Crash Course

This happened about 2 months ago.

Our family, along with a couple of family friends, was returning from ISKCON. We'd taken off our footwear before entering the temple and had left it in the car. We entered the car and I took the wheel. I usually drive with footwear on, but on this day I decided to go barefoot.

Soon after we started, we noticed a strikingly pungent odour in the car. While wondering what the source of this odour was, we opened the car windows to let in some fresh air, but to no avail. Malodourous air continued to trouble us.

The car was moving on the traffic choked west of chord road where the metro barricades stifle traffic worse than we were choked on that fateful night! At the same time, people inside the car started speculating about the cause of this stench. It was agreed up on that the most probable cause was someone's footwear. Driving as I was without footwear, my dad tugged at the sandals that lay by my feet to examine them. So conscious and insecure was I of whether it was my footwear that was causing this problem, I got distracted and took my eyes off the road. The vehicle must've been doing 20-25 kmph. I got alerted by a voice in the backseat. I lifted my eyes to see a Canter truck right in front of me. I pressed hard on the brakes, or thought I did, for my feet, usually inside footwear while driving, hadn't compensated for their absence. My feet slipped down without applying the brakes. However, the impact did.

*CRASH*

It wasn't a dangerous impact seeing as how traffic was so slow. It was devastating, nonetheless. The canter's rear was at such a height that it directly impacted the delicate innards of the car, just under the bonnet which deformed like crumpling paper before my eyes.

The impact cost us around forty two thousand rupees after insurance coverage.

While returning from the service center, we noticed that foul smell was still in the air. It must've been some industry in that area causing the air pollution. This still doesn't explain how there was foul odour inside the car as soon as we started. At a later date, it was discovered that the latter was caused by a problem in the A/C unit.

Obviously, the accident was entirely my fault for having forgotten the primary duty of a driver - never lose the road. However, let us look at the remarkable turn of events that led to this accident.

1. I decide to drive without footwear.

2. A problem with the A/C unit decides to prop up right then, stinks up the air inside.

3. I've worn the same sandals I wore to work.

4. The polluting factory stinks up the air outside.

5. My dad decides to inspect the nature of my sandals. As a result, he too has taken his eyes off the road.

If any of these things hadn't happened that day, that accident might have been avoided. Anyway, now it feels like I just paid forty two thousand rupees on a 2 second course that screams out loud what I'd dismissed as so redundant a platitude - Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel.

A tribute to the poet

The last hour or so has been filled with bursts of pure emotion, has presented startling revelations and has instilled deep admiration of creativity so sublime that it produces the most humbling effect of how far one is from any semblance of greatness.

I happened to finish Tagore's Farewell My Friend while on the bus ride back home.

It started off as a classy rendition, replete with metaphors and such figures of speech as strike that unique combination of being startlingly relevant to their context while not compromising on the beauty that they were invoked to deliver. The story flowed easily enough. The poet appealed to me, giving me samples of how to say exactly what one means, while at the same time, appealing to one most artistically. He seemed to me, reimposed on that image we're all led to have of him through our text books and our elders, a wise bearded teacher whose calm appearance is steeped in knowledge.

As the stone rolled on, it began to gather quite a bit of moss. The book got heavier and gradually became a little harder to read. While the paragraphs proceeded as beautifully and artistically, they seemed to have acquired a cryptic nature. The poet ventured to the very extremes of creative expression. However, while enhancing the poetic nature of these sentences, they seemed to lack the relevance that they earlier possessed. He now represented that which almost every genius has ventured into - eccentricity. He now assumed a mysticism that is frequently synonymous with one of an appearance so outré.

One is reminded of a jigsaw puzzle consisting of many pieces, pretty themselves, but separated from the whole. The preceding paragraphs had presented to me those pieces, leaving me unsure as to whether the writing was too hard for me or if it was in the poet's nature to leave his readers minds murky as when one does when he steps into a crystal clear pond that is bottomed in alluvium.

The conductor continues waving his baton, to the inexperienced eye quite the same as before. However, the music seems to change as surely as a mathematician, having tackled a demoralising deadlock, hurries to the end of his proof as if it were child's play. The pieces of the puzzle came together to reveal the grand scheme that this grand old man had in his enlightened mind all along, the precision and the murkiness, all its participants. The story moves on quicker than ever but at the same time, one's mind wages a battle with his own hungry curiosity to slow down and grasp the sheer magnificence of what has his emotions strung up like a puppet. The purest of feeling surged through my nerves and would've gotten the better of me if it were not for the crowded bus. The book ended fast, slowed down with the pleading of a lover who begs to change the mind of one who is determined to leave him forever.

The emotions, tragic and deep though, do not compromise the author's ability to teach, the lessons of a nature so pure that they leave the very soul stirred. In their manner, so harsh and heated, one is reminded of the divine blacksmith Hephastus, whose striking blows have made creations so legendary. When you step back to look at his masterpiece, the poet's eye twinkles with the mischief he has wrought on you, like Lord Krishna's, while his mind reflects the knowledge of the all knowing.

Farewell My Friend is one of the best books I'll ever read.

The original version of Farewell My Friend was actually written in Bengali as Shesher Kabita (The last poem). The version I read was translated by Krishna Kripalani, quite skillfully at that. If a translated version can be so inspiring, one is staggered at the thought of how good the original must be.

Women measure; Men pleasure

A friend at work asked in passing as to why it was that women were judged mostly on their looks while men were given a more well rounded dealing.

In the course of time, it so happened, unfortunately, that men enjoyed a more celebrated status in human society. It was evolution's course that the alpha-male took over the tribe.

Hence, the best of males could fend for themselves and women, to them, merely turned into objects of selfish pleasure. They looked not for anything that would surpass the pleasure of their gluttonous senses.

Women, on the other hand, were dependent on their men for survival. Hence they went for a more complete package, one that started off as the strongest in the tribe, and has evolved into one that has the best standing in human society today - viz. money, power, fame etc. Iconoclasts quite frequently went unwed. It would also be of merit to note that bestselling authors quite frequently invoke these instincts to milk the feminine crowd off romantic novels with uncaring alpha-males.

In summing up, the selfishness of man and the subsequent vanity of women has dealt them a rather unidirectional judgement, while the dependence of women, and their generosity resultant, has given men a more holistic faring.

In today's times, when women are lifting the heavy thumbs that men have had on their lives for centuries, sweating it out, in the process, with men alike, I surely hope our standards of judgement shift favourably too.

I, for one, am more generous.

The last month or so, bird-wise

I've had a ball. Loads of lifers were put.

(L for lifers)

Veli Lake

Darter, Grey Heron, Purple Heron (L), Black Naped Oriole (Unsure)

The darters were everywhere and looked quite majestic drying off their wings in the crucifix position.

We lived amongst those buildings hiding in the back

Pulicat Lake

Pied Kingfisher, Painted Stork, Lesser Flamingo (L), Paddyfield Pipit, White Browed Bulbul (L), Grey Heron, Brown Headed Gull (L), River Tern, Loten's Sunbird ( Fleeting Glimpse), Spot Billed Pelican

Pulicat Lake is a paradise around this time of the year. There are tons of Painted Storks, Flamingos and Spot Billed Pelicans that feed on its waters.

The whole lake is one shallow marsh with pockets like this

Nellapattu Bird Sanctuary

Openbill Stork, Spotbilled Pelican, Night Heron (L), Shoveller (L),

Located about 10 km from Pulicat Lake, This place is rather thrown off, but opens a portal into a massive breeding ground for Spot Billed Pelicans, Blackhead Ibis and Openbill Storks. The sheer magnitude and density of this Sanctuary dwarfs anything else I've seen. Thousands of birds come here for the breeding season in the winter. We couldn't spend enough time here to do justice the beauty and the bounty that this place offers.

Those are all birds you see

It's been a nice month or so.

More pics here: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=26164&id=100001380800740&l=b0576817a7

Photo Credits: Chinmaya D

Warranty Void!

In this world of cut throat business, where an act of kindness is, more often than not, "outside company policy," this incident stands out.

I bought a pair of Sennheiser CX 180 noise cancellation earphones about a year back which I fell in love with. Every note that was to be heard was heard. Every bit of noise you didn't want it blocked. It also came with 2 years of warranty.

These very earphones bailed out on me during my official trip to Kerala. It so happens that I was thrown in with a bunch of people who found my music as alien as I found theirs annoying. In line with the noisy practices of our country, the junta was of the opinion that loudness = or > quality.

After a harrowing month, I returned to Golccha Electronics, the shop on SP Road from where the said earphones were purchased. The owner promptly asked me to take it to the Sennheiser service centre which he said was opposite to Garuda mall.

So, I rode to Garuda Mall.

I didn't find it.

So, I stopped by at Garuda Mall on the way back from work.

I couldn't find it.

It was then that I called him and asked about it's location. He said it was over an ICICI bank which was "very opposite" to Garuda Mall. On enquiry, I found that the nearest ICICI bank was "very beside" Bangalore Central and that it didn't have any thing worthy of being called a service centre above.

On calling again, he told me to get to his shop, which I did that night.

He started with apologies for making me run around so much. Apparently, the Sennheiser service centre which was due opening on the 20th of December had been postponed without his knowledge.

He then asked for the cardboard case that came with the phones so that warranty could be claimed. I, with a rather knowing air, proclaimed that no one preserves those boxes and that the bill which has "WARRANTY" written on it should be sufficient. He then pointed out that this very bill has, in fine print, "Warranty void without cardboard box."

He however told me that he'd take care of it. He handed me a warranty claimant slip. Then, he hesitated and went inside his shop. On return, presumably after a call, he confirmed with me of my inability to produce the box. He proceeded to ask me to show him the slip he'd handed me. On its production, he immediately tore it up.

"No warranty without box, Sir."

And before I could recover from the shock of this dramatic refusal, he asked me how I'd like a new pair. Since I was too dazed to respond, he asked me again, to which I replied that I wouldn't mind. Off his shelf he picked a brand new pair of the same earphones and put it in my hand.

"My customers come first. I'll fight with those people."

"At least this time, please keep the cardboard box safely. "

He'd staged the whole thing very well. It had a profound effect on me. I thanked him profusely in words and gestures. I then left the shop feeling very good about Golccha Electronics and for myself.

Lessons learnt:

1. Retain the damn cardboard box.

2. Only Rajendra saheb's Golccha Electronics, people.

Now playing: Think of me with kindness - Gentle Giant (quite a co-incidence eh?!)

PS: He trusted me to an extent as to not look at the defective earphones at all.

The Economics of Art

The trip to Hampi from college was extremely special and harboured many cherished memories. One such memory is that of an evening outside the Virupaksha temple there. Come evening, the temple, bedecked with lights and thronged by devotees, assumes a festive look. As outside any famous temple, there was a multitude of peddlers selling snacks, trinkets and other memorabilia. We stopped at one selling little statuettes and other pieces of artistically moulded metal. While picking up our purchases, the usual dose of bargaining that accompanies any purchase in such places ensued.

On the conclusion of our buying there, I remember arguing it out with a friend of mine, Balaji, on how it was ok to bargain for something being sold, even if it is art. On the one hand, mundane arguments of how bargaining keeps a leash on overcharging went on, and on the other, it was held that while one cannot place a price on art in the first place, bargaining is downright sordid. The the result was one where each member stubbornly stuck to his own.

The business of making documentaries on India and screened herein has hit it big in recent times. And quite a few of these have seemingly good looking women hosts, who are Indian more often than not and strike you as being particularly dumb in matters Indian. On one such documentary, an Indian anchor with a British accent was touring Orissa. It then went on to show an old man painstakingly painting thin, closely spaced lines on a small wooden toy with deft strokes of a brush. This got me thinking as to how much effort goes into making every small toy that is present in the heap of toys lying outside temples to be sold to customers.

The toys, by lying in these heaps, have their value severely undermined. Let us compare them to paintings that a "great artist" like M F Hussain doles out. Just because of the setting, one is valued at least a million times better than the other. I admit that my knowledge on contemporary painting isn't equal to one who can speak so disparagingly of Hussain. But I'm sure that the ratio I've put forth is still absurd, even when looked into by an MF Hussain Fan Club founder. The same goes for performing arts. Writers seem to have it a little easier than the rest of the artistic fraternity.

A true work of art touches you so deep that it evokes an almost primitive feeling which cannot be described, for descriptions are, by nature, man-made. It is this that puts a true artist on a pedestal that raises him beyond the scope of other things man-made, such as those of Economics. In the days of yore, there were kings who recognised this valued position of art, rising beyond economic worth. This is why art flourished in those days, patronised by the Kings, to give us masterpieces like Hampi and brilliant performing arts like Bharatanatyam and Carnatic Music. Today, Economics rules us all, and it doesn't take too kindly to art, although nowadays, it is coming to be seen as an art in itself.

Which brings me back to bargaining. My father once encountered a farmer who was selling a bunch of freshly picked lady's finger. He gave the latter how much ever was quoted and brought home the bounty. On finding out my father had paid the farmer slightly more than the market price, my mother called him naive and I seemed to think she was right. My father held that he couldn't refuse to give to a man whatever he asked, for something grown of his own hands. Horticulture, by virtue of its closeness to nature, started off as an art until the machinations of modern machinery have uprooted these links. Today, I am wholly sympathetic with my father and concede to Balaji in that I will never again bargain for a work of art.

The Dog's Day?

07-10-2010, Thursday

It so happens that I've to travel quite a lot to get to my new workplace. Located far away as my home is, there is a choice between a shorter route riddled with construction barriers and a longer, more unfettered route. As saving those few minutes I deemed quite important, I chose the longer route, and on one such circuitous trip, I was inspired to write thus.

The unoccupied mind tends to get on one's nerves, and because of restrictions imposed by the employer, I'm forbidden to bring along electronic devices of appeal, which leaves me either reading, or looking at the city en passant with contemplative eyes. The depth of this contemplation depends upon my state of mind, which is inclined to receive some inspirational tweaks on reading something well written. On this occasion, the proverbial food for thought turned out to be a Navtej Sarna short story.

On its conclusion, I was on the contemplative city gazing routine when I noticed a limping stray dog, and at least from his point of view, his mate, smaller, but able. The protagonist in question was on three legs as his fourth had been amputated half way.

His girl didn't share his eagerness and would've none of his attempts to set the ball rolling, coaxing on, from behind her. Firm bursts of barking were put forth to this end. However, they lacked a degree of bitterness that would've been present if she didn't approve of him at all. An interested onlooker to this ensuing drama was another dog, quite able and on all fours, silently watching these events unfold.

"Why was she playing hard ball?"

"Is it because he was a cripple?"

"Is it because she isn't ready yet? Or does the presence of the onlooker hold any bearing on her decision?"

"Was she merely playing hard to get before eager submission?"

The pleading, pitiable look on the dog seemed to ask these questions, just as I ask them now. However, the bus pulled away from the traffic signal and I never quite figured out whether it was the dog's day.

For once, I was a little sad when the bus pulled away from a signal. It is usually the case that my mind continually eggs the bus on, seeing as how traffic moves slower than a sleep-walking snail in unplanned, construction ridden, and as a result, gridlocked Bangalore. On switching buses at the Majestic bus station, a pen, paper and a well suspended, comfortable Volvo bus seat at my disposal, I'm inspired to pen down my thoughts before the will to do so evaporates. The frequently interrupting Bangalore traffic signals at hand are my allies now. I think I'm going to like this new job.