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 independance, 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.

No More, No Less

A door opened. A shaft of bright light shone through.

Why hello Pops! What’s up?

Nothing much. Thought I would look in on you. See what you are doing.

Ah. You know how it is. Wondering when the long night will end.

The day follows the night, you know.

Heck, Pops, I didn’t know you followed Dire Straits!

Well, over here you follow a lot of things. I was telling your granddad the other day…

Hey, you met him? That’s cool, Pops! How is he? Did he recognise you?

He’s good. Not aged a day since he came over! And why shouldn’t he recognise me? He sired me after all! I even meet your grandmom every day. She still tends to confuse me with one or the other of your uncles.

Hehe yes I guess so. You all were quite a handful, weren’t you!

ARE a handful, laddie. Things don’t change just because we’re on a different side! But enough about me. Tell me, how are you? Are you still spending money like there’s no tomorrow? When will you learn to save money? Plan for the future?

Pops, the future is as the night. Dark, cold, and bottomless. So, what’s the point of saving money? What’s the point of anything, for that matter?

And that’s where you are wrong. Never thought rationally. God knows how many times I used to tell you to think, ponder, and not just talk. But you didn’t ever listen. And for that matter, what are you doing about your weight? I have told you a thousand times, if not more, that you need to control your weight.

Pops, chill. Relax. I AM looking after myself. And don’t you worry about my weight. Like I used to keep telling you, I have a V-shaped body. Only, it’s an inverted V.

Very funny.

Why Pops! I didn’t you know you had a sense of humour! Developed it over there, did you?

If you only knew, young man! I was known in my circles over there for my wit and humour. Ask your mom and sisters.

Talking of your circle, how are they all? They must have been surprised to see you trundling in!

Umm, not really. As you said in your message that day, the inevitable is well, inevitable. So, the folks over here, with the wisdom granted to them because of their change in status, expected me sooner or later. And well, there I was, one fine evening!

Look Pops, any chance of your coming back? There’s a lot I need to talk to you about. A lot to DO with you! I need you to read my book and tell me if I should continue. I want to….

I haven't gone anywhere. I am still around. Just in a different form. A thought, a memory. No more, no less. And hey, I put that idea of writing in your fat head! So, I obviously want you to continue. At least listen to me now! Instead of being like Balaam’s Ass.

Quit with the classical allusions Pops. Speaking of which, did you meet Plum?

Not yet. It’s too crowded over here, and there’s a long line of people waiting to meet him. But I will meet him eventually. I do have all the time now, you see! Eternity and all that y'know.

Yes, eternity is a rather long time...

Look, I need to go. It’s too hot here. And too noisy. It’s so much better over there, though your uncles could learn to talk a little less loudly. But I suppose it's too late for that! You look after yourself. And everybody at home. Spend more time with everybody. And don’t you worry about me. I will be around. You only have to think of me, and I will be there. In your fat head. And go for walks! Don’t laze around in front of the television.

Right then, Pops. Thanks for dropping by, and for the free advice. Guess some things don’t change, whichever side you may be on! Keep in touch. And hey, wait! The next time round, I want to hear the story of the Jamsaheb of Nawanagar and the Morris Minor...

The light dimmed and disappeared. The door closed.

Quizzes: questionable activity or a quest for answers?

It’s an addiction. Children, teens, young adults, adults. Male, female, cisgender, non-gender, whatever. Everyone can get addicted to it. Because this activity has nothing to do with age, sex, appearance, or socio-economic backgrounds. Success in this activity depends entirely on your ability to recall random information instantly, and the “pre-ability” to absorb and store arbitrary factoids in a dark(ish) recess of your mind.

This addiction is called a Quiz. A four-letter word, which like all four-letter words, promises infinite possibilities. It binds together people from varied backgrounds, walks of life (yes, that’s Knopfler – a quiz question for newbies) and food preferences. All united by the urge to pit their grey cells against a Being – the Quiz Master.

The origins of the activity, and the word itself, are hazy. Surprisingly for the subject matter, no one really knows how the word “quiz” came about, what was the first quiz question (I would have thought “To Be Or Not To Be”, that would be the question), who won the first ever quiz, and so on. One would have imagined that this primordial question would have been answered by the myriad quizzards dotted about the planet. But alas, ‘tis not to be. Theories abound, but no irrefutable sources (the bedrock of any quiz) are available. The mystery is huge, and to delve into the various theories would be the equivalent of several Christie novels. Of course, along the way you might learn the name of the first actor to play Hercule Poirot on television.

Quizzing is a hugely popular British Question. It seems to be most prevalent in the Mother Country and her many ex-colonies. In India (Jewel Of The Crowd, sorry Crown), quizzing is a particularly raucous and heated activity in the eastern and southern parts, though the western part does hold its own! Kolkata especially is a hotbed of questionable activities, with children being taught to read and absorb varied bits of trivia as soon as they can say “Ilish”. The north seems to be stuck on “Who invented Chicken Tikka Masala?” (Disclaimer: this is my perception and is not backed by verifiable facts).

The Brooklyn Eagle Quiz on Current Events (a quiz on an American radio channel started in 1923) is widely considered to be the first ever “quiz show”. This has degenerated into macabre, dystopian shows such as the Spelling Bee (in which young students, usually of South Asian origin, are asked to spell words like Appoggiatura and Smaragdine) and “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" (where answers are exchanged for…money!)

The acme of quizzing as an activity for pure intellectual satisfaction, with no lucre involved, is no doubt Mastermind, aired on the BBC. With its classic line “I’ve started, so I will finish” (inspired no doubt by Nelson just after the first shot at Waterloo), the show is capable of reducing the most erudite contestants to sweaty, blubbery, blobs of unanswered questions. The mother country also has another quiz variable – the Pub Quiz. Burns and Shorter had no idea how wildly successful their idea would become as a marketing strategy when they launched it in 1976. More on this in a later post.

But what is it about quizzing that fascinates people so much? There is no single answer. But to me, quizzing is a lot like life itself. Lots of questions. You know the answers to some questions, you get the answers to some questions from others, and you leave at the end with several questions unanswered.

College is a collage

 

“College” is not just a building with classrooms and gowned and capped scholars kicking down the cobble stones (yes, Paul, it’s your line). It is a stage of life that some fortunate children pass through. “Fortunate children” because not every child can do the college phase for various reasons. I exclude those who voluntarily drop out because they found a way of making a billion. Dollars.

A college is a pastiche of myriad stimuli. It is an institution of higher learning, it is a hub of culture, the source of information on the first shave, and gives the first taste of a freedom that does not exist in school. Even in today’s woke culture where kids go back to school with designer clothes, mobile phones that look like a space shuttle controller, and machine guns.

My college was down the road from my school. The environment was familiar, as was the trudge. It was supposedly one of the better bastions of academe for both the sciences and the liberal arts. We were of course part of the liberal, longhaired set. No complex equations or test tubes for us (that freedom I mentioned above…). The sylvan neighbourhood contained the usual confused mix of communities, and merchants catering to said communities.

My first day in college was unnerving, to put it mildly. I was trained in the navigation of complex & large human gatherings (aka crowds) thanks to my school, but nothing had prepared me for the intricate social conundrum that I – a plump, moon-faced, bespectacled lad - faced. To begin with I was in civvies – no uniforms in college. The outfit I had chosen was a hand-me-down pair of trousers and a shirt that looked like it had escaped from a 70s Bollywood movie – pointy collar and all. Most difficult for someone used to a uniform.

The classroom was a sea of female shapes, and I wondered if the college was actually an all-girls institution, and someone had pulled one on me. However, I stiffened the sinews, shot the cuffs, and entered as nonchalantly as I could. The female faces turned as one to stare at this blot who had dared sully their temple.

I walked rather stiffly to the last row and sat on one of the benches that looked like a refugee from some not-so-fussy prison. The professor (“teachers” in school morph into “professors” in college) – again a lady – marched into the room and I could sense the bonhomie between the female faces and the lady professor. A sisterhood against the male blot on the back bench. The professor took attendance (guess it was too early to withdraw all school habits). At the end of the exercise, I realised with a feeling of horror that I was the only male in the class.  A rock in a sea of one hundred and five mermaids. I would have called it quits right then if it wasn’t for a few familiar faces in the merry throng before me (more on that later). And I noticed a few sympathetic glances sent my way.

The day finally ended, and I trudged back home, prey to nameless fears about the future.

I will not get into the details of the next five years in this hallowed establishment of learning and literacy (acronymically speaking). Suffice to say that it shaped me, presented experiences that smoothened out the rough edges in my make-up, and helped me build friendships that have lasted to this day. I learned the exotic tribal art of “bunking”, a community activity that promotes camaraderie, leadership, and deep philosophy. Incidentally, the tribal leader who introduced me to bunking dropped out after two years and became a monk. Giving "bunking" a whole new, transcendental meaning.

I also learned how to manage the multiple social riddles that a hapless teen faces when thrown into the deep end without a ring. I learned the importance of managing freedom with responsibility, and the need to find someone to foot the bill for a restaurant sandwich.

And most importantly, I learnt the difference between a school and a college. In school, one absorbs knowledge. In college, one absorbs life.

School, or A Witch’s Den?

 

‘tis the Season Of Learning. In other words, School’s In after the summer break. In many geographies, the new school year starts in September. In some, it starts in April in a desultory manner, especially in those latitudes where summer is not so much bright sunshine as the very real risk of sunburn / dehydration, but the full circus starts in September. In a few countries, school starts in June. I come from one such country.

I have never much liked rain. “Wet outside” is not my ideal state of being. This dislike (“hate” is too strong a word) was compounded by having to go to school in what meteorologists describe as “convective cloud formation associated with rainfall and fresh winds with a speed of 40 km/hr over some areas”. In short, the combination of intemperate weather and the need to gain what education one could gain produced one very damp and sodden student. Which darkened my views on that most noble of institutions – the school recess. (Read more on my thoughts on rain here).

I went to a school which took “mass education” very literally. There were over 3,000 students at any given time in the complex, absorbing knowledge in 3 languages. Each grade (1st to 10th) had over 10 “divisions” labelled alphabetically (A, B, C…), and each division had at least 60 students. Do the maths. Assemblies in my school resembled one of those parades on Red Square. This also meant that one could go into any division and not be turfed out for being in the wrong room, because the teacher had no means of knowing who was supposed to be where.

What about Roll Call, you ask? A non-utilitarian concept meant for effete schools with under 20 students per “division”. Usually found in the South of one’s hometown.

I was a rather shy and reserved lad in the pre-teen and teen years. The onset of visual aids at an early age, the need to wear shorts as part of the uniform even after the voice had broken, and a stammer, all combined to make me crave that “Solitude, where we are least alone” (per George, Lord Byron). The situation was compounded by the fact that the school was a “mixed” school, i.e., it provided gainful education to boys and girls. Simultaneously. In the same room! Imagine the plight of a wee lad, unaccustomed to the company of strange ladies, forced to engage in education with skirted beings assembled to starboard and giggling under their frilly lace handkerchiefs.

The divisions were built around an invisible caste system, wherein the bright students were in the first three divisions, and the rest were arithmetically divided into the balance divisions. That was rather mean on average students like myself, with no access to brighter minds and kindly teachers who went over and above the call of duty to drill knowledge into brains whose neurons fired so frantically that they almost made the students keel over.

I struggled to understand most of the education that was fired like cannon shells at myself, and this led to my being enrolled in a phenomenon called “private tuition”, which merits a full post by itself. Mathematics and Science were beyond the pitiful limits of a brain more attuned to words and a fantasy world where there was no need to explain why A squared + B squared equalled C squared. I mean, why?? And what was I going to do with the knowledge that inert gases were not what I thought they were?

But the years passed by, through rain and shine. In 9th grade I managed to slip into the C division because I took French as a 3rd language (bless the French, I always say). One’s ego and sense of self-worth inflated like a balloon filled with the best helium money could buy. By the way, for the non-Indians reading this, most Indians are at least trilingual by the time they leave school. Many are pentalingual. Which adds a lot of depth and flavour to our arguments. And which speaks volumes about the quality of education in our schools.

In spite of the trials and tribulations I went through, I did manage to rise through the ranks and clear each grade with reasonably decent results, all thanks to the tenacity and determination of the schoolteachers to hammer in reams of education into receptive or unreceptive cerebrums (somethings do stick from Biology…).

And finally, one glorious April day, in spite of being in classrooms full of the slings and arrows of outrageous education (sorry Bill), I managed to scrape through the 10th grade and pass out (feet first) with an honourable discharge. And went on to a rite of passage called College.

So, in short, school was what Bill meant when he said, “Hell Is Empty And All The Devils Are Here”. But it had its compensations. Like the relief one felt on leaving it, and the knowledge that come what may, I did not have to go back to school.

Little did I know that I was entering a school called Life! Where "We are all just prisoners here of our own device". Guess Don also went to a kind of Dotheboys Hall.

The Name's Bond. Raksha Bond-han

 

It’s that time of the year in the native when ladies, under the guise of a festival called “Raksha Bandhan” (Securing Security), extract protection money from their brothers. Yes, Yes, I know it should be the other way round – the sisters paying the bros for their protection – but I suppose the ladies didn’t get the memo from Il Consigliere! Or they ignored it – sisters can identify a good deal when it lands on their laps.

There are many stories and tales about the origin of this festival, and most natives know most of them, so we shall not get into that. Robustly cultural, the festival takes on different hues and different emotions for all of us. To the extent of pushing the boundaries of siblinghood to “Orally Anointed Brother / Sister” who are not biologically related but are emotionally tied in a bond that transcends ages. There was also that theory, propagated in textbooks across schools in the native, that “all Indians are my brothers and sisters”, thereby questioning the sanctity of another relational matrix. Thankfully, it was ignored. This festival is also useful for converting amorous males into deflated siblings – the orally anointed variety.

I have a number of sisters across the Family Line. Most are elder to me, save one, who is not only the youngest, but is also the Brat of the family. From an era when brats were (and are) much loved siblings. Growing up with this band of sisters was an incredible experience. Not only were they a window to a world of possibilities, but they were also a shield from that self-same world when it became a bit too heavy for one’s frail shoulders.

One lamented the fact that these sisters went into a new world and relationships after marriage, but thankfully the gents who took away our sisters were kind-hearted enough to allow the bonds to continue and prosper. Of course, knowing our sisters, the gents didn’t have much of a choice. “Fait accompli” is a phrase coined expressly for sisters. And yes, the gents also had their sisters, who went into their own new worlds, and so the chain went on.

Over the years we bros have seen our sisters building bonds, creating families, taking on the multiple roles that are the lot of women everywhere. We have seen them managing joy, grief, stubbed toes, toilet training, illnesses, graduations, and myriad other peaks and troughs in their timelines. Always with a smile, sometimes with a frown and rarely with a glare. Incidentally, a sister’s glare is a red alert – something bad is usually afoot for the bro who has received the glare. The best solution for him would be to go off to the jungle and hide.

To my sisters, and to sisters everywhere, the bond shall neither be shaken nor stirred. The thread you tie stays firmly tied. And to the ladies who left their bros and came into our family, you only strengthen the ties.