Outdoor@Indoor.com

That’s a case of liberty taken by a writer when he writes Indore as Indoor just to ensure the title is catchy but still relevant to the story he wishes to share with you today.

It was my first official visit to Indore so I sent a text to Hemant, a longtime friend, who hails from the city, “Going to your city.” “Welcome to the Cleanest City,” was his immediate one line response.  A second message was sent to the office colleague working there, Himanshu, informing him of my travel plans. Pronto came his response as well, “Welcome to the Tasty City.” My plans other than those that were official were mentally chalked out…to screen the streets and taste the food of Indore.

The problem with such plans is time…one day flying visit with the Maharaja Airlines grounding you for over two and half hours at Mumbai before takeoff leaves you gasping especially when there are back to back meetings lined up including in-city travel. Moving from one agent to another, one broker’s place to another however convinced me that we are idiots living in so called metropolis like Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata and Bangalore…Indore has some of the best infrastructure and the best and broadest roads. Even the old part of the city which usually is crammed and dingy is blessed with good roads. No where will you find any filth or even plastic bags strewn across the road or sidewalks.  So I asked Himanshu, how is this possible?

“Sir, the civic administration is very particular about cleanliness. The ‘Halla Gaadi’ or the noise car is seen everywhere and is named because of the loud blaring sounds it makes to announce its entry and picks up kachara round the clock. If they find litter at any place, they will fine the person whose shop or home is closest. People are so fearful of the fines that they constantly clean the place near their residence and work even if they have not dirtied the place themselves. No one wants to be fined and hauled up. This has been going on for some time, now it has become a part of attitudinal change in the inhabitants of this city…cleanliness is next to godliness.”

Himanshu narranted a personal experience of his. He said since both his wife and he go out to work early morning, they had a problem in the halla gaadi coming to their vicinity to pick up daily kachara at ten in the morning. “I called up the helpline and told them of my problem and since then the Halla Gaadi comes at 8am every day at my place.” I was completely choked for words…if one common man’s complaint about timing of the pick-up truck is taken so seriously here, no wonder the city can claim to be the Cleanest City in the country if not the world.

Texted Hemant, who I always knew to be an honest man, that today his city had passed the cleanliness test ….Welcome to Indore. So the first test the city had passed with flying colours. Now it was time to test the Taste.

My first taste with the food left me pretty much confused. Since we did not have enough time to savour the best of the city’s food, we landed ourselves for lunch at Ginger Ganesha…are you confused and bemused…yes I too was with the name. I was told that the place serves vegetarian South Indian and Chinese. How on earth could someone mix up aginomoto with curry leaves and tamarind? No wonder the taste of Smokey Hakka Masala Dosa did not augur well for the second certification that I was to do. More than the food was something which must be said about the way you make payments in the digital world here. I gave my debit card to the waiter who most diligently took it to the payment counter from where the man who had swiped my card shouted, “ Sir number bataiye!” “What!! PIN number who shouts out in a place full of strangers? That’s supposed to be secret.” My colleagues told me that at Indore this style of openly announcing your PIN is in vogue. I politely refused and walked up to the payment counter to key in my PIN much to the amusement of the luncheon friends and hotel manager.

By the time my various meetings and reviews ended it was almost 8pm. Options of going out were two. The first preference is what all tourists and visitors do…go to Chappan Dukan. This is a must visit place for all types of namkeens, sweets and snacks. The day here starts at 6am everyday with Indore’s breakfast Poha being served everywhere and goes on till 10pm, it is forever crowded. Chappan Dukan literally means 56 shops which was the number of shops when it was originally started. Now things have changed from small to big ones, owners have changed but if you count the number of pillars between shops, you will see there are actually 56 shops.

Much against the wishes of my other office colleagues, I chose to go to Sarafa Bazaar that night for the real taste of Indore. Sarafa Bazaar is a jewellery market at day time (till 8pm) and converts itself into a street food court at night which goes on till the wee hours of the morning. After a quick shower, hailed a cab to reach Rajwada with two office colleagues. Rajwada was the official residence of the Holkars who ruled Indore and Malwa in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. Indore was founded by Malhar Rao Holkar who was commander of Peshwa Bajirao 1 in 1739. His daughter-in-law, Ahilyabai moved the capital to Maheswar in 1767, however with the defeat of Holkars in 1818 in the Battle of Madhipur, the capital again shifted to Indore.

As you enter the small galli, passing by the Masjid, you see a buzz of activity over 500 metres away. You can see the closed shutters of the jewellery shops which have done their business during the day. Beyond a point no vehicles are allowed inside as gastronomy reigns. It is love at first sight with sweets and snacks everywhere…garma garam gulab jamuns kept beautifully in a huge pan full of chashni, lying beside is equally enchanting pan full of malpua…we could have been brim full by the first few shops itself and so we controlled ourselves…controlled our cravings and I can tell you it is sinful here.

Our first stop was Joshi’s shop enjoying Dahi Vade and  Bhutte ka Kees. Seeing the quantity being served the three of us asked for one plate of each of the items. The Dahi Vade was made beautifully with Joshiji chucking the plate up in the air, catching it like a trained juggler and then filling up the same with handful of dahi and vade with topping of sev and multiple spices. Butte ka Kees is grounded corn mixed with masala…don’t ask anyone about what masala they use…they will all tell you it is a family secret preserved over centuries. The taste was better than anything we had tasted before. Getting to know Tasty City better now…

Opposite Joshi’s shop were colourful looking ice creams. A closer look revealed these were ice-paans with names like Butterscotch, Green Apple, Orange, Litchi, Strawberry and, of course the current favourite of children, Chocolate paan.

As we walked past alu tikkis being fried and fruits charts beautifully decorated, we were lured by a small shop selling sweets. We picked on a plate full of rabadi which was not too sweet and tasted so good that we could have had a couple of plates more. My eyes then fell on a pan where ghee floated and beneath it was some brown coloured substance. “Is that moong daal ka halwa?” I asked in amazement and Himanshu said yes and this, too, is a must eat. A plate of this halwa , not just soaked in ghee as you would find in the northern part of the country, but drowned in ghee here was better than anything I have ever had. Felt like packing some for home but then knew the ghee would definitely leak out and the stain and smell would remain forever.

“Now what is that? Looks like jalebi but is huge!” “That is jaleba, the big size jalebi.” Let me tell you that this was not big size but huge. How could anyone have one of these was my question. These looked delicious but I told the shopkeeper,”Chotta milega kya?” And our man quickly made me a chotta jaleba which was 20 times the size of the normal jalebi. No matter how much you tried, the sweet liquid will sprinkle out of the hot jaleba like a shower and soil your clothes. By now what mattered was the food , cleanliness took a backseat for us now. The three of us tried hard but failed to finish one Jaleba. Himanshu has invited me again in January in the peak of winter when he says all you need to drink is one big glass of milk that has been sweetend and condensed over hours on the fire with one jaleba…you will not feel the cold any more. I told him, “Zinda rahe to thand lageygi na,” ( After eating so much will I  hardly feel the chill as I may not live after the gorging).  In all decency we wrapped the remaining jaleba and dropped it in a bin after a while. Surprisingly even in this busy street food court, cleanliness was not forgotten. Every vendor had a bin and not a single plastic bottle, tissue paper or wooden spoon could be seen on the road below.

Having had our quota of mithai, we went on to a side lane when we saw Aadesh Parantha Center. Long time since I had a real good parantha so I asked our man, “Special kya hai?” he suggested Shahi Parantha and I went along with his choice. Saw the man mixing the dough with a handful of mashed potato, a thick layer of paneer and two handful of Sev or mixture…nothing is complete in this city without Sev. The parantha was put on a big pan and once properly cooked was almost covered with a couple of spoons of ghee with grated cheese on top. I am sure the Shahi Holkar’s would have ruled a couple of centuries more if they had not been eating all this stuff and used the time better to improve their martial skills. Here’s the parantha plate as we were to eat.

If you think this was all a man could have on a single night, you are sadly mistaken. Himanshu took us to another small thela wala who made for us sabudana khichadi. For those who think you eat this when fasting will realize how wonderful this is. The man not only gave us the khichadi but put on the side potato chips, lots of dhaniya and pudina and a handful of masalas. Eating this makes you wonder, why shouldn’t we create our own KFCs and McDs with Indore’s famed street food…are any of the venture capital givers listening to this one big Make In India idea?

There was no more place left…honestly we had over eaten and it was well past 11 pm. The crowds were now beginning to come in. The place comes to life post midnight…we were early birds. So on our way we felt really heavy and we saw lemon soda being made in completely desi style. The man would add lemon to the water kept in a bottle, shake it well before putting it inside a metal tube which looked like a small sized bazooka and did something which I couldn’t guess but when the bottle was taken out and the contents poured into a glass, it produced the biggest and best fizz for a drink which led to a number of awkward sounding grunts and belching which was certificate enough that the food was real good.

Indore Stamped…Tasty City.

Next morning we had to leave early for Bhopal and I made sure that my breakfast included the famed Poha with Jalebi…you just can’t visit this city and avoid this staple diet. It is like visiting Rome and not seeing the Colosseum. Someone said that many people make poha but the taste of poha at Indore is different and is the best…it may be because of the water there. Someone at Mumbai opened a shop selling poha using Indore water that they would procure but he still failed miserably. There is something special about the city which just can’t be explained.

Now I am waiting for my winter travel to the city of Holkars, Hemant and Himanshu…of Royalty, Cleanliness and Mouth Watering Taste.

SS

Making Moves

Batu was like another four year old kid, living in a government colony at Munirka, New Delhi. He would go to school, play cricket whenever time permitted and watched the television for the cartoon shows. Being close to JNU, one of his father’s close college friends, Vinayak, who was teaching International Studies there would land up at their home quite often for dinner. On one such visit, Vinayak, who himself was an accomplished chess player presented Batu with a magnetic chess set. The kid at first enjoyed the new toy and would move the pieces like a car, making sounds like vroom and swoosh. Vinayak spent some time with the kid and slowly showed him the different pieces and how they moved. By the tenth sitting, the four year old kid beat Vinayak. It was then that Vinayak asked Batu’s father to work on the talented kid on this game of sixty four squares. Initially the father paid little heed but by now the kid developed interest in the game and the fairy tale continued.

Batu, born on 9^th Feb 1993, became Junior India Champion and by 2002 was soon crowned the Asian Youth Chess Champion. He achieved Grand Master title at the age of 13 years and 142 days in 2006, becoming the second youngest chess Grand Master. Batu went on to win many more titles and championships across the globe where his father would take him along and in 2010, was awarded the prestigious Arjuna Award when he was just 17 years old. It was quite an achievement at such a tender age. Batu was destined for greater glory and the man standing behind him was his father who would go from one corporate to another, one PSU to another to seek funds for the boy to travel and get the best possible coaching to succeed in this highly competitive sport. It was an expensive game at the top level but the father never backed down. He was a man possessed to ensure his son got the best and had to never worry about anything other than playing at ease and at peace to deliver the best winning results.

Batu, the child prodigy, or should we for now call him Arjun after the award he won, gradually broke into the elite top 100 of world’s chess players. He was now rubbing shoulders with the best in the business and was also playing in top form at times beating the players in the top 10. The world was his playground and Arjun was the Master who played to win. Suddenly when he was in an ascendant mode, Arjun was at crossroads and had a conversation with his charioteer father or should we for now call him Krishna. Almost a repeat of the Mahabharata scene at Kurukshetra as Arjun faced the best warriors and Batu too faced the best players in front, he literally laid down the Gandiv or his bow. Krishna then spoke of the eternal truth through what we now know as Bhagawad Gita, the story today was quite different. Here’s an excerpt of the modern day Partha Arjun and his Parthasarathi, his Fatherly Krishna. The Sanskrit quotes included are correct but the English translations for the sake of the conversation have been modified to suit the story:

Arjun: “na yotsya iti govindam, na yotsya iti govindam…Hey Govind, the very thought of war on the chessboard itself gives me grief and I feel dejected, therefore, I will not play anymore.” 

Krishna: “Hey Arjun, you grieve for those for matters that should not be grieved for and yet seemingly speak like a wise man.”

Arjun: “nimittaani ch pashyaami vipritaani Keshav…Hey Keshav! Wherever I look, I see nothing but evil and unpleasant omens in the upcoming hard battles on the board and the life beyond.”

Krishna:  “Karma-yogi does not care for omens. He is unattached to everything because he neither rejoices victories nor does he ever feel dejected in defeat.”

Arjun: “In this game, I do not foresee any good resulting from my playing any more but bring grief to my friends and family. Victories will be far and few, defeats at the hands of super champions will happen more often going forward.” 

Krishna: “sarva-dharmamapi chaavekshya na vikampitum-arhasi…there is nothing more welcome to a champion player than to play in the right manner, Arjun. One’s own duty though devoid of merit is preferable to the duty of another well performed, because even defeat in the performance of one’s duty brings happiness.”

Arjun: “na kaankshe vijayam krishna na ch raajayam sukhaani ch…But I do not covet victory, being crowned or even luxuries. And these luxuries and victories will be short lived, at best another 5-10 years. Look, to lead a luxurious life while playing chess is only possible when you can break into top-10 bracket. Vishy (Viswanathan Anand) was in top-10 by the time he was 20. Then he took a risk by shifting his base (Spain). But chess is a cerebral game where people are now leaving the sport by 35. No longer can you be in top rung in your 40s and 50s.”

"Nowadays, chess is all about preparing on different openings. It takes a toll on your mind and body. I know I can reach higher position but I want to now take a fresh leap into the world of academics. I have got my admission to Stanford and will concentrate on doing good in the new world which will hold me in good stead for a long time, much beyond what chess will ever do. ”

Krishna heard Arjun’s plans. He saw a complete turnaround by his son and dreams they both cherished being lost forever. But then he could see that Arjun had taken a thoughtful and calculated decision and so it was his fatherly duty to now back his son’s move enthusiastically.

Krishna: “Happy are the champions who obtain such an unsolicited opportunity of playing at this level and then decide to give up everything and pursue another different life. Stand up Arjun and perform what your heart seeks of you with peace in thy soul. I agree that continuing this game will definitely lead you to a difficult life ahead. It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else’s life with perfection.”

Arjun: “nashto moha smritir labdhaa tvat prsaadnmyaa achyut, sthito asmi gat sandeha karishye vachanam tav…After hearing your discourse, my delusion born out of ignorance is destroyed and O the Unchanging One, by Your grace, I have recollected my memory. My doubts are gone and from now on, I shall surely put in my life and soul into the new academic world I step into. Chess will take a backseat and academics will be my priority.”

“Hey Govind, as a friend, charioteer and counsellor, you have performed your duty well. Ready and eager for the upcoming battle, my mother and brother must be anxiously waiting for us. Therefore, Hey Madhusudan, please take my chariot near them so that I may blow my trumpet, the conch-shell Devadatta and begin to worship the All Pervading and the Nameless One by performing my new found duty.”

Arjun or Parimarjan Negi was rated 2650 FIDE and ranked in the top 100 in the world and had talent enough to break into top 20 but the climb would have been extremely tough and uncertainty was there about the time it would take to reach. Parimarjan was always a bright student in school when he decided to give up his life’s passion to seek long term sustainable success in life through the path of education. At Stanford he is now a rising senior, was immediately sold on Computer Science (CS) as his primary field of study when he arrived on campus. According to the Indian-born Grand Master, “CS is a very logical choice for chess players because it’s all about problem-solving.” 

Recently in an interview Batu, as he is fondly called at home, said “When I set foot on campus freshman year, someone told me that you can only choose two out of three things: a) academics, b) socializing, or c) sleep. I chose academics and sleep.”

When Parimarjan first began his studies at Stanford, he was a “complete outsider”—as if a 1600-rated player tried playing in a tournament with masters. “I was at the bottom of my class,” he said. “But I remembered how I used to pour hours and hours into studying the game and eventually got better. When you’ve had the experience of grinding for five hours just to hold a draw, you don’t get frustrated with several hours spent debugging a program.” The task of buckling down, doing the work and patiently waiting for the results was no longer daunting. He had done it before. Three years later, Parimarjan strolls comfortably in and out of the computer science department and is even considering a Ph.D. in the field. 

We will never know if Chess lost a potential World Champion. The Charioteer father, who happens to be a close friend, is so excited that his Arjun is doing what his heart wants. Happy for Batu who we wish all the very best in life, but sad that sports lost a champion to studies…

 

Checkmate…game lost.

SS

Neymar Da

Neymar just moved from FC Barcelona to PSG for a whopping $222m Euros. Messi has stuck to his tiki taka club and so has Christiano Ronaldo. Undoubtedly the three would rank among the best footballers of our times. They play brilliant soccer mixing skill and speed which mesmerises opponents across the globe. No one doubts their talent but then surely in their minds one thing must be troubling them…they’ve never won the greatest trophy in the world…the FIFA World Cup.

It was the summer of 83 when two friends were sitting on the green grass of Hindu College in Delhi watching a friendly football match against St. Stephens College. Nothing between the two colleges across the street could ever be friendly like the Ashes….no no that’s not a good example but maybe comparable to Indo-Pak contests where none wanted to lose and victory catapulted the victors to a higher plane and losers were rubbished into the dustbin of history.

The two had bunked class to watch the match as they were upset with the education system in general and their own performance in the first year of college. They had worked hard throughout the previous year going from one library to another. Sometimes it was the college library at other times it was the Central Secretariat Library and then at times even the Indian Council for Historical Research Library where they compiled notes after notes on subjects in Ancient Indian History and Chinese History. They were determined to do well in academics and sports and other distractions were put in the back burner. These notes they read, the thick books they scanned made them feel well prepared for the exams. When the examiner handed over the question paper, the two were overjoyed….they knew all the answers as as they had done their research extensively. As the time started, the pen was raised but after a couple of lines they realised they did not know where to start and where to end. Soon the easy question paper became difficult as structuring an answer with too much information and time limitation led to them just about passing the exams with the narrowest of margins. At Delhi University only those with standard set tutorials passed over the ages, mugged up well and vomited on the answer sheet verbatim was the route to success. Hard work, research and too much information was a bane.

The match progressed and St. Stephens put up an aggressive and fast paced performance and in the end defeated Hindu in their own college grounds two goals to nil.  Seeing the plight of their own college team the two budding historians decided that they will play rather than waste time on books, try to get selected for the college football team. So the very next day the two idiots landed in their soccer gear where the team was warming up. They went to the coach Mr. O.P. Datta to ask if they could also practice with the team and try for selection. He readily agreed and so the two set about showcasing their skills. While Ranjeev played as a goalkeeper, the other fellow who all called Dada took to left wing position as a forward. Within a couple of days, the coach was convinced of their abilities and gave them a couple of breaks in a few friendlies. The real test came within ten days of becoming regulars in the squad, a re-match with St. Stephens. By the time the match ended the college erupted in celebrations and students were talking of a Dada,as most Bengalis are addressed, who almost won the match single handedly with his one goal and two good passes both of which were converted. Stephens was thrashed 3 nil, the revenge was complete and a hero was born.

From then on began a journey which lasted four years through graduation and post-graduation where Dada’s day would start by packing the football gear into the small bag and taking the 7.20 am U Special, landing on the ground by 8.30 am, practising till noon, going to the cafeteria for the well-earned snacks coupon that entitled you to an omelette with 4 to 6 eggs, bun and cold drinks. Bread pakoras, desi alu burgers and chai were other options. If you are wondering what happened to History classes? Those had become history, for playing in the college eleven meant attendance was never a problem. The two were never seen in class and at times they made their guest appearance, they ensured the lecturer would throw them out on grounds of disrupting and distracting the class. But that did not deter the Two Idiots from pursuing their life’s passion of playing the joga bonito or the beautiful game.

Moving fast forward, it was November of 88. Dada had hung up his boots and joined the financial sector at Kolkata. He had come to Delhi from his work place at Kolkata to give the Civil Services Mains examinations. He had a couple of days to prepare when a post card popped up and rattled him up….the current captain of Hindu College football team, Pankaj, had sent a hand written invitation for the Inter-College Finals to be held at Chahatrasal Stadium between Hindu and PGDAV College. It was a wonderful piece of news but why did Dada get disturbed? Pankaj was a junior in the team when he was at his peak leading the college team to many a victory. They had won championships at BITS Pilani, IIT Delhi, International Cup, Delhi Soccer League and many more. They not only won but Dada had a considerable impact on the results as the main scorer-scored after dribbling many a defender, scored from free kicks, corner kicks and cracking unstoppable headers. He was often a marked man and was chopped down by rival defenders but Dada still managed to score and win. Winning Man of the Match and Best Player awards was a regular feature.

The post card had, however, brought back many a happy memory but also the memory of a day when Dada played the last match in college colours. It was the semi-finals of the Inter College Championship in 1987 and Hindu College was looking like a champion side winning all the league matches and quarter finals easily. Plus they had beaten their semi-final rivals, SRCC, in a few friendlies earlier. The match got its importance from the fact that they had never reached the finals and the man who had built up the team being its main player had one more chance to score in an inter-college match. For four long years he had played magnificently for the college winning accolades and trophies but scoring in an inter college match had eluded him. He came close many times, many a time the ball hit the cross piece and at times the goal keeper made brilliant saves and then there were times when he missed sitters. He felt the team had not won the championship only because he hadn’t scored ever in the three preceding years. This was his chance to redeem himself and give back to the college the only missing trophy in its coffers.

Dada reached the football ground at Civil Lines well before the other team members arrived. He walked around the field from goal post to another, saying a small prayer at each end. He was tense as sleep had eluded him that night for being a failure was not acceptable to him. He was determined to set history right today. If he scored today, his team would be in the finals and that would be a great way to end his soccer career at the college. Slowly the others came and so did the crowds. The coach called Dada aside and told him,” Beta khul ke khel. Goal hoga aur tu karega aaj. Hum jitenge aur jashn manayegey (Son, play freely without any pressure. Today you will score and we will win and celebrate).” Dada nodded and went about getting ready for the match. He slipped into his stockings and laced up the boots and prayed one more time as he wore the college jersey. He always wore number 7 on his back not the usual number 10 which was made famous by Pele and thereafter adorned by the best players in every team since then.

The match began and both teams played a rough game with one player after another coming almost to arms to be separated by the referee. Dada, however, was running hard and passing the ball well. SRCC had put a stout but speedy player to mark Dada and every time he got the ball, the maker would aim a kick at Dada’s legs. Everyone knew Dada never wore a shin guard and was most vulnerable to the studs hitting there and getting injured before being substituted to the relief of the opponents. But Dada lived dangerously and hardly ever got injured in a game. But today was different. The other person was not interested in playing football but was intent on playing more of kabaddi where he would pull the jersey, shorts, push, shove and often aim his step on the shin. The first half ended in a dull draw and at lemon break Mr. Datta told the boys to play their own game and not get into fights on the ground. “Hold the ball and find gaps and then pass the ball to Dada, Chander and Inder in front and they will score.”

The second half began and Hindu suddenly looked a different team playing good passing football with Munish in the midfield at the heart of the game. But Dada was still unable to break the stranglehold of the marker who in one tackle kicked him from behind. The usual cool Dada went wild and ran back to confront the marker while abusing him in the choicest of expletives. The referee was quick to put his hand in the top pocket and showed Dada a yellow card. Dada was now under even greater pressure as time was ticking away and one more card meant his being thrown out of the ground by the referee, a most dishonourable way of ending a glorious career. Just when everything looked lost, a beautiful lob into the box came his way….he was no more than six feet away from the goal and a gentle nod with his head would have put the ball into the net. Dada wouldn’t take a  chance and he bent his back and with the greatest of force his neck could generate headed the ball as hard as anyone could….the ball zoomed past the  last defender and caught the goalkeeper stranded….thud…as it hit the side post and went out for a goal kick. The golden opportunity was lost and SRCC scored the very next minute in a one off move killing the game. Hindu played the game with the other losing semi-finalist and won the third place. Dada did not take to the field that day.

Dada kept Pankaj’s invitation post card with him and saw it many times during the day. He even got ready to go to witness the college finals that he himself never got to play but then stayed back for he thought and was convinced he was the bad omen for the team. Despite being the best team in all the four years he played, the team never reached the finals and today was the big day for Pankaj, Munish and others. He would not let his dark shadow bring ill luck to his team he loved. He stayed home and next morning he ran to pick up the newspaper thrown at the balcony of his house and opened the sports page. In one corner he saw, “Hindu College Wins Inter-College Football”. Dada shed tears of joy as he hid his sobbing face behind the paper. The college had won, the game had won….his boys had won but not him….the pain remained forever.

Today, Pankaj, the victorious Captain of the team, is now a Brigadier in the Indian Army. Munish, the midfielder, is a successful businessman. Brothers Chander and Inder, striking partners of Dada, are doing what they always loved, training youngsters as coaches of their respective colleges. Incidentally Chander is the sports in-charge at Hindu College itself. Ranjeev, the goalie, joined the Indian Army, was at one time deputed for a while to the Indian Navy to fly choppers (Army, Navy & Air Force all at the same time) and is now a pilot with a private airlines. Dada works at Mumbai. He is a happy man most of the times except when he gets reminded of his biggest failure in life especially when it mattered the most, for a game he loved the most. It will be something that he will take to his grave with the epitaph on his tombstone reading:

“Here lies the Man who Played Well But Could Never Score.”

SS

The Ghost Who Walks

How do you know if your Boss is in his cabin or not? Simple…get a skewer or seekh, eight to ten chunks  of the toughest un-marinated goat meat (no beef please lest we be troll bombed), open the cabin door slightly, put the seekh inside and count ten….one, two, three….eight, nine and ten. Now pull the seekh and close the door. If the meat comes out charred black and burnt, He’s definitely there inside. Such was the reputation of my First Boss. But how did I land there….

It was my first job and it started off with a residential training program. Just out of college, with no inclination to understand the boring world of insurance, I started getting into one trouble after another, from time to time, in order to bring joy to work. Of the many instances, one stands out most prominently. A very senior official from Head Office had come to address us but his talk was so uninspiring that the trainees took to playing games, talking and doing everything except listening to the gentleman. As was expected, he reported the same to the Principal of the training institute. The Principal was a person called A..K Ray better known among the trainees as AK47 for his temper and tenor. While the rest of the trainees and faculty went out of the classroom for tea and snacks before the next session on Accountancy was to start, I stayed behind and on the blackboard wrote an impromptu limerick on Why You Shouldn’t Study Accounts. The Principal was already fuming about the bad behavior of the trainees in the earlier session and the poem was the causa proxima non remota spectatur for him to blow his top. When he asked who had written the poem, the entire class stood up in unison but when threatened with batch suspension, I raised my hand. And he shouted,“Get out of here and go to my room immediately!”

The man came down, called the stenographer and dictated a letter to the Personnel Department (HR) stating that the trainee is rusticated from the hostel and suspended from training with immediate effect.  I was asked to go to my room and pack my bags, collect the letter after an hour and leave the campus. On reaching my room, I packed my bags but felt like taking some rest before being thrown out and as luck would have it went into deep slumber and was woken up by loud banging on my door.  A look at my watch showed it was almost 3.30 pm and I had slept for over two hours.

“Sir is calling you”, said the office peon.

 As I went from the residential block to the principal’s office, I saw all my sixty odd batch-mates standing outside and as soon as they saw me, they started clapping aloud. I was ushered into another room where two senior faculty members began pleading with me, “Please ask your batchmates to have their lunch. Boycotting it will make matters worse as this will get reported right up to the senior management.”  I realised that, while I was blissfully sleeping, my batchmates had done Gandhigiri act. First, was total Non-Cooperation Movement with the Accounts faculty member  who found the class so silent and non-participative, that he felt as if he was talking at a graveyard. The man even tried analysing the poem and explaining to the class why the logic of not studying accounts was incorrect though, at the same time, lauding the literary talent of the bard. Next, came Satyagraha where the whole lot had refused to eat a morsel of food during lunch hour unless the suspension order was withdrawn. The training institute and a fuming principal, finally, backed down and tore the suspension letter amidst a cheering roar from the trainees. The Principal , however, forgot this insult.

There were many more instances where I got on his wrong side and many a times he blamed me for anything that went wrong prompting me to get the tag, Princi’s Blue Eyed Boy. When the time of posting came, we all wanted to get it in our home towns or at least in its vicinity. AK 47, however, made sure that I was posted 1500 kiometres from Delhi reporting to a man whose name was more feared in insurance industry than Gabbar Singh’s in Ramgarh.

While my other colleagues began handling large claims, big underwriting proposals and even went for risk inspections to out station locations, in the first three months I was asked to go through old letters in order to learn how to write official communication, how to file papers, how to make photo copies, mastering the art of punching paper and read the Marine Tariff over and over again till I had mastered the same. My father spent a good amount of his fortune to send me to the best Christian Missionary school in Delhi in those days and here was this man making me read the Wren and Martin, Office 1988 Edition…such boring letters of which neither did I understand anything nor did I have any inclination of knowing for there were other distractions more fascinating and alluring.

Within a couple of months of joining work I fell head over heels in love with a colleague posted at another office. She often came to meet me near my office in the evenings but it was like love in times of cholera….I would visualise my fiery boss at every corner and try and hide myself. She wouldn’t understand why I was mortally afraid of this Ghost Who Walks whom I could see and she couldn’t.  Incidentally, the Ghost was so aptly named Ghosh and he, as luck would have it, refused the office vehicle and walked home from work. Whenever we would walk along Chowringhee in the evenings, if I saw a man less than five feet tall, weighing less than 50 kilos and a satchel in hand, it had to be him or so I believed. Forget holding hands and walking on the green grass of Maidan, we would slip into the nearest café or fast food joint for some light snacks and head back home. A major part of our romance was completely gutted by the omnipresence of this pocket dynamo that had entered my DNA and would pop out at every corner and every moment scaring the hell out of me.

My Civil Services Mains results were out and I got the good news of having cleared it for the second straight time. There was jubilation at home and I celebrated with friends as if Saala Main Toh Sahab Ban Gaya. I wanted to go home for a week or two to prepare for the interview of my life and went to the Boss for leave. The hour long lecture I got about putting my feet on two boats, how the civil servants were all corrupt…420 to be precise…how I was wasting the money of the company which was paying me salary and had spent a fortune in my training…the list was long and the gist was short…no more than 3 days leave was granted after many a pleading and even showing the original interview letter. His logic was clear, one day to go to Delhi, second to give the interview and on the third return to Kolkata. Those were the days of the Indian Railways and air travel was something out of reach. By the time leave was granted, even wait listed tickets were not available for any train to Delhi. Rajiv, a batchmate, came to my rescue by booking a train ticket to Patna where his father pulled a few strings to get me a connecting train to Delhi. After the interview returned to Kolkata by Kalka Mail in an unreserved compartment where I was told by the person who gave me the ticket at a premium to just lie down on the upper berth without getting up even once during the 24 hour journey which I did with the bladder almost bursting. When finally the Civil Services mark sheet came in my hand, realised a week or so of preparation would have surely got me a good rank and service. My Luck, My Boss.

Next was my sister’s wedding…my only sister’s wedding at Kolkata. While the marriage was on a weekend, the reception given by the groom’s family was to be held at Chinsurah on a Tuesday evening. I worked full day on Monday and on Tuesday I went to my Boss requesting him half a day’s leave to go for the reception along with my family. He looked angrily me and said, “Receptions are held in the evening so why do you need to go in the afternoon. Your half day leave is not sanctioned. Here take this file and complete it before you leave office today.” Somehow, I got the word across to my parents to go directly to the reception and carry a set of kurta pyjama for me. At 6.30 pm I left office, went to Howrah, took a train and then a rickshaw to reach the reception around 9 pm when almost a majority had finished eating and were on their way home...no need was felt to change into fancy clothes even on this day.

It was my own wedding next…leave sanctioned a  measly three days while my wife had taken a month’s leave hoping her Prince Charming would take her out on a honeymoon.…Great Expectations as Dickens put it then and in our times it was the Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd! So we got married in a jiffy and I was back at work as if nothing had happened while my wife would wait at home till late in the evening when I would return completely drenched in sweat travelling in Kolkata mini busses and trams. CK, another friend, took pity on us and one evening asked us to accompany him to Cuttack from where we could go to Bhubaneswar, Puri and Chilika. See how happy my wife looks, out alone together at the beautiful Chilka Lake… All we got was one weekend of three nights and two days…it is surprising that we have stuck on for so long despite this…ofcourse I have been reminded many a time in these many years of this unpardonable cruelty and lack of romance…Biwiji, blame it on the Boss.

Then came the birth of my baby girl which was the single biggest day in my life. Happy at the coming home of the lovely angel, I bought some of the best mishti and took it to office. The first person I offered the sweets had to be His Lordship, after all he was a senior and my Boss. “What is there to be so happy about on the birth of a child, just adding to the country’s problems?” I don’t know how I kept calm in the face of such a reaction but later realized he would say similar and even worse things to others on such happy occasions. On the birth of a son to another colleague he remarked, “What’s so great about a son’s birth, remember Dhritarashtra had a hundred sons and what happened to all of them?”

Even at work he made life hell for me and often made me do pretty lowly chores like taking files from one building to another even though there were a retinue of peons at his service.  He would fire me left right and centre for trivial things and, that too, in public. He made me feel like the scum on the face of the earth who should be obliterated at every step he took. He took great pleasure in correcting drafts of letters and notes and made sure every word other than the ‘is’, ‘as’, ‘were’, ‘was’ that remained of the draft prepared by me. He would correct it with his red pen making it look like the Math exam answer sheets of school in which I flunked regularly…but this was English and I wasn’t too at it and yet this man would make me feel like someone who had just passed out of a school where they start teaching English after class 6. One day, out of the sheer audacity to get back at him, I wrote down a corrected draft letter of his and took it to him as a fresh draft once again and he used his red pen, like a trained sabre professional, cutting every word, slicing every sentence written there….you should have seen his face when I showed him that he had in fact corrected his own letter. I proved my point but he could not care less. One day, early in the morning, I was working on a claim note and he walked past me sneering and saying, “Keep writing you idiot! After all I will have to delete everything you are writing now.”

After five long years serving my sentence in this suffocating captivity of Auschwitz under the hawk eye and iron hand of the Nazi SS General, I was happily deported to Delhi. He hated me and I hated him even more. In this harsh prison I learnt a few things…reach office before your boss…he will notice it. Reaching office very early, much before anyone else, has now become a matter of routine for me and has over the years paid rich dividends. These five years of getting into the basics of the subject and interacting with the best minds in the industry ensured that I got the tag of Marine Specialist, something that has stayed with me even though I have done multiple varied roles. The man was possibly among the best trainers I’ve ever encountered and I too worked over the years to ensure no one slept in my class. Finally, on the human side, I said to myself, if ever I have anyone working under me, I shall treat him right and never the way I was insulted and made to grovel for everything. All these traits made me a better person and a better professional and a better boss. I owe all of that to The Boss.

I had lost touch with him for about five odd years when suddenly I heard that he had broken his leg after falling down on the road while waiting for the office car. By now, he had started using one. When I saw him next, he was using a walking stick and had put on some weight. He would meet me and my wife whenever he would come to Delhi. Slowly this man started getting close to us as a family and now if he is ever at Mumbai, he visits us, goes out for dinner with us, and if I don’t call him up once in two to three months, he feels upset and conveys his displeasure through common friends. Most importantly, the man loves my daughter and follows her progress like a pucca grandfather. Now that I know him closely I can say the man has many a quality, which many are unaware of, like his knowledge is not limited to insurance, it is truly vast. He is a voracious reader and reads everything from Tolkien to Tolstoy and from history to medicine. He can engage almost on any subject with a great deal of depth. He is a connoisseur of music and was overwhelmed when I invited him for a classical concert on the banks of River Hooghly to raise funds for Tata Memorial Hospital. Here you can see The Boss with Dr. Mamen Chandy, Director of TMC.

He never got married and lives alone. He himself admits that had he got married he would have made life hell for the poor woman. There is only one person who can put him in place and he is mortally scared of- his elder sister whose children he adores. He looks forward to people like us to greet him and longs for love and company. Today, I don’t feel angry for what he did to me in the past, I only feel sad for this solitary teacher who most believe to be eccentric and evil and even mock him without knowing the real man.

Only time unravels a true human being.

SS

Missing Nemo

This School of Fish was there together for thirteen long years for a journey that started in 1969 in KG-B and then they moved on to I-C and then for next ten years the Band of Brothers was together till subjects did us part. Fishes of so many hues yet sticking together through good times and bad….and he was one of us from the classroom to cricket ground, from the canteen to the swimming pool where he truly belonged.

There I can see you in the third row between Harjiv and Pushy with your curly brown hair. Remember your distinct way of writing with your left hand covering the desk as if trying to hide your answer from the boys sitting behind…no it was never that way. Even to this day the incident of our Class Tenth ICSE Board Chemistry Practical Exam brings tears of joy to me as you and I kept copying from Harjiv’s notes without knowing one step ourselves. And when you finally tried mixing two chemicals, the concoction flew out of the tube onto poor Harjiv’s answer sheet. Of the many other things I remember is your brown colour Mercedes on which I had my life’s first ever ride on the Three Pointed Star car as you dropped me off at Central Secretariat bus stop after a class football match. 

Dear Sudhin, I don’t have your picture while swimming so have taken the liberty of using a picture of a swimming legend for the two commonalities…the wingspan and Germany. In the 80s whenever I saw Michael  Gross, The Albatross, take to the pool during the LA and Seoul Olympics, I was reminded of you how you won championship after championship in swimming meets all across the city schools and more. You had a huge wingspan and in fact you even had the biggest pair of feet and shoes for which no Bata store in India could then provide. Surely they acted as the flippers aiding you in your conquest of the pool.

And then we got the sad news that the Fish had jumped out of the water….Missing you Nemo. Wherever you are Rest in Peace. The Class of 10-C will miss The Champion.  And as they said in the movie, “When life gets you down, you know what you gotta do? Just keep swimming."

SS

TWILIGHT ZONE

Yama, the Lord of Death was swaying gently in his ivory swing as the musicians played enchanting music while the apsaras danced in perfect unison. While the entertainment show was going on, the Lord had to keep track of people dying all over the earth. Since the time Steve Jobs had accepted Yama’s invitation, things had gone hi-tech in his kingdom with a couple of giant screens displaying not just numbers but full details of the person including his age, height, weight, religion….. There was also a continuous panel discussion going on with some of the best brains making sense of the numbers because the Nation always wants to know.  The Lord Yama had also made his work easier by appointing many sub-agents who did the work for him instead of his having to go to earth every time someone’s death neared. These sub-agents like ISIS, Talibans, Maoists, Cow Vigilantes, Ku Klux Klan and many more who took their work very seriously and possibly The Dark Lord also incentivized them for their superlative performances that made them ever so enthusiastic.

Just when the Lord was almost in trance, the monitors showed a problem as they stopped functioning. He shouted, “Steve! Steve!! Solve this quickly.”

Steve checked the screens and went back to the Lord and reported, “Sir, there is a faint line coming on the computers which reads, #WANNACRY#….this is no ordinary virus but a special one. Give me some time and I shall have the whole system up and running in no time.”

“Steve, this is no virus. I know this signal. This only happens when someone is at my gate seeking mercy. The moment they ring the bell, it means someone desperately wants to come in and see me in person. That mechanical signal will overule all your Apples systems and Pineapple anti-virus softwares.”

All dancers and musicians stopped their movements immediately which brought the giant hall to a pin drop silence as the Lord of Death strode to the Gates of Death thinking, “who could it be crying at my door at such an unearthly hour?”

As he opened the gate he saw two women, one in her twenties and the other in her fifties.  Both were pulling a hospital bed each with a patient in it. The younger one had a chunni on her head and the patient was a young man of 25 years who had suffered major injuries due to a motorcycle accident which had left him bedridden and senseless for over a month now. 

The other woman had salt and pepper hair till the point where head met the shoulder. On the bed she was trudging an octogenarian woman who was completely immobile and paralyzed and living through the two tubes, one from the nose to feed her and the other was the catheter. 

The Dark Lord stopped in his track and remembered having read about two of these women in a blog, Arms & The Woman, a couple of weeks ago. Ok, he said, these are Sheeba whose 25 year old husband Mohsin had been battling for life and Debi, whose mother had fallen terminally ill and both had met at the  ICU of the same hospital where the two sick people were being treated. To His utter surprise it was not the two load bearers but the two dying patients on the beds who spoke up.

The Old Woman’s Cry

Just let me go

I’ve lived a life so good

And nothing more to live for

So my Good Lord

Just let me go.

Just let me go

With a pipe to feed

And a pipe below, this is no living

O my Gentle Lord

Just let me go.

Just let me go

My old man, brother, sisters and all

Are now all up there with you

So my Holy Lord

Just let me go

Just let me go

Limbs I can move no more

With lips, mind and all but shut

So my Lord so kind

Just let me go.

Just let me go

Not mine but my daughter’s pain can bear no more

For she eats, sleeps not a moment more

For her sake O Merciful Lord

Just let me go.

Yama heard the old woman’s cry and spoke for once.

How can I let you go O Mother

The love of your daughter holds me back

For if I let go you

No child will ever love his mother so

In her grasp, lies the life of yours

But for her, I would have long let you go.

Young Man’s Wail.

Mujhe jeene do

I have not seen much of life so far

With many an unfulfilled dream have I

So my Good Lord

Mujhe jeene do.

Mujhe jeene do

My little daughter I wish to cuddle

Hold my pretty wife tight

They await me for so long My Loving Lord

Mujhe jeene do.

Mujhe jeene do

My family’s drained in health and wealth

Give me a chance to bring a smile upon them

O my Gentle Lord

Mujhe jeene do.

Mujhe jeene do

A month without a limb having moved

A month without touch feel and pain

O my Kind Lord

Mujhe jeene do

Yama could hold no more and spoke again to the sick man.

When I first saw you

I had almost switched off the light

But the deep love of your wife

Held me back

For in her hands lies your life

But for her, your name had been registered in my world

I give death and can give life for once and no more

For health wealth prosperity, there are many a God more.

This is No Living cried He.

This is No Death cried She.

It was neither day nor night and here the God of Death faced another dilemma of someone alive but no better than dead and another almost dead but a heart that keeps pumping….truly a twilight zone. Love is joy, love is life and love is pain…love is all you need.

Last Word: Almost a decade ago I used to write a monthly newsletter called Pigeon Poste. Among the readers was the Risk Manager of HUL, Chandra who would always say I was wasting my time in insurance and that I should take to serious writing. One day he made me promise that I would write at least one page a week and so began my weekly tryst with blogging. A week ago Chandra lost his lovely wife Hema to a sudden medical condition. Hema’s no more but she donated her eyes and kidneys. Lord Yama thinks he’s won this time but he hasn’t for Hema lives somewhere in someone…truly a twilight zone.

SS

Arms & The Woman

Saw her for the first time on a Tuesday afternoon sitting cross legged with an old man to her right and a woman with a scarf on her head to her left. Next to her sat my wife who was telling me about the tests that had been done on her octogenarian mother admitted in the hospital the night before. You just could not miss this pretty girl with chubby cheeks and sparkle in her eyes and surprisingly she gave me a knowing smile. After a while saw her cuddle the older woman in her arms and heard her say, “You need to be positive. Everything will be alright. We need to be patient and he will soon come home the way he had left.” Was taken aback by the positivity and maturity this young girl was showing which was much beyond her years.

My wife, Debi, told me that her name was Sheeba. Her husband was riding a motorcycle when he had an accident about two weeks ago. Since then he had been on a ventilator and had undergone multiple surgeries. Sheeba was just 23 years old and her husband fighting for life was twenty five and they had a loving ten month old daughter. She’s a kid, I said, three years younger to my daughter and how is  she facing this grave a situation with a smile on her face? My heart went out for the kid.

As soon as the crowd in the waiting room thinned and Sheeba walked across to me and said, “Hi!” I didn’t know how to react and just smiled back, raised my hand and repeated Hi. “I’ve been waiting to meet you. While having coffee with your wife in the morning, she told me about you, how you take care of her mother over the years. So I said to myself that I must meet him.” Speechless was I at the unexpected…unexpected praise from most unexpected quarters passed on to me by an unexpected person who I was meeting for the first time. But seeing and listening to this young frail girl talking so freely and cheerfully with an almost unknown person she had just met and at a time when her mind ought to be preoccupied with the grief and survival of her man inside the ICU completely rattled me.

Sheeba and the elderly couple left the floor. Debi told me that it was Ramzaan time and they had gone to the prayer hall on the ground floor after which they would break their fast for the day. We too went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee when I heard Sheeba’s story. She was fifteen and he was seventeen when they had met for the first time and fell madly in love. Their courtship lasted over six years when the families after much reluctance from the boy’s side agreed to their marriage. She said, “My whole world for the last eight years revolves around Mohsin. He’s so handsome and so gentle a soul. He takes so much care of me that I couldn’t have asked for more.  He makes sure I can go to my mother’s place every weekend and mediates beautifully whenever there are tensions in the family especially with my mother in law.  He had set up a shop of his own selling shoes for children and business was good.  The best part about Mohsin was his spirit to help others. Anyone in the neighbourhood who was unwell or needed any help, he would go out of his way to help. He knew all doctors and hospitals in the vicinity and it was not uncommon for him to pull out the doctor out of urgent engagements to take a look at a patient he would take to them without any appointment. Yet on the evening when he suffered the accident, Mohsin lay at the site bleeding and wriggling in pain for nearly forty five minutes before someone brought him to the hospital.” That’s life, we all say Good Karma begets Good Life but often it doesn’t happen that way.

Next few days saw me meeting Sheeba everyday and admire her even more. She would always welcome me with a big smile. One evening I was sitting with her father in law while she and Debi had gone inside the ICU. The old man said that when they saw Mohsin that fateful day, they had given up all hope. But it was all because of this girl, Sheeba, that they decided to stand by her in her fight. “We’ve already spent over nine lacs on the treatment and have no qualms in spending any amount. We just hope our boy gets well and this girl’s prayers are heard. If not for her, we would have given up long ago.” Later Debi told me that the same old man hardly ever used to speak to Sheeba for two years since her marriage. She could never guess whether he just wanted to stay aloof or was unhappy at the girl his son had chosen for himself that he kept so quiet. But lately there is not a moment when he doesn’t call for her, “Sheeba Beta yeh, Sheeba Beta woh….”  

One afternoon Sheeba was sitting by my side and I saw her doing a video call. In the picture was a cute chubby baby and an elderly woman. Sheeba kept repeating a name which I couldn’t make out but was certain this was her kid and possibly her own mother who would take care of the baby during the day. It was only at night that she would bring the baby to her in-law’s place and sleep for a few hours together. For the remaining part of her day she would be perched on the 10^th floor of the hospital outside the ICU. She later told me that every day she shows the baby’s video to Mohsin hoping it would wake him up seeing the noor of his eyes. Mohsin wouldn’t budge but Sheeba wasn’t the one to give up either.

After a couple of days, saw the girl was excited as Mohsin had opened his eyes after so many days of slumber. The floor was immediately filled with friends and relatives wanting to see Mohsin again. Happiness was in the air and it looked as if by Eid he would be able to make it home. But the very next day Debi told me that Sheeba hadn’t had breakfast as Mohsin had fever. She couldn’t be persuaded to eat anything that day till late in the evening when it seemed things had once again got under control. I had got her a chocolate which she happily put inside her purse saying she will have it at home along with Mohsin when he returns. As luck would have it, the next morning one of the relatives of a patient waiting outside had a bout of hypoglycemia and needed something sweet instantly and Sheeba quickly took out the chocolate and gave the person a couple of large cubes and saved the day. Now she has half a chocolate but a heart full of faith and hope to have it soon at home…together.

By evening that day I saw an old woman waiting again outside the ICU calmly sitting and watching some You Tube videos and Whatsapp messages. Debi told me she was a 70 year old lady and her mother of 90 had suffered a heart attack and was in the ICU. I asked why is she alone, to which I got to know that she has a daughter who is at Dubai and a son who is at Mumbai. She doesn’t want to bother anyone so she will manage the emergency all alone. And yes I saw her all alone for many a day managing everything from paying bills, signing consent forms, sleeping on an uncomfortable chair at night, eating whatever was available but she always kept a smile on her face and never did she ever complain about anything.

As if two brave ladies in their 20s and 70s wasn’t enough, this silly middle aged woman in her 50s with whom I’ve lived for nearly three decades now insisted that I should go every day to work and not waste time at the hospital. She even forced me to go to Delhi for work saying she could manage everything by herself. She had by then become the Florence Nightingale of the Hospital. Every person waiting outside ICU was known to her. She would make sure Sheeba had breakfast with her, Aunty could get curd rice in the canteen for dinner, someone would insist that she be in the same room at night…maybe it’s her calling.

The Chief of Indian Army, General Bipin Rawat recently announced that women would soon be inducted into active military service. I just want to say, “Dear General Saab, these women have been fighting wars of survival since they were born, sometimes for self and on most times for their loved ones. You need not always fight wars with arms and ammunition. In the battlefield of Kargil and Siachen you fight the enemy you know in blood and sinews, here in the hospital you’re fighting death with no shape or figure and yet these women stand strong all alone.”

Got reminded of an old song, Hey Woman where the man laments at what all a woman is doing nowadays and asks her to act normal and woman like:

She flies a helicopter

And she plays in a band

She’s a doctor, she’s a lawyer

She’s a military man

I don’t like it pretty lady

Why can’t you understand

That a woman is a woman

And a man is a man

With a prayer in my heart for all those waiting outside the ICUs and a Salute to you Hey Woman!

SS