Viet Nam Diary ... 1

The first thing I learnt about Viet Nam after coming here is that the country is not called Vietnam; it is Viet Nam – two separate words of one syllable each. Most words in Vietnamese – sorry, Viet Namese (Should it be Viet Nam ese? I must ask somebody.) are monosyllabic. Like Ha Noi, Sai Gon or Ho Chi Minh. In this exercise, they go great lengths, it seems, because Café become Ca phe and Hotel becomes Ho tel in Viet Namese. (I will be lucky if at the end of my two-month stay here, I do not become Raj Ag Oph Al Anh!)

Another is that the spelling may not have much to do with the way the word is pronunced. The name Trang is pronounced Chung (u as in umbrella) and Dung is pronounced Yung (u as in pull). The road we stay in is called Ngu Yen Hong. The first ng is also pronounced as the ng in young.

Quite often, the last letter is not pronounced. Thus, though Buon Me Thuot, the town we are in, is spelt varyingly (including Ban Ma Thot), it is pronounced Bo Ma Tho. (We’ll call it BMT, though, for convenience.) This is true not just of Viet Namese words, but of other languages. Like ‘peanut’ is ‘peanah’. And passport is 'pah po'. The language has no script. They use the English alphabet in conjunction with several signs like ^ ~ . ` - ? and '. Some of these accents placed above, some below and a few across them (sometimes in conjuntion) to indicate the intonation.

BMT, located 450 metres above sea level, is the capital of Dak Lak Province in the Central Highlands. With a population of 400,000, it is the fifth largest town in Viet Nam. There are hardly any old buildings because the Americans had razed the entire city to ground before they left in 1975. It looks like a planned city. Though most of the buildings are new, there are no condominiums.

The roads are really broad. At each intersection, there are road signs. They indicate not just the names of the roads, but the widths of the road, the footpath on either side and the median if the road has one. There is strict hierarchy in the placement of the signs at crossings: the one indicating the name of the broader, more important path is always on top.

Hardly anyone speaks English, but they are very friendly towards foreigners. With our arrival, the population of foreigners in BMT has doubled. (Foreigners, mind you, not Indians.) All of a sudden, we have become head-turners and traffic-stoppers!

Dac Lac is coffee country – and it shows! Each lane can boast of a café (Ooops! I should have said Ca phe) if not more. Main roads have several of them, at times two of them sharing a wall. Hari says (He works for a coffee company and should know) that before 8 am every day, 60,000 cups of coffee are sold through these outlets. Radhika says the drawing rooms of several houses have been converted by enterprising housewives into eateries.

Viet Nam being on the eastern cost, day breaks very early. By quarter past five, fitness freaks are out on the roads heading for parks, playgrounds and gyms. There are several parks and joggers’ tracks all over the city. Plus well-appointed badminton courts, football grounds and indoor stadia maintained by the government. These can be used by the general public practically free of payment. What strikes one is the care with which the public uses these facilities.

The indoor stadium closest to where Hari lives has seven shuttlecock courts and doubles as a football ground after eight in the night. The shuttlecock players start leaving by quarter to eight. They do not linger on and delay the football. Five minutes to eight, and one caretaker removes the nets, rolls the poles from the centre to the sides while another pushes the goal posts from the sides to the extreme ends and by eight, the ground is ready for football!

In the city square, we saw a gleaming steel structure surrounded by a few huge bonsai trees. (You read it right, huge bonsai trees.) It had two doors and looked like a telephone booth. Something was written in the local language on its wall. It intrigued us, but we could not ask anyone. It took us three days to discover that it was a free public toilet! A far cry from the toilets we can smell from a hundred metres.

Perhaps because most people own two-wheelers and use them for local travel, city buses are hard to come by. Though the roads are wide and in excellent condition, they drive at moderate speed and with great consideration for the pedestrian.

. . . . . .

I realise have not said anything about the people yet. Watch this space.

A Prodigy's Past

It was suddenly that Gregory shot into limelight. People thought he was something of a prodigy, for he had been promoted as Deputy General Manager in the bank he worked for, at the young age of forty-three (We are talking of a public sector bank!) That was when he had put in twenty-three years’ service. The average age at which people reached that level was forty-eight, after putting in service for about twenty-seven years.

On promotion, he was deputed to another bank in the same group. He reported to the CEO of the bank he was sent to. After exchanging pleasantries, the new boss spent some time with him to ascertain is strong points and interests. The tete-a-tete would enable him to decide which portfolio the young Gregory was to be assigned.

At the end of the thirty minutes, rounding off the interaction, the chief asked, ‘We don’t seem to have met earlier, do we?

Gregory replied, ‘Sir, we have met. In fact, you were the one who taught us credit appraisal in 1970 in the Staff College in Hyderabad during our intermediate course.’

The Staff College was run by the holding company for the benefit of their staff as well as those of the subsidiaries. And the faculty was, predictably, drawn from the holding company.

‘Let me see,’ he replied. After reflecting for a moment, he said,’ Yes, I was indeed a faculty in the Staff College from 1969 to 1972.’

‘... But I do not remember your face one bit…’ he said, adding, ‘Tell me the names of some of the others who were there along with you in your batch?’

‘There was Bishen Singh Bedi, the test cricketer.’

‘Yes, Bedi was there in one of the batches I taught credit appraisal to.’

‘There was M G Ramakrishna.’

‘Oh, he was a smart guy, but he left us and joined one of the Arab banks. Last heard, he was CEO of the Indian arm of that bank.’

‘Ashok Dhar was another in my batch.’

‘Yes, the tall guy from Kashmir? I think he is in Toronto on a foreign posting.’

‘And K S Subramaniam’

‘The chap who was an IPS probationer. He has just been posted to the Staff College.’

‘Jayashree Venkitaramani was with us too.’

‘The one who was a journalist? She is the AGM (Public Relations) at the Central Office.’

He seemed to be a veritable walking encyclopaedia of the whereabouts of officers. Either this man is blessed with incredible memory or he keeps a close tab of people, I thought.

He seemed to have read my thoughts. ‘Personnel Department at the Central Office used to report to me in my last posting,’ he said, implying that this explains the mystery.

Before Gregory could name the next, he said, ‘They are all from one bank; tell me the names of some from your own bank.’

‘Yes, Maj Kumar, if you remember.’

‘Oh yes, he was a short service commissioned officer. Extremely smart. Used to be a ladies’man. Where is he now?’

‘He is Chief Manager in a branch.’ (That was a couple of levels below DGM.) ‘And there was Suresh Kapoor.’

‘He has not been too lucky in is career. He is languishing in an even lower rank.’

‘I see. Who else?’

‘Senthil Nayagam.’

‘Oh, the one who was nicknamed ‘The evangelist’? He was a powerful speaker. His way with words must have taken him to great heights, I’m sure.’

‘No, sir, he missed promotions a couple of times. Disenchanted, he quit.’

‘There was a guy, an engineer, with a receding hairline. He used to play great tennis.’

‘You mean Ramesh Bhargava?’

‘Yes, that’s the name. Who can forget his witty one-liners? I have spent many a delightful evening with him. He must be GM by now?’

‘He got into trouble because of some bad loans and is under suspension.’

‘No mala fides, I hope.’

‘None, he’ll come out of it.’

The boss sat back and remarked, ‘Surprising that I seem to know every one that you mentioned, but I just do not recollect you one bit. You must have been a lacklustre guy!

Corporate Training and Cornflakes

This morning we had cornflakes, toast and fruits for breakfast.

‘Will you have hot milk or cold to go with the cornflakes?’ Radhika asked me. I opted for the former. She withdrew to the kitchen. I was lost in a reverie.

The year was 1969. I was in Patna, undergoing induction course for Probationary Officers of a major bank. The recruits, fresh from colleges, were touted as potential senior executives of the bank. We were being groomed to take on responsibilities.

It was a residential course intended to prepare young recruits in every way for the long career ahead. Public speaking, table manners, group discussions and toasts after dinner were all built into it. The training methodology was state-of-the-art in the days we are talking about – flip charts and white boards.

We were a mix of young men from all over India. Most of the participants belonged to, were educated in or at least had exposure to metros and large towns. In fact, the selection process (consisting of a written test and an interview) was heavily loaded in favour of the urban candidates. It was not often that a country bumpkin would make the grade.

I had lived all my life in Kerala and had no urban upbringing. It was my first trip outside Kerala where I belong to.

On the first day, we had assembled in the dining hall for breakfast. White-liveried bearers with read-and-white headgears, red-and-gold cummerbunds and sashes flitted about with glass jars of cold water. I went and occupied one of the six chairs placed around a circular table.

I was awed by the fine chinaware, gleaming cutlery and the starched white tablecloth and napkins, but pretended as if I was used to all that. As I was about to sip the orange juice, I saw a group of young men ambling in, talking loudly and laughing. They must be the faculty at the Training Centre, I told myself.

They came and occupied the other chairs around my table. They continued their banter, mostly in English, lapsing into Hindi at times. Despite my diffidence, I introduced myself to them. That was when I realized that they were also participants like me.

After finishing the orange juice, I opened the glass jar containing cornflakes and put some of it into my bowl. I took a bit of it in the table spoon and put it into my mouth. It was crisp but felt dry. As I was about to put the next spoon of cornflakes into my mouth, the person occupying the chair opposite mine said, ‘You’re supposed to put some sugar and milk in the cornflakes in the bowl before having it.’

Not wanting to confess ignorance, I said, ‘I know, but I like it this way.’ And laboured through the bowl of cornflakes.

When Radhika brought the hot milk for my cornflakes, she caught me smiling to myself as I recollected those days. I told her why.

Let me add a postscript: during the whole of the month-long training period, if the day’s breakfast menu had cornflakes in it. I made it a point to avoid the table where any of these five colleagues sat.

Open Sesame, Viet Nam

In our bid to cut costs, we had booked ourselves by Tiger Airways from Singapore to Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC). We had been warned about the inconveniences that we would have to put up with in this sector. Right from having to report at a lousy terminal to limited baggage allowance to hefty penalty if the limit is exceeded to having to pay even for the water served on board.

We were, however, in for a very big surprise. The ‘Budget Terminal’ was better than most terminals in India. Tiger had certainly cut corners where possible (like the boarding passes which were on continuous stationery unlike the thick cards you get in the ‘full-service’ airlines, but it hardly mattered).

The seats were as comfortable as any Airbus 320 aircraft. In fact, compared to the cramped seats in the ‘full-service’ provided by Jet from Chennai to Singapore, these were really good.

We were surprised to see that all flight crew and the ground duty staff – barring a few doing low-end jobs and pilots – were women. They were smartly attired and went about their duties with clinical efficiency.

It was a different story in HCMC though the aircraft touched down a few minutes before schedule. We were to be given the visa on landing. On handing over the relevant documents, the cop on duty motioned us to a row of chairs.

As we waited, a woman of a different nationality who had obviously been waiting for long and had lost her patience, got up from her seat, walked up to the counter and enquired about the status of her visa. The cop spoke no word, gave her a dirty look and rudely gestured her back to her seat. As I did not want such ignominy to be heaped on me, I waited patiently. The formality, which, according to me, should not have taken more than five minutes, took a good one hour.

The next port of call was the immigration counter. When we reached the spot, there was a long queue because ‘the system was down’. What surprised me was not that nobody seemed to be doing anything about it (We are so used to that in India), but that people seemed to be resigned to the fact and waited … and waited. The personnel manning the counters just sat there doing nothing, waiting for the system to come alive. It took over an hour for the snag to be resolved.

Passengers waiting for the computer system at Tan Son Nhat air terminal,

HCMC to come alive to complete the immigration formalities,

There was no way we could pass on the message that we were held up to Hari and Radhika who were waiting for us in the terminal. (Later we realised that there was no need for that: such delays were usual.)

By the time we were cleared by the immigration, the registered baggage, after a few free rides on the carousel, had been removed by the security personnel and given to the ‘Lost and Found’ section. We collected it and joined Hari and Radhika who had been waiting for us for two hours.

Scrabble - A Near-Impossible Placement

This post might interest Scrabble aficionados. They would certainly have played games in which all the one hundred tiles have been used up. And instances may be numerous where a bingo (making a seven-letter word) or two have been scored.

This is something I found in my scrapbook. I am not sure if I 'invented' it during one of those lonely Sundays afternoons in Calcutta in the early 1970’s when I had nothing else to do. It is equally possible that I copied it from somewhere. (The latter is more likely, given that I am not all that inventive.)

Have a look at this formation:

Unfortunately, I do not have a clearer picture than this.

The interesting feature about this grid is that all the letters in a standard Scrabble game have been used. The blanks have been used as I and A. Formation of the words has been done strictly complying with all the standard rules prescribed for forming words. This is theoretically possible if the appropriate letters happen to be picked up by the players in succession.

A possible order in which the words are formed is:
QUEUING, BEHEADED, AQUARIUM, WEAKLING, DELAYING, ABILITY & YA, REVIVING, OOZIEST & GO, ISOLATOR, COMPACT & IT, SWEATER & AQUARIUMS, PONTIFFS, EXHORTER, JOINDER & ER, IS and AS (or US - using the blank).

As you can see, there are fourteen words of seven or more letters. I guess the highest possible number of seven-letter words have been formed.
The only problem is that the probability of two players picking up the tiles required for this formation is zero. I know it is not zero, but those who say it is not will have to calculate and tell me the exact probability.

As there are 100 tiles consisting, inter alia, of three B's, twelve E's, three H's, and four D's, the probability of the first player picking up one E, one G, one N, one Q, two U's and one blank (not necessarily I that order) from the one hundred tiles would, if I am not mistaken, be (12/100)*(3/99)*(6/98)*(1/97)*(4/96)*(3/95)*(2/94) = 0.000 000 000 064 255 350 419 873 374 551 141 572 335 707. (Till someone proves me wrong,I will stick to this number!)

Some Morbid Thoughts about Romance

This post is based on a report in a recent issue of The Strait Times, Singapore which I read today. To me, it is also the most gripping tale of romance I read in recent times; and though both the hero and the heroine die at the end of the story, I do not think it is a tragedy.

She was seventy-four. He was eighty-five. She was a dancer. He was a musician.She was condemned to die. He was condemned to live. Diagnosed with terminal cancer of the liver and pancreas, her days were numbered. On the contrary, his end, he felt, was not near.

Over the years, he had gone nearly blind and his hearing had nearly failed. He had to depend on her and now she was herself on the deathbed.They had been married for fifty-four years. Her end being imminent, he faced the prospect of life without his soulmate, something he could not bear. He talked to her and they jointly made up their mind. They made a pact: to die together.

There was a snag, though. As most other countries, Britain, where they lived, too does not allow assisted suicide. The liberal Swiss laws allow you to assist in suicide provided there is no profit-motive. They travelled to Zurich, where Dignitas, a voluntary not-for-profit group arranges, death in a clinic for a fee of USD 7,000 per customer. Dignitas makes a digital recording of the deaths, to protect the doctors and the nurses from charges of coercing the patient.

The couple chose death by barbiturates. They drank a small quantity of a clear liquid and lay down on the bed next to each other, holding hands. They fell asleep, and in minutes, they were both gone. Their son, who was beside them in their last moments, described it as a ‘very civilized final act’.

Civilised? Is not ‘assisted suicide’ another name for murder? Is euthanasia justified?‘Death on demand’ is a principle protagonists of euthanasia like Dignitas believe in. Some countries like Netherlands allow those suffering from unbearable pain to snuff out their lives. A patient in Oregon can opt for euthanasia if two doctors give him no more than six months.

Paradoxical it may sound, but replacement of treatment with palliative care, removal of the feeding tubes, withdrawal of the ventilators, etc can be merciful choices. However, each of these is a slippery step, riddled with legal, moral and ethical issues.

Hers might have been, but his was not even a case of euthanasia. Even if her ‘assisted death’ could be justified by declaring euthanasia legal, how could one rationalize advancement of his death? Despair (that your spouse is terminally ill) and sorrow (from a partner’s demise) are certainly not sufficient grounds for facilitating death, are they?

Yes, says Ludwig Minelli, founder of Dignitas. You cannot restrict the right to assisted death to just terminally ill persons. Personal autonomy and dignity are precious values. The society has no business to assign a higher value to my life than I myself do, to the point of protecting me from myself. Wry concepts like sanctity of life make no sense to a person in excruciating pain, incurable agony and suffering, says Minelli.

If a bereaved widower sees no reason to live any more, if a travelling salesman reduced to a breathing heap of bones in a nasty accident sees no future, if the cost of postponing death is prohibitive, I think Dignitas is the answer. Would you turn to Dignitas? I will.

(The characters in this real-life story are Sir Edward Downes, former conductor of Britain’s Royal Opera and Joan, a former ballerina.)

Whose Folly - Overbury's or Ours?

August 1984

As we drove down north along the coastal road from Calicut to Cannanore one evening, we passed Mahe and were approaching Tellicherry. (I ignore the fact that jingoists and fanatics masquerading as lingua-patriots have replaced these beautiful and popular names with Kozhikode, Kannur, Mayyazhi and Thalassery respectively.)

On the right was a hillock sloping down to the road, and on the left was a splendid spectacle: a precipice and beyond, the Arabian Sea, now a cauldron of molten gold, with the evening setting fire to the clouds and the skies.

Drinking in the visual treat, one nearly missed the small dilapidated structure nearly smothered by the wild growth of bushes in the foreground. ‘What could that be? A tomb or a mausoleum like the ones you see in Delhi?’ I wondered. There was nobody to clear my doubt.

Later, I asked someone and I was told it was called Overbury’s Folly. That certainly sounded an unusual name! I was intrigued. Further enquiries revealed that it is named after its builder, E N Overbury, a Briton who served as a local judge at Thalassery in the 1870s.

Overbury wanted to construct a picnic spot at the cliff. Some people considered it a stupid idea and dissuaded him from the venture. Though he started the project in 1879, he had to abandon it for some reason, though some time, labor and money were wasted in the endeavour, proving the detractors right. They derisively labelled the incomplete structure ‘Overbury's Folly’, I was told. Incidentally, this story, shorn of some details, appears in the wikipedia (See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Overbury)

Overbury's Folly is an unfinished construction, or architectural folly, that now serves as a recreational park located in Thalassery, south India.
The folly is located on a hill near Thalassery District Court and is adjacent to a park. It slopes down from the sub-collector's bungalow to the rocks below and is named after its builder, E. N. Overbury, a Briton who served as a local judge at Thalassery in the 1870s.
In 1879, Overbury wanted to construct a picnic spot at the cliff. He couldn't complete it, but the spot later earned the name "Overbury's Folly". The folly commands sweeping views of the Arabian Sea.

Convincing enough an explanation, I reasoned to myself. The learned judge had erred in estimating the scope for and viability of a picnic spot there, but he had the sense to drop it when wisdom dawned.

June 2009

Early morning. We were driving down in the reverse direction. I looked to the right. The sea was very much there, but the foreground had had an image make-over.

The domed structure had been rescued from vice-like grip of the bushes. Overbury's Folly had been renovated. It is a tourist attraction now, frequented by local people as a place to relax in the evenings. A seaside open-air coffee shop has also been opened on the folly.

In the evening, I was looking up the dictionary for the word ‘foley’ and I chanced upon the word ‘folly’. Imagine what I saw! Incredulous, I referred to the encyclopaedia. This is what is said:

In architecture, a folly is a building constructed strictly as a decoration, having none of the usual purposes of housing or sheltering associated with a conventional structure. In the landscape gardens in England and France in the 18th century, they often represented Roman temples, and symbolized classical virtues or ideals. Other 18th century garden follies represented Chinese temples, Egyptian pyramids, ruined abbeys, or Tatar tents, to represent different continents or historical eras. Sometimes they represented rustic villages, mills and cottages, to symbolize rural virtues.

Later, somewhere else I read that a ‘folly’ is a structure erected at a spot from where you can have commanding views of picturesque surroundings.

What we understand by Overbury’s Folly does not seem to be the folly that we think it is, after all!

National Holidays

When I was posted to Patiala in the early 1990's, everybody was against taking my family along and risking their lives because Punjab was grappling with the terrorist problem. Ours is a close-knit family and we were not used to long spells of separation. My wife and kids would not have agreed if I had heeded those warnings. NOr would I be happy away from them. So I paid no heed to attention to the advice of my well-wishers. (I must add that the five years I spent there were the best years of my life, the ones I cherish most even today.)

Thus it was that we came to stay in a well-appointed bungalow in Punjabi Bagh, a respected residential locality. The kids were admitted in the Kendriya Vidyalaya and my wife found herself a job in the Our Lady of Fatima High School and Convent. We were totally new to Punjab, but settled down in no time.

Life was placid, though occasional gunshots and news of violence did wake us up at times. One thing we missed was my friends and relatives in Kerala. We were in splendid isolation. In fact, there were hardly ten Malayali families in the whole of Patiala, not reckoning those in the cantonment who were a community unto themselves.

We were therefore delighted that Ipe would be driving down to spend the weekend with us. Ipe was an old friend and colleague. He was the life of the party. My family had, to borrow a term rom the Theory of Sets in Mathematics, a one-to-one correspondence with his. My wife Bhawani and Ammini were good friends. In fact, they were at the same stage of pregnancy at one time. Which meant that Hari and Miriam were of the same age. Their respective siblings Gautam and Anu too were contemporaries. Naturally, we were all looking forward to their visit.

They arrived in the evening on a wintry Saturday . We had a great time together, a few drinks, jokes, fun, games and dinner.

The next morning, after a late breakfast, we decided to go for a drive in the 'city'. Hari, then 12 years, was eager to be the guide for the 'conducted tour'. As the car traversed the roads of Patiala, he would point out to structures old and new and identify and describe it to the visitors. That is the Moti Bagh Palace' housing the Netaji Institute of Sports, on your left is the Rajindra Hospital, inside that wooded area is the Gymkhana Club, the road on the left leads to the Dukh Niwaran Gurdwara, he would go on and on. My driver, Gurnam Singh, a native of Patiala was there to supplement the information and add some tidbits.

Pointing at an ancient building, Hari exclaimed, 'Uncle, look there, that is my school'. Ipe could not believe what he saw. It was a circular, single-storeyed structure, which hardly looked like a school. 'That is the Kendriya Vidyala?' Ipe was incredulous. 'It looks more like the soldiers barracks!' he added.

Hari affirmed, 'Yes, uncle. It is called the Leela Bhawan Palace. It has 360 rooms!'

Gurnam Singh was ready with more information. 'Yes, sir. Hari-beta is right. It was surrendered to the Government of India after independence. Before that, it was used by the Maharaja of Patiala to accommodate his concubines.'

'I have read The Prince by Diwan Jarmani Dass and know about the colourful life these kings led, but I did not know he had 360 of them,' said Ipe.

'Oh yes, one in each room,' added Hari knowledgeably.

Ipe did a quick mental calculation and asked, more to himself rather than expecting a response, 'How about the remaining five days?'

'Gandhi Jayanti, Independence Day, Christmas, ....' Hari did not know why the remainder of his reply was drowned in the collective guffaw of five adults.

A Hat and a Boat

As I potter about in the bedroom of my brother-in-law’s apartment in the sylvan Bukit Batok suburbs in Singapore, I spot a tan broad-rimmed suede hat (you know, the kind that cowboys wear) on the wall. I have never seen my brother-in-law sporting a headgear, nor is he known to be adventurous in matters sartorial.

My curiosity is stoked, but I can’t ask him because he is not at home. I ask my niece who says that all she knows is that it has some childhood association. I make a mental note to ask him when he returns.

In the evening, as we treat ourselves to some chilled beer, I pop the question.

He takes me back to his school days. He was in Class III in a Calcutta school. The School’s Annual day is also a children's day out. After the big event, his parents took him and his sister to the New Market for a little bit of shopping. As they were coming out, his eyes fell on a tan broad-rimmed hat with a red feather stuck to it. The boy imagined himself wearing one and riding a horse in the wild west. He wanted one. He asked his mother.

She negated the proposal with a firm ‘No’. He turned to his father, No luck. He then did what any seven-year old in his position would do: he stayed put, started screaming and throwing tantrums. He refused to move unless his demand was met. The parents would not relent. They walked on. He did not move. He thought that after a while, the parents would give in.

How wrong he was! They walked briskly, dragging his sister along, but not looking back even once. When they were nearly out of sight, he realized that his Satyagraha was not yielding the desired results. He decided to give up his protest. But not before taking a pledge to buy one for himself when he could.

That reminds me of my boat. When I was a kid of eight, my father had taken us one evening to the All-India Exhibition. There were potato-peelers and coconut scrapers, boiled egg-slicers and vegetable shredders, bedsheets and garments, saplings and grafted plants, and, of course, toys.

One stall had a one-foot deep hole of about five-foot diameter which was filled with water. Several tiny metal boats in bright colours were floating on the surface of the water, a few of them spluttering and busy moving about. On closer look, I espied a tiny bowl with some oil and a burning wick in it.

I badly wanted one of them, but was not bold enough to make a request to my father. I made a feeble representation to my mother who told me why it would not be bought: children should not be playing with fire; or water, for that matter. The real reason, now I know, was that my father would not like it. He was careful with the hard-earned money and would not waste it on such trifles. All I could do was to lump the desire.

Three decades later, we (my wife and son) were at a fair in Trivandrum. It had rained in the evening and there were puddles. Negotiating puddles with a shopping bag and an umbrella, with a four-year old in tow, is not an easy proposition. So we had to avoid stalls in front of which water had collected.

As we walked past one such stall, I heard a splutter that triggered off old memories. I turned back quickly, and before I knew it, I was in the stall. My purchase was done in a jiffy and I was out of the stall as fast as I had gone in. After that, I could not wait to get home. I told my wife that it was a toy for my son.

When we reached home, my son was sleepy, but I was in a hurry to commission the boat. As my wife got busy in the kitchen, I filled the large plastic basin with water, placed the boat on the surface, poured a little oil in the bowl and lit the wick. The boat spluttered and moved. My son’s face lit up too.

In a week, my son got fed up with it and like all young boys, was happier with newer toys. But not me.

I did not know that my wife had observed that I was taking much longer than usual in the bathroom. Till one Sunday forenoon, when she caught me red-handed. I was in the bathroom playing with the boat.

Wooster and Jeeves

In my career, I have had several bosses – some benevolent, some nasty, some stiff upper lip, some informal to a fault – but there is one that remains indelibly etched in my memory.

I had been sent on deputation from my parent organization to one headquartered a couple of thousand kilometers away. It was with some trepidation that I proceeded, for my boss there had the ‘reputation’ of being highly irascible and prone to flying off the handle at the drop of a hat – er, turban, for my posting was in Patiala, in the heartland of Punjab.

It was well-known that he was a man of rigid views and spoke his mind, regardless of circumstances or consequences. This was true of me too. This was a dangerous cocktail if there was one. I was painfully aware that at the best of times, an even temper is not my strong point. If my inability to stand such nonsense manifested in a retort (which I was sure it would) my career would go kaput!

The day I reported there, I greeted my boss in his office in the forenoon, presented the letter relieving me from my earlier assignment, gently pulled a chair and sat. He had no time for such formalities. He pushed aside my credentials and asked me how I liked the new place. He asked the peon to get a cup of tea and continued the small talk.

Suddenly, he thought of something called his secretary. As soon as he came in, the boss started giving a series of instructions. The secretary nodded regularly, punctuating them with a ‘Yes, Sir’ or a ‘Haan, ji’ or a hybrid ‘Sir, ji’.

Suddenly, the boss flared up. ‘Jaswant, I know you are a very intelligent person and can remember all that I tell you, but I expect you come with a pad and a pencil to jot down what I say.’ The secretary promptly withdrew, presumably to fetch his wherewithal.

That was when another officer came in and said, ‘Good morning, Sir.’

The boss snapped, ‘What is so good about the morning?’

To say that I was shocked at this behaviour would be an understatement. My immediate urge was to scram. It was beyond me to imagine how I would put up with working under such a brute.

How wrong I was! And what a surprise it was to discover the man within the man! I was more than fascinated by his colourful vocabulary and refreshingly different approach towards things. What made him stand out in a world where most of his ilk were uni-dimensional men whose interests were limited to the job and the crumbs it brought, was the variety of subjects he dabbled in. He was widely read and it showed. He has a subtle sense of humour, as I found out in time.

Contrary to my expectations, for some reason, he developed an instant liking for me. With the passage time, we discovered that we shared several common interests. Soon, got along famously, thick as thieves.

Around 11:30, Lacchman Singh, his peon, would peep through my door and whisper, ‘Sirji, sa’ab yaad karr rahe hain.’ As if on cue, I would arrange the papers lying on my table in a neat pile and amble to my boss.

There he would be waiting for me, his table clear of all paper. We would discuss the progress in the work, the day’s plans, the state of the nation, anything under the sun. In quarter of an hour, I would be back in my room. Meanwhile, Lacchman Singh would bring a tray with a steaming pot of tea, two gleaming teacups, napkins and a plate with a few biscuits. Though not much of a tea-drinker, I enjoyed those sessions. Little did I realize then that it was a daily review of my work.

On certain days, uninvited, I would go to him for discussing some point. After sharing his views, as I got up to leave, he would say, ‘Sit, sit … She’s coming…’ Perplexed, I’d ask, ‘She? Who’s she?’ The boss, with a glint in his eyes, would say, ‘Wait and see…’ I would look expectantly as the door creaked open to admit Lacchman Singh with his tray. My boss would say, ‘I told you, she’s coming… chai aa rahee hai.’

Which brings us to the perfect understanding between the Wooster and the Jeeves. During a normal working day, he would have an average of twenty visitors. As soon as a visitor came in, Lacchman would peep in. If the boss said, ‘Garma-garam chai lao, Lacchman!’ it meant that the boss wanted the guest to stay and did not want any disturbance.’ On the contrary, if the boss had told him, ‘Arey Lacchman, ‘Saab ko kucchh thanda-vanda pilao’, it meant that he would not like to spend too much time with the guest. If he over-stayed, Lacchman would make his appearance at an appropriate time and announce, ‘Saab, Sirji yaad kar rahe hain.’ Whereupon, the boss would get up with an ‘I would have liked to spend more time with you, but excuse me, my boss wants me.’

Yaadein about a Summons

Pardon me, but, for want of a better expression, I have to use a cliché. It was with what is generally known as ‘mixed feelings’ that the news of my transfer to Punjab was received. The elation because of the out-of-turn promotion it came with was consumed by apprehension: my destination was noted for terrorists spraying bullets even on unsuspecting wayfarers.

Our office was an impressive white building adjoining the Kali Temple on The Mall in Patiala. Constructed in the early 20th century by the Maharaja, it was an immaculate structure whose high-dome and minarets caught one’s eyes. The winding stairs with broad wooden steps and polished banisters led to the first floor where my boss sat.

With expansion, the main building had proved inadequate to accommodate all the departments. Annexes were added from time to time, but not much planning seemed to have gone into these appendages which marred the symmetry of the original structure. If there could be a medley of architecture, this was it! My office was in an annexe made of concrete, glass and chrome.

The posting transported me to another world: different language, costumes, food and culture. In Kerala where I belong to, people are so matter-of-fact that when you meet an acquaintance, instead of greeting with a cheery ‘Good morning’, both of you look away. You are lucky if you can manage to extract a smile out of him. The case is not very different even if he is your friend, boss or father-in-law.

Not so in Punjab, as I discovered soon. If it is your boss (or an older person), you bow down to touch his feet; the recipient of such obeisance gently motions you to stop and so you just reach his knees. If it is a friend, you hug him and say ‘ki gull hai, pappe?’ or words to that effect. If it is a junior (in age or position), you do what your boss would do to you – after he demonstrates his intention to touch your feet.

Like every small organization in a small town, this organization too had its own quaint customs and practices. One such was that the intercom in the office was meant only for peer-level communication. It was insubordination tantamount to sacrilege if you picked up the intercom to speak to the boss. And bosses would not use the device for talking to subordinates; they were people to be summoned in person and given directions.

My boss was a very fine gentleman who was as feared as he was respected. The message ‘Boss was looking for you’ was enough to send shivers down the spine of most. He would send for you only if there was something amiss with what you had done. And it was believed that being hauled over the coals was infinitely better than the dressing down you would receive for your mistake.

In the first week on my stint there, there was something which needed a brief report to my boss. As it would take just a moment, I did the natural thing: I reached for the intercom. Before I could say, ‘Sir, the opening of …’ he responded, ‘Come here, we need to discuss it in greater detail.’ A few more such instances, and I got the message loud and clear: I am supposed to physically go to him for discussions.

One forenoon, my boss’ personal peon peeped through the door of my cabin and said, ‘Sirji, sa'ab ne yaad kiya.’ I thought, ‘How nice of the gentleman to have remembered me!’ and nodded.

Ten minutes later, he made his appearance again, and announced, ‘Sirji, sa'ab ne yaad kiya.’ This time I thought I should acknowledge the kind gesture and said, ‘Acchha, thank you!’

Once again, in ten minutes, he came in with the same refrain, ‘Sirji, sa'ab ne yaad kiya.’ I was puzzled: why this sudden volley of fond remembrances?

My puzzlement did not last long. The intercom beeped. At the other end was the boss. ‘Are you too busy to come to me when I summon you?’

Realising that he was getting into a foul mood, I rushed to him.

‘I did not get your message, …’ I explained.

‘Didn’t Lacchhman come to you three times and ask you to?’

‘He did come, but he just told me that you yaad kiya.’ But did not tell me I was wanted by you.’

My boss burst out into a guffaw. When the ripples of the mirth subsided, he said, ‘How would you, not conversant with this language, know that yaad kiya is a euphemism for being summoned?’

A MAN OF LETTERS

During my annual holiday last month, I ran into Ramettan, the village postman. Shrivelled and shrunk, he was still trudging long distances for delivering messages. I had thought he had retired long back, for he was a postman even when I was in school, which makes it about fifty years of service! When I asked him about superannuation, Ramettan shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘A couple of years more to go.’

A genial soul, he was (and still is) Ramettan to everyone, man or woman, old or young, though the suffix ‘ettan’ implies seniority in age. He had started life as a peon in the elementary school and doubled as a postman – quite like his boss Balan master – a school teacher who ‘moonlighted’ as the postmaster. They were part of a large contingent of what was called EDL staff (Extra Departmental … – what does the L stand for?)

He had set his own practices and rules for delivery of mail. The first batch of delivery was at the point of origin – the post office. A small crowd would be waiting at the post office in the evening for the ‘Jayashree bus' to bring the mail bag. Ramettan would open the bag, separate the special mail (registered letters, money orders etc) for scrutiny of the post master. Then thud, thud, he would affix the delivery stamp on each of the remaining items – one thud on the stamp pad and another on the letter.

As the loud thuds resound rhythmically, the expectant crowd outside would swell in size. He would read aloud the names of the addressees of the missives. Among them, those present there would come forward to collect them. People were free to collect letters meant for their neighbours too.

The vigilant observer could notice a pattern he followed while putting away the letters that could not be disposed of at this point: they were sorted into a few heaps – geographically, one presumed.

Ramettan would first head for the banyan tree in front of the Krishna temple where people would assemble in the evening to exchange the hottest gossip, play cards or ambulate. Delivering the first bunch of letters there, he would dispose of half the day’s arrivals.

The peripatetic delivery would start in the morning. Other things being equal, he gave priority to money orders and registered letters. He knew that aged parents might be looking forward to remittances from their employed children and youngsters would be awaiting call letters for interviews and appointment orders. The small tip that recipients of these would grant him was incidental, but incentive enough.

Bookpost and newspapers (Hard to believe, but, yes, they used to arrive by post!) received the lowest priority in Ramettan’s scheme of things. These would be held over till some ‘regular’ mail came for the same addressee – or his neighbour. Many are the days when three or four issues of the Indian Express would be delivered to my uncle in a bunch.

Most of the letters in those days when money was hard to come by were postcards because in the trade-off between privacy and frugality, the latter won hands down. As he walked through the fields and through the lanes, he would glance at the letters. While delivering the letters, he would also announce, ‘Nothing to worry, Karthiyedathi, Raghavettan has reached NEFA safe’ or ‘Kanaetta, your grand-daughter’s milk tooth has fallen off.’ The recipients would not take offence at his having had a sneak preview of the letter before they could read it.

Not many were literate in those days and needed help to decipher the contents. Help was always at hand in the form of Ramettan. At times, his assistance would be sought for writing out replies – something he happily did. This role of reader-cum-scribe made Ramettan privy to the secrets in several families. To give the devil his due, Ramettan would keep all those to himself; he would be the last to cause embarrassment to them by broadcasting these at the village fair.

Ramettan was, to use an overworked cliché, an institution. He had a share in the joys and the sorrows of every family in the village. He rejoiced when Appukkuttan got an appointment order, he was crestfallen when he brought the news that the right leg of Kumaran Nair was blown off when he stepped on a mine in Kargil.

One thing, however, has always been an enigma to me. It is one thing to scan a postcard and be a privy to the contents, but how on earth could he know the contents of inland letters and envelopes which were sealed? I recall that one evening during a summer vacation, he brought an envelope and handed it over to my grandmother, telling her, ‘Santhedathi has missed her periods again. You must ask her to stop, Kalyani Amma. This would be her seventh child, right?’

Lead, Kindly Light

Nanu Nair and Chacko were bosom pals. Nearly the same age, they lived close by in a Malabar village. While Nanu Nair was a native, Chacko’s parents had migrated from faraway Travancore in the early 1920’s. They had bought a parcel of land close to the homestead of Nanu Nair’s parents. The migrants were hardworking. They cleared the wild growth and cultivated tapioca, bananas and coconut. They were thrifty and invested the surplus in more land where rubber was planted. In a couple of decades, the two families were on par in their economic (and hence) social status.

The two friends had studied in the same school. After schooling, Nanu Nair inherited the Village Adhikari’s job from his father. Chacko worked for a few years in his father’s farm. That was when the Second World War broke out and the army started massive recruitment. Chacko took a break from agriculture and his wife Mariamma to join the army. This stint took him to several places within and outside India, introduced him to different climes and people and exposed him to new experiences.

Chacko had to return to the village when his father expired because there was nobody else to attend to the farm. So, after two decades of service in the army, he sought and was granted superannuation. Nanu Nair was delighted that Chacko was returning to the village for good. They could spend the evenings in each other’s company reminiscing of their school days, discussing everything under the sun and considering the riddles of the world.

Soon, a pattern emerged. During the day, they would be busy in their own farms, but, in the evening, the two would, after a wash, amble towards the village market. After a while, they would walk back and end up in the house of one of them where they would be in each other’s company till dinner-time.

Chacko would narrate his exploits in Burma or the warfront in Mongolia and Nanu would be all ears, as if hearing it for the first time. Nanu Nair would recite romantic poems by popular poets like Changampuzha or the naughty couplets of Venmony. Mariamma or Devaki Amma, depending on which house the pals happened to be in on the day, would be at a respectable distance, eavesdropping and enjoying their conversation.

The two pals were similarly placed in nearly all aspects. Both had retired from service, were reasonably well off, and respected in the society. Both had their pension to supplement the income from the farm. Their children held small government jobs in the nearby town. They were married and would visit the parental homes when the schools would close. But for those occasional reunions, it was just the old man and his wife in the respective houses.

There was one difference, though. And it was a major difference. Apart from pension, Chacko had access to the military canteen where he could pick up stuff at prices much lower than the market rates. As a retired soldier, he was entitled to a couple of bottles of liquor too. Chacko would cater to the needs of his friend’s household, much to the gratitude of Devaki Amma.

Come the first of every month, Nanu Nair and Chacko would catch the bus to the town, go to the treasury to collect the pension, head to the canteen to collect the provisions and return by noon. The provisions included the liquor that was Chacko’s due.

Unlike other evenings, Chacko would not step out. Nanu Nair would proceed towards his friend’s house where they would share a drink sitting on the bench in the sit-out lit by the hurricane lamp suspended from the the ceiling. Nanu Nair would listen, for the nth time, to Chacko’s narration of his exploits in Burma or the warfront in Mongolia.

This happened in one of the monsoon months. It had rained hard throughout the day. The pensioners could leave for the treasury only by half past eleven. By the time they returned their routine in the town, it was three in the afternoon and it was still drizzling. By late evening, there was a let-up in the rain.

Chacko was waiting for him as Nanu Nair walked to the friend’s house, his feet wet from the raindrops on the blades of grass. Chacko went in and re-emerged, with the bottle of firewater in his right hand. As if on cue, Mariamma appeared with two glasses and a jug of water. The usual recital of poems, recounting of stories and jokes followed.

Though it was getting late, there was no sign of the friends winding up the session. Mariamma who was feeling sleepy after the day’s chores, took leave of them and went to bed, telling Chacko that his dinner had been laid. The two friends traded some smutty jokes and by the time they decided to call it a day, it was half past ten. Both were sozzled.

Though it was not raining, the sky was overcast. The night was dark. (Did I say this was in the 1960s when the village had not yet been electrified, not to speak of street lights?) Chacko offered his flashlight to Nanu Nair.

‘I know my way about,’ replied Nanu Nair, declining the thoughtful offer.

‘There may be reptiles on the way,’ cautioned said Chacko and insisted, ‘Carry this lantern. You can return it tomorrow.’

As the footsteps of Nanu Nair receded, Chacko asked him, ‘Is the light enough? Can you see the ground you are walking on?

‘Oh, yes. Very well.’

‘Still, be careful. Better safe than sorry.’

‘Fine!’

The next morning, the sight Devaki Amma saw in her sit-out surprised her. What was Mariamma’s pet parrot in its cage doing in this house?

May Day Thoughts

Today is May Day. The thoughts that cross my mind when I hear the phrase are not those of the gore and blood that the streets of Haymarket in Chicago witnessed this day in 1886 when the police fired on workers agitating for an eight-hour day, killing a dozen strikers.

The May-day has another connotation – totally unrelated to that. It is an international radio-telephone signal word identified as a distress call, sort of an SOS message. It has it origins from French venez m’aider (pronounced ‘venay may-day’) meaning ‘Come help me!’.

Talking of SOS messages, what does SOS stand for? ‘Save Our Souls’ did you say? Or ‘Save Our Ship’? Or ‘Save Our Sailors’? Wrong. Unlike abbreviations that evolve from expansions (which are too clumsy to be handled with ease), these expansions, you may be surprised to know, were ‘invented’ after the ‘abbreviation’ was born. SOS is an example of what they call a backronym.

It is difficult to believe, but SOS has no expansion. There is an interesting, if tragic, story behind it. When Titanic, the huge English passenger liner, hit an iceberg on the 14th April 1912, her ship's telegrapher broadcast a cry for help. As the radio operator on the Californian, a ship only a few miles away, had gone off duty, he never heard the Titanic's distress messages.

More than 1,500 people died. Shaken by the disaster, an international conference decided three months later that at least some ships should be required to have 24-hour radio watches, and adopted ‘SOS’ as the international distress call.

But why SOS? Here’s why. The Morse code initially used by the telegraph and later adopted by the radio officers (nicknamed by sea-dogs as Marconi for obvious reasons) on ships, consists of dots ( . ) pronounced ‘dih’ and dashes ( – ) pronounced ‘daah’. S is represented by three dots and O by three dashes. The operator found that ‘dih-dih-dih, daah-daah-daah, dih-dih-dih’ was a sequence of sounds easy to make. Its unmistakable rhythm made it easy for the person at the other end to identify. Thus it was that the easily recognized SOS came to be adopted universally as a distress signal.

I have been enamored by the telegraph ever since my childhood when I visited my father in his office in Cochin one evening. He was a Telegraph Master in that commercially important port town and there were several ‘telegraph machines’ in his office. The ‘machine’ was nothing but a simple spring-loaded key made of shining brass, mounted on a 3”x5”X1” polished teak wooden piece. Before them sat men and women with queer surnames like Bradbury, D’Couto, Rozario, Gomez and Fernandes. They would be tapping away messages to other cities or decoding the arcane dih- daah-dih from faraway towns into messages. To my young mind, the notion that words could be transformed into metallic sounds and transmitted across the wires to distant destinations where they would be decoded was fascinating, to say the least.

The first time the Morse code was used in public was on the 24th May 1844, when inventor Samuel F B Morse demonstrated his invention to members of Congress by tapping out "What hath God wrought?" on a line from Washington to Baltimore.

It signalled (pun intended) the beginning of a worldwide communications revolution. Here was the cutting edge technology of those times. The telegraph radically changed national and international business, the ways wars were fought and the way news was gathered and disseminated. By 1872, the globe was wound by more than 650,000 miles of overland telegraph wire and 30,000 miles of submarine cable. An estimated 20,000 communities were ‘wired to the world’.

With the invention of the wireless radio telegraph in the 1890s, the reach extended to ships at sea. The first rescue at sea as a result of a wireless distress call came in 1899 off the coast of England, and the use of maritime wireless spread rapidly. But there was a flaw in the system, which was dramatically demonstrated in the Titanic tragedy.

With technological advancement, faster and more reliable means of communication were invented and as time sailed on, the significance of the Morse code dwindled. Radio-telephones, teleprinters, telex machines, fax, cellphones and internet invaded the scene in quick succession. By 1981, radiotelephones were mandatory for commercial ships, making radio telegraphy redundant. As satellite communication has superseded the Morse code, International Maritime Organisation decided to phase out its use progressively. Most countries have already made the switch. Perhaps none of the farewells to Morse code has been so poetic as the French. ‘Calling all,’ a French signal operator at Brittany tapped out on the 31st January 1999, as she signed off, ‘this is our last cry before our eternal silence.’

Splitter's Dilemma - From my Scrapbook

This is something that I copied (I think, from the Times of India) down in my scrapbook more than two decades back but I enjoy reading it even today.

Nothing angers writers more than nit-picking copyreaders and publishers who attempt to improve their grammar. No wonder the French essayist, Montaigne, commented that “the greater part of world’s troubles arise because of questions of grammar.” American novelist Raymond Chandler was incensed when his English publisher ‘corrected’ some split infinitives. “When I split an infinitive, God damn it”, he said in an angry letter, “I split, so that it stays split!”

Winston Churchill as a cabinet minister also discovered that his bureaucrat secretaries were forever “improving his English” and correcting his odd penchant for splitting infinitives. On one such Whitehall file, he noted: “This is the kind of impertinence up with which I shall not put.”

Even the mighty Fowler in his Modern English Usage concedes that the English-speaking world may be safely divided into five categories: those who neither know nor care what a split infinitive is; those who do not know, but care very much; those who know and condemn; those who know and approve; those who know and distinguish.

The authority concedes that those who neither know nor care are the vast majority and are a happy folk to be envied by most of the minority classes. ‘To really understand’ comes readier to their lips than ‘really to understand’, lamented Fowler, who felt that category three should be bogey-haunted authors. He says that in their phobia of avoiding split infinitives, they make their normal writing style awkward and humpy.

Fowler is full of praise for category four who boldly go forth and break rules where necessary and reject the trammels of convention. Fowler says, “We maintain that a real split infinitive, though not desirable in itself is preferable to either of two things – real ambiguity or patent artificiality. We will thus split infinitives rather than be accused of ambiguity or artificiality; we will admit to sufficient recasting to avoid them altogether.”

George Bernard Shaw had a very low tolerance threshold for newspaper sub-editors correcting his copy. He once complained to the editor of The Times, London, “There is a busybody in your staff who devotes a lot of his time to chasing split infinitives.” Asserting that every good literary craftsman splits his infinitives when the sense demands it, he urged the editor to dismiss “this pedant”. It is of no consequence whether he “decides to go quickly; quickly go; or quickly to go. The important thing is that he should go at once.”

Thirteen Gremlins of Grammar - From my Scrapbook

Thirteen Gremlins of Grammar

1. Correct speling is essential.
2. Don’t use no double negatives.
3. Verbs has got to agree with their subjects.
4. Don’t write run-on sentences they are hard to read.
5. About them sentence fragments
6. Don’t use commas, that aren’t necessary.
7. A preposition is not a good word to end a sentence with.
8. Remember to not ever split infinitives.
9. Writing carefully, dangling principles must be avoided.
10. Use apostrophe’s correctly.
11. Make each singular pronoun agree with their antecedents.
12. Join clauses like, a good conjunction should.
13. Proofread your writing to see if you words out.

And above all, avoid clichés like the plague.

The Spell-Check - From my Scrapbook

This is a favourite of mine:

Eye halve a spelling checker
It came with my pea sea.
It planely marx four my revue
Miss tax I do not sea.
I’ve scent my message threw it,
And I’m shore pleased to no
Its letter perfect in its weigh
My checker tolled me sew.
- Author unknown

William Safire's Rules for Writers - From my Scrapbook

I had written this down somewhere but do not know where I had kept it. The other day a good friend stumled upon it and sent it to me.

William Safire's Rules for Writers

Remember to never split an infinitive.
The passive voice should never be used.
Do not put statements in the negative form.
Verbs have to agree with their subjects.
Proofread carefully to see if you words out.
If you reread your work, you can find on rereading a great deal of repetition can be by rereading and editing.
A writer must not shift your point of view.
And don't start a sentence with a conjunction. (Remember, too, a preposition is a terrible word to end a sentence with.)
Don't overuse exclamation marks!!
Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
Always pick on the correct idiom.
The adverb always follows the verb.
Last but not least, avoid cliches like the plague; seek viable alternatives.

Parts of Speech - From my Scrapbook

I realised that the best thing to do when you have nothing else to post is to dip into your scrapbook and find some gem like this:

A NOUN’s the name of anything;
As school or garden, hoop or swing.
ADJECTIVES tell the kind of noun:
As great, small, pretty, white or brown.
Instead of nouns the PRONOUNS stand
Her face, his face, our arms, your hand.
VERBS tell of something being done;
To read, count, sing, laugh, jump or run.
How things are done the ADVERBS tell;
As slowly, quickly, ill or well.
CONJUNCTIONS join the words together,
As men and women, wind or weather.
The PREPOSITION stands before
A noun, as in or through a door.
The INTERJECTION shows surprise;
As oh! how pretty! ah! how wise!

Added on 26 Oct 2011. Till today, I did not know who had written this marvellous piece.

A Google search reveals that the poem is titled 'A Grammar Rhyme' and the authors (!) are by David B Tower and Benjamin F Tweed.

A Victorian Schoolmistress’ Rules of Punctuation - From my Scrapbook

This is not something that I have written. It is from my scrapbook. I do not know who the author is, nor when it was written, though there is a reference in the caption that may give a rough idea of the period.

A Victorian Schoolmistress’ Rules of Punctuation

Sentences start with a Capital letter,
So as to make your writing better.
Use a full stop to mark the end.
It closes every sentence penned.
The comma is for short pauses and breaks,
And also for the lists the writer makes.
Dashes – like these – are for thoughts by the way.
They give extra information (so do brackets, we may say).
These two dots are colons: they pause to compare.
They also do this: list, explain and prepare.
The semicolon makes a break; followed by a pause.
It does the job of words that link; it’s also a short pause.
An apostrophe shows the owner of anyone’s things,
And it’s also used for shortenings.
I’m so glad! He’s so mad! We’re having such a lark!
To show strong feelings use an exclamation mark!
A question mark follows What? When? Where, Why? And how?
Do you? Can I? Shall we? Give us your answer now!
“Quotation marks” enclose what is said
Which is why they are sometimes called “speech marks” instead.

The Litmus Test

In Kerala, Malabar is considered the cradle of football. The school I studied in was the State football champion. The only other school in the town was the runner-up and, like the celebrated ‘We try harder’ slogan of Avis Car Rental which was No 2 in the business, they tried harder.

Sethu, the captain, was the toast of our school. He was excellent in the football field. A half-back, he would receive the ball from a full-back, and send it to the centre-forward through his classic long pass to net a goal. He was good at dribbling too: it was sheer joy to see watch him dribble the ball past opponents.

The trouble was: Sethu was good at little else. Academics held no interest for him. He failed in several classes and was, at the age of eighteen, still in Class VIII. This was a cause of worry for his father, a tailor, as Sethu was the only hope of the family. He looked forward to the day his son would start working.

A well-wisher, a middle level officer in a reputed industrial venture, had assured Sethu’s father that he would ensure that Sethu gets a job in the company he worked for. Sethu would be an asset to the football team of the company. It was prominent among the National B League teams and with Sethu in the bag, it was hoped, the team might make it to the A League.

There was a snag, however. Sethu HAD to pass Class X. Sethu’s father was worried. With good reason: Sethu was still Class VIII and going by the past records, it would take at least half a dozen years for him to reach Class X. As for passing the Board Examination, well, that was anybody’s guess. The day his son would start supplementing the income to run the family looked distant.

It was because the eighteen-year old footballer had spent a couple of years in a few classes that he came to be my classmate. It was his third year in the class. Sethu had, as expected, fared poorly in the final examination. With his one-digit score in chemistry, it was clear that unless the school was generous, he would not make it to class IX.

He met the headmaster and told him: either you promote him or I pull him out of the school. The headmaster of the rival high school in the town had agreed to admit him in Class IX. The headmaster was in a quandary. Should he give in to the threat and relax the academic standards to the lowest levels? At stake if he did not do that was the reputation of the school in sports and games. The choice was difficult and the trade-off unethical.

He consulted the senior teachers. The physical instructor Mr Sadanandan was keen to retain him in the school at any cost, but the vocal Mr Thomas who taught Chemistry was particularly against such a dilution of standards. The other teachers adopted a middle-of-the-road policy – it would be good if Sethu can be retained, but their value-system did not allow them watering down the levels. (This was much was before the advent of grace marks.)

Finally, they came to an understanding: a small committee would be formed to re-assess Sethu’s ‘prowess’ in Chemistry. The headmaster would chair the committee and the members would be the physical instructor and the Chemistry teacher. There would be an interview. Three questions would be asked. If Sethu answered none correctly, he would have to be sent out. If he answered at least one correctly, the Headmaster would use his discretion and give a couple of marks to make it 35% and Sethu would pass.

In the final event, to everybody’s surrise, Sethu was promoted. One of those evenings, on our way home from school, Sethu told me want happed on that fateful day.

On the appointed day, Sethu was summoned before the committee. Mr Thomas fired the first salvo: What is H2SO4 commonly known as?
Sethu was at a loss.

Mr Thomas asked: The Cl in Na Cl stands for chlorine. What does Na stand for?

Sethu had no reply.

The headmaster tried to be helpful: Na Cl is common salt whose chemical name is sodium chloride.

Still, Sethu had no clue. He remained silent.

Mr Sadanandan’s face fell. It was sure Sethu did not have a fighting chance. He requested the other two members: Let me ask the next question. They agreed.

The physical instructor asked: If blue litmus paper is dipped in an acid, what colour does it turn to?

Sethu had no reply. Mr Sadanandan encouraged him: Sethu, it’s a simple question. Tell us the answer.

Sethu said: I don’t know, Sir.

Mr Sadanandan said: Yes, that is the right answer. He does not know.

The headmaster, eager not to lose him to the rival schools, agreed, exercised his discretion, and thus out came Sethu with flying colours!

Words, Words, Words, Redux

Those of you who have been following my blog (The number is just a handful, sob, sob) may recall that one my posts was on words coined to meet the demands of the modern day.

A friend who read it has very kindly supplied me with a few interesting words. There is something common and peculiar to them: all of them have been formed by addition, subtraction or alteration of a letter to or from a word found in a standard dictionary.

Take, for instance, SARCASM. Add an H to get SARCHASM, defined as the gulf between the person who comes up with biting sarcasm and the person who doesn't get it.

Or DOPELER EFFECT which is the tendency of stupid (dopey) ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

A hoarding erected, or a poster pasted, or a slogan painted, very, very high on a wall is, you guessed it right, GIRAFFITI.

The BOZONE LAYER is formed by cronies surrounding the boss in such a way that bright ideas from others cannot penetrate that layer. (This one, unlike the ozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future!)

Remember the scriptures? Satan in the form of an insect – a bee, a bug or a mosquito - that gets into your bedroom in the night and cannot be cast out is, what else, a BEELZEBUG.

KARMAGEDDON? It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

Not exactly in the league of add-delete-or-change-one letter, is CATERPALLOR, (for, two letters have been changed), the colour you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

You have been told that decaffeinated coffee is good for you. Decathlon is the tough ten-event sporting contest. Forget that two letters have been changed here too, DECAFFLON is the gruelling ordeal of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

Before reading on, I have a caveat: this friend of mine is no saint and some of the coinages are a bit off-colour. Some of them may offend your sensibilities, but I cannot resist the temptation to put them in, for, if I do not, I will be denying unadulterated mirth to others. They have been arranged in ascending order of my perception of smuttiness, and therefore, gentle reader, stop when you feel that you have reached the threshold of your tolerance. Having applied for that anticipatory bail, let me proceed:

One word for all promise and no action (not necessarily of the carnal variety) by a glib talker is GLIBIDO.

Add an H to CASTRATION, to get CASHTRATION, defined as the act of acquiring an asset without resorting to a loan, as a result of which the subject is rendered financially impotent.

OSTEOPORNOSIS is defines as a degenerate disease. Need I say more?

You might know someone who knows nothing. If he is a despicable fellow to boot, what better word would describe him than IGNORANUS?

FOREPLOY is any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

If after reading this, you are tempted to remark that I suffer from VOWEL MOVEMENT (the inevitable verbal diarrhea that spews from one’s mouth when there is nothing significant to say), my day is made!



Note: My friend who supplied me with these words tells me that most of these were received as entries for a contest run by the Washington Post.

Pun with Words

There was this king who hated puns. Sadly for him, the best jokes his courtier related were all puns. His Majesty was fed up with the courtier’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of what the King found distasteful. Having been inflicted with puns day in and day out, the King challenged him, ‘Come up with a pun on me if you can!’ Pat came the reply, ‘But, your Majesty, the King is no subject!’

That was perhaps the first pun that I came across. Mr Venceslaus who taught us English in Class IX was the one who narrated this to us. Ambrose Bierce, he had added, had defined it as a ‘form of wit to which wise men stoop and fools aspire.’ That was the first time I was hearing of 'The Devil’s Dictionary' authored by Bierce. Coming to think of it, Mr Venceslaus was the one who introduced me to several things that have caught my fancy and had me in their thrall – like crosswords, tongue-twisters, puzzles, word games, brain-teasers etc.

But then, I digress. This piece is not about Mr Venceslaus, it is about puns. The world consists of two types of people: those who like pun and those, like the king we spoke of, who do not. The latter seem to subscribe to the theory that puns don’t make us laugh, but groan. Caligula was one such: it is said that he ordered an actor to be roasted alive for a bad pun. Dryden called it the ‘lowest and most groveling kind of wit’.

Dissecting a pun, one could say it arises from the use of two similar-sounding words that differ in the sense or a word with two (or more!)meanings. They are considered to be the feeblest species of humor because they are ephemeral: their life is no longer than the nanosecond in which we resolve the semantic confusion. Most of them are, at least look, contrived, though Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, that master of humour in contrived situations, himself was no punster. Mark Twain too, like Plum, enamoured reviewers with punlessness.

Shakespeare, however, does pun, and pun often. Many are bawdy: puns operate, after all, on double entendre. Yet the bard is guilty less of punning than wordplay, which Elizabethan taste considered more a sign of literary refinement than humor; hence ‘puns’ in seemingly inappropriate places, like a dying Mercutio’s ‘Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.’

The heaviest dose of puns that I ever received was the answer to the contrived question (which is an integral part of the joke) ‘Why can a man never starve in the Great Desert?’ The answer, which packs a three-pun-punch is, ‘Because he can eat the sand which is there. But who brought the sandwiches there? Why, Noah sent Ham, and his descendants mustered and bred.’

My friend Marcel Hickman once told me of a colleague of his in what was then called Exide India. On a complaint from his wife of domestic violence, he was nabbed by the police. This was reported in The Statesman, Calcutta (It had not been rechristened Kolkata then) beneath the headline ‘Exide Employee Charged with Battery’. Knowing that Marcel is given to invent stories like this, this might be apocryphal, but nevertheless punny, oops! …funny.

Placement of a Different Kind

I am worried about placement. At the ripe old age of 62? Yes.

So was Andre Agassi, going by what he is supposed to have said. ‘Placement is everything’, he said, talking about winning strategy in Roland Garros.

And my son Gautam, when in the last trimester in the B-School, too was worried about placement.

Yes, gentle reader, we are talking about placements of different kinds.

The placement in question right now is in the game of Scrabble. The number of points you garner is everything and at each stage, it varies with placement. It could fetch just the sum of the face-value of the tiles, or a lot more, depending on where you get to place the tiles. The over-all image, the big picture, is what drives and dictates where to place what tiles.

To me, the points that the placement gives is all that the tiles mean. Smutty words are perfectly par for the course in Scrabble for me, as long as they fetch points and help me on my way to winning another game.

Like if I have K and F, I would pray for a C and a U (rather than an O and L, or an O and R) so that I can put the F on the red square at the top left or the bottom left corner, the K in the light blue square three squares away to the right of or below F, and fill the intervening squares with U and C. F means 4 points, K is 5, and C is 3 and U, as a vowel, has only one point. That makes it 13 points, but the placement gives you 54. Get what I mean? But then you should be so lucky.

I prefer tiles of lesser value like H, Y and V to the high Z or Q or even X or J, sometimes. The latter fetch lots of points, yes, but you are stuck with them until you find the exact spot to place them to get a triple word score or double letter score.My personal strategy is to hold on to a tile of U until the queen of the lot, Q, has put in an appearance. Because, The humble one-point U is a valuable tile. Without U, you can't make many words using Q. There are only four of them. Until the Q is played, I do not let go of the first U that I get.

Of course, this requires some cerebration and calculation. If you stand to make some 30 points and also get the bonus of 50 points for using up all seven tiles, you should go for it. That sort of lead is hard to beat, unless your opponent chances upon a big one too.As a rule, I try to hold on to at least one S, one D and a blank tile till near the end of a game, because that's when the going gets tough and your options get limited. I don't use up my blank tile quickly either. It is precious; I hold on to it and go on playing small simple words until I lay the killer word on board and slay'em.

I am talking about leisurely Scrabble games with friends like Santanu. We play a fairly open game, not minding giving the other player a chance to open a new area of the board. As a result of the cooperation, we toted up a combined score of over 932 points. We got Bhawani to immortalise that moment through a photograph with the two of us flanking the board, much like the shikaris with the trophy – the carcass of a tiger or a wild bison that was the game of the day!

Vote Your Caste

No, gentle reader, that was no typo. I mean ‘Vote Your caste’ when you cast your vote.

April 16 is drawing near; we Indians are preparing to exercise our franchise some time between the middle of April and May. We are expected to choose our destiny by electing those who will make ours, but our leaders are exhorting us, covertly and overtly, through their actions and words, to vote our caste.

Look at what the leaders and candidates, no matter the colour of the flag they salute, have been doing: they have been calling on our sadhus and ulemas, raagis and behenjis, chaplains and pundits, preachers and mahants, bishops and maulvis, and sanyasis and dervishes. The ‘godmen’ – that oxymoron touted as India’s ultimate enrichment of the English language – must be rubbing their hands in glee that they, generally shunned, are in great demand.

Winning or losing is, understandably, a life-and-death issue for the candidates. This critical juncture in their life may bring to the surface the old fears that haunted the primaeval man. The believers among them can be pardoned if they reach out for the comforts of superstition, supernatural and ritual.

But the members of the revolutionary parties? The general election is not an ordinary event; so much depends on its outcome and one cannot take chances. They do not want to leave any stone unturned. Several Communists, whether in West Bengal, Tripura or Kerala, look as much to pujas as to the politburo to bless them with power.

And not just that. They choose the candidate after looking at the religious composition of voters in the constituency. Look at the rivals of put up by the major parties or fronts. Surely, it is no coincidence that the candidates belong to the same religion or caste? And this religion and caste is what the majority of voters in the constituency belong to.

They also call on the religious leaders ‘seeking their support’ which translates into a diktat to their membership to vote a candidate they suggest.

The moral of the story? The parties expect you to vote your caste.

Ten Reasons Why I Do Not Want Shashi Tharoor in the Indian Parliament

1. He is handsome; no one will take a second look at me.
2. He has had a brilliant academic career; I barely scraped through my school.
3. He is a reputed author; my read does not go beyond the newspaper.
4. He has held exalted assignments; I am a lower division clerk.
5. He is widely travelled; the farthest I have gone to is the taluk headquarters.
6. He is highly-connected; the most powerful person I know is the secretary of the party in my village.
7. He goes around wearing natty suits and rimless glasses; I have no such accoutrements.
8. He sends email messages from his Blackberry; my prepaid mobile does not work because I have not recharged it.
9. He is proud of his Malayali lineage but spells his name as Shashi, not Sasi.
10. I am a progressive Keralite, but his name does not tell me what caste he belongs to.

PS

For those who have not been watching the election scene in Trivandrum, the capital of Kerala very closely, Dr Shashi Tharoor, author and former UN official is a candidate. Though a Keralite by descent, he was educated elsewhere (Kolkata, Delhi and abroad). The average Malayali who has not had the opportunity for such exposure just cannot stomach the possibility of his making it to the Lower House. These are the typical thoughts (slightly exaggerated, of course) that go through their minds (Forget that true to their intellectual pretensions, they might put forth more rational arguments). How do I know? Simple: I am one such.

The Revenge of the Spurned

The natural law of life says that everyone, irrespective of his status in life, must die one day. The natural law of office life says that everyone, irrespective of his position in the hierarchy in the organization, must retire. So it was that M retired from the Bank.

Several Indians believe in life after death. It is therefore not surprising that several officials too reappear in the corporate firmament in a new avatar. So was it that M, came to be given a senior assignment in a small private sector bank. He thought it necessary to revamp the systems in his new perch. The obvious shortcut was to implement the time-tested systems in vogue in the bank he had worked for earlier.

For this, he needed the copies of the important circulars and checklists so that he could bring out similar publications in his bank. He called on P, his erstwhile colleague, a General Manager now, who extended the usual courtesies. Upon knowing the purpose of M's visit, P sent word for Y, an officer in charge of a certain department and asked him to get copies of the materials that M wanted.

While M waited, tea and snacks were served and old threads picked up. In about fifteen minutes, Y was back with the papers.M glanced though the material and observed, ‘But these cover only agriculture. How about Small scale insustries?’ P replied, ‘Oh, that area is looked after by another officer; let me call him.’

That was how I was summoned to the GM’s cabin, unaware of the presence of the other two – M and Y. The sight of the unexpected guest surprised me. Though not too pleased with the encounter, I reminded myself, ‘KTR, you are in the cabin of the GM, not with M who chaired your promotion interview, but with M, the guest of the GM. This is not the time to bring up the past, KTR. Rein in your temper, KTR, and behave yourself!’

P, who had genuinely believed that M and I had not met earlier (After all, I was a junior officer in a branch far away from Trivandrum when M was GM), introduced the two of us to each other for good order’s sake. P said, ‘KTR, you would, of course, know M. But Mr M, you may not know KTR. He is one of our bright young officers. He has just been promoted. And he has been nominated for a plum post.

Extending my hand, I said, ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ Pretending that he had not seen my extended hand, he turned to P and said, Don’t I know KTR? This bright spark was in a bit of a spot with his boss. But for my timely intervention, a disciplinary case of insubordination would have been slapped up against him. And he will agree that but for me, he would not have been promoted.’

I could take no more. I rose from the chair I was sitting on, drew up to my full height. Livid with rage, I replied, ‘I guess Mr M, that you memory is failing you.’ Turning to my GM, I requested, ‘Sir; I will need five minutes to refresh the memory of Mr M.’

Without giving P the time or option to take a decision on my request, I turned to Mr M and fired my salvo. ‘It was not because of you, but in spite of you that I was promoted. And my respect for the boss who displayed integrity in conveying the adverse remarks to me is greater than for you who played a confidence trick on me.’

Not heeding the frantic gesticulations of P, I proceeded to narrate the story I had related in 'A Trip to Hell - Parts I and II' and added, ‘So, what you did was to extract an apology from an unsuspecting junior officer by promising him that the confidential report would be amended, and then magnanimously pardon him, with a veiled threat to use that note of apology against him.’

Pushing away the left hand of Y who was giving me a hard pinch on my thigh in his bid to control me, I continued, ‘And in the interview that you chaired, the only words you allowed me to utter were the greetings on entry into the chamber. After that you took over, narrated your version of the above story to the other members of the interview panel, and sealed my fate.‘Now, Mr M, tell me if it was your timely intervention that I was spared of the disciplinary case and whether you were instrumental in my promotion.’

When I finished, P asked me to sit down. I thanked him and took my seat. Realising that no business could be transacted with me in that foul a mood, P said, ‘We’ll meet later.’

As I stepped out, M extended his hand and said, ‘Let bygones be bygones. Forget the past. Let us part as friends.’

It was my turn to withhold my hand. I replied, ‘I cannot let SOME bygones be bygones. You are my sworn enemy and we shall remain so.’

With those words, I stomped out. I do not recall if I banged the door behind me.

A TRIP TO HELL - II

As luck would have it, it had to be M (Please see A Trip to Hell - Part I) who presided over the committee that interviewed me soon for promotion to the next grade. That was the first ever promotion interview I attended.

I was the youngest and the junior-most candidate. Therefore, I was the last candidate to be interviewed. (Now I recall bemusedly that it was so at every promotion interview I had attended in my life!) The panel was understandably tired after a series of interviews. As for me, I had waited the whole day for my turn. It was 7.30 pm when I was called in.

As soon as I stepped in, the Chairman turned to his colleagues (So far away in time, I do not recall who these worthies were, nor does this matter one bit for the completeness of this story) and said, ‘This is Mr Rajagopalan who fell out with his boss about the adverse remarks made in his CR. He is lucky that I intervened and saved him.’

M then proceeded to describe in detail the sequence of events described in A Trip to Hell - Part I and his own version of the ‘Operation Rescue KTR’ that he had launched.

I had just to sit back and listen to the harangue.With that, he had sealed my fate in the interview. For, no other member of the panel posed me any question. The Chairman of the panel too did not.

This must have been the only interview where the candidate was dismissed by the interview panel without giving him a chance to utter a word. The result of the interview was, predictably, negative.

This narrative would not be complete if I did not add with a hint of pride that in every single interview that I attended in my career after that non-interview, I had performed to my satisfaction and got selected on practically every occasion. Thanks are due to the chairmen and members of the panels of interview who did ask me questions and did allow me to speak : )

BREAKING-IN

Handing over the keys to our brand new car, the salesman briefed us about the terms of the warranty and extended warranty and the free service and the paid services and the exclusions. Then he proceeded to give us detailed instructions on how to handle 'her'.

“For the first two thousand kilometers, you should not exceed sixty kilometers an hour,” he said. “After the break-in period,' you can bring her to us. We will re-set the accelerator so that you can drive at higher speeds,” he added.

The expression 'breaking-in' brought to my mind 'breaking-in' in another context.

* * *

I had just got married. Though not the only child, for she had a younger brother, Bhawani had been brought up as a darling daughter. As in all urban nuclear families, her parents constantly doted over her. (I must add that all the hug and cuddle had not spoilt her, though.)

In marrying me, she was virtually being 'transplanted' from friendly and familiar surroundings to live with a stranger in alien climes and times.

As for me, I came from an entirely different background. I had grown up in a joint family as one among half a dozen kids and a horde of cousins. It was a case of survival of the fittest. Talking rough and acting tough were not unusual.

The world then had not heard of hi-falutin concepts like pre-marital counselling. The circumstances in which I got my bride were such that there was nobody to tell me how to handle or tackle my young partner in the early days of marriage. How was I then to know that being the only daughter, Bhawani might have grown up as a pet, apt to get peeved at the slightest provocation?

As a result, I had behaved in my own style, unmindful of the fact that I was dealing with a girl, not used to the abruptness that was my 'hallmark'.

Like the time we were at the breakfast table in 'our home'. It was the first upma (a light breakfast item made of broken wheat, popular in South India) Bhawani had made. And she had forgotten to put salt in the preparation.

Jestingly, I said, "It is called upma because up (salt) goes into it." It was, of course, not true; it was meant as a joke; an original one, characteristic of me, using play of words. As I sat back, (and gloating in the smug thought: how smart of me to have invented that wisecrack!), Bhawani got up from the chair and went into the kitchen. She returned a little later. I did not give it much thought.

It was months later that I realized how hurt she was at that innocuous sentence. And that was when she revealed it to me. The reason she had gone into the kitchen was as much to fetch the salt as to wipe the tears that streamed down her cheeks. Still to get used to my style of putting things across, she could not bear the ‘insult’.

Even in 2009, tears well up in her eyes when she is reminded of that episode, as I am sure they will when she reads this. (An offshoot of this incident is that she has never ever forgotten any of the essential ingredients of her recipes - least of all, the upma!)

PS: This piece will remain incomplete if I do not append what a friend of mine for over three decades remarked on hearing this story: ‘I find it difficult to believe that you were ever so boorish to make the remark in such an inappropriate situation!’