Car-ma is a female

 

I have a car.

If that sounds suspiciously like Martin Luther King’s proclamation, it’s because I always dreamt of having a car. It’s a birth effect. So there is a carmic connection (no pun intended).

There was always a car in my life. My grandfather had a Morris Minor. Dad had a Fiat 1100 and then upgraded to a Premier Padmini Delux. Leather seats. I always suspected something not quite there (my dad was a lawyer), but kept my counsel.

The story, as told by the tribal elders around the family peace pipe (aka the dining table), is that at the time of my arrival, my mom was driven to the maternity home in a Mercedes-Benz.

The child returned home in the Fiat. Dad's pride and joy. The car, not the child.

The provenance of the Mercedes remains a mystery. 

Dad’s car was like a Dad joke. Only he understood it. It was meant strictly for him, to drive from home to office and back. The love and care he lavished on it was second only to the love and affection for his wife. The car got a tune-up every Saturday, at a garage with a storied past near French Bridge.

My sitting in the car was strictly need-based: going to family functions, the occasional trip to the market with mom, and the rare occasion when Dad dropped me to school on a Saturday. Early classes. Bane of my life.

As I grew into longer shorts, I was mandated to wash the car. A labour of love, Dad called it. Labour, I called it. But, dousing the sleek lines of the Padmini with water, rubbing it clean with a yellow cloth (always yellow), and watching the gleam of the clean wagon coming through was like the slow warmth of a Puligny-Montrachet. Steady, deep, full-body.

One fine day, infused with the fire and fervour of youth, I took the keys, sat in the driver’s seat, and started the car. And immediately switched it off, terrified at the roar it made. Thankfully it wasn’t in gear. Dad, realising his youngest was feeling the hormones, allowed me to join driving school.

That one month was one of liberation. Of utter joy and abandon. Learning the hand positions. The feet tango. The Matrix experience of looking in the rear-view mirror. Getting the answer to the Socratic question of what happened when I pressed the clutch.

I passed the driving test and got my very own driving license. Which I lost two days later because my wallet was picked by a child of unmarried parents. The replacement cost me several pleas with dad, one dressing down, and one promise to care for it more than I cared for my books.

The car faded when Dad retired. His hands, used to holding a steering wheel, moved to holding a newspaper in the same style. His legs sometimes moved unconsciously in the classic driver’s 1-2 tango. And I? I went to using the famed public transport of the city I called home. Smelling the sea, feeling the wind, and occasionally battling with fellow humans on the intra-city network. A lesson in reality.

This car-less phase went on for a few years. Till I landed in Nigeria for a paid job. The country was Lawless, I was told. Dangerous, I was gravely informed. But all that was put aside because I got my very own car! A company car! I was allotted a Peugeot. Entirely appropriate, and besides, she was a step up from Italian models.

The chest puffed out. The stride became longer. The only downside was the steering wheel appeared to be on the wrong side. Quite unseemly for a former British colony.

And by this time, thanks to my time in France, I referred to cars in the feminine, rather than “it”. 

I learnt to navigate with a young local lad, and drove all over Nigeria. I saw daily life in this beautiful country. And also an attempted kidnapping which failed because I pressed the accelerator instead of the brake when invited to stop, and nearly ran over the delinquents.

Nigeria got over rather abruptly, and I returned home. Car-less again. The parentage had got used to their carfree existence. But for me the days were like arid deserts, stretching endlessly from bus stop to train station. Tired eyes scanning the horizon in vain for an oasis-like auto-rickshaw.

And then car-ma intervened. Again. I moved to Dubai. Where cars are as ubiquitous as sand. To walk anywhere in Dubai is the equivalent of a Hell March. In the era in which I landed, “public transport” meant crossing the road to your car. And the cars! A veritable smorgasbord! I saw my first Rolls on my second day in Dubai. Followed by two Ferraris. A driving licence was the order of the day. But it was three years before I managed to get one.

My own car was not far behind. She was not just any car. She was Japanese. An SUV, very black and purring with intent. She stayed with me for four years. And then became high-maintenance.

I have driven a succession of beauties over the years. But I owned only two. And leased the others. Because investing in anything more expensive than a cup of tea in Dubai is not smart for someone who has heard of money only by hearsay. I pay by the year. And change the model every year. Because being faithful is not cheap here.

The second car I actually bought was a curvy French model. Whose top came off at the touch of a gentle caress. She stayed with me for two years. But eventually she turned 18, which in car-dom is like a toothless old hag. She had to go. And something went with her.

A sense of movement. Of rolling ahead of a wind that I never saw. A freedom of choice which went beyond “full tank” or “half tank”. Being in control in an otherwise turbulent world, even at 120.

I have never been the same carefree driver.

Private tuitions are a class apart

Back to School is in full swing in the geographies where this abomination is inflicted on innocent children in September.

And with BTS another phenomenon rears its head. Private tuitions. Born out of a mismatch between expectations of a service and its delivery. The service here being teaching.

The word “private” before a service usually implies exclusivity. The kind that money can buy. Personal attention. In your face. By your side. Private tuitions deliver some of this. Exclusivity? Yes – many are one on one between tutor and tutee (does that even exist?). Expensive? Depends on the subject, the tutor’s pedigree and the depth of the parents’ wallet. Discreet? Not anymore.

As a wee school-going student, I reached a stage in mathematics where my ability to add and subtract was subsumed by more theoretical concepts. Such as the Pythagoras Theorem. Or Euclid’s Postulates (I was asked to leave the class because I dared to correct the teacher’s pronunciation of the gent’s name). Tail-lashing, slavering-at-the-mouth devils such as algebra and geometry entered my peaceful world. Then came the holy trinity of doom – physics, chemistry, and biology. These were the Five Rings of Hell.

My school, such as it was, had a stellar group of humans masquerading as teachers. With an average student-to-teacher ratio of 70-1 it was a miracle they managed roll call. Their focus naturally was on the gifted. I was a leading chorus member of the “others”.

I therefore had to be handed over to private tutors. Over a period of six years, I went through a series of personal and group tutors who waged pitched battles to save me from the dragons maths and science. Weapons ancient and modern were brought into play, from motivational talks to loud yelling to the waving of a foot ruler under one’s nose, to threats of withholding food and drink. Thankfully corporal punishment was not on the agenda.

I managed to clear the first five years. Little did I know that the ultimate pressure test was yet to come.

In the final year of school, I not only had to suffer maths tuitions at the hands of Medusa (in actual fact the principal of a well-known school known for churning out Bright Minds) but also had to attend private tuitions for French. A subject I knew well and loved, but needed the mindset to score at the board exams.

The classes were held in a cavernous dining room in one of those old houses of Mumbai. The room was full of portraits of faintly Victorian mien. The presiding deity was a quaintly eccentric lady with a ferocious command of the intricacies of this most romantic of languages. And who knew most of my siblings and aunts who had studied in her school in years past.

And I was the only boy in a room full of girls. All from the same school. All pigtails and giggles as the deity gravely made me sit in the seat of honour next to her, and introduced me as the last of a distinguished family to have passed through her doors. I, bespectacled, with a stammer, and a nose that seemed to be suspiciously bulbous at the best of times, wished for the floor to swallow me. And spit me out in Timbuctoo.

This turned out to be the best tuition experience I had. Not only did my grasp of the language improve; I also made a couple of friends who continue to honour me with their company even today, 4 decades down.

My parents spent vast quantities of dinero on burnishing my education. I am not entirely convinced they got a decent ROI on their investment. But they did what they had to do as parents.

They helped me start the car; where I drove it was not their problem.

Bax to school

there is a lot of chatter these days about “back to school” in those economies where schools and other institutions of learning function normally. the august-september period usually sees the advanced economies starting the academic season. other economies start the season with the onset of the monsoon.

today (3^rd september) is a particularly significant day for me. for it was on this day a few years back that i went back to school. business school, to be precise. in one of the most storied cities of the planet. whose name originates from the old roman word for swamp (how ungodly!). called lutetia at one time, and lately, well, since the 9^th or the 10^th century ad -…paris.

this day is also the anniversary of the day when the world was plunged into the deadliest conflict it had witnessed till then. but that’s for the historians.

my descent into france was not entirely planned. like most indian children of my vintage, i had harboured the desire of studying and living abroad. but the question was, “where?” let’s face it – it’s a big planet, there are over 200 countries on it (ok, not every country welcomes foreign students, or is suitable for such an endeavour), and it wasn’t easy for a lad with limited means, fiscal and intellectual, to just pack a bag and go west. besides, my interest in marketing and communications was no guarantee of untold riches in the future; unlike finance, law, tech, or astrology.

like most good things that have happened in my life, the decision to go to france was crystallised in quite an unexpected manner. over a cup of tea with a french rugby player in mumbai (formerly known as bombay), if you must know. this gent was the regional representative of a french bank in the dear city, and i was a lowly wage slave in his office. learning the ropes of commerce as a trainee something-or-the-other (any similarities to mike and psmith are the result of a fevered imagination).

this gentleman was the product of one of the best grandes écoles de commerce (business school for the anglo-saxons) in france. he suggested i try for one of those schools. so i did a bit of research (a major task when one had to rely on real intelligence), and zeroed in on ESCP Business School. the world’s oldest business school, which offered the Master’s I wanted.

it's not an easy place to get admitted to. but surprisingly for such a venerable institution, and french to boot, it processed my admission at a speed one did not usually associate with that country. i was processed and pronounced ready for admission in six weeks. the chest puffed out for much longer than that.

at the beginning of fall, i flew northwest (ever geographically challenged, west was not my direction) and landed in france in a german aircraft on the 1st day of september. and entered the portals of the school on 3^rd september.

france was not really on the radar of indian students at that time for business studies those days. the flow was more for language, literature and theoretical science streams. in fact, i was the first indian to be admitted to ESCP. so when i entered the classroom on the first day, i was about as familiar to my classmates as a mango in a baguette.

but there was a "social ecosystem" in place for indian students in the city - housing in the maison de l'inde, the occasional cricket in the bois de boulogne, plenty of friends and fellow countrymen – which took care of the leisure hours.

the academic system was an altogether different story. for a lad used to leisurely readings of economic theory and french poetry, the weekly surprise tests, live case studies with real brands after a 2-hour lunch with a charming bordeaux, and the realisation that although i had spent nearly 10 years soaking up the language, its literature and way of life, i couldn’t understand a word of french for the first week, made me doubt the wisdom of my decision for a few days.

but one thought kept me going. the memory of my parents at the airport seeing me off.

the trip to the airport was a subtle signal to the world that the child was off to do the family proud. my father was not known for expressing emotion of any kind, and he probably produced a grimace-trying-to-be-a-smile under a force-majeure clause (he was a lawyer...). but it was brighter than the lights of the eiffel tower for me. my mother was content to bask in the knowledge that the boy was out of her hair for the foreseeable future.

though my expression in the photo does indicate a slight FOTU (fear of the unknown), the warmth and camaraderie of my classmates, professors, and every person i met in paris helped me overcome this in a matter of days. i also finally understood french as she is spoken.

Raksha Bandhan. A bro's POV

 

raksha bandhan (protection money in today’s jargon) is a uniquely indian tradition. like slurping tea from a saucer. or trying to match your maternal grandmom’s younger brother’s daughter’s class mate to your paternal uncle’s elder sister’s boss’s brother’s son. it is colourful, loud, confusing, and creates a wave of emotion that only a brother separated from his sister will understand.

the theory is that the sister prays for the well-being of the brother, the bro agrees to protect the sister from all kinds of bad stuff (including pink cotton candy) and hands over a gift in cash or kind. or bitcoin.

the festival in its current form is more folk culture than dictated by scripture (no, it is not a mafia tradition either). it is celebrated on the last day of the shravana month in india. bang in the middle of the monsoon. so not only is the hapless bro separated from hard-earned dinero under the guise of sibling affection, he might have to wade through inches of water to reach his sister’s demesne. especially if the sister resides in the boondocks.

i have two unique lenses on this festival. my father was one of eight brothers and in the middle was a sister, one. so naturally, my aunt raked in the stuff by the sackful. on the distaff side, my mother is one of six sisters and one brother. my uncle was empty of wallet by the time the festival trundled to an end. with no appetite for the sweets pressed upon him by the squadron of sisters.

i myself have two sisters. and a platoon of what we natives call cousin sisters (did i see the english purist wince?). but they are all my sisters. without prefixes or suffixes. and they all build the conviction that keeps me going. for that, thanking you kindly.

with the passage of time, the advent of air travel, and that quaint tradition called marriage, siblings moved away from each other. in-person engagement was not always possible. letters, phone calls, and latterly zoom calls did help to bridge the distance somewhat. but ‘twas not the same. the twinkle in the sister’s eye (not to be mistaken for a gleam at imminent riches), the bro’s sidelong glance at the tray of sweets (diminishing due to rising sugar levels as the years went by) and the whack of the sister’s palms on the bro’s back as he bent in obeisance – none of these could be replicated on a screen. even with surround sound.

be that as it may. things are as they are. not as they should be. so on this raksha bandhan day, to all my sisters – long may you live, with health, wealth, and stealth your forever companions. we bros are ordained to be at your command.

just don't keep the sweets at harm’s length.

 

the doors (with apologies to jim morrison, of whose existence i was unaware till early adulthood)

 

i was born and formed in the verdant bylanes of shivaji park in mumbai. where every street was a path to glory (with apologies to jeff a). shivaji park is just aft of the suburban border. so i am legitimately a townie. there are multiple types of townies, but that’s another blog.

shivaji park couldn’t decide whether it was utterly middle class, or middle class going on slightly upper middle class. “go west, young man” was the mantra in my knicker days, when every young person in the forementioned by lanes was expected to fly off towards the sun, not unlike icarus. that flight was expected to deposit the young, just-out-of-college person into the acme of academe, aka america. no one worth his or her salt (forgive me, but i can’t handle pronouns) thought of any other life choice.

in my street, every building had at least one person spending in dollars. they were all gifted with bulging foreheads, laser focus, and a burning desire to shorten their names from makarand to mak, or mark. the makarands made their mark with degrees that had more alphabets than meta. then, got into that safest of professions – tenured professorships – and proceeded to scrape off everything remotely shivaji park from their skin and soul.

unlike most houses around the park, our house was a tiny one room + kitchen. what is called a “studio” in today’s real estate patois. it was to port of the building entrance and faced the stern of the building opposite us. not quite a view, but then who wanted a view when shivaji park in all its glory was just abaft the building wall.

this space was where my parents made a home for their 3 children. and any number of family who visited, from places near and far. it was bright, resonated with laughter, bulged to breaking point with books, redolent with the smell of good food for which my mother was known.

from this house, my parents got their children educated, and encouraged me to dream beyond the three steps leading into the family room. being directionally challenged, i decided to go northwest instead of west. to france. and from france on a journey that took me to 12 countries and a life and career that has had many highlights (yet another blog).

in the early years of the 21^st century, the parentage and baggage including their last-born moved to a bigger house. in the ‘burbs of Mumbai. across the rubicon, verily. the house was three times the size of the shivaji park house. my parents had their own bedroom. and didn’t have to share the bathroom with the neighbours. this house is a testament to their quiet desire and tenacity to do better with the cards they were dealt with.

i left the shivaji park house. but the “studio” architecture didn’t leave me. by default or divine design, i ended up living in studio sized apartments wherever I dropped anchor. i only coped because the mind had been broadened by vilayet.

a score and two years after I left the shivaji park house, i went back. the house is empty, its walls tired and cracked with age. the entire building looks like methuselah on his last legs.

i felt as empty as the house. nothing stirred inside, nothing choked me up. what I did feel was wonder that the parentage and siblings made this somewhat grotty space sparkling and vibrant. and how all of us dared to dream and made those dreams come true.

it’s never the size of the house. it’s the size of the dreams you carry out of it.

Foreign countries can be closer than you think!

A food vlog on Bhutan brought back memories of my first trip abroad.

I was a wee stripling in shorts, oversized glasses, and a pronounced bias towards food, and lots of it. I didn't tip the scales as much as inflicted grievous bodily harm on them.

The father figure decided to celebrate my "coming of age" - I turned 12 that year - by sending me as far away as it was possible in those days. His younger brother, aka my uncle, was planning a family trip to the east of the dear country. I was added as supernumerary, one.

The uncle was a larger than life figure for us striplings. He had a tremendous sense of humour, ran the largest dairy brand in the country, and had an appetite for life that to me was the next best thing after daal and rice. A trip with him and family, which included my aunt (naturally) and 2 siblings in a similar age bracket to mine, sounded about right to a lad whose longest trip had been to the other end of Jamnagar.

Most of the itinerary was a secret - hushed discussions between the adults, furtive glances at paper tickets, and so on - but it was made known that the first leg would cover Calcutta and North Bengal.

The flight from Bombay to Calcutta was cancelled - a rather ominous start to a holiday über alles! The replacement flight was delayed repeatedly, and we finally landed in Calcutta at midnight.

The flight had several firsts - my first airplane trip, my first glimpse of the departure side of an airport, my first wide-eyed stare at an airhostess, my first airline meal (I asked the airhostess if I could have a second one, setting the tone for many such negotiations in the future), and my first experience of air turbulence. Not something I recommend on a full stomach.

It was also the farthest east I had travelled - Santacruz East having been the most I had travelled eastwards till then.

After a week of decadent travel, food, and sightseeing across Calcutta, Siliguri, Kalimpong and Darjeeling, the uncle called for a Round Table. In grave tones, and a look to match, he announced that the morrow would bring forth an experience that would enrich our young, growing minds no end. We were going to a foreign country!

Being a geeky sort of lad, with an inordinate interest in collecting bits and pieces of random information (continues to this day), I knew that going to a foreign country required a passport! Which I didn't have. The fear of abandonment immediately raised its head - did the others have passports? Would I be left behind? Should I have made a will, leaving all I possessed (particularly my spectacles, of whom I was very fond) to charity? My aunt shushed me, and said "We don't need a passport where we are going". My natural and sometimes pesky curiosity egged me on to ask about our destination, and the uncle said "We are going to...Bhutan!"

The next day we drove from Siliguri to the border of India and Bhutan. A lump formed in my throat at this imminent departure from the country of my birth. Even if it was only for two days. Would I return a changed lad? Would I develop a worldview? And most importantly, would I develop an accent?

The "border" wasn't there.

We just continued driving without being stopped by fierce-looking soldiers bristling with weaponry. There was nothing but a goat chewing placidly on some old trousers. The only indication that we were in a different country was a milestone that read "Phuntsholing - 30 kms".

Bhutan. Exotic. Closed to the world for the longest time. Pristine. Untouched by tourists. But open to Indians. Without passports. Just come in. Tashi Delek!

My first foreign crossing felt more like crossing the road to go to my library than a Vasco da Gama-esque voyage across heaving seas, facing strong winds and unknown dangers.

I do not remember much of that trip but I do recall the hotel we stayed in was called "Tashi Delek", and that I had a stomach upset from a surfeit of lychees. Love the stuff!

I did not develop an accent. I did develop a respect for hill people, and a love for Calcutta that continues to this day.

I crossed many borders in later years, in "developed economies" (Europe) and "growth economies" (sub-Saharan Africa). All were road borders. But the contrast was as startling as night and day. Borders in Europe are nothing more than a truck-stop or a pretty hedge. Just miles and miles of roads, with no sign of any outpost or border control. The only true borders, where documentation is demanded and scrutinized with the zeal of the truly converted, are at airports.

Road borders in sub-Saharan Africa are a seething mass of humanity - vendors of curiously shaped food rubbing shoulders with soldiers brandishing full armories. Crossing one of these borders demanded presence of mind, several packets of cigarettes as facilitators, and the patience to negotiate passage without parting with several large denomination bills.

Over time, my view of border crossings changed.

At twelve the thought of a border crossing was hair-raisingly exciting.

In adulthood, it's just another man-made inconvenience.

I look forward to a time when crossing a border requires only a return ticket and a promise of good behaviour.

And perhaps a goat placidly chewing on some old trousers.

Happy 70th to the parentage

Three score and 10 years ago today, a shy (I think), docile (I think) and pretty (no doubt at all!) lady entered into holy matrimony with a rather cocky (I am convinced), confident (no doubt there) and darkly handsome (any doubts at all?) gentleman. Eight years after the country gained independence, this couple agreed to give up a measure of their independence to plight their troth and tread the walk of life (no apologies to Mr. Knopfler!) together, hand in  hand.

Over the years that followed, this couple did what married couples usually do. They produced a brace of daughters,  and (rather unexpectedly, at least to the subject himself) a son, the gentleman engaged in a profession that got in the daily bread and eventually allowed him to lead a quiet, peaceful and relatively relaxed retired life. 

They also became proud and happy grandparents, and like all doting grandparents, considered the grandchildren to be better products than the children.

But this was the routine, textbook part. There was a side to this couple that is not always seen in married couples. Something that kept them glued to each other for 63 years of matrimony. And that something was not something that could be defined, articulated or expressed. One had to just...sense it.

That something was the unspoken happiness and comfort of just being together. Of things being done for each other almost automatically because each was so finely tuned to the other. That unspoken sense of knowing if something was right or not right with the other. Even when they argued with each other (have you seen two Scorpios, one a lawyer, the other a proud daughter of a feisty mother, jousting with each other? It's a sight to behold!), they still managed to keep a sense of comradeship.

Their life was not an easy one. The struggles to manage a family on a limited income, managing hereditary and acquired health conditions, the challenges of being part of extended families on both sides, all kept this couple on its toes. Their married home was tiny by any standards, and to fit in 5 people would have been a task to beat Hestia. But they managed. The coped. They not only kept the immediate family happy and well-fed, they opened the house to any number of visitors, domestic and international, and made sure they were well looked after. Mom is an excellent cook, and to her, feeding a brood is the closest to heaven.

They were not give to PDA. In fact, the gentleman asked the son to procure flowers for their 50th wedding anniversary - saying he had work to do! Needless to say, this daft enterprise was nipped in the bud and the matter addressed through some excellent staff work by the son (he called the florist and got him to deliver flowers to the lady as a "surprise by her mate").

But there were moments when their affection for each other shone through loud and clear. And never mind who saw it.

And then one Sunday evening the gentleman decided to shuffle off. Into that other dimension where we all land up eventually. The lady, outwardly a quiet doe, showed her inner steel. She coped. And continued with her routines. The marriage didn't end just because one half went walkabout. The conversations still happen - they're just more muted, more implicit, unspoken whispers under the comforting memories of their times together. 

Happy 70th mom and dad. Marriages are made in heaven. But you made your paradise right here on earth.