Bertie learns a lesson in modernity.

“I say, Jeeves”.

“Sir?”

“A rather rummy thing happened this morning.”

“Indeed sir?”

“I had toodled across to Fortnum’s to buy a tin of Ceylon tea. I came out and turned right to hoof it to Piccadilly Circus as the weather was rather balmy. There was this poor waif standing outside the entrance. A rather pretty girl, I must say. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten for several days, she was rather on the skinny side, you know. Her clothes were rather shabby with her trousers frayed and with tears on the knees. I took pity on her and handed over a quid.”

“That was very kind of you sir.”

“But wait, you know what the bally girl did? She chucked it back at me and flounced off saying something that sounded like ‘You Creep.’ You think a quid wasn’t sufficient?”

“Rather strange reaction, sir.”

“Pardon me sir; was she wearing trousers that were indigo blue in colour?”

“Hmm, it was a sort of blue. But what does it matter what colour her trousers were?”

“Sir, if I guessed right the young lady in question was wearing what are euphemistically referred to as jeans. They are made from a blue fabric called denim derived from the French serge de Nîmes, referring to the city of Nîmes. I am given to understand, Sir that it is the latest fashion with the younger generation to wear jeans that are frayed at the bottom and have tears on the knees.”

“But she looked as if she hadn’t eaten for days.”

“Sir, may I draw your attention to this chapter in the latest edition of ‘Milady’s Boudoir’ that bemoans the latest fashion trend among the modern young girl to what is called the ‘Size Zero’ look.

“You mean, Jeeves that the girl wasn’t a waif in need of succour? Did I make what do you call it, something that starts with a ‘b’?

“Precisely, sir. Perhaps the word you are looking for is the modern term for an embarrassing mistake, what the Americans call ‘a boo boo’?

Our conversation was interrupted  by the continuous ringing of the doorbell. Jeeves opened the door and in rushed the two blots on the family escutcheon, my cousins Claude and Eustace.

“I say Bertie, where is your comp, we need it rather urgently,” said Claude.

“What comp? What is a comp, Jeeves?”

“The young gentleman is referring to a modern machine called a computer. It refers to a general purpose device that can be programmed to carry out a set of arithmetic or logical operations automatically. I understand that a certain British gentleman called Charles Babbage is referred to as the ‘Father of the Computer’”.

Eustace piped up, “spare the details, Jeeves. Lead us to the comp. Our classmate, Dog-face Rainsby is in New York and stood in the queue the whole night and managed to get his hands on the latest Apple. He wants to show it to on Skype.”

“You blisters what on earth do you want to see an apple from New York. You get perfectly good ones in Covent Garden.”

Eustace looked pityingly at me and said, “Bertie you really live in the past don’t you?”

“Sir, may I explain. The young gentlemen are referring to what is called, a mobile phone. Perhaps their friend in New York wants to display a popular model manufactured by an American company called Apple.”

“Jeeves, my head is beginning to throb. Get me a w & s.”

Just then the phone rang. Jeeves picked it up and I could hear the bellowing voice of My Aunt Dahlia.

Jeeves handed over the instrument,"Mrs. Travers for you, sir.”

Before I could say anything my aged relative shouted, “You spineless little worm, what are you doing hiding away in London. I want you to go to Paris immediately.”

“Whh why?” I stammered.

“Because I said so. Your Uncle Travers is throwing a fit as someone has purloined his porringer and has refused to fund ‘Milady’s Boudoir’ till I get him a replacement. There is one in Paris with Monsieur Poirot. Cosh him one and pilfer the damn thing or an aunt’s curse will befall you.”

And she hung up.

“Jeeves, what time is the next Boat Train? Pack my sea trunk for a week.”

“There is no need to take the ferry from Dover to Paris any more, sir. I will book you on the 0755 Eurostar from St. Pancras. You will reach Paris in a little over two hours and should be able to catch the 17.13 return train after your business is completed. You will be back home for supper.”

I had a glazed look on my face. All this was too much for me.

“Stop blabbering, Jeeves. What on earth is the Eurostar? You are aware that there is a body of water called the English Channel that separates the two countries.”

“The new train travels under the Channel, sir. Many people fondly refer to it as the Chunnel train as it passes through a tunnel under water. I will order an Uber to drop you to the station, sir.”

“Jeeves, what on earth is an Uber. Ok never mind. I need a stiff w & s.”

I was floating in the clouds, and I could hear a faint voice saying, “Sir, may I bring your tea?”

I woke up groggily and could see the shimmering sight of Jeeves with a tray. I shook my head and said, “Jeeves I just had a very bad nightmare. Do you know….forget it. You will never believe me.”

Domestic issues

The state government recently issued guidelines for recommended wages to household domestic s. I am afraid the mandarins in the secretariat were ignorant of the ground situation when they fixed a rate of Rs 224/- per eight hour day. This constituted all work including taking care of a child. I reckon they did not consult any housewife before making the decision.

For several years we had one maidservant who practically handled all activity. Unfortunately she pushed her luck a bit too much with her boss, my wife which resulted in her being given the pink slip. Since then, my house has been overrun by a bevy of female domestics. We have a 24 hour maid; a morning maid; an evening maid; and a cook. Obviously, this has played havoc with my routine and I have been confined to my study most of the time.

A couple of months back when my wife and I were on an extended holiday in London, politics reared its ugly head in a so far peaceful household. Thanks to her superior designation, the cook had become the self-appointed head of the worker clan and she was also giving the general work orders. Somewhere down the line, the morning and evening maids seemed to have had a conflict-of-duties disagreement that simmered till our return. The morning domo who had her lunch at our place for the last two years also seemed to suddenly have developed a dislike for our cook’s creations and decided to eat at her afternoon employer’s house.

On returning, we could sense coolness in the overall atmosphere of our employees. Panicking at the situation, my wife followed an age old corporate formula and declared a ‘loyalty bonus’ to all of them, plus some gifts from London. Peace reigned after that.

That men in our family have problems with domestics also has a historical perspective. After my father retired from service and settled down in Mysore there was a need for a cook. Based on recommendation, an old lady came on board. Unfortunately, she happened to have served in my father’s household when he was still a youngster. She took this old connection rather seriously and made herself at home, including having her afternoon siesta on our drawing room couch. However, what bugged my father was her regular commentary to my mother about the episodes from his younger days. At an opportune moment he found a valid excuse and packed her off.

My wife is always on tenterhook when one of our staff will defect, as there is a big demand in our apartment complex and cases of poaching with enhanced lucre are quite common. Further, she may need to find a substitute for our morning maid who has recently got hitched to a guy whom she claims is a ‘parantha expert’.

In this nebulous situation, as the only male member in a household of seven, domestics included, the only loyal associate I have is my computer. Somehow we manage to go through the day.

Click.Buy.Pay.

I am in trouble. Deep trouble. I have been diagnosed with an incurable disease called ‘onlineshopitis’, and it is becoming worse day by day. But, this is not something that happened overnight.

As a teenager I used to see advertisements released by two correspondence course institutes in a well-known, but now defunct, weekly. Without bothering about the consequences I cut the enclosed coupons and posted it to the colleges. About ten days later the postman brought two big bundles containing the prospectus and application forms. A couple of weeks later a further letter came inquiring about my application. This continued for some more time with the institutes wanting to know whether the fees were too high and offering me a concession. By now I was in a blue funk expecting the authorities to land up at our door step. Luckily, the institutes soon gave up on me.

Soon after I got a job, I seemed to have got on the mailing list of a well-known monthly magazine. I started receiving direct mailers from them saying that I was in the shortlist to win sweepstakes worth crores of rupees. Who was I to fight fate. With the sight of currency notes floating in front of my eyes I subscribed to the magazine. Well, I presume someone somewhere must have won the sweepstakes, but definitely not I. But did I learn a lesson from this? Definitely not. Soon I subscribed to a weekly where I received a shoddy toolkit. Then another one where the promised bag looked nothing like in the picture. Now I am awaiting a car bottle cooler that also has a radio. Meanwhile there are a lot of unwanted magazines in my house.

The internet has been my final downfall. It makes things so easy. I discovered this well-known American online apparel store. I started by ordering a pair of suede shoes. Then another. Now I have a whole lot of them in different hues and textures. But my ultimate purchase is something called all-weather clogs. These will keep me in good stead in case of a snowfall in Bangalore.

Now my sights are on the Indian e-commerce sites. My purchases have made the owners attract mind-boggling valuations. I mean which self-respecting, red blooded individual will let go the opportunity to receive five shirts for only Rs.999/-, when the original cost was nearly Rs. 10,000?The shirts are still lying unused in my cupboard. Then there was this mobile phone for just Rs. 2500/- that was an ‘exact’ replica of that iconic brand named after a fruit. Our dustbin bears testimony to the early demise of that instrument.

Today, I am well-equipped to face any eventuality of a breakdown of equipment in our house. Wireless routers, mobile phones, cameras, watches, Bluetooth speakers. My latest discovery is this site that sells spectacles. They are even offering the first frame free. So under different identities I have hoodwinked them and ordered reading glasses, distance one and even tinted glasses. One should never be caught unawares without specs!

Is there a cure for my disease? Let me check it online.

Indians everywhere

My wife and I have been ensconced in London for the last one month bonding with our 3 years old grandson.He and I have been discussing various important issues in life.He in his pure Brit accent and I in my multi-city Indian style.But with all that,we do share a liking for one item which he must have inherited from my genes:curd rice.

I have come across people of Indian origin  living in places far away in the midst of alien culture.It is not just the IT professionals and people who went for their higher studies, but ones from all walks of life.All with just one aim,how to create a better life for themselves and their family.Tales of Indian labourers being taken to Malaysia,Fiji,South Africa and the Caribbean in the early 20th century are quite well- known but you will  find our countrymen in other parts of the world,too.

Last year when my wife and I were in Hong Kong,the doorman at our  hotel was a young Sikh from Moga in Punjab.His father- in-law had moved to mainland China 40 years back and wanted a son-in-law from his own community.Now this doorman and his wife work in the same hotel and speak in Punjabi with one another.At home their children speak only Mandarin and wonder why their parents speak in such a 'difficult' language.

In Mauritius we found that some parts of the capital seem to be transplanted from the villages of Bihar.Most of the staff in our hotel spoke Bhojpuri albeit with a bit of a French accent.Many people from there regularly visit India to trace their roots.One of my Bangalore golfing friend's relative ran away from Palghat in the 30s and ended up as a priest at an Indian temple there and married a local girl.So now my friend is on a mission to trace out his overseas relatives.

My colleagues and I were in Shanghai some years ago and were soon struggling with the food. To our dismay the local restaurants had no clue what Gobi Manchurian was! By accident we traced out  a modest Chettinad restaurant. It was like manna from heaven drinking hot garlic rasam.

In 2011 we had gone on a trip to Great Yarmouth in Norfolk in the UK.My daughter-in-law had made the hotel booking on the internet.It was a pretty well known one with a typical British name.When we went to register on our arrival we were surprised to find that it was owned by a Punjabi family that ran a popular chain of Chinese restaurants in Delhi.Further,the steward was a Malayali boy who originally came to Britain to study nursing.

One of the interesting offshoots of this migration is the phonetic adaptation of Indian names. So we have Naidoo,Ramgoolam,Coomarasamy,etc.Imagine, if I had been one of those immigrants my name would have been spelt Narine!

Influence peddlers

One of the problems most of us have is that we do not consider a direct method of achieving our goal. Instead, we look at taking an intermediary’s help to solve our problem. Recently, I had to get a long-pending file to be moved at one of the government departments. I was told it would be more effective if I went through ‘contacts’. Obviously,that would come with a price tag.

In the USA they have legitimatized this process by accepting the concept of “Lobbying”. In fact there is a lot of money to be made, hence we have many out-of-office  American politicians also getting on to the bandwagon.

I have been exposed to the concept of ‘contacts’ over several decades but it varied from city to city. Delhi is the ultimate city for this activity thanks to it being the seat of government. Everybody and his uncle claims to have influence with the powers to be. Even for the Republic Day parade, contacts are invoked to get a pass for stands closest to the saluting base. However, the ultimate recognition is when one gets invited to soirees at foreign embassies. One story my mother would relate was the time my father was invited for dinner at the American Embassy and she got to shake hands with the 6ft 8 in tall Ambassador John Kenneth Galbraith.

Newspapers are full of stories of how senior bureaucrats and politicians refuse to vacate their sprawling bungalows in Lutyens Delhi.The fact is that there is a lot of 'effort' that needs to be put in to even get the allotment at that prime location in the first place

Hyderabad has a different ‘contact’ culture altogether. There it is either the politicians or the big business families. For some unknown reason I was thought to be influential within my organization so I  used to get calls from even Ministers requesting for jobs for their relatives. I asked one of my colleagues how one gets perceived as being influential. He gave a simple explanation. If I was standing next to my Chairman in our head office portico and I said something and he laughed, it was immediately construed that I was close to him. It is immaterial that the conversation may have been only regarding the quality of food in the cafeteria.

Bangalore has more an ‘I couldn’t care less’ culture. Thanks to the large migrant techie population, the need for any influence peddling becomes redundant except when some land sharks need rules changed for their pecuniary benefit. However, once a year there is a mad scramble to invoke past relationships and favours done. This is when signatures have to be collected for club membership application forms.

Now that I have retired I am off the radar for anyone wanting any help. Putting it another way,I think people know that there is no point in approaching me as I am no longer a ‘contact’.

I bet...

Recently I was observing the antics of two of our building kids. Obviously, even at the young age of eight they seem to be in a competitive mode. One of them said, “I bet I can run faster than you.” I am sure people would remember in their childhood how as a natural reaction they would come out with the words “I bet…”. “I bet I will get you out first ball. “I bet my handwriting is better than yours.”

Notwithstanding the brouhaha over match fixing, everyone has sometime or the other indulged in betting.

In our engineering college hostel, small time betting was a daily occurrence to while away our evenings. It could be on anything. We had a classmate, nicknamed Moshe who specialized in dismantling any piece of machinery. We would then have bets on how quickly he would assemble the item back again. Even then there would be some sort of skullduggery. One interested party secretly added a couple of extra components to a disassembled table fan. Poor Moshe went almost crazy wondering where to fit the extra elements. In the process the perpetrator of the crime made some money.

The other bet was on lighting every stick of a matchbox with one stroke each. It sounds easy but as the friction side of the box gets worn out the sweat starts forming on the face of the participants. In most cases the match ends with a matchstick sliding off the side without lighting up. Being from a middle-class government servant family my participation would be limited to that of a cheering spectator.

My earliest exposure to the sins of betting came from watching Hindi films of the sixties and seventies. Invariably, either the father or brother of the unfortunate heroine would lose his shirt at the Mahalakshmi race course and had to be bailed out by the hero. Thanks to an invitation from one of my friends I did get a chance to attend a derby in Bangalore some years back. I decided to be adventurous and put in a bit of money on one of the races. I had no clue on how to select the winner and decided to go by the attractiveness of the name. Unfortunately, Silver Streak did not really live up to its name and ended up last. That also ended my career as a punter.

PG Wodehouse had a whole list of characters who indulged in what would be described as ‘having a little flutter on the side”. My favourite was The Great Sermon Handicap where betting took place on the length of the sermon delivered by various vicars at village churches. The plot included all the ingredients of a horse race, including probable starters and handicaps and also inside information about the health of a ‘runner’.

The deep-rooted influence of betting at a tender age was brought home to me recently. While having lunch my four year and something old grand-daughter suddenly burst out, “I bet I can eat faster than you.” Touché.

Thank you,Hippocrates

One person who gets invariably intertwined throughout our life is a Doctor. The medical profession has come a long way since the days of Hippocrates. Today, thanks to swanky, hi-tech diagnostic centres no part of your body is immune from scrutiny. Unfortunately, a recent study states that doctors are increasingly treating lab readings instead of the patient. This is when you appreciate the role of a family GP.

At our GP’s clinic I used to enjoy watching his ‘compounder’ (alas a dying race) working. Based on the prescription he would reach out to various bottles on the shelf and crush the contents using a mortar and pestle. Finally, this would be poured into a standard bottle with a liquid agent. The compounder would then paste a strip of paper in a continuous diamond pattern to indicate the dosage. The end result would be a pinkish-red liquid which was referred to as ‘mixture’.

As a youngster I felt envious whenever I saw any friend with a hand or leg in cast after a fracture. There was something romantic about such an accident because it meant that the person was doing something ‘brave’. My envy would get compounded further when the cast was covered with autographs of friends and relatives.

My journey to become a potential doctor lasted all of two days. Toward the fag end of high school we could select Biology instead of Geography. With great expectation of one day wearing a stethoscope round my neck I enrolled for the former course. But I soon found out that studying Biology was no cakewalk. Further, I was put off by the sight of creepie crawlies in bottles of chloroform. I decided that learning about equinoxes and fjords was an easier option.

People have all sorts of reasons for preferring a particular doctor or hospital. My wife insisted on giving birth to our first child in the air force hospital on the old airport road. Her preference had nothing to do with anything medical; as a youngster she had loved the cutlets served there. Anyway, as her mother was the doctor who handled the child-birth, for me it was ‘free home delivery’.

An uncle of mine is a well-known paedritician. Naturally, both my sons were treated by him (free of charge!). He had a unique filing system. For every patient he had a sheet of paper with the name and date of birth. He would fill in the diagnosis during each visit. All the records would go into an old bag. He and I discussed several times about computerising the records but nothing progressed. Recently my son took his daughter to him for a check-up. Based on my son’s date of birth he waded in to the bag and took out his old record. It seemed that over 30 years back my son too had been referred to him for the same illness.

I go once a year for a review to a venerable old physician in Jayanagar who has a hospital in his name. His no-nonsense approach suits me perfectly.

A Madrasi in Lutyen’s Delhi

A few years back I saw a movie titled  “2 States”. A telling statement by the mother of the hero concerned the lifestyle difference between  North Indians and “Madrasi”( an all-encompassing word  used in the north to describe people from the south of the Vindhyas).It set me thinking about the life of a South Indian in the Delhi of the 1950s and 60s.

I lived in Delhi almost from my birth for over two decades. There was dichotomy in my life as at home it was pretty south indianish but rest of the time I was a typical Delhiwallah with all the brashness that came from dealing with the outside world. This behavior is still inherent in me in spite of having lived in Bangalore for several years. Just to give an example: A southerner will ask an autorickshaw driver whether he would ply to Hauz Khas. The driver will disdainfully ignore him. A Deliwallah will just get in and order the driver to take him to his destination.

The term ‘Madrasi’ has several origins. One of course is that most of South India came under the Madras Presidency in the British era. However, my research has a different take. Just after Independence there was a sudden requirement of clerical staff and officers at the central government. Thanks to their education, people from the south were in great demand. At that time the main train to Delhi from the south was the Grand Trunk express from Madras. So thousands of people arriving by that train began to be referred to as ‘Madrasi’. My father took a more exotic route and flew to Delhi by the night mail service Dakota that had a transit halt in Nagpur.

As it happens in most migrant population, Delhi ended up having sanghas representing each of the southern states. Our highlight was the monthly get together at the Delhi Karnataka Sangha. Once a year we had a Yakshagana performance. As a youngster I remember also seeing a special screening of Rajkumar’s ‘Bedara Kannappa”. But within the southern community there was subtle class differentiation. The ones in South Delhi claimed supposed superiority over the ones who settled in Karol Bagh.

Naturally, with more and more south Indians migrating to Delhi, availability of ‘our’ food became a priority. As usual the Keralites were the first to kick off and set up what were called ‘Nair messes’. These were a boon to bachelors. Then came the iconic Madras Hotel in Connaught Place. In spite of its name it was run by South Kanara Brahmins. Sunday morning breakfast was the wrong time to visit this restaurant as it would be full of north Indians who relished the sambar. A little more sophisticated place was the South India Boarding House/Sunny Coffee House also in Connaught Place. Of course, Karol Bagh had its own share of south Indian restaurants. Provisions were bought from Madras Stores on Baird Road.

Today, Delhi and surrounding suburbs are full of second or third generation ‘Madrasis’. They seemed to have blended pretty well with the locals.

TGIF

"Thank God it's Friday"(TGIF)  expresses the joy one feels in knowing that the work week has officially ended and that one has two days off with which to enjoy. Through most of my career I was fortunate to have worked in companies that had a five-day week.While a two-day weekend sounds enjoyable it does have some pitfalls.

As a bachelor in Bangalore I did not have any friends, being new to the city.It was only so much that one could impose on kind-hearted uncles and aunts during the weekends.Some of the single men in our firm thought out-of-the-box.As a rule we were entitled to lunch if we attended office on holidays.So every Saturday I would land up at office on some pretended urgent work.Coincidentally this would end exactly at lunchtime. A few colleagues and I would make our way to a haven for creative people called Embassy Bar (sadly now defunct) near Shivajinagar.By the end of the third hour we would be giving our take on what ails the world.When I got engaged to be married I was horrified to note that the owner of the bar lived next door to my in-laws.

Many years later in Hyderabad,after my sons grew up and flew the coop I was at a loose end,particularly on Saturday mornings.My wife had her own agenda with domestic chores.I would start off from home and visit electronic and appliance stores.Successive salesmen would religiously brief me on the merits of various brands of televisions,fridges,washing machines and airconditioners.Each time I would give the excuse that I needed to consult my wife and that I would return later in the day.After a few months I had run through all the major stores without spending a  rupee.

It was then the turn of the car dealers.Hyderabad had a stretch of open road around the Tank Bund that was ideal for test drives.During the next few months I knew every bump and pothole on that road while I tested out the specifications of all the brands available at that time. I also discovered that car salesmen usually make four phone calls to a potential buyer after a test drive before giving up as a lost cause!

Even after  retirement , when every day is a weekend, I still yearn for a Saturday morning outing.Thanks to Bangalore’s burgeoning real estate,developers are bending backwards to sell their apartments and villas.The Friday newspapers feature advertisements for housing projects  and entice people to come and see their model apartments.One phone call is all that I need to arrange my Saturday schedule.The developer sends his vehicle to pick me up and show me various projects.This also has helped me understand common real estate jargons. Example: when a developer says five minutes from the centre of town, it is based on a speed of 100 km/hour.

During my working days I used to enjoy my afternoon siesta on Saturday as I knew I had one more coming on Sunday.I presumed that once I retired I would enjoy this luxury every day.Unfortunately,this did not turn out true.I wonder what is the medical term for “afternoon siesta insomnia”?

Fun in Toyland

The Oxford dictionary defines a toy as “an object for a child to play with”. In today’s context, I feel the word need not be restricted to the word ‘child’.

Recently my wife and I were travelling on the Metro in Hong Kong. Most passengers were playing either ‘Angry Birds” or ‘Candy Crush’ on their smartphones.Thus, an item of utility during working hours had turned into a toy later.This scene is replicated even in India among youngsters.

Despite all the hi-tech playthings like Xbox, PlayStation and Nintendo, there is still the excitement and thrill of playing with conventional toys.Generally, a child starts with building blocks and then progresses to activity books; then throws tantrums unless he or she gets the items that are displayed in toy shops. In fact, the biggest mistake parents can commit is to let their progeny run loose in a toy store. Through generations, it is also presumed that a boy needs cars and a girl her quota of dolls.

As adults graduate to parenthood it is likely that the toys that they buy for their children reflect some of their own desires.As my sons were growing I used to love browsing through toy stores and eye longingly at the remote control cars and trucks.The Americans are adept at trying all types of marketing gimmicks to make you spend your hard-earned money on useless toys, particularly if they are connected with movie promotion. On my trips to the USA I ended up buying a large rubber head of Godzilla (my grandchildren play with that now), and replicas of the gadgets used in the Star Wars series.

Young parents have also found an easy route to keep their child out of their hair while going about their chores at home. The iPad-generation kids seem to thrive on using the touch screen for hours without losing interest.

My wife probably has an unfulfilled desire to become a doctor like her parents. Recently she came home with a toy doctor set for our granddaughter, Janvi. We presumed that the little girl would enjoy playing ‘doctor, doctor’ and treat her grandparents.On her visits every Saturday we found she preferred being the patient. I later realised that I was the culprit.As a pretend-doctor I would operate on her stomach for a mysterious ailment.The treatment included either a jujube or marshmallow as ‘medicine’.This acted as an incentive for Janvi to become a patient every time.

The corner of my TV room is Janvi’s toyland.Almost every item from the time she was born is stored there in various condition of disrepair.Most children who visit our home make a beeline to that hallowed place and freely use the toys.Now there are some additions to the collection courtesy our grandson, Shantanu when he makes his yearly trip from London.Thanks to the TV serial, we now have the complete collection of Chhota Bheem miniatures, too.

But,I am yet to fulfill my grand dream.On my compulsory trips to Toys”R”Us in the USA or Hamleys in London I make a beeline to the train section and eye longingly on the electric train sets.I picture  a room in my home with rail tracks complete with stations,crossings,tunnels,signal cabins…Heavenly.

Matter of Justice

Recently my wife and I spent a day in a court to give moral support to a close relative. That experience stirred memories of my unfulfilled desire to become a legal eagle. Regrettably, I ended up becoming a more mundane mechanical engineer.

After I graduated from Enid Blyton, my early teens brought me in touch with Perry Mason, the lawyer character created by Erle Stanley Gardner. I devoured all his books and even contemplated pursuing law as a career. I used to be fascinated by Mason’s courtroom strategy and practiced saying in front of the mirror,”Objection on the grounds that it is irrelevant, immaterial and incompetent”. His repartee with the District Attorney, Hamilton Burger was very enjoyable. I later encountered Henry Cecil’s books that drew on the quirks of the British legal system in a humorous way.Now,of course,John Grisham is the flavor of the season.In my TV viewing schedule the raving and ranting anchors and panelists on the 9.00 pm news have lost the contest for my eyeballs as I prefer watching “Boston Legal”.

However, during those student days my access to law was restricted to scenes from Bollywood films.I was not sure whether the screen shots actually reflected the real proceedings in a courtroom. It was thrilling to watch Sunil Dutt as a lawyer defending Raaj Kumar in “Waqt” mouthing, “Objection Milord”.  I understand that lawyers are no longer required to address the judge with that honorific. Invariably the camera would pan to the blindfolded statue of justice or the judge would bang his gavel and call out “order, order”. I also wondered whether a judge needed to break  the nib of his pen after passing a death sentence as shown in several movies.

Coming back to my visit to a Bangalore court, I was a bit disappointed that that there was no fanfare when the court began. It was pretty matter of fact. Our lawyer turned up late and we missed our turn when the relative’s name was announced.This meant that we had to sit inside till it was almost lunchtime.My wife was admonished by a court attendant for sitting with her legs crossed, a strict no-no in court etiquette.We whiled away our time till the afternoon hearing.

One case was rather interesting because it involved cross examination by the defendant’s advocate.The legal luminary was straight out of a Hindi film. A young woman was in the witness box.Our man would sarcastically ask her a leading question and when she fumbled with the answer he would gaze triumphantly at all of us sitting on the benches at the rear of the room. This time I was chastised by an official for talking loudly when the session was in progress.Luckily, our case came up for hearing soon and the judgment was favourable.

Despite Mr. Preet Bharara’s open disdain for the Indian legal system, there is something positive to be said,too.Yes,it may be time consuming.In fact, there are over 30 million cases pending in Indian courts.But,eventually justice does get delivered,thanks to the well laid out procedures that have stood the test of time.

Romancing the four-wheeler

Recently some of our neighborhood kids and I were competing to identify brands of cars passing outside our complex. I felt it was a rather easy exercise as there are just around a dozen brands today in India. In the early ‘50s there were a plethora of international makes of cars on Indian roads. You had the MG, Studebaker, Humber, Morris, Austin, Vauxhall, Desoto, Plymouth, Dodge, Skoda (yes, the same brand that is ubiquitous on our roads now), Citroen, and so on. Sadly, several of those brands have bit the dust since then.

When I was a kid, every Sunday my father would open the bonnet of his Hindustan 14 (the Indian version of the Morris Oxford) and check the levels of distilled water in the battery; the oil dipstick and radiator water. For any long distance drives, he would carry a spare fan belt and radiator hosepipe in the boot for emergencies. Invariably on hill roads the fuel pump would get heated and he would wrap a damp cloth round it to cool it down. Today with our advanced technology cars I am not sure how many of us even know where the bonnet lever is.

By the time I reached college we were stuck with the Padminis and Ambassadors. However, thanks to our Bollywood films there was always a longing to own a post office red Chevrolet Impala convertible. This craze lasted till the time I went to work in Hyderabad and saw a whole fleet of them in the main market being rented out for the baraat at weddings.

My first car was a two-door Standard Herald, because that was the only one available within my affordability index. People who are familiar with the Herald would remember that this car had a peculiar technical issue. The rear axle nut would loosen every now and then and fall off. Once while my wife and young son were driving up the Safdarjang flyover in Delhi, the inevitable happened. It was a bit of a harrowing experience sliding backwards down the slope without control.

Further, the left door handle wouldn’t work from inside so I would need to get out from my driver side and open the passenger door from the outside and release my wife. For several months my neighbors thought I was a very chivalrous guy till they learnt about the real reason. I managed to sell the car to my neighbor who worked in a Public Sector undertaking. Apparently as per government rules an employee would be entitled to a tax-free conveyance allowance whether the car was operating or not.

Recently I sold one of my cars through a popular online site. Most of the pre-owned cars advertised used uninteresting and matter-of-fact language.Gone are the days when classified ads for cars carried such terms as “single-owner-driven by doctor” or “army officer owned”, thereby proclaiming that cars were well maintained.

The present day cars are trouble free (in spite of all the global recalls) so there is nothing adventurous to write about. But then again, when you drive a Lamborghini…