Babulal

Babulal

In my childhood, we had a neighbour who had this nasty habit of giving outrageous pet names to kids in his Bundelkhandi dialect. His own son was called ‘Lungdi’ and I was called ‘Gunthaduwa’. I do not know what these words meant or whether they had any meaning. But in a grotesque way, call it reverse snobbery, I was proud to be called Gunthaduwa and not just Lungdi or Bangdu.

        In our school days, it was customary to have code names for all the teachers. e.g. B M Tiwari was called Bum, L N Bhargav was Lalloo and R K Tiwari was Rocket. I am sure many alumni would not remember the real names of some of the teachers. I for one cannot remember the full name of Lachchhoo, our maths teacher.

        This practice continued in college with one modification. Even some of the boys were given nicknames. Some names were common like Gullu for Gulati and Sonu for Songaonkar. Babulal was, however, a departure from the ordinary. Prakash was a handsome boy with an aquiline nose and longish curly hair. He was a good sportsman and a decent and harmless kind of bloke. His only fault was an exaggerated swagger and an affected manner. E.g. He bent his hand outwards while shaking hands with others, walked with a stoop as if he was seven feet tall and swung his hands like an 800 pound gorilla. He said Hi, in the era when everybody else used to say Kaay!(meaning ‘what’ in Hindi).  He was part of our gang, but his cockiness was a little irritating. I, therefore, started calling him Babulal, which with due apology to all the Babulals in the world, was a rather down market name for a guy like him. Initially he resented it and reacted violently when addressed as Babulal. But the more he reacted, the more he was called Babulal till he resigned himself to it. Soon, he was only Babulal to all of us. We lost touch after college and I almost forgot all about him.

        The name had however not lost its utility yet. It came in handy again when I was working in SBI at its local head office at Bhopal. We had a great gang of boys, all about the same age, in our Credit department. We had a blast during our lunch sessions, when we discussed, inter alia, everybody in the building. Now we were giving code names to our bosses and senior colleagues. Mostly it was a simple English translation. Sangeet was called ‘Music’, Azad was called ‘Independent’ and Manoj was ‘Entertainment’. Our boss was one Mr B L Joshi, a very suave and polished gentleman with fine manners. His singsong English accent was aptly dubbed by somebody as the one picked up from a girls’ convent school. Predictably, instead of Balkrishna Laxman Joshi, he became Babulal to us, but of course only behind His back. Mr Joshi somehow stumbled across the bantering, mostly good humoured, that went around in the name of Babulal in our department. His curiosity was aroused but he was too uppity to ask anyone what the joke was about.

        Being a fellow Maharashtrian, I was a little closer to him than others. One day, when I was standing in his room, waiting for him to sign some papers, he suddenly asked me “Ghatey, who is this fellow Babulal you all seem to be joking about?” I was totally gobsmacked. I never expected a direct question like this. After hemming and hawing a little, I blurted out the first lie that came to my mind. “He is a peon in the neighbouring department sir.” Mr Joshi did not appear satisfied with my answer but he did not press the matter further. My lie was promptly shared with the lunch club with much merriment.

        After 2-3 days, Babulal, oops, Mr Joshi, called me on the intercom and said “can you please ask that fellow Babulal to come inside my cabin. Our peon is on leave and I have to send some files to the executive floor.” I was again totally taken aback by this unusual request and after realizing what he really meant, feebly mumbled a yes sir. After some time, I went in to inform him that Babulal was also absent that day. Again, he seemed unconvinced but let it go. This incident kept our lunch club in splits so much so that some fellows had to be physically restrained from literally rolling on the floor.

        After that day, Mr Joshi kept asking us one by one about the whereabouts of Babulal till the day when one smart fellow told him that Babulal had been transferred to a local branch. The matter was allowed to rest after that and we all were more careful talking about Babulal  around Mr Joshi.

        Last month, I got a call from an unknown number on my cell phone. “Is that Mr Ghatey?” “Yes. Who is this?” I am Prakash Karanjkar.” “Prakash who?” “Arre yaar, Babulal speaking.” “Oh! Babulal! Why didn’t you say so?” It was great talking to Babulal after so long. We decided to meet the next week when he was coming here. After meeting him in person, I realised that he had lost most of his curly locks and acquired a substantial belly instead. His swagger now looked more like a waddle, thanks to his girth.  The exaggerated gesticulation was now looking quite absurd rather than stylish . As the meeting was taking place after a gap of more than 30 years, we swapped our life stories including the health of our parents, jobs and marital status of our respective progeny, and so on, for quite long. When we parted, I said “Let’s meet again Prakash.” I did not have the heart to call him by his sobriquet Babulal again.

        Yesterday, somebody called to inform about the sad demise of Mr B L Joshi. Mr who? “Arre yaar, Babulal! Our boss in Bhopal.” The First thought that came to my mind was “Thank god! he passed away without knowing the truth about Babulal.” It is this piece of news which triggered off a torrent of memories which I have tried to capture here. At the end of it all, I don’t know what was more saddening; the demise of the Babulal who didn’t know till his death that he was called Babulal, or the fading away of the other Babulal. 

Aqualung

Jethro Tull

 After recently acquiring a home theatre, I took out some old CDs, removed the cobwebs and put on Aqualung by Jethro Tull, a 43 year old album. I had earlier liked Jethro Tull’s music for their unique style dominated by flute and guitar riffs, rarely paying much attention to the lyrics ‘cept applauding pithy stuff like “skating on the thin ice of the new day”. Being a man of leisure, having retired this year, I desultorily googled for the lyrics. I was really gobsmacked to learn that this was a concept album with the central theme of “the distinction between religion and god”. It was touted to be one of the most cerebral albums to reach millions of rock fans.

In the final number ‘wind up’, the last stanza says,

How do you dare tell me that I am my father’s son

When that was just an accident of birth.

I’d rather look around me, compose a better song

‘cos that’s the honest  measure of my worth.

In your pomp and all your glory you are a poorer man than me,

As you lick the boots of death born out of fear.

I don’t believe you

You had the whole damn thing all wrong.

He’s not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.

The words are really deep and philosophical, quite iconoclastic also, denouncing the ritualism deeply embedded in all religions. Even Osho couldn’t have said it better. And that is saying a lot. 

Shikanji

SHIKANJI

I was attending a typical Indian wedding of a scion of a well to do family. The barat, was a shortish affair in keeping with the desire of the socially conscious head of the family. This, however, did not stop the bridegroom’s friends from indulging in wild contortions in front of the equine carrying the ceremonially decked out bridegroom, in response to the blaring brass band mangling the latest Bollywood hits. We all, fitted out in pink saafas, a traditional headgear made on the spot by tying a long cloth into an intricate giant knot which tightens around your pate, were strolling along. Soon the groom’s mom also joined the merriments to the delight of all others who were politely waiting for just such an encouraging signal. Now potbellied balding oldies and frumpy matrons, who were carrying a major portion of a gold souk on their plump shoulders, also joined the dancers.

To avoid the embarrassment of getting dragged into the dancing melee, I stepped back a little and started observing the proceedings detachedly.

To provide bright light for the barat and to add glitter to the proceedings, some hired hands were carrying garishly decorated lamps (tube lights) on their shoulders/heads, which were powered by a genset on a handcart. The entire caboodle of about a dozen tube lights was carried by a motley crowd of women and children clearly belonging to the underprivileged strata of the society. Some kids were so small they were barely able to stumble along with the precariously perched tube lights.

In keeping with the high social standing of the families involved, light tasteful savouries were being provided by liveried bearers to the merrymaking baratis. One of the items being served was a concoction deceptively called Shikanji. It was not iced lime juice as commonly understood by the north Indian meaning of the word, but thick boiled milk made further thicker by adding crushed dry fruits to it;  a deadly combo which can knock out the stoutest tummy with just half a glass. Knowing fully well its effect on the digestive organs, I and many others stayed away from the Shikanji. I found the young boys carrying the tube lights looking at the glasses of Shikanji with ravenous  eyes. They knew what it was, must have often dreamt of it, and had a look of hopeless despair in their eyes knowing fully well it was not meant for them. Suddenly, one boy who was well into his teens and much stronger and bolder than the others, mustered enough courage to pick up one glass of from the unsuspecting hands of a bearer, with a look of desperate defiance. Before the bearer could say anything, he had taken a large swig. The bearer shrugged and went away. The offender drank the rest of the Shikanji with a triumphant smirk. The other boys were aghast at his daring and jealous of his good fortune. Their wistful looks met with a studied wariness from the bearers. I marvelled at the irony of it all. Those who were offered Shikanji` were in no mood to consume it and those who would happily give an arm to have a glassful, were denied it. I felt like picking up a glass from one of the trays being swished around and offer it to the youngest tube light carrier who was looking at it with more desire than what Paris must have felt for the Helen of Troy. But I have never been able to get over the “what will the people say “albatross around my neck. So despite the haunting look of the young tube light bearer, I desisted from doing anything quixotic. I wish I had the courage of the boy who got away with a glassful of Shikanji. 

RUDE CITIES

RUDE CITIES

 When we shifted to Mumbai in 2006, there was a huge media uproar about the recent Reader’s Digest survey which had branded Mumbai as one of the rudest cities in the world. Many media columnists vehemently registered their protests against the totally undeserved sobriquet of a rude city for Aamchi Mumbai. I tended to agree with them till I became a Mumbaikar myself. Then slowly my opinion started changing. When I settled on a tiny 3BHK flat in the swanky SOBO, I was told I will be interviewed by the building society committee members. I thought it will be a mere formality. It turned out like an inquisition. When they started asking how many brothers and sisters I have, I asked them the reason for such personal enquiries. Their answer was quite revealing. They said, we want to make sure that they do not join you once you acquire a shelter here.  Anyway, what swung the wise men in my favour must be the reassurance that I had only one car and no intention of buying another one. (Every flat had at least three cars).

            When my luggage arrived, I was stopped at the gate and told by the security that the truck cannot be taken inside without the permission of the Chairman himself. I met the great man after crashing into his penthouse flat. After telling me pointedly that he is making an exception by allowing me an audience so early, he gave his permission as willingly as giving permission to Shakti Kapoor to take his teenage daughter out. The permission to carry the luggage by the lift was however denied as it was against society rules. That was the time I understood why Mumbai was considered a rude city and I told him so.

            Having read so many jokes on Punekars and their Puneri ways, I was prepared for rudeness when I landed here last week after retiring from SBI at  Chennai. I was not disappointed. When we landed, it was raining heavily. While we were unloading our luggage in the parking lot of the building which housed the SBI guest house where I had wangled a room after several fervent calls, two people came at an interval of 4 minutes and fought with the driver for bringing the car into restricted area. Pleas of heavy rain fell on deaf and insensitive ears. When my luggage arrived from Chennai, I had forewarned the society people to avoid a repeat of the Mumbai experience.  But a crackpot employee going by the unlikely name of Nazuk(delicate) started acting coy and refused to open the rear gate unless he was requested by the society manager himself. When I located the manager, Nazuk had managed to make himself scarce. Finally the manager had to break open the lock to avoid further embarrassment.

            Our neighbours never thought it necessary to even offer us a glass of water while the luggage was getting downloaded and unpacked. But they did manage to pick up a few scraps with the unloaders for blocking the passage, keeping things in their doorway for a few seconds etc. We have recently returned from a trip to the USA.  So it is really amazing that the people of Pune have obliterated all polite expressions like please, thank you, sorry, welcome etc from everyday conversation. not offering a chair, a glass of water or god forbid!  a cup of tea, during business dealings is par for the course. The trauma continues unabated. At this rate, by the time we settle down fully, Pune would have overtaken Mumbai in being the rudest city in the world.

            

NOW IT CAN BE TOLD

NOW IT CAN BE TOLD

This piece is neither about revealing important state secrets after the expiry of the statutory lock-in period, nor is it about a long lost love/crush. The matter is a little more scatological. The story has been poking me during those spells of lucidity after or in-the-process-of-trying-to-avoid, the odd middle-of-the-night visit to the loo. (Could be the early onset of a prostrate condition according to our family doctor, who normally dismisses every complaint I take to her as ‘psycho-somatic’). So finally, here I am, at 0400 hours, writing about my windy issues.

Our only daughter Mugdha tied the knot in the spring of 2008. Both I and my better half Shubha were in a tizzy during the yearlong period between the engagement and the wedding. Shubha and Mugdha spent hours and hours rummaging through all the saree shops of Mumbai looking for just the right saree for every ceremony during the marriage function. In the process, the best show rooms of wedding trousseaus in the various upmarket parts of the ‘financial capital’ of the country were declared ‘Bekar’ (of no use) by Mugdha. But that is for another day.

As all the shops in Hyderabad were considered to be equally ‘ Bekar’, it was decided that our future son-in-law Ashvin would visit us over a weekend to select his marriage-wear. Mugdha had calculated that two days would be enough to select a formal two-piece suit for the wedding reception and a few Kurta-Pajamas for other sundry occasions. I didn’t dare mention that 30 years ago, I had picked my entire wedding wardrobe in one 30 minute visit to the Raymond showroom. That would have invited snidely devastating comments on my sartorial ignorance. Also, that was before all those movies like ‘Hum Aapke Hain Kaun’ and DDLJ. Anyway, the future bridegroom was to arrive one Friday evening and leave by Monday morning.

We are a conservative family of orthodox Brahmins. So the sleeping arrangement was to be like this: My old parents in their own bedroom, my wife and daughter in the guest room and yours truly and Ashvin in the master bedroom. As the day was approaching, I suddenly realised a serious flaw in these arrangements. This was my pre Rujuta Diwekar phase. So, like all normal Indian families, we were in the habit of having a hearty dinner before going to bed. This had its ‘consequences’. We were not unused to occasional fireworks of the noisy kind during the nightly rests.  The nocturnal emissions of the gastric kind   were not of the noiseless and odourless variety. But in the privacy of our bedroom, after 30 years of marital bliss (?), who cared? But, suddenly, I did! Any such transgressions during the two fateful nights which I was to spend in the proximity of our future son in law were unthinkable. The consequences could be serious. I began to play out various versions of ‘Ye Shadi Nahi Hogi’ in my nightmares. They all started with Ashvin rushing out in the middle of the night with his nostrils shut tightly in a pinch. I was a deeply worried ‘father of the bride’.

Thank god there was Google. I searched all the food groups which caused bloating and farting and prepared a mental list of things to avoid. During the two days of Ashvin’s visit, both my wife and daughter were surprised at my sudden health consciousness and admirable restraint. I avoided milk products, deep fried stuff, lentils, Bengal grams, beans, radish, sweets and tea/coffee after sunset. This being the first visit of Jamai-raja, Shubha had rolled out an impressive array of goodies and assorted sweets. I scrupulously avoided all these temptations, to raised eyebrows, and finally came out victorious in my battles of the boom. As soon as Ashvin caught the cab for the airport, at 5 am, Monday morning, I heaved a sigh of relief and assaulted the fridge with a vengeance.

Looking back, I wonder how the person, who was the recipient of all those gourmet dishes which cause bloating and acidity, managed. He happily partook them in large quantities, thanks to the relentless pressure by the future mother in law, and gentle persuasions of my parents (how can you say no to them without appearing to be rude). Not that I noticed anything. I was a sound sleeper then and the fan was strategically kept full blast.

Anyways, thank god Mugdha married at the right time. Now? Such sphincter control? Impossible.

Bhaiya kaka

BHAIYA KAKA

The current brouhaha about molestation and attempted rape, triggered by the Tarun Tejpal and justice Mukherjee controversies has invoked a raging discussion on the many ways in which women are sexually abused at home and outside. This brought back some of my memories which were long forgotten and buried. Every family has that one uncle who is a lech and a pervert. Women instinctively know to steer clear of them and warn the girls about them also. But sometimes, things are not so black and white. Some people always give you the feeling of sliminess and creepiness when they are in female company but you cannot put your finger on their exact transgressions.

            Bhaiya kaka, my father’s first cousin, was one such character. When I was growing up, he was well past his prime and was a balding pot-bellied man with faux dentures. Often you would find him chewing a wad of tobacco, his mouth too full of spit to speak coherently. He mostly communicated in grunts and sign language. At all family gatherings, it was customary to touch the feet of elders. That was his chance. As soon as a lady or a girl bent down to touch his feet, he would hold her arms and give her a hug. In our family, physical contact of this kind was a no no and it always irritated me and my cousin Parag, who were in our teens. My cousin sisters, who were in various stages of tweens and teens, were equally peeved by his behaviour. The other older ladies in the family, however, did not seem to mind his hugs much and would laugh them off till I, Parag and the younger ladies started talking about them after the family broke up post such gatherings. Every time the girls would try to either forget (?) to touch his feet or try to get off with a quick perfunctory namaskar,  Bhaiya kaka was quick to remind them of their manners and equally quick to hold their arms and snatch a hug if they tried to sneak away with a half bend. Every time, he made a successful hug, I and Parag used to fume and curl our fingers in suppressed rage. When home, we would loudly protest against Bhaiya kaka’s excesses and vow to insult him, or even hit him if he did it again. We were, however, always chastised for being so brash and disrespectful, by the older ladies in the house. My grandmother always forbade us from doing anything rash. Bhaiya kaka never went beyond a hug and nobody reported a grope or anything more objectionable.

            Thereafter, it was always a dodging game which we, i.e. I, Parag and my cousin sisters played with Bhaiya kaka, at all the family congregations. To our frustration, however, we always lost against the guile of Bhaiya kaka and the indifference of the older ladies in the family. Luckily, age soon caught up with Bhaiya kaka and he was too old to run around hugging women. We could almost sense his frustration at family meetings and gloated about it.

            Bhaiya kaka was either a lech or a compulsive hugger of women, we would not know for sure. Today, I do not remember anything about him except his obnoxious behaviour, which  went unpunished. I don’t think he was a closet rapist, but you never really know the boundaries of a pervert human mind. Interestingly, it    were always the older women in the family who restrained the boys from doing anything drastic about his excesses and the men simply did not condescend the subject a serious discussion.

WEB CHECK-IN

WEB CHECK-IN

I have a running gripe with my secretary’s web check-in habits. My requirements are simple. No middle seat. I want aisle on long flights and window on short ones. Front row (better leg room) except when travelling by ATR, when back row is preferred (rear entry). She seldom gets me a middle seat, but rarely gets anything else right.  Yesterday, on my flight to Coimbtore, when I got 1A, I was cautiously elated suspecting that it might be an ATR. The check-in girl confirmed my apprehension but gamely shifted me to 15D. All was well.

            When I got the boarding pass for the return journey, the seat no was 4D and the counter confirmed that it was not an ATR. But my satisfaction was short-lived. When I boarded the flight, I saw that my colleagues Shah and Prasad were occupying seat nos 1B and 1C. What the heck. If their secretaries could get them the front row, why not mine? My deflated ego got a sudden boost when boarding was completed and the seat next to mine was not filled up. I luxuriously crossed my legs and opened my ipad. Before I could immerse myself in Stephen King’s bizarre world, I heard a loud racket going on at the seat across the aisle. A young lady was frantically trying to control her two sons aged roughly 1 and 2 yrs. Both started bawling as soon as we took off. I wanted to help but was handicapped by the language barrier; the tykes spoke only the local lingo. Just then, a Good Samaritan lady (if that is the right metaphor), came to the rescue of the harried mother and started expertly cooing to the screeching monsters. I silently thanked her, shoved in my earplugs and opened my ipad again. However, I soon realised that her only contribution was adding her own mite to the prevailing cacophony. Luckily the flight was before time and the landing and disembarking was pretty efficient. To my utter delight and against all odds, perhaps thanks to the law of averages, my suitcase was the first to roll off the belt and I triumphantly marched off waiving to the waiting duo of Shah and Prasad. Alas! I had to cool my heels outside for about 10 minutes as the driver had not taken into account the early arrival of the plane. Moral of the story, everything evens out in life.