Java anyone?

Every morning I drink one large mug of coffee. I make it exactly as I like it - extra strong and I savour it over the six daily newspapers I read. Page-to-page.

I was brought up watching my grandfather filtering coffee using a muslin cloth. He had one old black cast iron coffee grinder which was used every day to grind freshly roasted coffee seeds. At my parents’ home in Delhi we used a conventional stainless steel coffee filter. The coffee powder would be from Madras Stores, the saviour of all south Indians in the north. We then graduated to a coffee pot filter with spout launched by Coffee Board. However in Assam we faced a major problem as the only coffee powder available was tinned Polson’s French Coffee.

Much later, at Mysore I was told that the ideal coffee powder should be a blend of Peaberry and Plantation A. This to me was all Greek till I worked on a brochure for Coffee Board where I learnt all about Bababudan, Arabica and Robusta, stem borer, advantages of high range coffee, and Coorg coffee versus Chikmagalur coffee. One thing I definitely know, though it may sound blasphemous to some. I hate chicory in my coffee.

Thanks to my long stint in the IT industry which entailed international travel, my discovery of coffee strains encompassed the world. Though Brazil was the largest producer, the coffee aficionado swore by Colombian coffee. In fact, to me it came closest to Indian taste buds. I then explored coffee from Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Though the taste was uniformly good I couldn’t feel the ‘body’. A colleague suggested Kenyan coffee. Yes, it had a certain life but no patch on the strong Ethiopian one.

By now I had almost become a coffee fanatic. I read up everything one needed to know about coffee. From Starbucks I bought an electric coffee seed grinder. At Harrods in London I managed to get a hand grinder. I acquired an electric coffee maker, an espresso machine, a French Press and even a traditional Italian coffee percolator. By now my coffee seed stock included Sulawesi, a pretty strong one. My relatives and friends thought I was one of those mad scientists one reads about. They humoured me by bringing me gifts of coffee powder from various places. I had a Breakfast Blend, an Evening Blend and a Continental Blend. Dark Roast. Medium Roast. My wife complained that the whole house smelt of coffee (and she, poor misguided soul, is a tea drinker!)

There are times my reputation is a strain on me as friends drop in unannounced and expect me to serve them some exotic brew. But, whenever I want to get away from it all I walk across to the nearest Adiga's where a coffee is a coffee!

The other Narayan

A few days back I used a wedding invitation as an excuse to make a trip to Mysore. More than the function I wanted to generally wander around the city and touch base with familiar haunts of my student days.

The biggest incentive was to take a look at Lakshmipuram, the place where our ancestral home existed till a few years back.

My paternal grandfather was an Amildar in the state government. His was a transferable job and over the years he saw several postings. It was his intention to finally settle down in Mysore.

Circa 1915.Lakshmipuram was an aristocratic residential locality in Mysore, primarily for the relatives of the Wadiyars. A few plots were released for other prominent citizens. My grandfather bought a large corner site on 1st Main Road with a loan from the government. Unfortunately, he passed away after a bout of pneumonia before the bungalow could be completed. My grandmother oversaw the construction after that. My father was the only son but he was just an infant at that time.

It was tough for my grandmother over the next few years as her only source of income was from agricultural land. She could not afford to live in the bungalow so she and my father moved in to a small house a couple of miles away and rented out the huge family home for a monthly rental of Rs 20(yes!). When my father was grown up enough to understand situations she would bring him frequently to Lakshmipuram and point out his legacy and tell him that her wish was that one day he should occupy that house.

However, this story is not about my family. But, about one of the tenants who lived in that house.

In the early thirties an Iyer family moved in for a rental of Rs 40 per month. It was a rather large family and their source of income was limited. The main bread winner was a young man who had aspirations to be a writer. They struggled to pay the rent month after month. The tenant later on became world famous as an author. Yes, R K Narayan. Despite the fact that the bungalow was sitting  on a 15000 sq plot, in his autobiography, “My Days” RKN describes the place as: “We had to move on to a cheaper place in Laxmipuram (sic)….The house was smaller, less roomy…”. Perceptions sure vary!

The house had a small, narrow room without windows called the strong room. Presumably that is where the family jewels would be kept. For reasons unknown R K Laxman used that as his bedroom. 

RKN and his elder brother occupied one of the front-facing hexagonal bedrooms. The author describes this room thus: “Our room had a broad wooden staircase which led nowhere.” RKN sat with his typewriter on the top landing and typed his first play, Prince Yazid. This was more or less the beginning of his writing career. My father later sold the staircase for a good price as it was made from Burma teak. Decades later this same room was habitat for my wife and me.

I would love to think that some of RKN’s literary DNA was left behind in that room because straight from an engineering education I moved to a career in communications. While he wrote money-spinning novels, I ‘do’ blogs!

After postings all over India, my father retired from All India Radio in 1970 and decided to settle down in his inheritance. It took exactly 55 years for the house to become a home for the rightful owner.

Marriage merry-go-round

Last month we received by post an invitation for a wedding. Neither my wife nor I recognized any of the names on the card. Purely based on regional grounds we concluded that the invitation was from one of my wife’s relatives. I wanted to give the function a miss, but decided to accompany my wife to prevent her throwing any tantrum later. I told her a gift of Rs 101 would suffice for someone unknown. She insisted it should be at least Rs 501.At the wedding we did not see a single soul that we recognized. After greeting the bridal couple and handing over the envelope I insisted that we have lunch. When we returned home and saw the invitation cover I found that it was addressed to another Narayan living on the third floor.

Life was simple when we lived in Delhi and Hyderabad. We did not know anyone who was celebrating an upanayanam, wedding, or even a shastipoorthi. Our outlay on presents was zero. However, when we returned to Bangalore our pocket was hit rather hard. The presence of myriad relatives from both sides, and our hectic social life added considerable numbers to our list of friends and acquaintances. This automatically converted into expenses on presents. I am rather conservative with what I feel is a reasonable spend on gifts but my wife had other ideas. She claimed that our new found social status demanded a more liberal shelling out. 

Initially, I suggested a via media of gifting a bouquet as it seemed less expensive and also more stylish. However, at most functions we found our bouquet compared rather poorly with flower offerings from others. Nowadays, we prefer giving cash in an envelope as it is more convenient and discreet. When I go alone to a wedding of a stray acquaintance and see too big a queue in the reception line I quietly move away to the food area and later return home with the envelope safe and sound in my pocket.

I remember the time when my aunts and cousins were getting married. The favourite place to buy gifts was the friendly neighbourhood “Fancy Stores.” Depending on one’s budget one could buy anything from a photo frame to a fruit bowl to a lamp. Those days the most popular items were the aluminum Milk Boiler and the Rice Cooker, which let out an amorous whistle when done. I would also love to sit in on the elaborate ceremonial opening of the presents. Generally, an elderly male would be in charge of noting down the name of the giver against the gift. A collective sigh would be let out when multiple numbers of the same item, particularly the uninteresting ones, would be listed. These would later be repacked neatly for re-circulating.

When my wife and I sat down to open our presents soon after our marriage we were pretty excited to receive a couple of bone china tea sets and also a full porcelain dinner set. This was offset by a set of cheap plastic ice cream cups complete with plastic spoons with the handles moulded in the shape of scantily-clad women. After a bit of snooping we founded that it was gifted by a couple living down the road who had got married just three days before. Presumably, they wanted to get rid of that hideous item at the earliest. We had a tough time persuading our maid servant to take it off our hands.

As both my sons are married the chances of me receiving any gifts is, sadly, an historical past.

The Real Big Bull

My father was so scared of losing his meagre savings through banks collapsing that he divided the amount equally among five nationalized banks. I inherited his genes of financial conservatism.

In my early career I was invited to a lot of soirees at five star hotels. I was quite a misfit among the chiffon-clad, diamond dripping society women and the Christian Dior suited men. I was happy standing at a corner nursing my tomato juice till it was time to make a quiet exit.

A few years later I saw an ad in the newspaper for a course in “The Art of Small Talk”. I went through sessions on how to integrate with people whom I thought were more sophisticated than me. I was taught to read up on a subject just enough to start and hold a conversation. My focus was on some person called Harshad Mehta who was referred to as The Big Bull.

I devoured all the information available on the financial pages of dailies and magazines and was soon ready to be let loose on an unsuspecting P3 crowd. At the next party I joined a group of five people who were discussing the stock market. One worthy was talking about FMCG stocks. I butted in and said, “The future is in banking stocks. Harshad is very positive on SBI.”This immediately had the attention of the group. As the evening progressed I harped on the profits to be made on stocks in the metals and pharma fields. By now my audience had swelled to half the guests.

This continued for the next few years long after the worthy Mr. Mehta. By now I was clued in about Futures & Options, too. Invitations to parties increased manifold. At one gathering I distinctly heard a Brooks Brothers suited gentleman whispering, “There goes Bangalore’s Big Bull.”Thanks to the TV Business channels and the Internet, information was spouting out of both my ears and I switched over to another flavour of the season. At the next party a Neiman Marcus clad gentleman asked my opinion about shipping stocks. As if on cue I pontificated, “Stocks are passé. The direction to go is Commodities. The Rain Forests in Paraguay are being denuded. There will be a global shortage of Mentha Oil. There are millions to be made trading on that.”

My wife is paranoid about speculators sending goons after me to recover their losses. I have not put in a paisa of my own in any of these activities all these years. I still live in my modest apartment in Jayanagar. And, yes whatever little money I have saved is safe and sound in State Banks of India.

Ripe with age.

At every stage each one of us goes through various issues of ageing. Or rather the issue of handling one’s age.

I remember at school we always claimed that we were older than we really were. This would be particularly true when we neared our teens. Reaching teenage seemed to be some kind of a hallowed landmark to be attained at the earliest. The next stage was claiming that one was eighteen to gain access to ‘A’ certified films at the cinema. We generally tried to change our hairstyle or darken our non-existent moustache to fool the usher.

However, after that we seem to ‘age’ a little slower. How often have we seen sportspersons or film stars not progressing beyond 21 long after their contemporary courted matrimony or parenthood? Perception of ageing also varies from region to region. When we moved to Delhi my wife was still in her early twenties. She felt insulted when the young medical shop owner addressed her as aunty. She still was not convinced even when I explained to her that being a married woman she had graduated to a hallowed titled.

Thirties is one of those anonymous decades. Everyone seems to be too busy to think too much. When a man reaches forty he becomes the butt of standard jokes like ‘you will now become naughty at forty’. I was always puzzled why I celebrated my fortieth birthday in style but my girl cousins who were my age never reached that landmark. In the forties is when one also starts asking philosophical questions like “Where am I heading?”; “Have I reached where I wanted to be?” That is also the time the wife is too busy to give you attention as she is busy with the children’s public exams

The fifties are like the thirties. One concentrates on work and the financial security for the future as time is running out. By this time the wealth managers of financial institutions are chasing you offering mouth-watering returns for your impending retirement. That is when you realize that you haven’t saved enough even to invest. This is the best time to attend college old students’ gatherings. You realize that everyone is in the same boat. I remember at one reunion I was wondering what I was doing among such old men till I realized they were my generation.

The fun starts after this. One gets thrilled when one gets platitudes. You are retired? Oh, you must have taken VRS. You are sixty? You must be joking! Is that really your grand daughter? You must have got married in your teens. Never dispute such statements. But, ultimately a man is brought down to earth. Recently I was caught jumping a traffic signal near Corporation. The cop took one look at me and said in Kannada, “Sir, why all this at your age. You should be at home relaxing.”

Always on the groom's side

Owing to some eccentricity in our ancestral genes, there was no female birth in our family for almost a century. The only women additions were through the entry of daughters-in law. This meant that the behaviour pattern among the males tended to be towards a degree of arrogance. It is a regular refrain from the incoming spouses that men in our family seem to be excessively independent and tend to do ‘their own thing’. This mismatch also meant that we were always representing the groom’s side at all family marriages and were automatically upgraded to ‘preferred guest’ status.

I decided to correct this anomaly and last month offered to be the Chief-of-Staff for the wedding of my classmate’s daughter. He readily accepted my suggestion. I had no clue on how to be a bride’s party member so I went for advice to my colleague who had successfully married off three daughters. Ignore the bridegroom’s parents and concentrate on his aunts and uncles, was his advice. According to him trouble starts from there. Also, make sure the coffee is hot. That is the trigger point for all complaints, he added.

It was now time to take the bridegroom for his trousseau. I suggested we go to a venerable tailoring establishment on Commercial Street who had stitched my wedding suit. It was nixed as being old fashioned. We then went to a designer store on Lavelle Road. The design as well as the cost made me cringe but I was not the final authority on this, so I let it pass.

I later paid a visit to the groom’s family to get their suggestions on the catering. The boy’s mother told me that vada and payasam should be a compulsory part of the menu. This put me in a fix. They were from one of the neighbouring states where these items were the norm on all auspicious occasions, but in my family vadas were prepared and served only during not-so- happy occasions. The caterer used his ingenuity to overcome this hiccup by suggesting that the item be in the shape of a bonda.

As the wedding day neared I was running ragged. The bride’s father had conveniently gone on a foreign tour and I was literally left holding his baby. One day I got a call from the groom’s sister wanting to know where the sangeet was going to be held. What sangeet, I asked? The phone went dead. A few minutes later the bride’s mother called me and said that the groom’s family was very upset and had felt insulted? I defended myself by saying that nobody had informed me about any sangeet being organized. Luckily the bride and her pals took care of all the arrangements. My job was to use influence with my service officer friends to get ‘hot’ beverages at a concession for the function.

My travails are too long to be recorded. However, after packing off the newlyweds  to Macau, here I am sitting on my La-Z-Boy feeling proud of my achievement and ready to offer my expertise, gratis to parents of prospective brides. Any takers?