The long flight

The long flight

                      Flying has its social status and other added attractions. But truly speaking, it is the most monotonous medium of travelling. All the charms of looking out through the window of a bus or train just vanish when you have an air ticket. Howsoever the tedium is compensated by other miscellaneous sidelines, the long flight lasting for about fourteen hours is not my cup of tea. Hours before I boarded this huge aircraft I happened to take a short journey by train. To me there is nothing comparable to a train. How cosy, how relaxed, how expansive it is! You may not view your favourite movie, you may not be served something of everything in a narrow tray which would overflow with smaller containers; still the train by its modest service suits me as the best mode of travel. If you are bored of sitting hours in a train, you could always choose to get up, stretch yourself, walk away to an unseen corner, look out through a door, get the wind on your face as long as you want and then when you had  had enough, come back refreshed to your seat. The joy of opening your snack bag which is ready to offer you home packed food is indeed matchless. On the pretext of washing your hand, you get away and remain standing as long as you please. One of my friends even managed to have a bath in the toilet which had provided him with homely comfort.The window view brings a series of pictures of greenery, hamlets, cattle lazing and dozing, babies waving, boys hooting and chasing their pets, old men and women open mouthed and chewing and watching the moving train philosophically, impatient drivers waiting for the train to disappear at the level crossings, passegers in the smaller stations wondering at the speed of the passing train and the innumerable visions that defy words and description.  Every second hour the train slows down to stop at a big station to offload some and to accommodate a few among the sea of people crowded there. Sometimes you meet different co-passengers too. You may also get down on the platform to breathe the local air, walk around, buy something and leisurely get in. I miss all these fun in the plane.  If you are on the wrong side of luck, your plea for an aisle seat would be smilingly  and sadistically negatived. Then, huddled in a row of three or four seats,  you are at the mercy of the stranger beside you. Only if he is inclined to entertain your longing look, he would let you get up and move to the restroom. If you have a corpulant and sleepy passenger on the aisle seat beside you, your fate for the next several hours is sealed. Sometimes you gamble with the limited choice of meal and would be terribly disappointed because the next man would be slurping every bit on his tray with visible pleasure thanks to his preference to the alternative meal. You cannot but curse your prudence of choice. And whoever designed the restroom in a plane! Every inch in that cubicle matters. And when I depressed the flush sign for the first time I was in a plane, the explosive sound it made nearly shook me out that I cautiously came out to see whether everything was alright. I was expecting the entire crew to survey the state of the mischief monger. The prospect of taking a long flight back home gives me the creeps and it is my prayer that I should get an aisle seat and a friendly passenger of medium frame beside me.

A bug that cost 210 dollars

A bug that cost 210 dollars

                      It all began with the curiosity and anticipated fun of swimming in an American pool. So, out we went to the Troy Community Centre which housed a big blue pool that was accessible for 10 dollars each. The cool water was so inviting in the hot sun. Though it was crowded with more women and children, the deepest part, which was only 5 ft, was quite free. Sporting a new pair of trunks, I cautiously ventured in. But due to the sudden influx of water, I inadvertently swallowed some water. My swimming history was not without many failures. But the accessible depth and the strip of long fibre chord withstood my short breath and some compulsive rest now and then. When I got back home for lunch the onslaught of the bug had begun. Someone was hammering my head continuously. As hours passed by, the pounding was severe. Pearl diagnosed it as an attack of migraine. So a few pills went in along with massaging. Then began the nausea. I was throwing up whatever I attempted to swallow. By next evening food was anathema to me. A visit to a local physician was inevitable though it was expensive. Only after a series of formal declarations that ensured the doctor's safety I was led through a narrow corridor. When the doctor met me in a small cabin I was feeling dizzy due to incessant vomiting. Previous history was looked into and a series of questions was answered in monosyllables. The doctor complacently concluded that it was a stomach bug that infected me and dismissed me suggesting a pill every 8 hours to stop the nausea after depriving us her fee which was 50 dollars. We drove six miles to collect the prescribed tab which was packed under instruction through email. A pack of 30 tabs cost 160 dollars. I wonder at the quantity recommended by the doctor. Did she expect me to go through this illness for a week or so? But contrary to this weird notion, the first tab squeezed the bug, the second one deactivated it and I did not need the third one. I was back to form by the second day. The pack of remaining 28 tabs is still with me. Is there anyone smitten by the mischievous bug hidden in the pool? Don’t go to a doctor. Come to me. I will cure you for 5 dollars. I can treat 15 patients before I leave for India. I can make some money too.

Troy Public Library

Troy Library

                      The library was discovered on the net. When I casually aired my opinion about having nothing to do at home other than watching TV and dozing off at very odd hours, the net was surfed to find out the existence of a library in the vicinity. Then we found that there was this TroyPublic Library within 2kms. We breezed through the two minute formality of taking a membership and wow that’s it. A vast expanse of neatly stacked volumes welcomed anybody inside. Only one hindrance: the labeling of the shelves was going on and so you didn’t know where was what. It was rather a voyage of discovery – hundreds of authors from all over the world, from fiction to biography, from humour to adventure from science to history, from pulp to piety, from known to unknown, from knowledge to infinite ignorance. Any voracious reader would be humbled by the variety offered by the city library happily, conveniently and cozily. There were reference desks, help desk, cushioned sofas near the stacks, expansive journal section, potable water, cafeteria, restrooms, self-checkout counters, children’s play area and enormous parking space. Besides, the public was offered immense kind of seasonal activities that kept every member in good humour. I happened to flip through many books with palpable interest throughout the forenoon and jotted notes and references in a small green notebook for later use. Anyone who wishes to while away the available time by casually flipping pages, struck by a phrase that stands out, kept wholly absorbed by some lines here and there may boldly venture into this cavern of books and would never regret their endeavour.

My stint with music

My stint with music

                       I am not a musician. But I can loudly say that I love music. And I appreciate it and enjoy it when it is to my liking. I also admire those professionals who could appeal to our musical sense and make us forget everything else. I cannot imagine a world without music. How dull it would be! Hats off to those who discovered the charm of it and those that invented myriad instruments and to those who experimented the lilt, melody and rhythm. I salute those experts who made it a science.

                      Many a time I have watched those musicians who blindly let their fingers slide through the strings with such ease and grace. In fact I too wanted to experiment with those. But somehow I couldn’t. I remember how my mother with her humble dreams had sent me at the age of nine to a convent where a seventy year old British nun was teaching the violin. Though the class was only for an hour and half it was an ordeal for me mainly because the instrument was almost my size and howsoever I positioned it, the nun’s expectation was not achieved. Moreover I couldn’t manage to bring out any sweet strain from it. The unearthly babel of the strings shocked everyone near me. And the nun would make a most unpleasant face that horrified me. My sincere plea to let me out of this bitter venture was unheeded. The only consolation that encouraged me to pursue this weekly pilgrimage was the snacks the convent hospitably provided me at the end of the session. Quite often I would dream about the savour of the delicacy while the nun was seriously instructing me about the nuances of the bow movement. However this experiment did not last longer than two months. Then I was able to conclude that I had no special musical flair.

                     

                      It was my friend C- who played an important role in awakening my taste for music. During my postgraduation we had plenty of time due to the working schedule of the college department. So my friend persuaded me to spend some time in learning Hindustani music. It was agreed that he would learn the sitar and I would pick up the tabla. But in spite of our genuine efforts we could not pursue it due to the frequent closure of the music school. Then I suddenly had an urge to learn the guitar which was acquired by my friend.  On the whole my musical trip was literally a hop between the sitar, guitar and keyboard. When I came home after my studies I was armed with used books and a sitar  What I missed in Agra, I tried to compensate at Nagercoil. I found out a Carnatic vocalist who came every afternoon home to sing for me. The musical notation was scripted down and I dutifully tried the same in my sitar. It was a queer fusion of Carnatic and Hindustani. Though my old teacher did not know anything about the sitar, he was sure enough to shake his head vehemently when a wrong note was depressed. When he ceased to come after a couple of months, my sitar found a convenient corner to rest by itself. After a few months a man who came home to bargain old furniture took a fancy to the sitar coated with a thick layer of dust. His offer price was much more than what I had paid for it and so I gladly parted with my sitar. And that was the end of the classical saga.

                      Now that I am retired and have not much to do anything, I try my hand in the guitar my friendly cousin had left with me. The instrument though meant mainly for rhythm was a melody thing for me. I experiment my favourite tunes in it and sometimes get mild approbation from my loved ones. I play it now and then because I still believe that I have some music in my gene. Moreover it washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.

Password syndrome

This password syndrome

                      In this technology driven era one has to have a sharp memory. If you cannot boast with it your life is going to be a misery. You must be armed with innumerable passwords if you want to withdraw your own money, if you must operate a computer, if you need to be connected to a network, if you have to pay online, in case you want to access your bank account, if one has to open a high tech office door, the list is endless. The other day I read about a very cautious mother who had instructed her nine year old school girl not to get into a vehicle unless the driver reveals the password. If things go on such a scale then I am afraid you have to have passwords for almost all day-to-day transactions. Unable to remember so many of such kind I made a wise decision to have only one all purpose password for everything. Somebody unearthed my smartness and then required a combination of digits and letters and special characters. Someone else wanted case specific passwords too. The burglars need not loot the entire house. All they need to take away is a small diary in which all these damned entries are carefully listed. In the morning you would be left homeless. Some smart bankers insist that you change these passwords as often as you can and thus make sure that you would soon be a pauper.

Morning Walk

Health and habit probably go hand in hand. Sometimes one tries to outsmart the other. Then we are forced to change our habit to maintain our health. Unwilling to change my habit and breathe some fresh air I restore my customary morning walk every morning here in Troy, an American nondescript town. The long walkway beside the road is always deserted. Only the speeding car drivers sometimes eye me curiously. The doors of all houses on my way are all securely closed with impenetrable curtains. Privacy, noise and life itself are locked in there. Humming my favourite songs I speed past houses, offices, clinics and shops. The pavement is very clean and flat. There are occasional cigarette stumps, a price label and some incomprehensible objects. They are very noticeable because of the absence of trash. A stranger coming opposite you sometimes chooses to offer a friendly smile and how-do-you-do. Reciprocating is fun because back home, even very familiar people don’t seem to recognize you. In fact I have habituated to meet many morning walkers during the span of ten years to the extent of recognizing their T-shirts, their complexion and style of their gait. I cannot but admire their dexterity in averting their eyes very naturally as they approach me. Probably I don’t look like one who could be befriended. Or maybe they want me to volunteer. Anyway I am taking back a lesson to be more friendly with strangers.

My second innings

My second innings in Detroit

                      July 14 happened to be an eventful day with Pearl’s wedding day coinciding with her son’s birthday. 2016 assumed more significance because Shaun celebrates his first birthday. It was an occasion to be remembered for long. Grandparents, granduncles, aunts, cousins, friends and neighbours made a beeline to 1989 Shepherd’s Drive with gifts, hugs and promises. The house like a big balloon expanded itself to accommodate everyone with almost some sort of private space to everyone. Unending chats went along with unceasing cookery. All sorts of Indian cuisine challenged the American snacks. Everyone contributed their own advice to everyone to make the dish tastier. No guests were special. None but babies were pampered and persuaded to help themselves with more. It required some effort and skill to keep the conversations going especially among men. To this horde of kith and kin,  a new man joined to make the occasion very official. In spite of his efforts to sound it casual,  his presence in black with a white round collar made all a little uneasy. Moreover his request for emulating the church choir made some of us jerky with unknown verse with familiar tunes. However, the mass at home got going with a high tech assembly of handsets and iPods assisting the congregation to maintain the required solemnity. Whatsoever you do, a home will hardly be a church notwithstanding the compulsive paraphernalia.