my times

Auto, Wallet and I

2010-11-19T21:54:00.000-08:00

I never used a wallet in my life, until I came to Gurgaon in 2006. In Mumbai, carrying a wallet in local trains was not advised. Instead I kept a small pocket diary in which I put a couple of currency notes. Never was my pocket picked in those 5 years of commuting. In Pune I continued the same practice and there wasn't much spending possible with the kind of salary I was getting.

After the mobile phone became a part of my attire in 2000, I started carrying a handbag in which I could put keys, papers, mobile and glasses. So again there wasn't any need for a wallet. After Gurgaon, I got on to online credit cards transactions and so gathered three additional cards and ATM cards. Then the wallet became necessary. But it never got inside my pocket literally. I still keep it in my handbag. Not many men carry handbags. According to my survey, the percentage never goes beyond 2%. But I am fond of handbags and I pick up one every year. I keep rotating the usage every 3-4 months. My current one was picked up from the Tibetan shop in McLeodganj a couple of months back. It has a traditional Tibetan motif of infinity and it is more like a zola.

While travelling by bus from Harihar to Pune, my handbag became a bit of an inconvenience. I couldn't keep it in the wirenet pouch in front nor at my feet. So I kept it in the overhead bin and dozed off. When the bus halted for a dinner break, I went for the zola and it slipped from my hands scattering its contents on the floor. There was my mobile, keys, wallet and assorted papers. I patiently picked up the contents and went outside to have dinner. My fellow travellers had noticed this episode. All of them looked typical wornout corporate executives - English speaking, courteous and generally keeping to themselves. Dinner was quick and frugal. I thought I could go back to sleep.

I kept the zola on my lap and tried to sleep. It didn't work. I kept it up again in the overhead bin. I had this slight hesitation. My fellow travellers had seen the contents. Some of them could easily eye the wallet. I pushed this thought away thinking that these guys are decent. I went back to trying to sleep. From time to time I would look around, but everyone was asleep. The bus driver had made up all the delay and we reached Pune ten minutes before time. I took the zola from the bin and found its flap was open. Did I not fasten it earlier? I wasn't sure.

I am one of the minority among Punekars who have a soft corner for the Auto Rickshaw Drivers. But I am a Punekar to the core. So I get into my element when the Auto chaps try to take advantage of the situation. At 6 in the morning at Swargate Corner, the Auto driver asks me to pay up Rs 150 to Baner Road. I tell him I will pay by the meter plus Rs 10. I raise it to Rs 20. There are some uneasy moments. But I stand my ground. There is a chap who is now ready to come at Rs 130. Its a deal.

Off we go in the snappy morning air. It's still dark out there. Now our man notices that his front lights aren't working. He keeps wondering how the light has suddenly gone out. Day break is at hand, so I am not worried. We zip into the apartment complex at Someshwarwadi.

He tries to tell me that even by meter the fare has jumped up to Rs 120. I calculate using my formula and tell him it is barely Rs 100 and I am paying him Rs 30 extra. I put my hand in the inside pocket of the zola to take out the cash. I knew the wallet cash had finished and so I would have to take it out from the secret reserve. Like all handbags, this zola from Tibet does have an inner pocket. As I pay him I find there is no wallet inside the zola. Panic grips me. The Auto chap looks into the Rickshaw and says, "You must have forgotten it in the bus". But I never took it out from the zola. Everything else is there, except the leather wallet given by one of my students many years ago. Leena had presented it to me with great affection.

All these chaps look so decent these days. They dress well, speak smoothly and now it seems, they flick with finesse. How foolish of me to keep it in the overhead bin? I came up carrying my bags and told my daughter that I had lost my wallet. I never keep better part of my cash in the wallet. Old habits haven't left me. My cash is kept along with some papers, envelopes and diaries, but rarely in the wallet. Its only the credit cards which always stay in the wallet.

My daughter immediately switched on the laptop and connected the internet and asked me to intimate the credit card providers of the loss, theft or whatever. I did not recollect the credit card numbers for three of the four cards I carry.

After the mandatory round of self cursing, I sat down to think of ways of recovering the card numbers. May be online banking? Yes, that looks good. Then the bell rang. The Auto driver was there with the wallet. I gave him whatever cash was there in the wallet. He said he had not opened to see the contents and asked me to check the cash. I didn't have to, because I knew it had only a few tenners.

He had gone out and kept thinking that he had seen the wallet in my hand. At some distance from our complex, he stopped and searched at the back of the seat and there it was, my red leather wallet stuck in the gap. It had slipped from my hand while getting down and taking the bags out. He came back and told the watchman. The watchman knew my flat number. That's how Raju Patil found me again. My wallet was back, my faith in Auto Rickshaw Drivers was reinforced and I knew Leena would not be disappointed.

Language beyond words

2010-02-24T03:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my mother's 8th death anniversary. My daughter visited the Home for the Aged, where they announce the day meal commemorating the departed dear ones of the family. It is a remarkable institution - established 145 years ago with financial support from the famous Syrian Jew, David Sassoon. (www.niwaraoldagehome.org) It brought back memories of Gulu the dog.

Gulu had adopted us as his pet family. He was a stray on our IMDR campus. He was named Gulu after his tendency to vanish before you could bat an eyelid. He became a favourite with some students, after he strode to the dais when one inspired guest speaker was delivering his most abstruse address to an unsuspecting audience of students. The speaker stopped in his tracks at the sight of Gulu sharing the dais with him. After that the poor fellow could not regain his composure. I lost my cool and asked a student to get a pack of biscuits to tempt Gulu away from the auditorium. Anyway, the whole thing provided unmitigated amusement to the students.

Gulu would come at fixed times in the morning and night to our house and demand his meal of roti and milk. He would soon disappear after making a quick go at his meal. He was brown in colour and probably a cross between a local breed and fox terrier. He had a nonchalant but alert manner. Not being a pet, he had a rather obstinate turn of mind. Strangely enough, though he wasn't overtly friendly with anyone, most people who knew him felt very friendly and protective about him. My daughter was one of them.

My mother had been ailing for most of February 2002. She had lost her appetite and was eating very little. She was bed-ridden for almost 7 years. She was becoming weaker with every passing day. But she had the ability to pull herself back from the brink. She had done that in the past. So I wasn't prepared for the end. On the fateful day, I had a session in the morning at about 10 am. I went to the class.

At about 11.15 am the door of the room was nudged open and it is Gulu who ambles in. He came near me and sniffed at my feet. I wasn't happy at all at this intrusion. So I shooed him out of the class. The attendant came running to take Gulu out and away. I told him to feed Gulu with some biscuits. After 10 minutes, Gulu scratched open the room door. Gulu had never entered my class any time before. He was also well aware that I did not countenance his entry in the premises. Yet he had made a re-entry. I told the class that Gulu was trying to communicate something.

Just then the attendant came with a note that asked me to rush to the residence as my mother's condition had worsened. She breathed her last at 11.40 am. I believe Gulu was trying to tell me that she was sinking.

The whole of the morning Gulu sat glued to the floor in the verandah of our house. Only after the body was removed for the funeral ride to the crematorium, Gulu moved from that place.

After a couple of weeks, one morning we noticed that Gulu hadn't paid his nightly visit for dinner.

Soon we discovered that he was lying dead in the parking area. The guards said Gulu had no marks of injury. Presumably he died of poisoning. I was about to ask for the stray dog van to take the body away, when my daughter insisted that Gulu be given his final resting place in the garden. She is generally given to keeping her emotions to herself, but cares deeply about animals and life in general. All arrangements were made and Gulu was laid to rest at the southern boundary of the land on which stands the residence of the director, IMDR.

Gulu was a different dog. He communicated without the usual canine gestures. He lived life on his own terms. He had chosen places where he was at home. He was not given to noise, so he didn't make a nuisance anywhere. Even in the case of the guest lecture, once he realised the goings on he left quietly. He was with me when it mattered most and left this world quietly, soon after my mother's departure. I still wonder what kind of life Gulu led.

In India we are told to view human beings and animals with the same dignity and respect. Obviously it's the lack that brings on a dictum. But Gulu commands not only respect but something more - a salute.

Handling success

2010-02-14T22:51:00.001-08:00

The other day I was talking to a friend and the talk turned to "doing well". A particular institute is doing well, that company did very well and this corporate leader is going great guns.
It doesn't require any great acumen to see that in 9 out of 10 cases, success is a result of a combination of factors - efforts and conditions. Truly exceptional success comes with superlative efforts in the most adverse conditions. My friend made a very perceptive comment: in her experience, the situation and the self created a third dimension which led to a qualitatively different outcome. You might call it an 'inspired' performance, something beyond oneself and so not easy to replicate.

The wise handle success by acknowledging the role of favourable conditions in their success. They also acknowledge the role of other support factors which enabled their tremendous efforts. They don't attribute success only to their efforts, nor do they claim false modesty about their efforts. I always recall what Mr Azim Premji said about his success - yes he did everything he could and..AND there was also the role of luck.

Those who hanker after are likely to make a monster out of their success. You know how? First they attribute it entirely to their efforts. Next, they want to keep it going and never, repeat never fail again. If they did, their image would be shattered. How could they fail? So they become insecure and surround themselves with sycophants. That helps suppress every bit of bad news. The myth making is on. Those who don't join in become outcasts. The whole organization becomes an edifice of sycophancy.

It's also important to know the what of success. Indian economy is doing well with its current growth rate. What exactly is doing well? Production of goods and services and their consumption are rising. Is that helping us solve our problems better? Is it helping foreign investment and the well-to-do sections? Are we making headway in achieving social justice and stable governance alongside growth? It's so easy for us to get blinded by a partial understanding of our situation. By no means, don't stop celebrating, but after the celebration, let us sit down and think a little bit more.

The Maharaja of Cumberland is dead, Long Live the Maharaja!

2009-12-08T23:10:00.001-08:00

23 April 1973 - 8 December 2009

The gentle giant is no more with us, having decided to move to the Highest Court at the early age of 36. Though he was my nephew and younger by a quarter century almost, we were more of pals. We shared many things in common: left-of-center politics, love for beer, the oddities, inconsistencies and contradictions that is India. One of the things that he gave up on the way was his fascination for Indian Railways. With his friend Tuan, he travelled from Pune to Delhi by train in 2007 and that finished his fancy for ever. I remember he was aghast at the teeming crowds on the Old Delhi Railway Station on the steaming night and soon as we were out of the station he threw up.

But apart from that he had begun a fond journey to his roots and had promised to visit India every year. Alas, it wasn't to be! My wife and I visited him in Cumberland along with my sister. I liked the quaint old feel of the town, though it had witnessed not too long ago the closure of industry. He had told us that the place was now coming up as a country of weekend homes for the influential people of the capital. We went to the Court building and the staff there was very pleased to show us around. Eddie wanted me to get a feel of the Judge's seat, but I was too deferential to the system and stayed away from it. In Eddie's office I saw a notice put up for the benefit of the Offenders whom Eddie used to defend. The notice told these guys to dress well and attend the hearing on time. It also spelt out what dressing well meant for both the men and the women. The degree of detail spoke of the concern which Public Defenders had for the defence of the accused.

After the visit to the Court, we went out for dinner at a restaurant, which spoke of a long history. Looking at the portions being served, we wanted to split things in what is referred to in India as one by two. But that was not to be. Eddie said that wasn't the done thing at least in Cumberland. So we returned to Silver Spring in an overfull state. That was a memorable trip, though a very short one.

Then we met again in Jan 2009, when Eddie had come home on a weekend. He drove us to Anirudh's place for a luncheon. It was a sunny day and we all enjoyed the drive and the lunch. Off and on there would be a mail from Eddie prefacing some interesting news and developments. But this one no one had anticipated.

Eddie was soft spoken and considerate and extremely devoted to his family. In leaving us all bereft, he took care not to cause disruption. He went out so swiftly that it is difficult to imagine his absence. Eddie, you are with us! And we are with you! May Peace, Force and Joy be with you wherever you are!

Knowledge, not ignorance, is the real obstacle.

2009-09-24T05:35:00.000-07:00

They say the greatest obstacle to learning is the illusion of knowledge – to think that you know when in fact you do not. I came across two instances recently.

You know that PSB is situated in S 32, which is a part of the village Jharsa. There are visitors to PSB who come for enquiries or teaching. For their convenience, we have prepared a document giving directions to reach PSB. Recently two lady visitors were to come to PSB for attending a programme. They were residents of Gurgaon. As is our practice, the administrative assistant asked for their email ids so that the Directions document could be sent to them. Like many before them, they declared confidently that they were familiar with Sector 32 and would not need the assistance of a map. When they did not turn up on time, I knew they had run into the maze that Sector 32 can become, especially when the sun is spitting fire. Sure enough, they rang up to ask for directions. They thought they knew the way, when in fact they knew the area, but not the way.

The second instance was from the workshop we conducted recently on the Seven Steps to Self Empowerment. There is a simple technique of Time Management that is taught to the participants. It is based on the real life story of Ivy Lee, who was paid an unbelievable fee of $ 25,000 in the 1920’s for teaching this simple technique to Charles Schwab, the first man in history to draw a salary of $ 1 million a year. All these things were explained to the participants all of whom had spent at least 15 years working. They were asked to practice it for a week. In the next session I asked if it helped them improve their time management. A learned participant stated that he had worked the priorities in his head and that there was nothing new in the technique. Obviously he had not practised the technique the way it was meant to be. Did he accomplish the most important improvement he had set for himself? No, he hadn’t found the time for it. I then asked him why Lee was paid a hefty fee of $ 25,000 for such a simple idea. Clearly, my friend had stopped learning in the belief that he already knew it. When he did practice later, he realised that the simple idea was really simple, but not easy.

“I know it already and “We have been doing it already” are two of the most common answers one gets when talking of new ideas. If these are genuine expressions, then it is a good thing. If not, the belief that I know could itself be the obstacle to learning. It is better to say, “I need to check what I know before I proceed.”

Deven Dhanak gives a slip...

2009-08-25T10:13:00.000-07:00

Well, you couldn’t catch me…ha, ha!

Deven's death has been a great shock to me, for his was not the age to take the final bow. The last I was in touch with him was when he insisted some months ago that I must advise Vishwanath in his doctoral work. I was aware that he had moved on from Indsearch to Symbiosis, but hadn't known of his return to Indsearch.

The first time I met him was in 1978 when I had just begun teaching at IMDR. He happened to be in the first batch that I was to teach. He came one day to excuse himself from the case study session to tell me that he had to vacate his hostel room that afternoon. There was a touch of melancholy to his manner. That is when I got to know him better. After he passed out, he started working with Crompton Greaves at Ahmednagar. On his weekly holiday, he would be in Pune and occasionally would drop by to have a chat. That's when I came to know of his favourite author, JD Salinger and his 'Catcher in the Rye'. The lonely setting of Deven's passing away is so typical of the dark mood of the Catcher and sends shudders through my being. What must have passed through Deven's mind when he lay restless on that fateful night?

It was evident that he was not mentally in tune with the management in industry and add to that his romantic involvement and it was clear he would return to Pune sooner than later. I don't remember his career moves in Pune, but I do remember his stint in the Food Craft Institute. We used to meet and discuss and argue about everything under the sun. Deven was always lively, had a colourful expression and an eye and an ear for subtleties, which was very endearing. Warmth and affection were never in short supply with him. But hypocrisy and glib talk would get his goat easily. His stay in FCI turned quite eventful and stormy as there was an industrial action (a strike, if I remember right) taken by the employees. The authorities believed Deven to be the agent provocateur and started a hunt. They wrote to me asking if Deven was engaging lectures in our Institute. The presumption was that it would be a violation of service rules as he might not have taken prior permission. I thought that the matter was strictly between the management and the faculty member who was an employee and the former could have easily elicited the information from the latter. I did not reply to the query, obviously to shield Deven from undue hassles.

We advertised the post of Lecturer in IMDR soon after I took over in 1989 and I had encouraged Deven to apply. There was no question of any canvassing for him, as his performance in the selection process was outstanding. He joined in Nov 1989 or thereabouts. The first year went by happily and soon there were problems with me and with the students. I wasn’t happy with his lack of punctuality and didn’t like his irregularity. Some students feared his grudges. There was, fortunately, our equation which ensured free and frank discussion. But his idea of freedom and my idea of responsibility kept clashing more frequently than he would have liked and he decided to quit just before completing the two years of his initial appointment. He wanted to get into mass communication and he did join the MA programme in the University.

From 1993 onwards, at my instance he again started teaching at IMDR as a visiting faculty and things went on happily, since he had much fewer official obligations in that role. In general, he had grown tired of organizations and wanted to breathe freely in loosely defined structures. He put a lot of passion in his teaching and could relate easily with the young generation. His cavalier approach to careers proved attractive to many students. His communication was pithy and full of quotable quotes. No wonder wherever he went, a fan following would soon trail him.

During this stint of his I heard some grumbling about Deven’s late evening case discussions outside the Institute and ascertained the facts from the students concerned. Of course there was room for different interpretations. I called Deven for a meeting and explained to him the simmering discontent in a section of the class. I suggested that if he shared his point of view with the class it might clear the air. He did not agree, as he felt he owed no explanation to any one about his actions outside. He chose to end his association with IMDR at this point. The year must have been 1996 or 97. Many students were disappointed that he was not going to teach them any more. I had to clear the fog around his departure by sharing the details of what had transpired. After this departure, our contacts became very distant and very rare.

There were times when he would ask for copies of my latest writings on email and would exchange emails for a few weeks. Our last meeting must have been a chance encounter in a café on Fergusson College Road. That must have been at least 10 years back. There are several memories associated with Deven that speak of the person he was. Here I will narrate two of them that show Deven dealing with the pomposities of a few academics.

As doctoral researchers we used to meet every week to discuss issues of method and related matters concerning our research. Though Deven was not a doctoral student we would invite him to be a part of the group, for he would always add something refreshing. On one Saturday, it so happened that I had to tear myself away from the group for some official work. The two remaining researchers launched into discussion and Deven chose to read some journal, while listening to the discussion. After about an hour, one of them turned to Deven to ask him what he felt about the issue under discussion. Deven reportedly remarked that both of them were beating around the bush, while what they wanted to say was different. On being asked to elaborate, Deven said that the retired Colonel of the two wanted to say that the Lecturer did not understand one bit of the Colonel’s scheme, while the Lecturer was hinting that the Colonel’s framework was brittle. This kind of a sudden revelation struck both the researchers like a bolt and the Colonel thought it fit to beat a retreat after protesting Deven’s remark. The lecturer made some right noises and left. That was the end of our Saturday group. When I learnt of this episode later, I blamed Deven for this disintegration. Deven simply acknowledged that he had brought to surface what was already simmering below and not being owned up.

The second incident was quite hilarious. A few of us lecturers used to play Table Tennis at night after the evening lectures were over. We would form pairs for the day and the losing pair had to treat the winning pair to some refreshments at a nearby café. Deven and I used to pair often. In the other pair was a Lecturer from a sister institution of ours, who used to play in order to be close to a very Senior academic in our institution. Let’s call him Limy.

It so happened once that Limy was on the losing side and when he paid the bill at the café, he received Rs 50 extra in the change from the cashier’s oversight. As he came out and told us about this, we suggested to Limy that he better return the extra cash as we were regular visitors to this café and it was the right thing to do for teachers. Limy refused to do so saying in such matters he maintained a practical stance. Both Deven and I did not like this. After a few weeks we won again and Limy was on the losing side. Deven went ahead of us to the café. We had our refreshments. Limy went ahead to pay the bill at the counter. The cashier accepted the cash and having settled it, took out a worn out cash memo from some drawer of his counter. Showing it to Limy, he said, “my uncle left this for me saying that by mistake Rs 50 were given in excess to this Professor from Fergusson College. Remember they are professors from Fergusson College, if they agree well and good, otherwise let it go. So I am requesting you sir and he gave me your description.” The cashier was a big burly man in his early thirties. He spoke the same thing over and over again with extra bit of courtesy getting added with every repetition. Limy did not what to say. So he said, ‘let me try to recollect’.

Finally we told Limy that it was futile to recollect. For if he had actually received Rs 50 in excess and he did recollect, it would mean that he had wilfully not returned it. “Remember they are professors from Fergusson College”, the big man had kept repeating for the whole café to hear. So finally Limy paid back the fifty bucks that he had pocketed. Afterwards Limy kept wondering about the fantastic system of accounting which enabled the owners to detect the loss of Rs 50. Behind that system lay the directorial genius of Deven, who in those seven minutes had written the screenplay and dialogue, chosen the characters and the plot and got everyone to rehearse it to perfection. Finally the cashier had delivered the performance and the final blow.

It seems to me that Deven wrote his last act in the same vein. Nobody could catch him as he slipped away to the other side. I can see him smiling at all of us, who received his warmth and affection and wanted more of it, and saying, “well, you couldn’t catch me..ha ha!”

Meeting the CEO's

2007-09-04T04:22:00.000-07:00

On 15th I met a CEO of a software dev company, who is concerned about building the organisation to his philosophy and instilling the spirit of ownership among employees. He is in his mid thirties and has about a decade of experience in US behind him. His philosophy is simple: I add value to my customer, and claim my revenue from that value. He wants his employees to think that they own the business and run it with that responsibility and rewards. He had written down his ideas very clearly on one page and also put it up on the website. I wanted to know his story. He narrated it briefly. I could see that this young man had reinvented himself twice or thrice. I asked him if he faced any struggle every time he did that. His quick answer was that all the stress had affected him physically. So I suggested that in addition to sharing the cold conceptual stuff, could he share his hot stuff of struggles, defeats and victories with his employees? The tale of blood and sweat may strike their hearts while the conceptual stuff would from one ear to another.

Then I met another one who runs a big Spices business, turning out 45 tonnes of them per day. A young man in his late twenties, he had a peach like complexion from being a pure vegetarian. He took over reins of business when he knew nothing about it. He had to learn everything on the run. His grandfather, the pioneer, stood by him and gave him the moral support. From a small factory, they have gone on to a modern plant. They want to do new things taking a fresh look at their own growth. I am going to visit them and then take part in the discussions.

The third one is concerned with a High Tech Machine indigenously developed. He wants to build his sales team into a marketing team. So these people made presentations. They talked of the customer's organisation, their business growth, their strategies and their needs. We had asked them to talk less of the machine and the order and more about the way the customer was handling his business. The important point was how you are going to influence the customers' thinking. For that we need to know what his orientation is, issues and priorities. Our offering must remove his bother and trouble and add to his pleasure. That is strategic thinking. The third CEO in his 50's was more concerned about passing on his approach to his juniors.

Transitions

2007-09-04T04:14:00.000-07:00

I have recently moved to Gurgaon from Pune for a period of at least two months. There is a project that I am going to handle. A group is setting up a new type of business school with American collaboration. Personally it is a transition for me at three levels.

At the personal level, leaving the all too familiar grounds of Pune, my birthplace and workplace of 27 years, means letting go the support system, the circle of associations and the larger ecosystem. It has suddenly brought me in touch with the ethos of Pune that I carry within me. I am aware now more than before of the strong pull towards contentment and away from ambition and big visions. Pune very subtly looks down upon ambition and elevates contentment. Sometimes it deceives itself of the fear of failure by turning its back on big dreams. Puneites are doing something innovative in their small spheres thinking that what they do is meaningful. In Gurgaon, I practically know no one and am trying to find my feet. The Mother dairy offers an interesting spectacle of an impersonal yet caring enterprise. Excellent quality of products is backed by swift and mechanistic movements of people, who should earn incentives even if they choose to frown. Everything in Gurgaon is well laid out and modern. Yet people persist in their herd behaviour.

Young women clad in slacks do the fitness rounds in the park opposite my place. Perpendicular to their paths, the construction labour are moving to and fro public toilets with mineral water bottles in their hand at the same time. The two worlds don't cross each other's path. Security guards placed at every corner make sure that workers don't contaminate the lives of the residents.

At the work level, I am back to familiar grounds where without any formal authority, but with the top leaders' blessings I am supposed to navigate and traverse through established tribal networks. I have been warned by scores of wellwishers that I have stepped on to uncivilised territory. It's highly political alright, but have yet to experience the uncivilised part in full bloom.

The third is the individual level. I and my wife are beginning to realise the shift in our locations. I am no longer the indifferent careerist husband. I worry about her being able to fend for herself. She dreams of a new car and prepares the new house according to her tastes. She likes the break from her teacher's role and yet feels restless with the distance from her daughter and son. So we turn to each other and create a different kind of space between ourselves. It is relaxing and soothing no doubt.

Well, some more experiences of Gurgaon in the last few days. It so happened that I went with my wife to buy a refrigerator. We selected the brand and the dealer and wanted the fridge to be delivered before the first guests were due. The power supply in that big mall went off. We learnt that the backup genset was enough to cater to only a half of the mall. So the mall management alternated the supply every 15-20 minutes.

The shop attendant who was keen to close the deal now sprang into action. He took his credit card machine to a nearby shop which had power supply from the backup and tried my card there. His machine battery had run out of charge. So we waited. In the meantime, the attendant served us a cold drink. Great, we said to each other. This is some treatment you get when you go to buy sarees for a wedding. When power came back, somehow the machine would not accept my card. So we said that we could pay by cheque at the time of delivery. The clever attendant quickly altered the terms to 50% cash and remaining by cheque. We hadn't received the chequebook by then. But I gambled on the possibility that the courier would deliver it the next day. It did happen that way.

The next morning saw my wife get anxious by the hour. Soon after she got the chequebook, she started for the fridge shop. And there it was, the vehicle carrying the fridge and the tv. But they didn't bring the trolley for the tv, as promised. Any way the guests that evening were treated well.

I called up the dealer the next day but couldn't get through. So after 2 days I went there in the evening. The delivery was promised the same evening. The chap rang up his warehouse in front of me and asked for it. It wasn't delivered that evening. So I go there the next evening, only to be told that it has been delivered in the afternoon. I ask, how in the name of heaven is that possible, when I am not at home? The chap rings up his warehouse and asks to be connected to the driver of the vehicle who delivered. When he finally does, he learns that it has been delivered to the washerman who sits in a ramshackle shed two plots away from my house.
I drive down to my house and on the way stop at the washerman's. Promptly he brings out the trolley from somewhere and hands it to me. The driver took the situation in and realised that another trip was not on. So he chose to put his trust in the washerman. The basis? The simple logic that one who earns by the sweat of his brow will not play by the sleight of his hand. The washerman accepts. The basis? Relationships with residents are not strictly limited to business. They extend into all types of assistance. Who taught him this? Perhaps, his three year old daughter.

Whenever his wife talks to my wife, she addresses her as aunty. The daughter keeps repeating" Autti", "Autti" whenever she sees my wife. There's something about Madhuri which attracts children and then adults learn from children. Hats off to these simple people who make life happen around here in Gurgaon.

A visit to Harmandir Sahib

2007-08-29T03:37:00.000-07:00

I don't know how but Madhuri took it in her head that we would start our northern travels with a visit to the Golden Temple, i.e., Har Mandir Sahib. After fiddling with the website of Indian Railways to the point of frustration, I took the name of the Guru and lo and behold, everything went through smoothly. We got our reservations done for the to and fro journeys and I even got the hotel reservations done from the website. Madhuri was surprised and sent me a special SMS, the kind I haven't received ever since we started on SMS.

The actual journey was comfortable and we got used to the free spirited behaviour of the Punjabis much faster than we had expected. Before the train started, a boy came with his mother to claim our seats. One look at the ticket in his hand and I could tell him that the coach and the seat numbers were right but the train was different. The surd sitting next to me appreciated my quick eye. We got talking. It turned out that he was a Vet Surgeon, head of the Dept and now a Registrar of the new Vet University at Ludhiana. He had done his Ph D from UK. He had several opportunities to move abroad to US and Canada, but had declined. He said all the comforts abroad could not substitute the feeling of NOT belonging there.

He talked of how his father, a non-believer, had uttered the name of God when his fever rose to a delirious level. He told us why he never took a dip in the Holy Waters of HMSahib. I enjoyed the conversation with him and wished him bon voyage for his impending US trip. The Shatabdi service was very good, they kept us feeding every now and then. It was quite a lot of food.
At Amritsar station, the hotel cabbie was waiting for us. That was a sign that things were going to be smooth. At the hotel counter, the boy told us that the best time to visit would be at 5 am. We could then see the lighting in the shrine. But that for us was an unearthly hour.
The next morning breakfast took a little long in coming. The fried egg wasn't any particular shape, while the parathas were perfect circles. The cabbie took us to HM Sahib. We loaded fresh batteries in our digicam. I bought a head scarf and wore it in the traditional style.
At the entrance we saw respectable people taking our footwear in their hands and keeping them on the shelves. The shallow in the pavement was used for washing the feet. We were directed by a young boy to start on the parikrama. It was getting hot under the blazing June sun. Crowds were coming into the precincts continuously. But there was no hustle and bustle. We dipped our feet at the appointed place and kept moving on. That's when a small sikh boy came and asked me, Which Country YOU? I was taken aback and said India. He vanished instanteneously. Madhuri could not control her laughter.

I realised we did look different from the rest of the crowd. Twice we were asked of the place we came from by friendly strangers. Slowly we made our way into the entry paths. There were no queues, but throngs of people awaited their turn in predetermined pathways, which were being opened alternately. So we made our way to the sanctum sanctorum, listening to the Gurubani being sung inside. The scorching sun, the heavy rush and the waiting lines did not bother us one bit. Such was the serenity and energy in the people and the place there.

Once a young girl in our part of the throng turned back and said something angrily to a man standing behind her. An elderly gentleman quickly asked the man to move away and he himself parked behing the girl. It happened swiftly. Nobody realised what had happened. I appreciated the wisdom of the old man. Men and women stood close together, but barring the peeve of the girl I didn't see anything remotely approaching indecent behaviour.

Volunteers kept coming with bowls of water for children and every time they said, water for children, they would end it by uttering the holy name, wahe guru. We finally reached the sanctum sanctorum, there was no ritual to be performed. People showed their reverence in their own ways. We did it by touching the ground with our forehead. On the way back we carried some prasad. We sat down in the promenade and ate it, savouring every bit of it.
As we made our way round, an elderly Sikh gentleman appeared from nowhere and asked me where I was from. He gave me a booklet describing Harmandirsahib and its history in brief. He said that this holy place is the best place in the world for him. He came there daily and at 85 was still hale and hearty, thanks to the practice of daily visiting HMSahib. He insisted that we must partake of Langar. We did that and then also bought the books that he suggested.

The Langar again was well organised. There were several dining halls which were being opened to the Jathas as they came. Makka di Roti - the Registrar informed us of machines making the roties - and some green dal were served in abundant quantity. The notice prominently displayed urged everyone to finish the food and not leave anything over in the plate. There were volunteers all around ending every sentence with Wahe Guru.

Outside in the shop selling the bracelets I realised I was duped. I quietly returned the bracelets and took back the money to buy them at half the price from another shop. That was the only jarring note. But it happens to all places of worship where crowds of devotees become gullible customers.

The lasting impressions though were of the openness, equal treatment to Sikhs and others, the spirit of service present in each one there and above all, no demand for money for any kind of rituals. One realises in actual experience the simple, direct and democratic nature of Sikhism and with it of the Bhakti movement which liberated the masses from the tyranny of the priestly classes. It is no wonder the Sikh gurus were seen as challengers of the rule by the emperors and persecuted. The Har Mandir Sahib has withstood countless assaults and has been built over and over again. Operation Blue Star (1984)was also seen as an assault of the same genre as those of the Mughals. Indira Gandhi perhaps failed to factor in the history of the Har Mandir Sahib. If she had, her approach could have been markedly different.

First written June 2006

Gaining control to lose it

2007-08-29T03:26:00.000-07:00

In the last few days I noticed that I remained calm under circumstances that earlier hassled me no end. Like misplacing articles of every day use - glasses, pens, papers. The other day I went for a meeting with my colleague who operates from another suburb, some 40 minutes away by car. The meeting was coming to a close after about 2 hours. I found the side compartment of my pouch open and so felt inside. My leather wallet wasn't there.
All my life I never used a wallet. Here was a pure leather one gifted by a girl student of mine as her farewell from the Institute. She insisted that I use it. I had felt a fatherly affection for her. Now most men in the fifties are not believable when they speak of the paternal streak. Let me confess I felt absolutely nurturant and affectionate, a pure feeling of joy, which one is fortunate to experience though but rarely in this mortal existence. So to honour her feelings, I started using the wallet at the age of 54. It became useful when I started travelling to Mumbai regularly on work the whole of last year. Like the black Parker pen, the wallet became my constant companion to work.
So the discovery of its absence unsettled me as my mind went over the contents of the wallet. Lata didn't figure in my mind at first. There were two credit cards and an ATM card. All the ugly faces of tricksters flashed past my eyes. My God, they could use the cards to dress me down to my bones! I must report immediately. The faceless, modern facades of the most modern banks made a brief appearance on my mind screen and soon faded away. I then went over all my motions right from starting off my room down the stairs into the car. Perhaps it was in the car that was parked downstairs. Come to think of it, I had engaged a taxi, since my car had been taken by my wife. If I had left it in the car, and the driver took it, would he now admit? Certainly not! I countered, why not? Honesty hasn't disappeared from the face of the earth.
By this time, the closing presentation had started. I tried keeping my mind focused on it. I recalled my lesson from Mind Training. If there is a problem, don't get stuck into it, by playing it over and cursing every time. Just say, I have a problem and I am going to deal with it. The presenter was talking about a software package which could produce reports that helped solve a lot of problems, reportedly. I repeated the mind training dictum to myself. I will check it on the way out, in the car and then back in my office. If it is not there, I would report the loss to the banks concerned asking them to stop entertaining the usage of the cards, three of them in all.
Having done this, I listened more attentively to the portly old man who seemed too pleased with his product. He kept saying it will help the top management to exercise control over operations. I kept thinking that was the surest way to blast away the road to implementation. I told my colleague what I felt. To me the software had to be sold also to the people who fed the data. If you told them, this would help management control things better, they would not get enthused. Rather that would alarm them. If they would find it easier to control things and keep the management off their back, there was a slender chance they would listen. The presentation came to an abrupt end when the Finance chap announced he had to leave to attend to the unfinished project report. I had a feeling his bladder was about to burst.
I realised this when mine was full, once I was inside the car on my way back. The driver immediately had denied having seen anything like a wallet. I didn't pursue the matter with him. On the way back I kept thinking about the damage control measures and the possible sites to relieve myself. A thought also kept coming back to my mind that the wallet had gone missing, possibly because I had tried to fend off Lata on my very recent visit to her city. She had insisted on meeting me, when I was desperately looking for transport to reach a resort on the outskirts of her city. Finally I did meet her, but the guilt of having tried to postpone meeting her kept coming back. Then I told myself that it was alright in a particular situation if you did not meet a person that you liked.
By this time, the car had got stuck in a traffic jam, not far from my office. The urge to relieve myself was getting stronger by the minute. I experienced the meaning of fantasy in those minutes. I could see myself running to the open areas on the side of the road, into the nooks and crannies under the flyover being built to eternity and also behind its pillars to relieve myself. The wallet had gone missing from my mind also. Then after an age of time, the traffic cleared and we were on our way to the office. I walked calmly from the parking lot to the office. I reached my room with the great expectation that the pure leather, shining brown wallet would be waiting on my desk. When I didn't see it there, I rushed to the toilet and lost myself completely in the vastly satisfying experience of emptying myself.
I had entertained the idea of calling up the two male Secretaries who sit outside my office. I gave it up on the ground that I had no right to disturb them for my folly. As I returned from the toilet, the thought crossed my mind again and on the same moral ground, I brushed it aside. I came into my room and looked around my desk. And there it was, lying on the ground, my very pretty dark brown pure leather wallet! I thanked my Inner Guide and immediately made plans to suitably felicitate him.
I recalled this was one of a continuing series of instances of my forgetfulness in the last few days. I hoped the series would now come to an end. I blamed it on my late nights spent watching World Cup Soccer. Alas, it doesn't seem to end. Now my glasses, I just left them here, didn't I?