Childhood Games

Some of the most common indoor games I played a child were Labyrinth and Bagatelle (more commonly known as Pinball).

Labyrinth was the more prevalent, with plastic handheld versions available at stalls at wedding or function venues (or at Dasara exhibition). More common than the Labyrinth was the Maze. The Labyrinth requires you to take the marbles from one place to other without letting them fall through the holes, but the Maze was simpler, with no holes at all.

 

Bagatelle was the rarer one. Nobody I knew owned a bagatelle table, so when I found one at a neighbour’s place, I was intrigued about the game. But there is only so much time you can play at the neighbours. I kind of liked that game, and was hooked to the computer version which we now know as Pinball. However, while Pinball had two paddles which let you flick the marble, bagatelle lets you do a cue only once, before the marble settles on a score.

 

I guess we never outgrow childhood desires, because when I saw these for sale at the car boot sale, I instinctively picked them up without even the slightest inclination to bargain. (They came at a throwaway price anyway!). I played with them the afternoon I bought them, and then packed them up and put them away. Here they are!

 

This one to the right was a bonus, I don’t even know what it is called!!

 

These are just museum pieces now, because I know my son will not play with these. There’s not much scope when you have the same as iPhone apps. :-|

 

 

 

 

Firsts list

How many of you have a first-list - the first job, the first bike, the first house, the first kiss...you get the drift? Like Dr.Bhalerao says to Roy in Bluffmaster - tumhe kitne din yaad hain?, I have a mental "to-do" list, which I like to "Mark as Done" with a punch in the air, as and when I reach there. Some of my firsts have been highly fulfilling, like my laptop, which left me on cloud nineteen, or my first big splurge - 16k of hard-earned money on a cellphone. I still remember the feeling when I gingerly gave my card for swiping, wondering whether it was worth it.

Some of them were long overdue, like my bike. My bike was not the first vehicle I rode - I had a second-hand Hero Puch before, and an old family Luna before that, and hand-me-down cycles even before. My bike was not the first vehicle I bought - I bought a Scooty for dad before the bike. And so, the joy that MY bike was bought of my own money was overshadowed by a "Oh, you bought a bike? So what?" feeling. Nevertheless, I celebrate every small acquisition in my long list of "must-haves" I have been listing since college days. Some items on the list have been re-prioritised, some new items have gatecrashed and some items have been obfuscated.

And I remember each of these firsts - the offer letter - which was like a million prayers answered, the first big splurge - with the fear of repayment, the first salary (again, technically, the first salary was Rs.880, for a part-time job as a sales canvasser for Deccan Herald, which was joyfully spent on steaming idli-vada-sambar or set dosas for a whole month), the ride from the bike showroom to the office, the wide-eyed stare into the shining blackness of the laptop screen, the awe at the credit-card sized digital camera, which is smaller than my cellphone, the first of those stolen kisses (ever wondered how the sweetest of kisses are those that are stolen), the first of those innumerable whoops of joy at something finally working out, the first (and all) of those reunions of college friends and many many more....

Some time back, I struck one more entry off my list - I bought my first suit. And while I was it, I made it even more memorable by making it two.

Trains

When I have written about buses, can trains be left behind?

I always had a special connection with trains, as can be seen in my comment on this post. I have literally woken up to the loud trumpeting horn of the Mysore-Nanjangud train, waiting for its signal to enter the Ashokapuram station. I clearly remember Thatha taking me up to the roof years ago, to show me the trains. Those were cherished moments - every year, a visit to Mysore would mean looking at the trains from Ajji mane mhaaDi. Later, when I came to stay there, and the house underwent a lot of renovation, I was to take my little cousins up the stairs and show them the trains when they acted cranky.

While in school, we would go to play cricket in a place called the "woodyard". On my way back, I would walk along the tracks, wondering how they could stack the stones in neat oblong mounds.
I would walk along until I reached the station, which had a workshop attached to it. This was enough to fuel my curiosity, and I have seen probably all kinds of engines and bogies there were at that point of time.

Later, as dad kept moving around, I got to travel a lot in trains - long distance trains to Gujarat, Rajasthan, Haryana and Delhi. I loved those journeys - the looking up your name on reservation charts, the securing of suitcases under the seats, and wondering who might be in the seat next to you, the removing of shoes and climbing up to the upper berth (I got to see a lot of people who climbed into the upper berth and then put their shoes on top of the fan there. I found it utterly disgusting, but I guess they must have lost more shoes than I have stepped into, so I'll let that be), the slow rocking of the train, the switching off of the lights, and the drifting off to the best sleep ever. I always sleep well on trains. Better than I sleep in buses or aeroplanes, or at home. It must be the rocking, or the heavenly smell of countryside, or maybe, the distinctive smell of the cold metal and rexine.

Sometimes, in late evenings when dinner would be served and wrapped up, and I had finished my book or my batteries, I would go and sit on the footboard. Yes, mom, I know you forbade me to stand there. Which is why I didn't. I just sat. I sat and watched the countryside whizz by. I sat and enjoyed the change of sound as the train went over a bridge. I sat and counted the number of bogies as the train went around a bend. I sat and let the wind mess up my hair, I watched the distant light of a lone house in the dark fields. I watched the headlights of the vehicles lined up to let my train pass, I waved back at the small kids waving me goodbye. I took deep breaths of the night air, and at the first sign of drowsiness, I went back to my berth.

Sometimes, I would wake up early to the first call of "tea-choy", "chaya-chaya" or "ness-coffy sir", and a paper-cup in hand, would watch the dawn break across rural India. Trust me, there is nothing more beautiful or divine than watching the sun rise over the misty horizon, lighting up the hitherto dark countryside. The chill in the air stings your face as you sit on the footboard, sipping the hot tea and feasting your eyes on the emerging greenery. Dawn breaks early in rural areas, or rather, it seems to, and you have to be up really early to catch this. An hour later maybe, all you get is morning squatters on the outside, and people wanting to freshen up on the inside. I always used this time to go back to my berth, recall all the sights and drift back to sleep.

The night is always mysterious and fascinating, you never know how it passes. On a train, it is passing the day that is the more difficult part. Like everyone of us, I always hoped that I would meet (atleast) one interesting person of the opposite sex, who would make the journey interesting - but no !!! It either happens in the movies, or to Chetan Bhagat. My sister got such company once, though, and they ended up talking about a story I had started to write, and made fun of the characters. I sulked and never finished the story.

How could one write about a long distance journey and not mention the eunuchs who came clapping by. First I used to look away - outside the window, or into the newspaper or magazine. Later, a sense of "what the duck" took over, and I used to look them in the eye and ask them to go away. The first time I did this, I was like - Wow, it works!!! Hah!!! It's not that I am against helping or anything, but rather, I subscribe to the view that giving them money would encourage them to do it more. It is like purchasing ivory or leather goods - the more you do it, the more it spreads. The only way of stopping it is to refuse them. The only exception I make is for kids. I can't stand them begging saying they haven't eaten for days. And no, I don't give them money. I make sure that they are fed.

Not just trains, as a kid, I was intrigued by stations as well. The nearest station (the one with the workshop) was in visible distance of our house. As kids, we used to go there often and play hide-and-seek in the bogies there. This catered to just one local line, so there was not much of a station there, in fact. Later, when I began visiting dad, he would explain to me the types of stations - there are stations which make their cities famous - like Wadi, or Guntakal, or Bhusawal - these are crucial junctions for the Railways, and they are, by far, the only claim to fame for these cities. Then there are stations which are famous for the food there - like Agra, for its petha, or Mathura, for its peda. And then there are the cities of the erstwhile Presidencies - Mumbai, Chennai, Kolkata - since the railway stations here were among the earliest ones set up by the British, their main platforms are unidirectional, like airports - the train comes onto the platform, then backs out to the loop line, and then goes to the main line before chugging out.

I remember how I would stand in the queue at the reservation counter, with 2-3 reservation forms in hand along with the student concession form, for the most convenient train, book the ticket, and count days for the journeys. Things have since changed and the last time I booked a ticket, all I did was call an agent from my extension and give him the train number, and the tickets were delivered next day. Trust me, it was no fun at all.

Trains. They are not just a medium of transport in India. They are a way of life. Like The Think says, you shouldn't write any other word in the same line you write "train".

Teachers of a different kind

All through our life we learn from teachers. And then as we stumble along, we get other people from whom we learn - friends, colleagues, mentors, apprentices. Me? I have learnt from room-mates.

The first is a guy who has the cleanest heart and the simplest mind one could have. A thought with an ulterior motive will probably never germinate in his mind. A guy who maintains a birthday calendar and wishes everyone at the stroke of twelve. He can never say NO, and hence is often found doing someone else's dirty work. He sees joy in the smallest of things - a simple meal of rice, a hit Telugu movie, a boundary in a cricket match - almost to the point of being child-like. He is often moody - sometimes revelling in little things of joy, sometimes going into a thinking mode and becoming silent, sometimes thinking about work and related stuff - which has led to us dubbing him senti, but nonetheless, he has great character. Oh, and yes, he is a wonderful cook, and he is insistent on keeping the kitchen clean - a bit Monica-esque.

He is our local interest-free loan bank, he always manages to arrange money when any of us is facing the crunch. From him, I have learnt to save money for a rainy day. From him I have realised that I want to be in a position where I can lend money at short notice. (Oh basically that means I want to have surplus money, and not just make ends meet). I have also learnt to take life seriously, to plan for the family. He does not do anything special - just the things a son would do, or a big brother would do for a kid sister - but for a guy like me who has not stayed with his parents for the last 13 years, it sure seems great.

As much as I have learnt to take life seriously from the first, I have learnt to let go from the second. In all the two years I have been with him, I have seen him lose his temper only once. A miniature version of him would look like the toy in the song - "aaDisi noDu, beeLisi noDu". He even rocks the same way when he laughs, holding his stomach. He takes everything in his stride - the only thing that comes out is a hearty resounding laugh. He is a master of parodising songs - he will twist the lyrics to his whims and fancies, and sings as if the bathroom is soundproofed. He has a strange obsession to puffed rice. He has this knack of conjuring up recipes with puffed rice. He will soak them and use them as a substitute for rice in chitranna. He will chop tomatoes and make tomato-puri in minutes. As a cook, he is second only to the first above (and that's because the rest of us would not be able to tell the difference between saarina-puDi and huLi-puDi)

His best quality is the ability to laugh at himself. He is invariably the butt of our jokes - we create and laugh at a joke on him, in front of him, and all he does is laugh with us. Every waking hour, he is poked fun at. We have poked fun of probably everything he does - his eating, his sleeping, his talking, his clothing and accessories, his hair, his voice - anyone else would perhaps been offended, given us a piece of his mind and changed rooms. But not him. He is a punching bag. He will take all your blows and never hit back. These two qualities of his, I would like to take back with me.

While the second taught me to let go, the third showed me how. Funny to the core, this guy is almost like Chandler, in dishing out one-liners and puns. He finds joy in the antics of Homer and Bart. I will perhaps, take back the most from this guy. Even though I knew him for years before he became my room-mate, I cashed in only in the last couple of years. Coming from a no-cable, no-loud-music background which, like the typical Indian Middle Class, favoured marks over runs or goals, I never had varied interests in English music, or movies, or sports. I imbibed most of my decent knowledge of sports and music from him. He explains to me, even today, in great detail, the different genres of music - and the best in those genres. He is an amazing database of statistics and reels them off the cuff. He points out to me, the intricacies of football and tennis. He tells the most inspiring anecdotes of sportsmen and musicians. Some of the best movies I have seen have been his recommendations. He has, arguably, the most impeccable dressing sense among the non-celebrities I know.

I shall probably remember him most for introducing me to Friends. I have since become a fan, something I share with another person close to my heart, and I have spent nights watching season after season on my laptop.

My fourth roomie is no longer a room-mate in the physical sense, he sold his girl and moved out five days short of completing two full years with us. The conversations are more on phones and reply-alls now. This guy is fiercely close to his parents and shares with me, a love for Mysore. Along with my third roomie, he has also helped in increasing my repertoire of english music. They always had topics to talk on, and I have picked up a lot of things being a silent observer to their conversations on music and sports.

Though we are all close-knit, there is a tangible closeness among some of us. Like the first and second are often dubbed "brothers" because of similar backgrounds, similar families, and a similar tongue of speech. But we are all equally fond of the fourth. A thing he mentioned to me in the days before he left will be the lesson I take back from him - that good fences make good neighbours.

So there you stand introduced to my four room-mates, who have shared time, space and life with me, over these two years. Not everyone is fortunate enough to get such roomies - I have friends who have room-mates for reasons purely financial, I know of people who are not happy with their room-mates - but in my room-mates I've got teachers of a different kind.

Guys, I know you will read it sometime now - no, I was not feeling senti (though I bet I made some of you senti). It's just that we're all kinda drifting apart, what with two of us here, two in UK and one in Bangalore, and with the possibility of living under the same roof again getting farther and farther away, I realised I have never thanked you guys. Hence this post, to thank you for being there, for making our stay in Pune that much more comfortable, for weaving together strands of your life into the fabric of mine.

The journey of 40 kms ...

... begins with a bus.

Those who know me know I love travelling. Now, you know too. :D Alright, it was a dud joke.

Anyway, I have no special preference for the modes of travel, but somehow I had never had special affinity for buses. When my dad was in Andhra, we used to come to Mysore for the annual summer vacation. My tiny brain (at that time) registered very little of those journeys. I remember that before I fell asleep, the bus went in a long straight road which had eucalyptus trees on both sides, which gave way to dry fields bordered with parthenium and other thorny shrubs, and by the time I woke up, the bus would be descending a big jaaro banDe. Any guesses what the jaaro banDe was? Well, I'll let you Bangaloreans guess this, before I give the answer in the comments section. Muhahahaha. In any case, that was all I remember of those bus journeys.

Or bus-journeys in general. Until I joined engineering.

I have travelled in buses for the entire four years of my engineering, from Mysore to Mandya. The normal red ones - whose conductors allowed us in without a whimper; the special red ones, which claimed to be interstate buses, but whose conductors surreptitiously changed the board as soon as they entered Mandya from Bangalore - these conductors had to be fought against, because they barred us students to attract instead, passengers who would pay for their tickets; and the real interstate ones - in which students were not allowed - we have on occasion paid on these buses - sometimes in cash, sometimes in sheepish smiles.

The first year, it was all so new. And fun. Counting the number of hand-rails and pillars, walking up and down the aisle in the name of getting ragged, magnanimously allowing a bus to pull away because the seats were bad (yeah, I used to "drop" buses until I was late for an early class one day), flashing the bus-pass into the face of the conductor like it was the ID of a vigilance officer - you name it I had done it.

By the second year, it had become routine. The big gang of "fresher friends" had broken up into small groups - branch wise, class-wise and time-table-wise. We now had a specific bus to catch - Ghati Subramanya - because it had a lady conductor. And also because it made the 40 km distance 15 minutes earlier than the other buses, which took an hour. And those 45 mins were pure bliss. That particular bus was superbly maintained. Save for the occasional brake to save the stray dog from its suicidal death, it was pretty much a jerkless journey.

We didn't care about the buses by third year. We didn't care about the classes either. So we waited in the bus-stop, "dropping" bus after bus, until the whole "travelling" strength of our class assembled, and then we all crammed into the same bus. Unless of course, the lecturer who was supposed to take the class saw us waiting there. Yes, our lecturers travelled from Mysore, too. We would generously offer the seats in front to the normal passengers and occupy the last seats. And let the antics begin. We had more fun there, anyway. How many days we forced the government (forced the government??? $%&*%$* Ah!!! Youth power!!!) to run buses from Mysore to Mandya, without a single ticket collection. Yes - A bus full of hooligans, singing their way along. God forbid a fresher getting a bus like that in his first sem.

This was the year we enjoyed the most, I guess. The bus-stand had almost become our home. I even had a newspaper-wallah, who would hand me the paper at 7, when I came in and I would settle his accounts weekly. Till 7-15, we would scan the paper, waiting for the class to assemble. Yes, here. Our class assembled in the bus-stand. And then board any bus which had the last seat empty. We would reach Mandya by 8-15, catch an auto to the college a mile away, and storm into the canteen for a tea. We walked in the first year, enjoying the superb weather, but then, who wants to get all sweaty and tired before a class. An auto preserved the early morning drowsiness, which proved helpful in the class. ;)

The return journeys were more fun - in fact. It was the Mandya bus-stand that saw us wait more. Mysore was a terminus. We always got seats. But in Mandya, we had to wait for the buses which came from Bangalore. No sooner did a bus come in did the great collegian huddles run into a frenzy, throwing bags and hankies around. Usurping the whole last seat was the general aim. There have been times where the bus took just a bag, and the owner collected it from the cycle-stand. We all invariably parked at the Wellington Stand on Irwin Road, and the owner recognised almost everybody by face. I sometimes wonder about the life of these people - every year, they get a different set of people, and they establish a close relationship with everyone of them who chooses to say Hi to them. Amazing how tough bonds can become, even though they involve only saying Hi twice a day for four years.

Yes, four years. The final year was mostly of nostalgia. We had made sure we had only one theory subject for the final semester, so there was no need to come to college. Yet, once or twice a week, we found ourselves gathering in the bus-stand. We've taken photos inside the bus, making people wonder whether we had seen buses before. In these four years, I have memories of sitting in EVERY seat of the bus there is. So much so, we have an online group here.

It was a blissful time, and it appeased the travel-bug in me, so I have nothing to complain of. Even the seats - they taught me to appreciate the kind of seats we now have in Volvos. It can't get worse than having a mishmash of a plywood sheet, a threadbare cushion and a rexin cover bouncing aorund in the last row for a seat, does it? Now, I hear the college has employed buses to pick up students from the highway - from where we used to take an auto - and I wonder whether the kids now have as much fun as we had cramming five-six people into one auto and haggling with him for the fare.

I have no special preference for modes of travel - as long as the "travel" is there. I like to bike around - remind me to make a post of how we rode down to Mulshi on bikes - and drive cars, but I enjoy them more when I'm the one in the driver's seat. But now, I have an opinion of buses. I love them. And all the more because they take me to Bangalore in 16 hours flat. The train takes twenty.

Re-tying old strings

The first school I ever went to was Chaitanya Central School in Mehboobnagar, Andhra. I left it in Class 5, and had I been a bit older, I am sure I would have apprehensions on leaving the school. I loved every bit of it.

We lived in dad's factory quarters at Pillalamarry Road. The old campus of the school was in Rajendranagar. My sister used to attend classes there, but I dont remember visiting that campus once or twice, to get sis's paperwork done or when Dad had to meet some official. All the memories I have are of Yenugonda campus. Even at that point of time, the campus was a sprawling one. The bus would enter from the city, crossing an unmanned railway line, and through muddy roads until we saw a milky white building emerge. There was a paan-shop, selling sweetmeats at the entrance.

The building's entrance opened up a few steps ahead, bang in the middle, flanked by rows of classrooms on either side. When you walked up the entrance, you could see a flight of stairs going up to a landing, and TWO flights of stairs doing a right about-turn to the first floor rooms. These rooms were used by the residential students, and faculty members. There was a collapsible door, which prevented students from trespassing there during class-hours. The landing had a plush room, which was the principal's office.

Back to the entrance, when you stood facing the principal's room, you could see that the room to your right was the library, and then the higher classrooms (IX, X). Further to the classrooms, there was an open handwash-plaza, if you can call it that. Basically it was your kitchen sink extended into a L shape, with 5-6 taps on each leg. Beside that was the field. This was where the buses would pick up the students, and during classhours, would be parked. There were two buses - Blue bus and the Yellow Bus as we called it. The Blue bus had a driver with a flowing goatee, and we would call him "Pilli gaddam" (roughly, cat-beard)

Beyond the buses was the playground, for as far as the eye could see. Towards your right hand side was a rudimentary cricket pitch, and to the left was a mildly sandy football ground. It must have been a full-sized football ground, because by the time we took the ball towards the other goal, it would have been end of PT period. Enough of soiling your shoes, come walk back with me, as I go towards the library.

Again, I stand facing the flight of stairs, and suddenly it strikes me that the national anthem was sung here every evening before close of school. My sister was in the choir, and her classmates used to play the drums and cymbals. To my left now, were classrooms again, until we reached the end of the block, and there was again a small staircase, leading to that paan-shop through a passage in the bushes. There was a toilet complex too, if you went this way. But if you took a right, instead of going into the staircase leading down, you would reach another block perpendicular to the entrance block. Now, this is an elevated platform we are walking on, with the classrooms on one side, and the ground a couple of feet below on the other.

All the classrooms were named after scientists. I remember my sister's classroom named "Niels Bohr", and each room had a wooden plate with its class and section painted in white. The last room in the block we are walking is the Lab. Both Chemistry and Biology were inside. I dont know what Physics was doing. At the end, again, there were steps to get off the corridor, onto the ground. Again, if you took left, you could reach the toilet complex behind.

To the right of this block, which would mean, right parallel to the entrance block, we had the primary section. This was not on an elevated platform, but was on dear old terra firma. ( Maybe they thought we had enough head weight already, so no need of elevating them further ). My time in this school was entirely in this section, but I had the special privilege of walking on the corridors, whenever I went to meet sis.

Next to the primary block was a canteen, which was used by the residential students. I never ventured inside, as mama used to pack lunches for me and sis, but I could see the black stone gleaming inside. Sis was in the hostel once for a week, when Dad, Mom and me had come to attend an uncle's wedding in Mysore. I remember eating my lunches on the ground, furthermore right to the canteen, in the red hard mud, which served as a court for net games. (And before you think why you need a muddy ground to play a game on the PC, let me clarify, those net games were games which needed a net...like volleyball, badminton, throwball and suchlike). Sis used to sit further ahead, with her friends, in the soft sand near the football ground.

Now I have given you a rough quadrangle of the school, the only thing I have missed is the dais. The dais was behind the flight of stairs which led to the Principal's room. You could reach it through the corridors, and this was where the teachers would stand together, with few chosen students, who did the morning prayers and read the day's news. And from where the dais started, we kids would stand, classwise, section-wise, height-wise, and the last person would almost reach the primary school block behind. Mikes and speakers would be out every morning and evening.

And as I write this, I have made a sketch of how the school looked, on a sheet of paper. It has been 14 years since I left that place. And yet I remember it so vividly. It must have changed a lot in these 14 years, and I dont even know how it looks now. Now I feel I have to go there and visit it, just to relive those days. I missed that school so much. As I said earlier, if I were a couple of years elder, I would have preferred to stay in the hostel, and never leave the place. A visit to Hyderabad is on cards for a long long time, and when it materializes, I will go to Yenugonda, too.

Why this post, you wonder, I came across my school community in Orkut.com, and I found an old friend too, but inspite of the minutest details I gave him of our time together, he could not place me. I also came across a beautiful girl, who I knew was my teacher's daughter. How, you ask? My maths teacher's family had unconventional Sanskrit names - the girl's name is Snigdha (In Sanskrit, it means fair, which I remember she was), her brother's name was Veda Vyas. Their mother's name was Adyasree.

More on this school and town, later.

Blocked and Tackled

Block and Tackle is an interesting game played in university fests. It is a slightly different version of the normal debate, with the topics being a little lighter. Here, you don't have two people, one rooting for the motion, and the other ranting against it. A single person gets a topic, and for 3 minutes he starts speaking on it. His initial choice may be for or against the motion, but he has to keep it throughout.

Suppose a speaker starts speaking against reservations. This is his block position. He will continue speaking against reservations, until the judge calls out "Tackle", where he switches sides and starts speaking FOR reservations. Again when he is tackling it, if the judge calls out "Block", he switches back to his original stand, against reservations. Much fun comes when the speaker changes his stand when judges call out "Block" instead of "Tackle".

The winner is the one who had spoken on varied points, made their stands clear, and switched sides seamlessly. And did not switch sides, when judges called "Tackle" when they were already tackling the motion.

Shweta Jha was a clear winner. At our yearly fest, PESCO, she was an external candidate, who came along with Sudarshan Avadhany, from VVCE, Mysore. I had never seen anyone play B&T so seamlessly. It was obvious that a lot of effort and practise had gone into it. Her debates were something which I never missed, during the fest. Being busy with stage events like Dumbcharades and Mad-Ads, I never got a chance to congratulate her that evening, though I was in the front row, cheering at her every successful switch. Applauding at every relevant point she made in the debate.

I never knew her personally, but used to hear about her from friends. During the little I saw her on stage, she came across as a bubbly vivacious girl, with a ringing infectious laughter. She would laugh at every little mistake she or her teammate made, and the joy on her face was radiant. After PESCO, I heard a lot about her through Datta and Naveen (both VVCE) about her activities and wins in other tournaments, and VVCE's own fest, Vidyut.

It came as no surprise to me that she had carried across her enthusiasm to the workplace as well. Her colleague, Uppu Prasanna, remembers her as a, intelligent and a cheerful gal who took part in all group activities which involved making a lot of noise. A typical, fun-loving gal, who wanted to make the most of life.

Before fate blocked and tackled her life tragically.

On 10th of June, after hectic weeks of coding and stuff, Shweta and her colleagues went on a project party to Sivanasamudra, where, while playing in the water, she slipped on some rocks, and disappeared forever. By the time her colleagues recovered from the shock, it was too late.

When Naveen (ECE, PESCE, 2004) told me about this yesterday, we were silent for a long time. The mail he sent further mentioned that the body was found next day, badly mutilated due to all the rocks and debris it hit on its course. Prasanna, who wrote the stuff, further warns us, in such outing we hardly think of anything else but the moment. Before you enjoy like there's no tomorrow, do spare a thought for your parents, and the people who care for you. What will happen to them in case anything happens to YOU.

Like any other kid, Shweta's parents too had dreams and aspirations for her, they had a picture of their daughter's lively future. Her friends are inconsolable, and are yet to come out of the shock that encompasses them. It is hard for me to believe that the infectious laughter has been silenced forever. When it affects me, who saw her on stage for a couple of days, to this extent, I shudder to think of those who knew her better, as a close friend, as a classmate, as a colleague, as a relative...

Shweta Jha, Rest in Peace. May your ringing laughter illuminate your heavenly abode.

The beginning of the end

Anth ki shuruaat hamesha aise hi hoti hai...

We five came to Pune together, some twenty months back.

Literally, sitting in side-by-side compartments in the same bogie. It is another matter that three of us did not know the other two. Much amusement resulted when, after knowing each other and becoming a single family-like entity, three of us saw OURSELVES in the snaps which the other two had taken at the railway station.

Pune station saw me whipping out a cellphone and dialling a number to get the address of our hotel, while he went in half-pants to get a bottle of water, and another guy was writing down the address on a folded newspaper, and the other two were stretching their legs, which had become numb from the journey of 20 hours. Little did we know then, that we would forge such bonds with each other.

And even though two speak a bad dialect of Telugu, and one speaks Tamil, and two others, Kannada, the language was the first binding factor, which made us stay together. In the hotel accomodation, and then the company accomodation, and now in the flat we are currently in. And this has been a good reason why we don't miss Bangalore so much, because all the time, we speak in Kannada. A very close friend of mine, who visited us recently, went back happy saying that she got to speak in kannada for a full three days, which she seldom gets to do in Hyderabad.

Over time, we forged relationships with others here, and formed a boisterous group, exploring places around Pune every other weekend, to such an extent that if we think of going anywhere now, it would be a repeat. It was a tough time finding a table for lunch, because we all had to sit together. We were twelve: We five, the three of them, the symbol, the Goa-belle, the kudi-punjaban and Chechi. Others would join when we went on trips, and much fun would come.

As a group, we have covered forts (Sinhgad, Tapola-Pratapgarh), hill stations (Khandala, Lonavala, Karla Caves, Mahabaleshwar, Panchgani), beaches (Alibag, Murud-Janjira, Dive-Agar and Goa) and pilgrimages (Narayanpur Balaji, Baneshwar Ganpati, Shirdi Sai Baba). But all good things have to come to an end. And this I guess is the beginning of it.

The Goa-belle left to pursue higher studies. Her friend Varun got a transfer to Bangalore. One of those three went to California. Wedding bells are ringing for another one of those three. Kudi-Punjaban and "one of us" are in the UK. Today, we happened to sit at a very long table for snacks. And it reminded us of a time when twelve people actually sat across and cracked jokes. When we devoured plate after plate of whatever each one of us brought. When we actually checked what the others ate, so that we could bring something else, so as to not repeat a dish. When all of us ended up bringing the same dish, because nothing else was good.

I could almost hear the talk, the laughter, and the mirth. Like when we sat dining till the canteen lights went out. Like when we were the last to go out of a restaurant. Like when we saw to it that the girls went home, before walking back together. Like when ...

Omar Khayyam says in the Rubaiyat:
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

And now, he has a got a call from another company, and its an offer he can't refuse. And if he goes by the 1st, as they want him to, it will leave just the three of us here.

And that will surely be the beginning of the end. Of a vivid, vibrant, colourful chapter in our lives.

Update: Links have been removed, because the linked persons had some reservations.

Farewell

Today again we were playing Reply-All, and the topic was on the snap taken on the weekend Shanthi left.

The first thing I noticed about Shan when I met her was her hair. Long, strong and silky. I have used the same words in orkut as well, but I will let that be. The ultimate buggable creature, Shan was the best person to try your dry humour on. Good soul that she was, she never took it to heart. Which made us raise the bar higher and higher.

The first of those started when she accompanied us to Mahabaleshwar, and was doing a Rajnikanth sitting in the front seat. From the road to the Narayanpur temple, to the cliffs of Mahabaleshwar and Panchgani, I bugged her no end. That was the start of a beautiful relationship, which parted ways a couple of weeks back.

Mahabaleshwar to Shirdi to Dive Agar to Goa to Khandala-Lonavala, we had so much fun. Like the time when we always teased her about her college where there is gender discrimination, even in college buses (girls sit on left side, boys sit on right side ... girls dont wear trousers, boys dont wear t-shirts ... girls boys dont talk, or you fail in the exams) ... like the time when we hitched a ride in Goa, and her eyes went wide as she said "Lorry?"... like the time when we walked back from Senapati Bapat road after devouring pizzas...

Like the time we teased her about her innumerable "boyfriends" here ... like the time her mom served her a few more dosas when she tried to say "no" in kannada ... like the time she said she would lose weight by walking, and it rained on the day she decided to walk ... like the time we splashed her name all over the office, and in the newsletter on her birthday during the annual pre-bash ... like the time when Ayhay sang a song for her in the canteen ... like the time when she applied mehndi on Sushma's hands...

Putting mehndi was one thing she did superbly, every two-three weeks her room mates used to show their hands "See, Shan put this...".

At times giving you gyan(She's Sun certified Java, mind you), at times dumber than the "dumbest blonde joke ever", she was one heck of a person to be with. She had this rickety old laptop, which would run only on AC, nevertheless it was our only means to watch movie after movie (only one movie...number of times...thanks to Beryle) on innumerable weekend afternoons. It also helped Gokul to study for his Interwoven test. Stupid gal took it with her, even though it was adding 4 kgs to her already heavily overweight luggage.

A constant companion in our pizza outings, Shan always comes when we talk of US. And with Shan comes McKinsey. And her Vince mama. And her meeting with the Pope. And the awesome plum (read rum) cakes she got from Pondy.

Chechi will miss her for the time she spent with her, Gokul will remember her for the fellow LT she was, Vidya and Beryle will remember her for obvious reasons, and the rest of us will remember her for the person she was. A nice friend, a warm hearted lovable girl who never hurt anybody, Shan left Pune two weeks back for "green"er pastures in the US. And I wish her goodluck, and hope our paths cross again in the future.

More on Thatha

Continued from here.

Thatha had latent humor. He would inject humor into dead serious situations, and still keep his face straight. Like the time when the couple next door bought an outdated nth-hand Maruti (The ones called Dolphins) and he went and asked him whether it was a new one. And when the neighbour said yes, my thatha had the cheek to ask him, "but the registration number does not seem new".

The second time Thatha had scolded me was when I was behaving very pally-pally with my uncle, not keeping in mind the age difference. He was very matter-of-fact this time and came straight to the point without much beating around the bush and things. It was around this time, that I learnt the Ambassador, and was permitted to take it around the city. But when I returned, Thatha would be standing at the gate, to remind me to park the vehicle inside the garage. I have this habit of leaving the vehicle in front of the gate, so that I can be off, as soon as I hear my friends' vehicles in the distance. But Thatha would always see to it that vehicles were parked inside.

Thatha had this insatiable hunger for technology. In his later years, it was the mobile phone which caught his fancy, and he would ask me on and on about how they function. He would listen with rapt attention the stuff about networks, towers, billing, SMS and whatever stuff I dished out to him. He would devour the newspaper for new terminologies and refer them to me, for clarification. Once, he wanted to know the difference between 'web' and 'cyber'. He had seen it in one of these internet parlours.

Internet was one thing that got him hooked. He was amazed at how fast the news travelled, and he followed the Iraq war entirely on internet. He would open accounts, and ask me the funda behind the secret question thing. He would mail me and check on phone whether I received the mail. He was passionate about computers. He joined the tutorial next door on how to assemble a computer. Hardware stuff basically. He wasnt interested in software. So poor thing, he skipped the classes on software installations. Everytime Windows gave him a problem, he would just hit format *.*, and come back to me for having the OS installed again. He loved XP and its colours. Google Earth was another favourite of his. He would look up all the places where US had bombed Iraq.

He was ill for most of his later years, the reason being, he would always stand near the front door, and take in all the dust and smoke. Come autumn, and he would take a broom and start sweeping away all the leaves. He never listened to anyone, and if he felt like it, he would take the vehicle and go roaming, exploring new suburbs of the city, at 11:30 forenoon. He also became a bit stubborn. He would keep quiet when the doctor was around, and as soon as he left, he would pester the nurse to write a discharge sheet. Sometimes when we had asked the doctor to tell him that he needed bedrest, he would act very active, and read the paper, walk around his ward, and make us look like fools.

He was so happy when I got my job, and when I filed up all the documents of the house, vehicles and other things. He was very ill when the house-warming was done, and he just came to attend the final chants of the puja. He maintained regular contact over email, while I was here in Pune. Once he would mail from one account, and then from the other. He was impressed by the way cellphones clicked the photos, and transferred them over the internet from person to person. When I left for Pune after the house-warming, he asked me to bring along the datacable, so that he could learn how to transfer the files from cellphone to computer. Sadly, he never got to learn it.

Thatha died last Diwali. I was the last one to see his face. Grandma, Mom, Dad, my uncle, everyone was holding their emotions, somehow. I got the feeling they were postponing the imminent, minute by minute until I arrived. The moment I stepped into the hall, loud sobs broke out all over. Mom was clinging to me, Dad had closed his eyes, and my palm was hurting in his hands as he tried hard to take control over himself. Thatha was lying there, his face serene, almost as if he was just there in a deep sleep. He was sleeping, yes, but he would never wake up from it.

May God rest his noble soul in eternal peace.

Thatha

Roll in a Retired Superintendent of Customs and Central Excise, a lover of all things mechanical, a technology freak, a hardware student, a card-player who played every Sunday evening, a WILLS patron (as long as it sponsored the Indian Team), a smoker who quit, a man with impeccable English, a person who thought all government jobs could be taken care by flawless correspondence, a stubborn man and a stick-to-basics-rest-will-be-fine personality together, and you may somehow be close to what my maternal grandfather was.

Given the brat that I was in school, and I was away from my parents, my grandfather was the person I was initially afraid of. There have been only two times in the eleven odd years I spent with him, that he admonished me. The first was when I bunked school with 10 other friends, and went to play cricket the whole day (like Swami and his friends in Malgudi Days). He had slapped me right in front of my teacher, and my glasses had gone for a toss. That night he had checked on my glasses when I was pretending to be asleep, and years later, he asked me forgiveness for it. He gave me a golden rule then : "Men forget all the yap you give them, but never an insult". He had made a point by insulting me there, in front of everyone, because I would remember the insult till the last day of my life, and with the insult, I would remember the lesson learnt.

It was fun with Thatha, during school days, he was the one who would sign my report cards, and there was one time, where to control my brat-ness, he had asked my class-teacher to mark "No complaints" and the date on a small notebook, which he would periodically review. This book was maintained for about 2 months, before everyone grew out of it. It was while cleaning my cycle, that Thatha and I would really get into the groove. He was the total D-I-Y guy, there was nothing in the house which could not be ripped apart using the tools in his bag. From snippers to soldering irons, he had them all. He taught me how to clean the cycle, repair its brakes, rechain the pedals to the wheel and fix a dynamo to the whole thing. He would even take a test ride and tell me whats wrong and where.

It was on his old scooter that I graduated to geared vehicles. The scooter would barely give 25 kmpl, but he would diligently write down the reading on the garage wall, and calculate the mileage everytime he filled in gas. He would open the scooter up every Sunday, much to the wrath of my grandmother, who had a hard time calling him in for breakfast and lunch. The best part was he would call for coffee and sit in the garage, while she would look all over the house for him. And when he finally got it, it was cold, and was sent for re-heating. My thatha would often send me on small trips to the local store to get him his quota of Wills cigarettes. There was a time when we were going on a trip, and he had got a 20's pack, because he was not sure whether he would get them on the roadside. He eventually quit smoking, but it was too late by then.

Every family occasion was a time for him to recount his old tale, of when he had a Morris, which was started by spinning a pedal wheel in front of the bonnet. He had gone to KRS along with the family, and while he was going uphill, all the petrol in the car tilted towards the bottom of the angled tank, causing no petrol to flow into the engine. And how they had to walk back and get more gas, till the time the car could start in its inclined position.

Much later we had a Padmini in our garage, which Thatha would polish every Sunday, with a generous amount of WAXPOL. He cleaned it religiously and would never let my uncle drive it, for the reason that it belonged to another uncle of mine, and my Thatha was not the one to be in a position to answer unwanted questions. My uncle had actually sulked for some time, because Thatha had not allowed him to drive on the way to Bangalore. By the time I was in a position to drive those machines, Thatha had become quite frail, though you could never go on his external appearance.

Continued here.