Old Man and ‘She’

There was ebb in the flow of pen and hence, this blog, due to grand Indian festivities for a month or so but the spark did not extinguish. Challenges - and hence, inspiration to write - exist unabated; one does not have to wait but only need to trace the triggers. The indefatigable human mind continues to surprise by exhibiting tenacity and variety in dealing with events as big as demonetization or as small as a piece of cloth. 

Last fortnight, we – me and my better half – were revisiting the pleasure of ‘teenage of togetherness’ having entered into the seventeenth year of our welded …oops wedded life. To commemorate the occasion, my wife decided to explore some new dresses in vogue at the commencement of winter!

With melodies echoing in heart, she shortlisted a few garments. I was instructed to wait outside the fitting room. “Be here” was what i heard last before she went into oblivion.  Over the years, diligently waiting outside the fitting rooms has been the only cause of weariness and rift between the two of us.

Once again, I rested myself along the wall only to spot an elderly gentleman, with walking stick, held in shaky hands, stooping back and protruding lips, standing outside the fitting rooms – apparently waiting to hold his head firm for the next nod as soon as his wife would come out and ask him “kaisi lag rahi hoon?”¹

We exchanged smiles. We were united in experience, I sensed, though separated in age.

“Your wife?” he asked. I taxingly nodded and returned the query “Yours too?” He smiled with élan, in affirmative, head upright now; pride on his shoulders.

Bemused by his strange and gutsy demeanour, I continued the conversation, “Sir, we are completing sixteen years of our marriage.” “Great”, he said, “May you spend many more here. I already crossed 50 years of waiting”

“50 years of waiting?” I tried to clear my confusion.

“It is a pleasure to stand and wait for your beloved to come out and watch the smile on her face – it is unparalleled. We cannot afford new and expensive dresses yet we come here frequently just to try, and not buy, a few smiles. Remember the song from The Sound of Music

I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…..

I need someone older and wiser, telling me what to do
You are seventeen going on eighteen, I'll depend on you…..

We replay the moments of that song very often. While she enjoys new outfits and derives momentary happiness, I remain occupied spotting the best looking dress in other women occupants. By now, I have nurtured an illusion of being a fashion connoisseur. Nevertheless, we enjoy our experiments.”

“Waiting,” he continued, “breeds creativity, young man. It provides a blank canvas with scope of unfettered strokes of brush. The imagination may run wild! Euphemistically, it can be equated with cinematography with the scene changing with every blink of the eyes. While it may be loaded with pains, still it may give you diverse gains.

The life commenced with waiting – our mother waited for nine months for us to arrive. We longed for the school bell to ring for the final time. The endless road journey back home from school; the longing for the wall clock to strike 5 o’ clock in evening – the declaration for playtime; hope and despair in the days waiting for competitive examination results; a romantic wait for a lovely date and so on. All have myriad colours.”

The discourse was interrupted by the voice of a young lady who had just come out of the fitting room to win the nod of approval from her partner “Rohit, Rohit”. She shouted but he was busy on his cellphone a few steps away. Anger was injected in the call now, “ROHIT”. Both me and the elderly gentleman approached Mr Rohit and separated him from his cellphone as he rushed, trembling, to her as we glanced at each other.

“This wait is unique, I told you. It is a recess for the words but a deluge for thoughts. You just saw the engrossed young man” said the old man.

I was reflecting at my disposition over the years; the gentleman made me realize what I had missed by not utilizing these precious waiting moments. The agonies could be turned into romantic memories. While loss of time and lack of taste was often cited by me as the reason for repulsion towards waiting zones, this mild introspection led to different inferences.

“I have sealed friendships here with many husbands, boyfriends, brothers, colleagues, sons and fathers” he continued while I was still floating.   

“Do you drink coffee?”

“Yes, sir” I replied instantly, thinking it was an invitation.

“There is no romance in concocting your coffee instantly. It is not a functional beverage. It has many companionable qualities. You can’t capture and inhale the intoxicating aromas as they dissipate into the air unless it is brewed at right temperature for appropriate time. A good coffee turns into a page of romance, only after a patient wait. Can you get a whiff of the aroma here?”

“I can” he said, firm and resolute, after a pause, as I stood there split between my thoughts and repeated calls from my wife, “kaisi lag rahi hoon?”

-----****------

1.       kaisi lag rahi hoon? – How am I looking?

(A)Maze

An aunt of mine visited us recently from afar as she had to attend a wedding of her friend’s daughter in our city. She insisted that i and my wife also join her in the ceremony as the invitation was for her “With Family”. We were reluctant; she was persuasive.

In deference to her elderly command, the fragile structures of our diffidence towards being an uninvited guest were caving in. As she showed us the invitation card for the address, a line at the bottom caught my attention and the decision was made.

We decided to accompany her. The footnote in the card – “No gift, no shagun¹, only blessings” emphatically declared the magnanimity of the host. The residual resistance disappeared.

Having grown through times when shagun or gifts were a must in weddings, I was indeed amazed at this subscript but was carried away in my newfound respect towards the host. It reinforced my belief that the society is shedding inhibitions. Live-in relations, surrogacy, funky dressing, flexi and 24*7 working, selfie-mania, freedoms of midnight, sub-nuclear families – all are symptoms of a flux that is gradually settling in our eternally fertile cultural soil. The Aryans, the Mughals, the British – all separated by a few hundred years each - left their imprints in one form or the other on us and our identities evolved. Now, with the instant exchange of information globally, the evolution is taking shape of a revolution, much shrunk on the timescale. Transparency is now the buzzword and the evolved souls – like the host above - apparently are no longer bothered about what the world will say on questions of credence such as what do i do? whom do i live with? what time do i come home? and so on.

Great! Thoughtful time though!

Was this enough provocation to write an obituary on hypocricy, I mused? While Trump is blowing the trumpet of transparency, back home, instances of ambiguous statements by one and revelations of reality by another are making the headlines. With increasing focus on self, individuals may be becoming more courageous and truthful – even to the extent of accepting in public the hitherto taboo aspects such as LGBT – collectively, the mindset continues to remain masked in the mire of worldly exhibitions. Today’s host was one such brave and unorthodox individual, unmindful of what the world would say on his statement in the invitation card. Kudos! More such people can certainly remove the veils of duplicity from around us and fuel the revolution.

Enjoying some sumptuous preparations, I spotted a grin on my wife’s face.

“Are not finding anything tasty?” I asked

“No. I am not feeling comfortable because we are uninvited”

Was she another epitome of transparency in the evolving society, I wondered. I quickly swallowed the piece of nicely done paneer tikka² and stood by her trying to understand her.

“I insist that we should part with some shagun as our good wishes for the new couple”, she said.

I listened, patiently as ever, and wished If only she could focus on food!

The host was candid in declaring “no gifts..” whereas the uninvited guest (my wife) was insistent on shagun – both were true to themselves – each perhaps subscribing to a different frame of reference. But whom do i incline with? My mind was in a muddle.

A friend appeared from behind and as we exchanged pleasantries, he took excuse from my wife and pulled me to my much awaited next round of culinary delight.

A few snacks later, i saw my wife coming towards me and I quickly ran through the remnants in my plate. Surprisingly, she had a sparkling smile on her. She seemed to have overcome the archaic mindset and fallen in sync with the transparent times.

                                                                                                 

I presumed that the maze was solved. I was relieved.            

“I went with aunt and handed over a shagun envelope to the host, who gratefully acknowledged” she announced; “Did you taste the chilli mushroom? They are just amazing” she added after a pause.

I was mute. The maze was not solved; on the contrary, it left me amazed and bisected. Even the publicly written words did not stand ground. The masks of mankind were yet to be fully uncovered. While my wife enjoyed the meals that followed, I nibbled at the nuances of transparency.

My thoughts on obituary of hypocricy seemed to be pre-mature.

Wondering…

1.       Shagun – In some parts of the country, guests shower blessings by handing over some currency in attractive envelopes to the hosts during ceremonies such as wedding.

2.       Paneer Tikka – an Indian delicacy of oven - grilled cottage cheese 

Bandhan

During my recent visit to a temple, the priest tied supposedly sacred threads on my wrist and appended adhesive on the knot. While I did not have the audacity to question him, one of my friends, a few days later, asked me about its significance and longevity? As i fumbled to answer, she pointed to the other thread tied on my wrist – and raised some questions. I was reminded of the occasion when the other thread was tied - Raksha Bandhan¹

We had a get-together and many brothers/sisters were present. A sister, barely eighteen, told her brother – three years younger - that he had to take care of her as she tied Rakhi² on his wrist. The teenaged brother replied quicker than Usain Bolt– “Why do you need me when you are independent and elder to me?”

Was he echoing the sentiments of a nation? I wondered. Or had he seen a pre-release version of the movie Pink and had stepped into the protagonist’s shoes?

The women have certainly become stronger and moved higher across various domains not only in India, but globally - Theresa Mayer, Indra Nooyi, Malala Yousafzai, Arundhati Bhattacharya – just to name a few. It was more than a coincidence that on that festive day, two young women had assured medals for 1.2 billion populous India in Rio Olympics – one of them literally being Sakshi, that is, witness to the success of women from this land of Sindhu(Indus).

While the history carries pages on LaxmiBai, it is also replete with regretful instances of Sati³ and Jauhar⁴. Traditions have gradually evolved and practices have changed as society has granted entry to women in Shani Shingnapur temple, Sabrimala and now, Haji Ali. However, rather than a mass movement, the recent victories for equality and freedom have been the outcome of indomitable individual spirit and sacrifice of some brave women.

As i pondered, the sister said, “Bro, we celebrate Raksha Bandhan because the brothers have been rakshak⁵ for sisters. Let us therefore abide by these traditions!”

The reply was spontaneous again, “There is a Police service in this country, which is rakshak for everyone. Moreover, when we are told that boys and girls are all equal, then why rakshak is required. Forget the threads and overcome the threats on your own”

We were dumbfounded. The sister looked into the eyes of her brother - who was voicing a larger concern though with a tiny understanding – and hugged him. The virtuous valour as implored by the young boy, indeed, persists in pockets; but collective consciousness is lacking in liberating the woman from shackles which have consistently failed and demeaned her as a gender. The pages of her freedom have often been truncated by margins made by hegemonic masculinity.

As that episode ran through my memory, I looked at my friend, who, in turn was having a finer look at the threads tied on my wrist. As i watched her silently, i wondered whether it was important to put adhesives on the knots or on the devil and discordant mindsets that have not yet fallen in sync to transcend the barricades of cultural parochialism.

1. Raksha Bandhan – An Indian festival wherein sisters tie a band/thread around their brothers’ wrists, who vow to safeguard the sisters. Raksha refers to safety and Bandhan refers to the act of tying.

      2.  Rakhi – The wrist band mentioned above

           3.  Sati – The practice of wife sitting and burning herself alive on the pyre of her deceased husband

     4.   Jauhar – Self-immolation of women, including queens and female royals of Hindu kingdoms, when facing defeat at the hands of an enemy

     5.  Rakshak – Savior

Guru Call

On the recently passed Teachers’ Day, just before dinner, I dialed my teacher’s phone number. The phone was unanswered. I occupied my seat at the dining table with my eyes making a shift towards the cell-phone frequently – expecting a callback. My dining colleagues asked me why i was calling a teacher who had taught me over twenty years ago.

I retorted, “This is a modest way to pay tributes to the numerous days/events/things and people who have taught me lessons of life. Merely anyone who gives tutorials in a formal environment is not a teacher alone; on the contrary, every moment which inspires you with deeds or didactics is a teacher.”


“Why so many things when we have Google?” I was questioned.

Alas! i wished that they knew that a chasm lay wide agape between wisdom and information. Pensively looking at the cell-phone – eyes and ears impatient to get a ring on the phone – i chewed a few emotions along with the bite. Indebted to every instant of history, i narrated an experience when i was handling channel partners of our fuel stations.


With a task to improve sales, I thought of visiting our upcountry Retail Outlets during dusk hours. I reached a dimly lit outlet. The customer service attendants were not in uniform. They did not recognize me as I had taken over the assignment a few days ago. I enquired about sales, lighting and uniform. Apparently puzzled, they asked me whether I needed petrol or diesel. Skipping the answer, I cleverly asked about sales and products available. They were equally smart in evading the questions.

Disclosing my identity, I added authority to my questions. The attendants, surprisingly, were unfazed. The only reply they gave was “Ask Sardarji” referring to the outlet dealer sitting in the salesroom. I moved into the salesroom, introduced myself and greeted the gentleman – an elderly Sikh, about 70 years, white beard and sharp turban – sitting on an old wooden chair, perhaps more aged than the gentleman himself!


He acknowledged my greetings and offered me a chair without uttering a word, while remaining busy in scribbling something on a paper. I flooded him with a flurry of questions. His authorship seemed steadfast as he continued writing uninterruptedly. His silence loaded me with confusion - was he ignoring me or insulting me? I was still pondering when he finished his writing and stood up (I also stood) to pass on to me the paper. It was an apology letter for the fact that his service attendants were not in uniform and that the outlet was poorly illuminated. The letter also carried his promise for improvement.

The action left me bewildered. I asked him that we had not even conversed yet he had written the apology. He politely told me that he had been doing this every time the previous officer-in- charges would come to his outlet. “They”, he said, “only found mistakes here. I am used to this now.”


I was rendered speechless. Mustering some courage, I changed the topic and enquired after his family and the aged wooden chair! My query was a catalyst.  A saga unfolded, through his words.

The outlet sales had dipped after his young son - sitting at this very chair - was shot dead by separatist militants .He tearfully narrated the whole story and I gathered strands of strength and emotion from this septuagenarian. He was operating the outlet as a custodian to pass on to his grandchildren their deceased father’s legacy! He was an epitome of vim and vigor. We made several reciprocal discoveries thereafter; he earned some tips on sales from me and i learnt my lessons of energy from this suffered yet unshaken soul!

Sipping a glass of water, i floored an open question on the dining table, “Would you not call this as a great teaching moment? Should i deprive this gentleman’s credo of being called a towering inspiration? Should i not remember all such occasions and organisms everyday as an ode to the life’s ways of teaching?”

Some silent moments…..

I continued, “Do you not feel that every such being and bit breeds edification of each one of us? While every moment is a teacher, is today not the commemorative occasion to show deference to indomitable human spirit and ability of siphoning off and sharing wisdom out of anything – gentle or grave? Despite abundance of information today, shall we continue being students submitting to the sanity of a few? Or shall we become human islands not respecting any relationship of mutual learning?”

Before anyone spoke, the cell-phone rang; my teacher had called back! All eyes were open in disbelief thinking of the questions of probity raised.

Perhaps, a few had been answered by this callback!




Guru is a Hindi word referring to teacher.

Honest Salsa

After enduring painful monsoon traffic, bumps and snarls for almost two hours, I was famished when we reached a friend’s place over the weekend. I requested my friend instantly – much to the chagrin of my wife – for something to eat. As soon as we were served some snacks, accompanied with a bright coloured sauce, I was tempted to pounce. To my disappointment, the sauce was on the other side of the table and I asked my friend to pass me the nice looking chutney. 

Lo and behold! The outburst began. He scorned at me; handed me the bowl of chutney; explained the pains they had undergone that day to prepare that special salsa sauce for the first time and cautioned me of the tempest ahead (his wife would be joining shortly!) for me for having called this fruit of labour as mere chutney!

My wife looked at me with equal disdain. My hunger vanished. The cheese bites were stuck, akin to Adam’s apple, in the passage. I was feeling sinful. The poverty of language had never been an impediment till that moment; nor had honesty!

I have always been a connoisseur of good food, though, with experience, the appreciations have flown from heart rather than head. My emotional honesty has emerged over several years of travel and turmoil.

One incident just flashed on my memory screen. Soon after my marriage, when I started carrying lunchbox - romantically prepared by my wife - to office, I would religiously appreciate the food on return. Appreciation is a great motivation – the more I praised, the more spices she added - till one evening when my colleagues visited our home for dinner. In their enthusiasm to laud my wife’s culinary skills, they told her that the contents of the lunchbox were too spicy for me to handle and that i bought food from the canteen while they finished my tiffin.

The aftermath is best left to each one’s imagination!

However, this and many a travail later, i realized that honesty was a risky, yet supreme credo. The world is imploring upon the citizens – preachers and practitioners alike – to remain honest. The stick is also being used in form of watchdogs such as vigilance agencies. Nevertheless, the news of scams and scandals and shame of corruption continues unabated. These stem out of the involved individuals’ sense of loyalty being more towards self rather than others. On one of my posts Loyalty Bonus a friend asked whether it was wrong if one was becoming loyal to oneself rather than others. Honesty, literally meaning truthfulness, implies being loyal to oneself before showing allegiance to others. It is a compliance with one’s internal value system. The belief that one holds as paramount – be it simplicity or greed or indulgence or deceit or sensitivity or anything else – governs an individual’s definition of honesty. For a minimalist, simplicity would be honesty and for a mercenary, honesty would lie in the end rather than the means. The construct is subjective and practitioner has to take a conscious call between short-term pleasure and long-term happiness. At times, we perform self-manipulation to control others' responses to us with a momentary desire to impress or some eyes to ingratiate. 

Before the onslaught would start, i quickly banked on Google to find that salsa was a spicy sauce of chopped vegetables or fruits used as a condiment especially with Mexican dishes. Where were the Mexican dishes, i wondered? Chutney, I discovered, was an Indian condiment of mangoes, tomatoes, onions, chillies, etc. Had i defied truth by calling salsa as chutney? If I would have called it salsa sauce, would the taste have been different?

A minimalist by choice, i preferred to keep my arguments cut down by Occam’s razor and waited for my friend’s wife to arrive. I preferred happiness over pleasure or in other words, chutney over salsa! Having settled the mental conflict, I waited for the real duel. I do not know whether i decided rightfully or not but concluded that conflict of honesty would always remain. What would be the right stance – saying truth or subscribing to what pleases the world?

Ding-dong.

A few more guests arrived. A smile donned my lips as much as it adorned my wife and my friend’s faces as the discussion would now migrate to other subjects.

I sat relieved, saved from possible emotional wreckage! 

With an unanswered query – honest though, i lived to thrive rather than whither….

Curiosity sandwich

Being a father of two and a half children, most of my musings have tiny origins. While majority of my time at home goes in answering queries of my two children, my heart also houses a carefree half child, despite my being an adult. I am as keen on dancing in the rains as my children, i am as excited to watch Tom and Jerry as my kids, i am as zealous on enjoying a swing as my little daughter. Neither do I know the cause nor do I intend to discover. The half-child has encountered many onslaughts and curious eyes from the society. Yet it survives!

  

Recently, a leading media group announced a one day workshop on acting for children – No entry fee! My son was keen to join but my daughter was not. No one asked me but the child in me was also eager to attend. I expressed my desire in the family on the appointed day. A long debate prevailed - my kids trying to convince me that I had no purpose or eligibility to go there - not being a child. What will everyone think about you, dad?

Is age the only determinant of childhood? I pondered.

My son decided to attend. My daughter was double minded. My temptation poked me. As I reached the venue to drop my son, I also attempted to get an entry. The host – a firm lady – refused; saying that parents were not allowed. However, during the brief interaction she had with us, she was impressed by my daughter and wanted her to attend the workshop.

My daughter was, however, reluctant. I tried to convince her stating that this was a nice opportunity to learn from a professional actor in a small group. She did not budge. I threw bait saying that if she attended, we shall get her a new dress. Her refusal was cemented. I assured that I would wait outside and if at any point of time, she felt bored, she could come out and we would drive back home. She responded with a scornful look – rebuttal reinforced.

I was muted. As we sat back in the car to drive back home, I looked at her – the eyes were profound but derisive. I glanced aside. Pensively, as I positioned myself to start the car, a tear of thought rolled down my eye.

Am I forcing my curiosity upon her? Are my latent temptations finding a vent through her?

I recalled Kahlil Gibran, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you.” I reconciled and decided to return home. As the mental conflict settled and I switched on the ignition, the left brain jumped into action. Passion varies from individual to individual and there is no reason why my daughter should also like what I am fond of. However, without adequate exposure, her curiosity would remain half-baked and remain confined to a narrow world. For a passion to be born, for excitement to be eternal, for thoughts to travel and ideas to be immortal, the person ought to be exposed to an unfettered environment with diverse options. By impressing upon my daughter to attend a one day workshop I am only trying to introduce her to a possible new dimension.

I switched off the engine. I told her – a bit firmly - that she would get refreshments if she attended the workshop. Her eyes opened wide. That was the first time since morning that my arguments could perhaps penetrate her mind without refutation. I looked at her eyes again – profound again but shining with hope now. I sensed victory. I garnished my offering. I told her that I would request the host for an extra burger for her if she agreed to attend.

She opened the door of the car and started walking towards the venue waving her hand smilingly. I could see the extra burger in her eyes. I was left to wonder whether the burger was too heavy for her.

Both acceptances and refusals are transitory for a child. She refused because she was not keen at learning that art. She agreed because she was tempted to an extra burger; nee, perhaps, she agreed because she was overpowered by her father’s eagerness.

Curiosity is a state of mind which ought to be devoid of age but not experience. By forcing an opportunity on her to get new experience, did I stamp a seal of my passion on unmoulded dough or did my persuasion have merit?

As I pen this, I remain inconclusive whether it was her temptation for the burger or my spirit of enquiry that won?

The truth remains sandwiched between two buns.

Anxious.

Packaging a culture

Recently, one of my friends, now settled in US, was on a family holiday in India. We met after several years in our hometown in Punjab. My teen aged son has been fascinated about that country of dreams and loaded my friend with queries. His son, an American citizen by birth, was equally inquisitive about his parents’ motherland and posed many a difficult questions. At the peak of our conversation, when I asked this young American about the good things in US, he narrated the traffic discipline, cleanliness and social support system. At a tender age of 13, he had an eye for detail. I got curious to know his findings about India. And indeed, the moment I asked him what was the best thing he found in India, he obliged by replying instantly “Jaggi Sweets”¹

We all roared with laughter. The Indian blood had not lost its passion for original flavour! My friend has always been a person with a discerning palate. The legacy had traveled.

Tongue is a great carrier, we realized!

The young lad’s reply took us to the times when my friend would travel abroad and carry a number of paranthas², frozen in India, and to be reheated in US to bring to life the aroma of mother’s love. We migrated into the thought process of our children - each one fascinated by something else in the other country. We talked about our efforts in bequeathing a heritage, upholding identity as well as recognising diversity amidst globalization. My son wants to be more American to accomplish his dreams; his son wants to be more Indian to fortify his family. There is anguish in this irony.

The labour pain is not solely ours. Since time immemorial, nations have been trying to propagate their cultures within and outside. The sensitivity on the subject is not new. UNESCO passed a Convention for safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage many years ago. While there are several stakeholders in preserving the tangible heritage – architecture, relics and places, it is the intangible cultural heritage – oral expressions, language, arts and crafts, rituals, traditions and practices, festivals and foods – that travels on fluid grounds.

Lifestyles have transformed with the advent of technology. Social systems have evolved to facilitate the preservation of intangible elements of lineage - children are taught languages, expressions and rituals through demonstrative videos; traditions and festivals are celebrated in all geographies though on varying scales; music and dance is available online; packaged food or ready to eat meals are available across the globe. The tangibility divide is getting erased.

My friend’s son knew more holy songs and festive practices than my children. Deepawali³, which is a two-three day affair for us, is a grand celebration with them. Their emphasis is on the fact that the inheritors should know every minute detail about their pedigree. I could not resist asking my friend that why did he want his children to learn about Indian culture when they are settled abroad and celebrating foreign festivals with as much as fervor as the Indian one’s? I further queried, “Why are you turning a cultural philanthropist when it comes to sharing of inheritance?”

An eerie silence prevailed, only to be busted by the Breaking News on television.

The Indian Postal Department shall sell water bottles containing Gangaajal⁴. We looked at each other. That was not mere bottling of water; that was packaging of a civilisation.

Thousands of Indians hitherto travelled miles to fill a container of Gangaajal and store it in their homes for various holy reasons. The government was now becoming patron in facilitating the preservation of a belief.

Water is physical; loyalty is ethereal. Besides the food, even faith was now being beautifully draped and distributed. The cultural insecurity had been insured with the Government imparting an impermeable seal of sanctity on water bottles.

Is the haulage of conviction an individual choice or a national necessity? I wondered.

Is this patronage merely a marketing mania? Or did the government need to start this because individuals – me and you - were failing to transport the fabric of faith?

In such circumstances, am I justified in asking questions of probity to my friend?   

A call for tea interrupted my thoughts and punctuated our conversation. It remained inconclusive thereafter as we spent some merry moments with families.

A few days later, I learnt that, instead of paranthas, my friend had preferred to carry with him two packaged bottles of Gangaajal. Perhaps, it was just another way to preserve, percolate and permeate the intangible legacy of values - the emblem of people’s cultural identity!

I am left to conjecture the answers to my questions….

Any help? 

1. Jaggi Sweets is a famous sweet shop in Punjab
2. Paranthas are stuffed Indian breads, fried in ghee.
3. Deepawali is the most famous Indian festival
4. Gangaajal refers to the water of river Ganges (Ganga, in Hindi), which besides being the lifeline of half of India, is worshipped as Mother River. Gangaajal is used for ablutions by many Hindus across the country. 

Loyalty Bonus

During my training as a salesperson, the focus was always on the mindshare of the pie-holder. Either we adorned to grab the eyeballs or bowed for the footfalls. Customer Lifetime value was injected in our blood and soul. Ages seem to have passed between then and now. The hitherto sought after loyalty and the lifetime have squeezed in timescale, it seems.

In Scent of a Woman, the Academy Award winner for best acting Al Pacino, portraying as a blind retired Army officer invites Donna, a young woman waiting for her date for a dance. Upon her reply that her date would be arriving in few minutes, the Colonel asserts, famously now, “Life can be lived in an instant”. A spectacular tango followed thereafter on the dance floor.

The floors are now everywhere. Opportunity has become the new ‘life’, and being explored every instant. This loyalty salsa or the opposite thereof is widespread - the suppressed coup in Turkey, the agitated Kashmir, political cauldron in Delhi, the newest form of password by an anciently named bank. The messiahs and the masses - all are eyeing for share of the pie. With battles aplenty, the war is on. Loyalty, now, is being lived (or leveraged) every instant!

The happenings around us have raised doubts about whether it should still be taught as an eternal virtue. I have grown up with a notion of belongingness to one’s family, culture and country. Amidst these teachings, doses of great Indian philosophy Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam (the world is my home) were also imparted.

When the governments (nee MLAs, nee public representatives) can change allegiance overnight, when a swashbuckling cricketer turned politician turned rebel again turned presidential nominee and again turned rebel swaps parties, when players shift from one team to another every IPL season, when a classical singer starts humming on orchestra and drums, when popular figures are oscillating with their marital ties, then how do we answer the question of lifetime belongingness. When the leaders are donning different robes daily, the followers are bound to fumble and look stupefied.

Masses follow the messiahs. And with so many Godmen, more so!

The span of loyalty - the act of binding yourself intellectually or emotionally to a course of action, as defined – has evolved. High fidelity (Hi-fi) is being masked by Wireless fidelity (Wi-fi). With no strings attached, we are apparently graduating to a newer environment where the permanence in any affair is going to be history. Clarion, perhaps, needs to be blown to seek reworking of certain definitions in what is a stark shift from loyalty bonus to a loyalty (R)evolution in the “Modern Times”. 

A Turbulent Entry

During this summer vacation my nine year old daughter was assigned homework to study a newspaper for at least a fortnight and write her experiences. We had been trying to inculcate in her this habit for over a year now but did not succeed. The teachers’ words or perhaps, dictum had done the magic. I was nevertheless excited. It was her entry into the eventful environment; the world of here and now; the world of rhetoric and reality. She had often wondered and questioned us – the elders – me, my father, my mother, my wife and more recently, our teenaged son – why being the first one to pounce and hold the newspaper was a moment of victory for us? No explanation would serve better than experience.

We decided to give her the first right in the race for grabbing the most sought after morning commodity. It was time for my kiddo to have the first bite at first byte! It was the best way to advertise what the media is always trying to say, “first reported by us on…” and she would hear so often – even to the extent of repulsion - as she grows up. We are still a family where cellphone is not the first thing we begin our day with. The pleasure of a fully spread newspaper is akin to a refreshing drink in the morning for each one of us. Our daughter gradually got addicted to start her day with that unique odour – her snorting made me apprehensive whether she had read too much between the lines and news coverage of Udta Punjab.  

She would ask me the meaning of each headline and expect a concise explanation – as every daughter would expect from her father. It was indeed a challenging task to explain to someone who is not even ‘paanchvi paas’ as to how a Ruby could be a school topper merely by paying her pranams to Tulsidasji. As if this was not enough, the world this summer was all about cuts and cults, egos and exits, scorns and scandals.

While we made every effort to make our little princess swell with pride that she had grown up enough to read a newspaper just like her grandparents, parents and ‘bhaiya’, she was more confused than ever at the duality of reality. We – who, over the years - had preached her United we Stand, had a tough time explaining her how the British would stand when Divided?

The symphony which she heard and read being created in the US was getting suppressed by the cacophonies back home – she was puzzled why a swamy was fighting with a rajan when both were working for India? She wanted to understand the meaning of freedom. She questioned me why the wings of a movie were being snapped while a flamboyant colourful bird was allowed to fly pan-ocean? She asked me why we cannot check breads and noodles before they are introduced rather than banning them later and hitting children’s taste buds and sentiments hard.

Thankfully, the days of vacation were lesser than her pouncing questions. I was wondering what a difficult time her teacher would have when her student would narrate her experiences and raise her queries –Why everything has to exit/ why cannot it be R-enter and Br-enter? What I thought was going to be a monumental entry into the world of words turned out to be an enquiry of exits! Hope the inquisitiveness survives in the world of noisy exits.