much are you able to earn in a day?

Two thousand…. I start work at 6.00 am and by the time I reach this figure, I stop and return home.

You must be driving ten-twelve hours a day to earn two thousand a day?No, it does not take me so long. A couple of good long trips and a few small ones in the morning and the money is made. I also have twelve auto rickshaws that I give out to others. Each auto is given on two shifts and they have to pay Rs 200 each shift. Any repair up to Rs 100 is theirs plus the cost of gas. These things are pretty sturdy and do not require much maintenance.

As I sat and started doing mental mathematics on how much the man driving the auto makes in a single day…. 2000 of his own plus 200 multiplied by 2, the sum of which then multiplied by the number of autos makes it six thousand and eight hundred all of which is in cash and tax free. With my retirement not too far away, I was getting investment ideas better than the sahi hai advisory and the bloodbath I face on the Dalal Street every day!

I came to Mumbai in 1993 and bought this kholi at Premnagar for just thirteen rupees after getting the local owner drunk. I now have one house at Ram Mandir Road and one at Nalasopara. Our slum is also going for redevelopment very soon.

By now the auto had reached the Airport gate and stopped. I saw the meter in front and pulled out the exact change to give to the driver.

Aapka naam kya hai.

Ram Avtaar Yadav.

I have met celebrities from Shilpa Shetty to Anil Kapoor walking at the airport but never bothered to run after them for an autograph or selfies but today I made a departure for once.

Can I take a picture of yours?

The man smiled and posed as I took out my mobile and clicked.

As I boarded the flight, I kept thinking of the man and his achievements and I said, What a Man!

SS

Spooky Tales 2

Recap

Binto, a seven year old kid, suddenly found his cakes and pastries were going missing at night. He, along with his doggie, Dopie, managed to find the spooky thief, Bishnu, who had entered their house and was enjoying the desserts from Thelma’s Sugar Pod.  Bishnu was invisible to the naked eye except as a dot of light at night. All seemed good till Binto’s father informed that there was a burglary at the cake shop and the culprits had run away with Thelma’s recipe book that her daughter Philomina used to refer to while baking the cakes that everyone loved. That day onwards, Bishnu refused to eat any other cake and it was now seventy two hours since he had eaten anything and the dot that was possibly the indicator of his health and life was getting dull by the day. Binto was determined to save his friend, Bishnu. Now the story continues.

................................................................................

Dopie, we need to tell Mom and Dad about Bishnu and the problem we face because you and I cannot find a way out of this situation.

Whuff Whuff….said Dopie in agreement as the two went to the master bedroom where his parents were resting.

Hello Binto…why are you not sleeping? Is there any problem?

Yes, Dad. I want to tell you and Mom something… and he told them all about Bishnu and his love for cakes and the problem at hand now… Dad, we have to do something for Bishnu.

Whaaaat! We now have a ghost in the house, shrieked the terrified mother. We cannot do anything about it. You will have to ask your friend to go to any place but he cannot stay here.

Mom, Bishnu is a good friend. He quickly switched off the light in the room….See he’s here….the fluorescent light came out of his pocket and started playing with Dopie around the bed.

Relax Mabel….If Binto and Dopie are happy with Bishnu, what problem can we have, said a reassuring father.

Dad, I have thought of some plans for this rescue operation. Plan A is that you write a story tomorrow that Thelma’s recipe book is safe. The thieves have picked the wrong book. The original one with the magical recipes is with Thelma’s daughter, Philomina ,at her home. You then share the story in the social media and make it go viral. Surely the thieves will also get to read about it.

Plan B is that, Mom, you will go to Philomina who was your friend at school. You have to convince her that she should also give out a statement that the real book is still with her. She can possibly show an old notebook and share a picture with it. This will convince the thieves that what they have is a fake and they will plan to raid Philomina’s house to steal the original book and when they attempt at the second robbery, the police will be waiting there to nab them.

Plan C is more complex. We do not know in how many days the thieves will make their bid to steal which means we do not know for how long Bishnu will go without food and whether his light will keep shining till then. The only way out of this is to take him to his people in the jungle tonight. I am sure they will be able to take care of him somehow and once the cakes are back, he can re-join us at home.

I am impressed, son, at your intelligence. I quite like the plans and I will quickly pen my story and make it go viral now. Then you and I will go to the National Park and see if Bishnu’s folks are around and if they can help us. Mabel, you must go to Philo’s place early in the morning and do as Binto has said. I am sure we will be able to not only catch the thieves and get back the book but save Bishnu as well.

Let us all do it for Bishnu….For Bishnu!

The father quickly wrote a short piece for the next morning’s newspaper but posted a shorter version of the same in advance over his social media accounts. Soon the phone started showing tons of notifications…. the story was going from one group to another and the lovers of Thelma’s cakes re-circulated the story among all their known people. He showed Binto some of the responses and the kid knew, Plan A had been executed with precision and there was no way it would not reach the intended people.

Mabel, we are now going to the National Park. I will be in touch with you constantly over phone. You don’t worry. I am sure everything will be fine.

Binto, with Bishnu in his pocket, along with Dopie jumped into the car and they moved swiftly to the gates of the Sanjay Gandhi National Park.

The main gates are shut at this hour, so how do we plan to enter?

Dad, Dopie knows the way. His earlier master was from this area and he knows about everything here. Come on Dopie, show your mettle.

Dopie started running towards the right and after a short while jumped over a drain. Others followed suit.  After a while, Dopie stopped and found a gap under the boundary wall. He squeezed inside…. Don’t tell me Binto you and I are going to crawl through that small hole beneath the wall.

Look Dad, the boundary wall is not very high on this side. You can lift me up and I can go over the same. You can then climb over and get to the other side.

The father and son duo went over the wall and Dopie was waiting for them. It was pitch dark there and not a soul was to be seen. Now Bisnu crept out of Binto’s pocket and started moving fast towards the interior of the National Park. As they walked slowly, they could hear sounds of animals and Dopie tucked his tail between his hind legs, Binto looked at his dad who readily picked him up and put him on his shoulders. After a while, Bishnu stopped moving but Binto could now feel a rush of cold air swirling around where they stood. He looked around and could see nothing, yet feel the chill in the air in the pitch-dark night and he could sense that they were not the only souls around.

Suddenly, the place became illuminated with hundreds of fluorescent lights that surrounded them, lights small and big, bright and dull and hanging high and low. Binto, Dopie and Daddy were all amazed at the sight and were filled with a sense of fear and awe. They stood still when a hoarse loud voice, incomprehensible to Binto and the others, boomed….

Who are you and what brings you humans here?

It’s me Bishnu and I have got them over. We need your help.

Oh one of us is with them…. Who Bishnu…. The cake eater?

Yes…yes…that’s me.

Then Bishnu was surrounded by the lights in a huddle and it appeared he was telling his folks about his new-found friends and family and what had befallen to the cake shop he loved. Bishnu then came over to Binto….. I have told them that we need their help. They want me to come back and stay with them but I have refused. I have a way to call them at short notice.

But we came here not for their help in catching the burglars but to feed you and keep you well till we found a way to get your favourite cakes. We have our police ready to trap the burglar, said Binto.

Bishnu said nothing but simply dived into daddy’s front shirt pocket. The lights vanished and they turned back to the car and, finally, reached home where Mommy dear was anxiously waiting.

Daddy just put his thumbs up and Mabel understood the meaning but then Bishnu popped out of the pocket…. I thought he would stay back and remain with his folks!

No mommy. Bishnu wants to stay with us only.

By the time Binto woke up next morning, the city was abuzz with the news…. The World is Safe with Thelma’s Cake…. The newspaper headlines read. And the social media had gone crazy… some people had started a chain mail and while Daddy’s story was being circulated, a picture of Philomina with an old notebook in hand saying that her mother’s secrets were still with her and that she would start making the best cakes and pastries in a few days, once more caught the attention of the people. Mabel had done her part around the same time when Binto and Bishnu had gone to the forest. The family seemed very pleased that Plans A and B had been a complete success. Now they waited for the evening to come.

By six in the evening, Daddy took Binto, Dopie and Bishnu to a friend’s house close to Philomina’s house on Carter Road and looked out from the window to catch any movement. The police had also been informed to come in at short notice. Everything seemed in place but where were the burglars… they were no where in sight. Dopie went off to sleep early and in some time Binto also dozed off. Then around four in the morning, Daddy saw a van stop outside Philo’s house…. Binto wake up…. they are here finally. Three people with masks over their head came out of the van while one waited in the car. In no time, they were able to walk into the house through the front door.

Daddy dialed Philo’s number but it kept on ringing. She must have fallen asleep. He then dialed the police…. Hello Inspector Patole…. The thieves are here. Please send your team to Philomina’s house immediately before they hurt the lady to force her to give away the notebook. Ok Sir, we were coming but it will take us some time, after all we have other duties as well. Bishnu flew out of the window and went towards the Philo’s house and suddenly Binto and his father saw the house completely illuminated and loud noises coming from inside. They quickly went towards the house to see what was happening. As they got close, they realized that it was not the electrical light but hundreds of fluorescent lights that had descended from nowhere and were in the rescue act…. Bishnu’s friends had arrived.

Seeing Binto’s Dad walking, the fellow in the getaway car quickly drove off. Binto entered the Philo residence and saw a sight he would never ever forget. Three masked men were sitting in a huddle and the lights were all over them…. the thieves were shouting…. Stop beating us…. We will bring back the stolen recipe book and will never ever commit such a crime. Bishnu was able to convince all his folks to stop the thrashing except one… this one was very aggressive. She had a big broom in her hand and was merciless in beating the trio. The thieves were shouting… please stop…can’t take it any more…we are sorry and will return the book now….Bishnu whispered in Binto’s ears… That’s Thelma and she is furious.

Finally, one of the burglars was allowed to go with Binto’s father to bring back the stolen treasure. It was then that Daddy realized that the thieves were none other than sons of a rival cake shop whose business had fallen into bad days due to loss of customers who thronged to Thelma’s Sugar Pod. The note book was handed over to Philomina and as the police arrived at the scene, the lights vanished. Philo was delighted and promised to start baking again and promised Binto lifelong free cakes. All seemed happy except that Bishnu’s light had become completely dull and dim and his movements slow and sluggish. The heroes retuned to their home and Mabel was there to receive them at the gate. She expected happy and excited people but saw Daddy and Binto with a worried looks. She knew something was wrong but kept quiet.

As they got together for breakfast, mommy announced… here’s a surprise for you….she opened the fridge and took out a box which had the logo of TSP printed….call Bishnu now. An excited Binto went to his room and got the little dot to the table. The family looked on as they saw the spoon move, then a scoop of the cake was taken and the spoon went towards the dot and vanished…..the spoon now moved with great speed and the cake got smaller with every passing minute and the light brighter. Now the light was totally shinning and it went towards Mabel’s cheeks and then all Binto saw was a piece of cake stuck on Mommy’s cheek. They all clapped and started dancing around the table. The dot now darted towards Binto’s room for a good morning well-earned sleep with a belly filled with Thelma’s cake.

Mommy, we have just found the recipe book. How come you got this cake at night.

Binto, this cake was baked by your mommy. She only put it in the TSB box to make Bishnu feel that it is the real thing.

But what about the taste? Bishnu has been refusing cakes from other cake shops, so how did he agree to eat this one?

Binto, your mommy bakes the best cakes. She too wanted to open a cake shop but we did not have enough money for it. While you were making plan A, B and C, she was making…sorry baking Plan D of which even I had no clue.

Binto rushed to his mother, hugged her tight and shouted… Go East, Go West… My Mommy’s cakes are the best.

SS 

PS. This is a tribute to mothers who bake and cook with all their love, always.

Spooky

Hey Mommy! For the last few days my cakes and pastries in the fridge are becoming become lesser in number and at times smaller in size. Who’s been eating my things?

A visibly upset seven-year-old boy, Binto, was complaining to his mother with his little doggie, Dopie, by his side. The doggie, too, seemed upset about the missing cakes.

No Binto, you must be making some mistake. Tell me who will eat your things…not me…not daddy…then who can it be?

An unconvinced Binto walked away to his room with Dopie following his master, wagging his tail.

Dopie, I am sure it must be Dad who must be sneaking after all have slept and eating away my cakes bought from Thelma’s Sugar Pod. Dad says that he gets these things for me but you have seen how much he likes them and he gobbles them up in no time when laid before him at the table. Let us stay awake tonight and catch the cake thief. Are you with me Dopie?

Wuff  Wuff..barked little Dopie who could now, finally, show his master some of his special talent to nab the cake culprit.

Binto switched off the light and pulled the blanket over his head. Dopie sneaked under the blanket, as he would do regularly. In some time, his mother came to check if the boy had gone off to sleep. Seeing the dark room and the peacefully sleeping kid, she went off to the master bedroom where after a little chat with her hubby, the lights were off and the Fernandez residence was in total rest.

Dopie…wake up you lazy bones…can’t you hear the little noise outside?

Dopie was dreaming of him running happily with a super bone in his mouth and all other doggies running after him for a bite. The poor fellow woke up to see Binto with a pen light in his hands. He shook himself a bit and nodded to his master as both got off the bed and quietly made their way from where the scratching noise was coming. They made their way to the kitchen where it was all dark except for a small fluorescent light, no more than a dot, over the dining table.  Binto switched on his pen light in that direction but could not see anything or anyone, except a small quarter plate with a slice of black forest pastry on it.

Dopie jumped up the table and cautiously moved towards the dot. Dopie knew that this was his moment when he would catch a thief and become a hero in the family. Dopie went straight towards the plate and the dot moved to his right. Dopie moved right, the light moved left….it was quite a funny sight … Dopie trying to catch a speck of light. After a while, Dopie gave up the table chase and sat down exhausted. Binto felt afraid and made a hasty retreat to his room and the dot followed him. Binto pulled the blanket once more over his head in trying to avoid looking at the ghost in the house. Despite his holding tight, the blanket was pulled off his face and he heard a voice speaking just like him.

I am Bishnu and there is no need for you to be afraid of me. I love eating cakes of children and I travel everywhere. I usually stay for a day or two in a house and then move on. However, in your case, I am here for over a week. The reason is simple…. nowhere have I tasted better cakes than what I found in yours. I am just a little boy like you. How I turned into this tiny dot, is something I am not aware of. There are bigger dots elsewhere in the deep forests and they bully me a lot so I ran away from them and came to this place and have taken a fancy to things sweet and juicy. Now that you have seen me, I will go away tonight to another house but I will miss these best tasting cakes that are there in your cooling machine.

Those are cakes my Dad gets from Thelma’s Sugar Pod at Carter Road. Dopie and I too love them very much. You can stay here and be my friend. I will ask Dad to get more things from there every day. You can sleep during the day when I go to the school and eat the sweets at night without anyone disturbing you. I have a big bed here and you can tuck in with me. Mom will never come to know about you Bishnu.

That’s great….so we are friends from now and I have a bed to sleep and a house to stay and eat…. this must be my luckiest day.

By now Dopie had come in and saw the dot talking with Binto. He didn’t like it one bit but decided to stay quiet. When Binto and the dot went inside the blanket, Dopie crept under the bed and went back to sleep but it was a disturbed sleep for him. Another big black dog had snatched his big bone and Dopie was left standing there alone in the middle of a never ending road.

Next morning, it was Binto who was woken up from his sleep by his mother…..Binto, you were right. Last night there was one last piece of black forest in the fridge and now there is none. Surely someone is up to something….it has to be your Dad. I will give him a piece of my mind.

No Mom. Last night Dopie and I felt hungry and we ate it up. Just ask Dad to get some more of the chocolate brownie cake and blue berry muffins from Thelma’s.

I will tell your Dad, now get ready quickly for school. The bus will be here any moment now.

Ok Mom. Just give me ten minutes and I will be ready for breakfast and then school.

As he folded the blanket, he could not see Bishnu. He seemed to be lost in the rush of golden sunlight raining down the room through the French windows. Binto called out Bishnu a number of times but did not get any response. Dopie, too, was missing so he looked outside. Dopie was running around alone and had a big grin on his face. He seemed to be playing with someone in the garden. He had never seen Dopie so happy.

Binto got ready and while going towards the bus stop, shouted…Bye Dopie…see ya in the evening.

In school, the kid’s mind was filled with thoughts of Bishnu, his new friend whom only he could see and, may be, Dopie could feel. He seemed lost in the class and even when the teacher reprimanded him for making simple mistakes in his work, our boy was in a La La Land of make believe, mystery and fairy tales. As soon as the bell rang at the end of school, Binto reached home in his school bus.

Mommy, where’s Dopie? Why isn’t he in the house?

Your doggie has gone loony. Since morning he is out there in the garden and has not come home even once to have food or water. I told you when you were picking him up from the shelter that this dog is no good. All his life he was living with a junkie who smoked pot. I am sure, the smoke he inhaled then is still in his blood and hence shows such sudden streaks of madness. You better go and bring him home.

Yes mom.

Binto went to the park and sat down on a swing. Dopie came running to him and the swing next to him started moving slowly. Binto got off and gave the swing a push or two and he heard a chuckle in the air…this is fun my friend. I am loving it.

After a while, Binto and Dopie come home and had a good lunch. Binto saved some of it and took it to his room. He waited for some time and found the food untouched. Bishnu was determined…only cake, nothing but cakes for me!

They all waited for Binto’s journalist father to come home but today he was unusually late. He returned quite disturbed and had his laptop bag hung on his shoulders and both his hands were free.

Dad, where’s my cake? You promised me that you will bring cakes from Thelma’s Sugar Pod and you forgot. How could you do it Dad?

Binto please don’t cry. I did go to Carter Road but the shop was closed today. There were cops all around. I asked Philomina, who runs the shop, and she said, “Last night, some people entered the shop and damaged all the furniture and kitchenware. While I can get the other things ready in a day or two but the thieves have stolen the family treasure as well.”

Why did you keep the precious things in the shop Philo? You should have kept them in a safe place. Was it the family jewellery that they took away?

No. it was more precious than all the gold and diamond of the world. They took away my mother Thelma’s recipe book. She had written it in her own handwriting and it contained her secrets of baking the best cakes. I would refer to it while baking but now all is lost. I may start the shop again but will never be able to recreate the magic of Thelma.

Oh that’s a big loss Philo. We all loved the cakes and pastry from your shop and whoever ate them always would say…. that’s the best we’ve ever had! My son will be distraught when he comes to know that his favourite cakes will no longer be as good and I am sure he won’t be alone. Young and old, all will be disappointed. Take care Philo and start writing down all you remember from Thelma’s Book and I am sure you will once more create the same magic.

Binto was sad. Dopie was sad. But they went about their chores in a sulking manner but with Bishnu it was all different. He did not touch any food since the burglary happened. They tried cakes from other good shops but Bishnu would go close to it, smell it and then come away without touching it. It was almost seventy two hours since he had any cake and Binto saw that the little fluorescent light was getting dull with each passing night.

Dopie…we have to do something. We have to find Thelma’s Book of Secret Recipe.

Dopie jumped up a couple of times in the air showing his agreement to Binto’s call.

Let us do it for Bishnu…. For Bishnu!

To be continued…

SS