Another Christmas

Another Christmas

Year after year December brings in the cold wind and the anthems that waft through it. Gone are the days when we visited those lovely bookshops that were  tastefully decorated with thematic festoons of Christmas, and cards of different colours and sizes lined along the shelves that obviate age old books that invited the attention of avid readers. Choosing the cards while humming through carol melodies was a sheer excitement indeed. And sitting with the family, signing off the cards and stamping them in a crowded post office - all these went along with the December routine but relished with the anticipation of an annual ritual that unites friends and family together. It is time to renew the contacts, say hellos, share gossip, and air music. But of late, thanks to the technology that was meant to make life easier, all these little sparks of domestic joy have vanished. You sit like an animated doll in front of your system, type and blink onto a monitor that makes you a zombie. I suddenly  mumble the couplet of Wordsworth:

Whither is the visionary gleam? / Where is it now, the glory and the dream?  Either I am too old to sustain the joy of yester years or the busy modern lifestyle has robbed me of these pleasures. I wonder how others feel. When one of these days I mentioned to someone that we should revive the old customs, no body spoke in favour of it nor anyone seconded my old fashioned opinion. I couldn’t help recalling my visit to Frankenmuth in Michigan where all through the year Christmas was alive with all the credentials, code, chord and colour. Hats off to those unceasing fervor and fascination of  those German ancestors who could cherish the mood all the twelve months without the least sign of boredom  in merriment. 

 The arrival of a newcomer has of course changed the scene considerably. You regain your vitality when you succeed in evoking a baby smile exercising all your buffoonery. May be we should tirelessly pass on the   energy and enthusiasm to the next generation. Long live the artless champions of innocence.

Cell mania

Cell mania

                There was a time when very few people flaunted their newly acquired pocket miracle, others would stare at this machine and the user with open mouthed wonder and envious look. It enhanced the status and the tech savvy expertise. Unable to acquire one of such kind, many would admit their incompetence and inability to afford one. Such misers should have come to the conclusion that this wonder device was very expensive. Within a decade what changes have come in! Last week when I had to bring in a casual labourer to do some odd job around the house, a shabbily clad middle aged man walked in speaking loudly over his hand set. I had to wait for ten minutes or so in order to tell him what his job was. And throughout the day he took ample time off to chat with many of his contacts for which I had to pay him his wage at the end of the day. I have seen children handling these with adequate intelligence and rapt attention. Students insist on possessing one with many incredible features disregarding their parents’ murmur. The awful ringing tones these devices make many turn their frowning faces here and there. Parents complain that their sons and daughters smile into their toys turning deaf ears to their domestic demands. Passengers in public transports are constrained to entertain themselves with unwelcome noise called music. Many private affairs become public thanks to the overtly resounding admission of commissions and omissions. Criminal recreations abound everywhere due to this innocent invention and they are sometimes brought to light by a few shrewd cops who unearth technology to bust the motives. Every third commercial complex houses one or two showrooms who cunningly display their wares to attract more unwary customers. People cough up hard earned purse to acquire the latest, trendy, envious, unpocketable and superfluous multitasker. Nobody minds the time killed by this ubiquitous appendage. When my children proudly gifted me one of this kind, I eyed it with some apprehension. To this day I  handle this with utmost care not to touch any of those mysterious  icons for fear of being dragged into an unknown world of chaos and ignorance.

Our family doctor

Our family doctor

                      A colleague of mine used to brag about a nondescript physician who was very much friendly and patient with his impatient patients. He would defiantly refuse to administer quick remedies or expensive medicines that hit the market every fortnight. Quite often, the sales staff in the medical shops would frown upon his prescriptions and question the veracity of the doctor. Moreover the prescriptions were in so neat handwriting that the educated patients would proudly name the drugs they were taking. Neither patients nor the accompanying kin could coax him into using a syringe which according to them would relieve their illness very fast.  Unless he is quite convinced by his good old medical books, he would not subject his patients to that painful abuse. Many a time he would flaunt his academic achievements to impress his patients who, in spite of their impatience would helplessly smile at him and sit through this ordeal. He would then point his index finger at an old frame hung on the wall that proclaimed his award of degree from a reputed college. He was quite proud of his status of its alumnus. Whenever there were newspaper reports about fake doctors, he would draw the attention of his patients to that framed   Some patients referred by friends like mine would come to him and show all their medical records. He would calmly browse through them, consult his books kept near him, and pass critical remarks on the unethical practice of his junior practitioners who were making quick money. At times he would drift into a philosophical mood and pronounce homilies on human greed and absurdity of life. Patients who came for treatment would stare at him, nod compulsively and leave at last, wondering whether they came to the right place. But most of them would be satisfied when they were called upon to pay the bill, complimenting their good sense and discretion of choosing the clinic. Another peculiar feature in his clinic is the way he keeps on shifting furniture, location of counters and even his chair and patients would be perplexed on their repeated visits. He would justify the change to those who voice their concern and the next thirty minutes would be a monologue of wit and wisdom. At times he would crack a joke and indulge in a loud laughter to which patients would react with a giggle and a grimace. I became a regular customer for about twenty five years and all my three daughters were delivered in his labour room which had been an extension of a car shed but kept clean and hygienic by his small team of nurses. Many visitors on those occasions reprimanded me for taking my wife to that featureless hospital.  I especially liked his old fashioned approach to an ailment and my family was tuned to his eccentricities. The moment he sets eye on me or any of the members of the family, he would sport a cordial smile and exchange some pleasantries regardless of the seriousness of the occasion. Some of my friends, who had approached him on my recommendation, would invariably come back disappointed because their concept of a doctor somehow did not match with this seventy year old academician. As he grew by age and wisdom, he became increasingly quiet and his taciturnity sometimes confounded me. When patients narrated their tales of pain and suffering, he would blankly look at a clock or a calendar and mumble something incomprehensible. Gradually the number of patients in his clinic dwindled but even now I can see him huddled in his favourite chair and lost in some passing thought as his eyes were set on the street. May God bless him.

In search of Mississippi

In search of Mississippi

 

                      Minneapolis is a beautiful, placid city of ups and downs that make the drive exciting and adventurous. It was interesting to know that this twin city, the other being Saint Paul, was named by the first school teacher of the city. I wish the school teachers in our country were enterprising and powerful enough to name places. One lazy afternoon, when we had nothing specific at hand, someone suggested why not take a peep at the river that was flowing through the city since it had a long history.  The lunch at the crowded, Italian restaurant was quite palatable and filling and a nap at the hotel room wasn’t wise because you don’t get to visit such places at your will and pleasure. Britto was very much willing to take us around and show places. An excitement in our face seemed to reward him much. You should be fortunate to be accompanied by people with such spirit of wanderlust. So, off we went, just three of us in search of the fourth longest river in the world. My poor academic wisdom had whispered that Mississippi was the longest. Travels teach you better than most teachers and help you keep a good memory of that as well. I learned that the Nile in Africa, the Amazon in South America and the Yangtze in China take the pride of the first three credits. Britto’s frequent texting through the GPS while driving through the disciplined traffic did alarm me but he was dexterous enough to drive us safely in that alien city. It took us long to reach our destined spot only to realize that after all we had been misled by the technology. The abandoned waterfront with nobody at sight forewarned us about our misadventure. We got out of the car and moved on our toes eyeing the trash all around. Helplessly, the misled technology was once again consulted and we quickly made a retreat and came back where we started.  Random motoring is sometimes very fruitful and soon we were on the bank of the great river. Surprisingly, there were hardly any curious tourists anywhere in sight in spite of the elaborate walkways and view posts. The river was quite unpretentious, neither boasting of great width and expanse  nor flaunting man made vegetation, very much American-like to be precise. It was amazing that this modest stream was passing through 31 states of the USA flowing quietly, free from  any covetous desire of people inhabited on its long stretches of bank. I couldn’t help thinking about the fate of Kaveri and Krishna with the frequent spells of bickering between governments ruling the states and the innocent people falling victims to the vagaries of selfish politicians. How magnanimous were people and law makers here! Probably because water is so ubiquitous in America. Linking rivers is a very popular manifesto easily voiced but never even considered or discussed issue in India. Looking at this great river mutely flowing with selfless charity, I stood there long and ruminated the message it was offering to human kind who thoughtlessly grab all the benefits without any reciprocation whatsoever. Many generations have reaped their gains. The Mississipi seemed to echo the famous verse of Tennyson “Men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever”. How marvelous Nature’s lessons are!

 

 

My dosa misadventure

My dosa misadventure

                       My wife had to join my expectant daughter who was settled abroad and I assured her that I would certainly manage my affairs and that after all, I was not a child.  I was determined not to pay any exorbitant bill for a meal in any of the restaurants nearby. So, adopting a style that only I could comprehend, I jotted down in a note pad the recipes of the usual dishes she used to make and kept the written treasure safely somewhere to be retrieved as often as I could for my sustenance.  I spent an entire sleepy afternoon labeling the umpteen containers that were stacked in every conceivable corner. All kinds of insects erupted from nowhere, obviously disgruntled by unfamiliar provocation. When all the preliminaries were laboriously completed, my wife wore a now-you-can-manage look that emboldened me to sport the expression of an expert chef. My neighbours cast a compassionate glance at me when my wife bid good-bye to them. I kept telling myself that managing a few months without her would do good for both of us. But a great drama unfolded on the first morning.  When I eyed a large can of dosa batter that was thoughtfully stored by my wife, I was rather optimistic about the prospective breakfast. I nearly burnt my fingers when I steadied the griddle to get my very first dosa. The fluffy batter when poured on the hot griddle, however did not take the promised shape.  It required a lot of nerve and strain to evacuate the adamant and awkward stuff from its inhabited place. One could hardly recognize the heap of mess there. Hurriedly I disposed it off and tried my luck once again. This time I managed to spread the batter almost in a shabby round. The gaping holes all over it did not discourage me. I kept murmuring that no guests are being entertained and so the inadequacies of my dosa  caused by my newly acquired, amateurish culinary skills would be rightfully excused. The steel spatula in my hand wore  a helpless look since it could not turn the dosa upside down.  A couple of times the object of my interest inclined to the edge of the griddle ominously. But before it was burnt by the fire underneath, I managed to get it back to its rightful place. I wish I were watching my wife when she was performing this miracle. After many disasters, to my utter gratification, a perfect dosa was getting ready, brown and round. I congratulated myself on mastering this art in the kitchen. Humming my favourite tune, I removed it from the hot griddle. All of a sudden, while I was maneuvering it towards the plate nearby, the unforeseen accident occurred. The crisp brownie disappeared into the can of batter and got drowned.

Alarmed, I did not know how to retrieve my ill-fated dosa. With a spoon and spatula I hopped here and there.  Fortunately, none were there to read the expression on my face. How would I narrate this tragic tale to my wife? I could not but recall those listless days when my wife would announce from the kitchen that my breakfast was ready. She even repeated her calls so as to make me put away the newspaper in which I would lose myself. There were occasions when I suggested her that the dosas came better if she had done this or that. Quietly I swallowed whatever I had made that rainy morning, cursing my fate. A great salute to the angels that monitor this small kingdom.

                     

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Back home

Back home

When the realization struck me I suddenly became heavy-hearted. My two month odyssey in the vast land of the USA was heading towards an aurevoir. The curtain  was slowly falling.  The slaphappy vacation during which I saw places, savoured multi-cuisines , shopped like an insouciant  child, the blissful evening walks, weekend adventures – all these were to be wrapped up within a few hours. The flight back to India was only round the corner. Though the prospect of sharing my wonderful experience and meeting my kith and kin after two full months kept me on an edge of excitement, the dull ache of leaving was quietly felt somewhere. The last minute shopping was less electric, the endless zipping and unzipping were wearisome; the airport rituals less adventuresome; tear screened farewells were more perturbing…… A twenty hour forced upright posture between night and day, frequent installments of heterogeneous victuals  dexterously packed in scanty trays, periodic tours to miniature comfort stations, hopping through endless, carpeted transit lobbies, queuing  with anxious, cosmopolitan strangers and the unceasing , monotonous drones of the engines – all these eventually led me to the familiar terrain. The huge crowd waiting with eager eyes, and the honking cars further convinced me that I was treading  on my motherland. Soon I was breathing in domestic dust that had adequately immuned my system. The transition was smoothe. The noisy zig-zag traffic and the very visible accumulated litter welcomed me to my affable, own country. East or west, home is best.