Mother Merry!

 

It’s your birthday today. As birthdays go, it’s a weekday, but for you it’s a special one. You are celebrating a milestone that not too many people reach.

What do I write about a mother who has seen me as a snotty-faced kid, as a chubby, bespectacled youth without direction, and as a bearded man who writes about wines (couldn’t you find something better like buttermilk?)? What do I write about a mother who effortlessly brought up three children in a tiny house, coped with an irascible mate who was like putty in front of her, and who dotes on her grandchildren and the children of all her nephews and nieces like her own? What do I write about a wizard cook who made even the simplest dal-chawal into something Michelin inspectors might fight over?

Know what? I won’t really write about all that. Nor will I write about how you maintained a stoic façade when I left home for a better future. I will write about how you find joy in the smallest of things. I will write about how you love to feed everyone who visits. And I will struggle to put into words that feeling of emptiness I get when I end my call to you, even though we spent the entire call gossiping about some distant cousin of yours, who I have never met. Although I know I will be calling you again in a day or two. Simply because I want to hear you laugh at my terrible jokes.

You have seen highs and lows. You are my go-to when I just want to hang out with someone who doesn’t despair at seeing me wearing shorts. You are the inspiration for those moments of despair, those periods of stagnation when I ask myself questions to which I don’t have answers. You are the person who gives my day a reason to get out of bed.

I wait for those days when we both are chilling on the swing at home, knocking back a cuppa, and I badger you about what’s for lunch. But you just had breakfast! Why don’t you do something about your weight!

Happy birthday mom. They don’t make ‘em like you anymore. They never did.

Happy birthday to the guv'nor!

 

The guv'nor would have clocked 96 summers today. An earthly life well spent, and eternity in the company of those who accompanied him on his journey here.

Happy birthday, pops. We will celebrate with a wee dram!

And we are still waiting for that story of the Morris Minor 😀

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.