Undone by perfidy

When one embarks on a journey called life one hopes for a smooth passage. However, fate has the habit of throwing unexpected obstacles on the way. This is an event that took place a hundred years ago but the cause came to my knowledge only a few weeks back when I came across papers belonging to my grandfather who died at the age of forty nine.

 We were told that he died of pneumonia. Another version said he died of injuries sustained when mortar fell on him while supervising the construction of his house. I would like to believe that he died of a broken heart resulting from a major deceit from a close relative.

My great grandfather was a priest, a rather learned one. To honour his prowess in Samaveda, the Pontiff of Sringeri Mutt conferred upon him the title Samaga (the ‘S’ in my name).However, his son had other ideas. He wanted to be in the civil service. He was a brilliant student, generally topping his class. In 1892 armed with a BA degree in English from Central College he joined the government as a Précis Writer & Translator, a clerical job at   Rs 30 per month.

His hard work and diligence paid off and soon he started climbing up the ladder. He passed various civil services exams with flying colours. In 1899 he was promoted to the post of Deputy Amildar and given a privileged posting to the Sringeri Jahgir with additional charge as Chief of Police. In 1898 when the Plague hit regions in Mysore area, he was put in charge of some of the camps. The Plague Commissioner wrote a highly complimentary report about my grandfather’s actions during the crisis. By 1910 he had risen to become an Amildar 2^nd Class.

By now it was generally agreed that my grandfather was on the fast track in his career and his promotion to Assistant Commissioner was just a matter of time. That is where there was a twist in the tale and an ending that that was hugely disappointing, if not tragic.

I came across a letter he wrote in 1912 to the Deputy Commissioner appealing for his promotion to Assistant Commissioner. He wondered why so many of his juniors had superseded him and had been promoted. There was a ring of pathos in each sentence as my grandfather mentioned all the testimonials and commendations he had received from his superiors. He was particularly hurt that he was stuck on the same salary of Rs 200 per month for three years. It was then that an explanation was given.

Unknown to him, a very close relative from his wife’s side had conned people off money by offering them government jobs or contracts using my grandfather’s name. This had gone as a black mark in his confidential report and affected his career.

He was a shattered man after that and died even before his dream home could be completed.

Food for thought

I am a true blue Kannadiga with my ancestors hailing from a hamlet called Sosale in the heartland of the erstwhile Mysore state. The gastronomical inputs in my growing years were such Mysore delicacies like Maavinakaai Chitranna, Nuchina Unde, Hulitove Majjigehuli with a reward of Gasgase Payasa on festival days.

I presumed that one day I would marry a pretty damsel from T Narsipur or Arsikere and my food preferences would be taken care of in the manner I was accustomed to. In fact I would have encouraged my bride to add Gojju Avalakki to the menu.

However, fate had something else in store for me. I ended up marrying an Iyer girl from Palghat. Since then the dining table is full of dishes with tongue twisting names like Keerai Moologootal, Maangai Araitchukalakki, Vazhakkai Mezhukkuvaratti, Nendrapazham Pulissery, et al. In fact my wife goes gaga over something call Olan. Once she made light brown chutney which I sort of liked. She quickly corrected me that it was Parippu Thogayal and not chutney. I retorted that I knew chutney when I saw one. This argument went on for several years till the well known writer V. Gangadhar (also from Palghat) wrote in his column, “Slice of Life” that Thogayal and chutney were two different items. That newspaper cutting, now yellowed occupies pride of place on our fridge door under a magnet.

However, being an eternal optimist I put all my hopes on my two sons marrying dainty girls from Narasimharajapura or Hosagrahara. I was confident that our dining fare would be become a cheerful congregation of delicious Hurli Saaru, Kosambari and Kayi Hollige.

Thanks to the machinations of my wife and her crony my elder son married an Iyengar. Now the dining table repertoire includes Kandathippili Sathamudu, Vazhaikai Kariamudu and

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Akkaravadesil .It was rather confusing in the beginning when my daughter-in-law referred to something called Thirumadapalli. I later found out that was the Iyengar reference to the kitchen.

To rub salt on my wounds I had to utter et tu Brute when my younger son somehow persuaded a Gujarathi girl from Kutch to marry him. With the addition of Bajra no rotlo, Guvar nu Shaak and Dal Dhokli our household menu reads something like the one in the Indian cuisine restaurant at the Taj.

I have somehow survived my sacrifices over the years. Unfortunately my culinary skills are limited to heating food in the microwave so I could not really overcome the deficiencies in my diet. Driving all the way to Malleswaram to eat Akki Roti at New Krishna Bhavan is not practical. It is particularly stressful for me when the Avarekai season arrives. Imagine a life without Avarekai Uppitu or Saaru…..

The Salon Index: Why economists need to study hair-cutting salons’ performance to judge the economy of a country.

The Salon Index: Why economists need to study hair-cutting salons’ performance to judge the economy of a country.

In finance, a haircut is a percentage that is subtracted from the market value of an asset that is being used as collateral. The size of the haircut reflects the perceived risk associated with holding the asset. However, the lender has a lien for the entirety of the asset. The lower the haircut, the safer the loan is for a lender.

Try as much, I could never understand the hypotheses propounded by economists and other so-called arm-chair financial experts on why the economy of  a country was not in good health.GDP,PMI,WI,SI,MI, were abbreviations that only boggled my mind.

I decided to do something about it.How could I find out the health of an economy by simpler parameters that I could actually see before my eyes?

I was having a haircut at a salon that I was frequenting for over 12 years.There were several empty chairs.Over the years I had seen the waiting area overflowing even on week-days.In fact,the owner,Ramakrishna would change the furniture every two years.But I observed that of late some of the upholstery was running ragged.The shelves had fewer cosmetics;the barbers were wearing rather tacky and faded aprons.That got me thinking and I had a chat with the owner.

I visited several other salons and found similarities.It was time for me to put on my thinking cap.

I caught hold of two MBA graduates from a well-known Australian University to assist me in the analyses(my sons). The idea was to  draw a correlation between a country’s economy and the spend at hair-cutting salons. We studied the financial performance of several salon chains and also standalone hair-cutting outlets. The results are startling and more credible as they are on-the-ground figures that are more compelling than any extrapolation of conventional research parameters.

                       (My younger son and grandson having a haircut in London)

Higher end salons that provide luxury services tend to experience greater volatility.  Lower end salons may also experience some sales decline due to clients going longer between services.  During economic downturns, some salons provide their stylists with additional training and education and draw upon the personal relationships between stylists and their clients to avoid losing customers.

In the wake of the recession, many salons have observed customers getting their hair cut less frequently, performing services on their own at home. In response, salons have increased price promotions and begun offering incentives on services and products.

Mainline findings throw up several figures that are extremely thought provoking:

1)    During a slowdown all salon chains had reduced income, falling between  3% to 10%.Income reduces by over 40% where value added services like hair restoration are offered.

2)     When the economy shows a positive trend, customers are inclined to ask for additional services like a shave, head massage, foot massage, facials, and manicure/pedicure.

3)     As the economy slows down customers tend to look for less expensive salons and cut down on the ‘extra’ services.

4)     With a lethargic economy, salon chains have cut down on their outlets and also reduced specialized staff.The gap between haircuts increases in correlation to the declining economic trends.

The findings are an eye opener as market researchers have a more reliable parameter to study the spending patterns of citizens, both during boom times and also in the downturn. In fact, the easiest method is to station surveyors at street corners and study the length of hair on a male head to understand whether it is boom time or bust!

My Romance with Mills & Boon

This morning I was quite thrilled to note that Mills & Boon will be releasing a book with Indian characters. I presume it was a final acknowledgement that India is a big market for western publishers.

Till I got married I had never heard of them. One day I saw my wife reading a book published by M & B.As I was comparatively free I decided to give a shot at reading the book by some unknown author called Penny Jordan. It was like opening a Pandora’s Box. I got sucked into a whirlpool I have not been able to get out of. There was a circulating library near Commercial Street which stocked a whole lot of M & Bs. I knew the kind of stories each author would write. The scenario would shift from England to Greece to Brazil to Spain and Italy. Sometimes to the US and Australia. I knew that Betty Neels would write Doctor/Nurse stories based in Holland.

The heroine would generally be a self-sacrificing virgin of modest means whose first boyfriend would be a good natured blonde. The hero would be older, rich, mostly dark-haired with graying temples and a rather disapproving type. In the Italian setting the hero would say ‘cara’ instead of ‘darling’. The European setting ones would generally have a grandmother who controls the family and is the first one to realize that the heroine is the perfect choice for her grandson, irrespective of the social mismatch. The ‘villi” would be modeled on our hindi film Bindu type. In the initial years sex was a no-no. However, to keep pace with modern times the Victorian attitude has made way to ground reality in the recent books. They now come with such alluring titles as “Lessons in Seduction”, “Revealed: His secret child”…

Just like Jeffrey Archer has realized that his future millions will be earned from sales in India, Mills & Boon have also joined the bandwagon. Their books are now available for less than Rs 100 through online stores.

I need to find more place on my bookshelf.

Joy of Cricket

Every time the Indian cricket team tours overseas there is heightened interest among the millions of fans that follow the game in the country. The present tour of Australia is no exception.

As one who has watched several International matches in the UK, the excitement is quite palpable among the Indians. Tickets are not easy to get as the cricket stadiums in the UK are pretty small. The seats are sold out within minutes of the online booking going live, particularly for the match at Lord’s.

Well before D-day, the old India ODI tee shirts are brought out from the cupboard and dusted. Somehow it seems easier to get a big Indian flag overseas than in India. The ones with initiative also manage to get special matching clothes or headgear. The employed somehow get leave or bunk office for the match-days. Each ground has its own ethos and the spectator behavior is influenced by that. At Lord’s the brochure that comes along with the ticket has a whole list of do’s and don’ts. The spectators in the more expensive seats are dressed formally and politely clap rather than whistle or shout as it happens in the lower stands at the Oval. Regrettably, in both the series I watched in England our team performed rather poorly but still the enthusiasm to pay and watch a losing cause remains, tour after tour.

Unfortunately, thanks to the heightened security, matches in India are no longer like a picnic where home-cooked food is shared and there is general bonhomie and family atmosphere. A friend of mine in Australia, whom I spoke to a couple of days back has already planned the menu for family and friends to take to the India-Australia Boxing Day test match in Melbourne. An eclectic South Indian fare consisting of tamarind rice, curd rice, pappadam and pickles.

This is in contrast to a match I attended at the Oval recently. One of our country men from the North first took out a large tiffin box full of samosa and aloo bonda. Sometime later it was boxes of chicken kalmi kebab. Just when we thought that was the end of the repast, this chap conjured up packets of huge aloo paranthas. He was pretty generous sharing the food with all of us. The other difference between watching an international match in India and in other countries is the liberal consumption of beer. Right around the stands there are the draught beer pumps that are open the whole day. It is not surprising that by the last session of play the shouting gets more raucous but in a humorous vein.

For an Indian enthusiast living at home, the challenge is in watching the television broadcast across continents. Particularly testing are the time zone difference for New Zealand or the West Indies. But the fans are a hardy lot. As some wit has said. “You can take away an Indian from cricket but never cricket from an Indian.”

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.