The Flute Story

The Saxe-Tuborg Chamber Orchestra had just finished its performance. The group was performing in Cairo. The performance for the evening had just ended. A euphoric crowd applauded their performance with a standing ovation. Now it was the turn of the press which waited for its moments of glory when they would get a chance to interact with the members of the orchestra.

The moment arrived!

The conference room at “The Pyramid Hilton” was full of curious members of the press, who had come to meet the group. As the members of the group entered the room and posed for a group photograph, the flashlights from cameras lit up the surroundings. Then they started the volley of questions addressed to the conductor as well as the members of the group.

The group, attracted so much attention because it was a complex mix of nationalities-Fyodor Medonsky, the Concertmaster who played the violin came from Moldovia while Saboto Masake, the principal Trombone came from Mali. The latest edition to the group was Arihant Iyer, the flautist from India. Along with Gunther Goldstein, they boosted the artistic eloquence of the woodwinds.

The press conference started.

“Mr. Medonsky, the Saxe-Tuborg Chamber Orchestra is performing in Egypt for the first time. How has the experience been?” asked a journalist. As Fyodor Medonsky got up to answer with the help of an interpreter, the whole room broke into a round of applause again.

The next question was addressed to Arihant Iyer, the Indian flautist. “Mr. Iyer, this is your first performance with the orchestra. You have kept a very stoic face unlike a newcomer. How would you describe your emotions?”

The microphone in front of Arihant crackled. He smiled as he spoke, “The first performance is always a mix of anxiety and fear. You are anxious to perform and you fear that the notes do not go wrong. I successfully managed to strike the right balance”.

For the next half an hour, journalists took turns to ask the various members questions about themselves, their experience with the orchestra and its coming performances. There were moments of subtle humour when the ruggedly handsome Guiseppe Caprigani dismissed being in a relationship with Hollywood actress Simone Potter by saying, “The closest I have been with Ms. Potter is when I stood under a poster of her latest blockbuster at Piccadilly Circus”. There were also tense moments when Saboto Masake left the conference after the press asked him if racism prevailed in the orchestra.

The last question was again addressed to Arihant. “Mr. Iyer, We saw you talking about anxiety and fear. What is the greatest fear in your life?”

Arihant’s face suddenly changed colour. The youngster’s calm and composed face suddenly looked drained. But after a glass of water, he regained his composure.

Clearing his throat he answered, “Not being able to play the flute, reading an e-mail which has been in my mailbox for the past 8 years and being alone in the dark”. He then got up from his seat to leave the room. The rest of the band followed.

The press conference ended. It was time for the artists to rest. Next day, they were leaving for Casablanca.

******

“Roll number 180, Arihant Iyer…” the Professor cried out at top of his voice. As he peered through his glasses into the crowd, a hand went up. The boy got up and gave out a bored expression as he said, “Yes Sir”. The crowd which was technically known as “B. Com first-year” at National College seemed to be a difficult group to assess. Some listened to the lecturer with rapt attention as he screamed names and roll numbers after one another. Some were busy chatting with peers while some looked around here and there with boredom on their faces. Arihant Iyer was one of them. He seemed lost. He could hardly wonder why he was here.

******

“Appa, I am not interested in studying Commerce. I want to become a flautist”, Arihant declared to his father on the breakfast table.

“What? A Flautist? Arihant, I am seriously asking you to consider a profession, not about pursuing a hobby” Vinayak Iyer voiced his opinion clearly to his son who had just passed his Higher Secondary exams. He somehow managed to hide his anger when his son gave thumbs down to a settled career and planned to become a musician.

The environment at home had been tense since the last few days. When Arihant talked of looking for a career in music, hell broke loose. Vinayak was utterly disappointed with such a choice. The friction between father and son could be sensed in the “silence” between them. The sense arose from the fact that both of them were very vocal of their love for each other. The cracks in their affectionate relationship due to the friction were clearly visible.

Finally, he dropped the “bomb”. “Appa, I have been accepted at the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory with a scholarship. It is a one-year full time programme”, he quietly said.

Vinayak Iyer blew his top off. Unable to control his anger he screamed, “Who the hell allowed you to apply? I don’t want to see my only son to waste his life blowing a trumpet. Do I have to die with my law firm going to one of the whiz kids in the office rather than my son?”

Akshara Deshmukh was a mute spectator to this cold war between her husband and her son. She knew that both of them were correct in their own. Vinayak as a father had every right to be protective about his son’s career. Every father who dotes on his son would obviously try to guide his son towards a stable, secure and successful career option. He was only trying to help but his love towards his son was bordering on what today’s generation called, “interference”.

Arihant on the other hand was not wrong too. He was free to pursue a career as per his own volition. He was a good flautist. Although he was a bright student but his genuine interest lay in playing the flute. When he started playing the flute as a child, they encouraged him by sending him to a small music school. Soon the teacher found that he had nothing to teach him. Arihant played by himself, listened to masters on tapes and copied their notes. She has no idea that he had sent his tapes to the selection committee of Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory. She was also unaware that Carlo Manzini, one of the instructors at the conservatory had come to India to interview her son for a scholarship.

In any case, she was in no mood of either playing the mediator here or the judge. She suffered silently as time played its role to bring them to a consensus. Carlo Manzini arrived into the picture and offered a deal which neither the father nor the son could refuse.

Finally, Arihant and Vinayak signed the deal. For a degree in Commerce, Arihant would be allowed to go in the summers to the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory. Peace was back into the Iyer Household.

******

Arihant stood on the balcony of his room at “The Pyramid Hilton”. He stared into the moonlit sky and thought of the question he had answered in the evening. His greatest fears were still inside him. Wherever they inhabited inside him, they disturbed him to the hilt. They would come out like demons and dislodge his composure and then go away, haunting him with their disappearance. It had been many years since he had been dealing with those fears. It was getting difficult day by day to deal with them.

“Do I have an option”, he asked himself?

He got inside the room and switched on the television. Using the remote control, he switched channels before he zeroed in on a channel. Concentration would refuse to be a part of him now. He flipped channels on the television, tried to sleep, rolled around on the bed, paced up and down the room- nothing helped. At last, he brought out his flute and started playing it. Music was the only way, the only thing which could pacify him, comfort him. After he had played a few notes, he decided to go down to the coffee shop.

“Sphinx”-read the signboard on the right side of the door leading to the 24-hour coffee shop. The letters were carved on a piece of stone and next to it stood a miniature brass replica of the sphinx.

Arihant walked into it and ordered a cup of coffee.

Only three tables were occupied. On one sat a group of men dressed in formal black suits and white shirts. They looked like a group of Oriental business executives- most probably Korean as the morning newspapers spoke of a power plant near Cairo being set up with Korean collaboration - who were catching up on a late dinner after the end of a hectic day. The other two tables were occupied by young couples.

The cup of coffee arrived. A steward in a crisp uniform poured it into a cup and said, “Freshly ground coffee from Ethiopia, Sir”. Arihant nodded. At Arihant’s instructions, he emptied two sachets of sugar into the cup. The aroma of the strong brew entered his nostrils as he carefully took a sip. His face gave out an expression of satisfaction. His eyes caught the steward looking at him and he raised the cup towards him and nodded in approval. The man smiled back.

******

“The concept of diminishing marginal utility can be ……”, the lecturer spoke while his hands fiddled with the blackboard using a piece of chalk. He drew a few graphs on it to explain the concept to the class.

Except for the first-benchers, nobody was in a mood to listen. The guy sitting next to him murmured to him, “If I die today, my post-mortem would put boredom as my cause of death”. The teachers had made it clear the first day itself that attendance would be an issue and hence, one should be careful from the first day. Without the threat, the attendance could compete with the turnout of senior citizens at a hard rock concert.

Arihant rolled a pencil in his hand and stared in every direction except the lecturer’s. In between he looked at his watch which said that the class should be over in fifteen minutes. Boredom was setting in. He stared at the ceiling and then his classmates. There were blank looks everywhere. He smiled to himself. There were others misfits too.

One such misfit was this girl sitting in the row ahead of him. She was dressed in a track-suit which made him assume that she belonged to the “Sports quota”. She impatiently kept on moving her feet against the bench which sometimes struck the wood and made an irritating sound. The “thump” made people away from her wonder who were doing it. She too joined the crowd at looking for the “culprit” creating further confusion. What an outrageous behavior thought Arihant, as he stared at her.

“I caught you staring at me, in the class. Do I look like an alien”, she asked Arihant after the class.

“With this track suit and your pest like act, you surely were”, he replied.

“So, what am I expected to do. Dress up as if I am attending a wedding and behave like a Baroness”, she retorted back. Arihant caught the sarcasm in it. He decided to remain quiet. She caught his discomfort and said, “never mind, I am Radhika Nair. And you?”

“Arihant Iyer”.

They walked together towards the next class making small talk. Both of them did not envisage the fact that their lives were about to change. There are certain moments in everybody’s life which just change the course one had charted out. This was one of those moments.

******

He walked to his room after his cup of coffee. Although it was half past two in the morning, sleep still evaded him. He decided to take the stairs to his room on the seventh floor. A little bit of exercise could get him some sleep. Optimism! A slow run up the stairs followed.

A raven-haired girl was sitting on the corridor in front of his room. She looked very tired which was evident from her posture. She got up and hugged Arihant as he stood in front of her. He did not respond back, which surprisingly did not surprise her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. Could not think of being without you”, came her reply. Arihant did not react. He inserted the card into the slot which opened the door and they went in.

They sat on the bed where none of them spoke to each other. She put her head on his shoulder while his arm wrapped her in an embrace which gave out a confusing expression between “you are safe with me” and “what can I do now that you are here”. His fingers played with her hair while her nostrils slowly took in the fragrance of his after shave. Neither of them still spoke.

After a point of time, she broke away from the embrace. He walked up to the wall opposite him and switched off the lights. The moonlit sky gave them the necessary light as they took each other in their arms. Sounds followed which disturbed the Spanish couple in the next room.

After a shower, they got into the bed. She held him close and slept while he stared into the darkness.

At five in the morning he left the room. The reception was instructed not to disturb or charge anything to the lady. Charges, if any, were to be billed personally to Arihant Iyer. The clerk smiled. Arihant gave out no reactions as he boarded the bus taking them to the airport.

******

The Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory was located in the scenic European town of Tuborgen on the German-Austrian border. Distorted history speaks of its artistic eloquence in capital letters. It is said that when Friedrich Fimmler, the cruel head of German intelligence ordered the demolition of this institution, the orders were always failed to be carried out. Music mesmerized the officers who came to demolish it. At the end, Fimmler left the musicians in peace. The institution was constructed as a monastery for the monks during the renaissance. In later times, the inhabitants went on to become woodwinds. Today, the conservatory is a school for woodwinds - flutes, piccolos, oboes, English horns, clarinets, bass clarinets, bassoons, contrabassoons, bagpipes etc.

When Arihant arrived at the gates of the age-old conservatory, he was greeted by Carlo Manzini, his instructor. “Welcome to Tuborgen”, Carlo Said. An excited Arihant just kept smiling as he shook hands with the man who was to train him.

Carlo was an Italian by birth but became a German citizen after five decades of residence in Tuborgen, a German wife of Polish descent and a lifelong association with the conservatory. He played the Clarinet well, and although he was not the best exponent, his stature as a teacher was tall enough to be respected by the artist community. Teaching was his profession, his hobby, his favorite pastime, his religion- in short, it was his life.

Students stayed in dormitories. Bed number Sixteen, Hall Seven became his abode for the next ninety days. The day started early with a bell that could be equated to an alarm. The students then gathered for a mile long run followed by light exercises. Physical fitness was very important and the conservatory made no compromises on that. It was followed by breakfast and then the lessons started. Except for breaks for food, students played till late evening with their instructors. Weekends were off but time was to be spent with their instructors learning European history and culture.

Arihant worked hard like anything. His flute meant his world to him. Actually, it was one-third of his world. Another one-third lay in a framed photograph of a couple on his bed side table. The last one-third got an e-mail every day. Apart from this, all his time was spent learning and interacting with Carlo and playing the flute. His dedication and perseverance impressed the bearded instructor who silently prayed that maybe Arihant was the one which the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory was looking for.

After ninety days, it was time to go back and resume studies. With promises to practice hard and see each other soon, Arihant left.

******

Indravadan Ghaatmal International Airport was busier than expected when Arihant landed in India. He walked past customs through the “Green Channel” – after all what else did he have to hide other than excitement and came out of the airport. His eyes darted across scores of people waiting outside. As a burly man in a taxi driver’s uniform tried to grab his luggage, somebody pushed the fellow. A girl- a girl it was- ran into his arms. Arihant grinned as Radhika hugged him tight in her arms.

Their love had blossomed in a very interesting way. They just kept meeting each other and making small talk. None of them ever spoke anything which distantly bordered on anything romantic. This actually perplexed them-none of them wanted to take the initiative, but waited for the other to say a thing. Phew!! It was not happening.

It happened one day. They had plans to watch a blockbuster in the evening. She saw him walking towards him and waved at him. He went up to her and said, “I am in love with you”. She casually looked at him, put her arms around him and kissed him. He had his answer. They watched the film with a group of curious onlookers who whispered words like “shameless and desperate” to each other.

******

When the Saxe-Tuborg Chamber Orchestra landed in Morocco, they got a welcome they never expected. Again, the ruggedly handsome Guiseppe Caprigani was the talk of the town. As he waved to the crowd outside the airport, women in the crowd broke the security cordon and ran towards him. The shy Italian ran into the bus to save himself from the crowd.

The group was performing in Casablanca in fusion with a Moroccan Chaabi band (Popular music band) known as “Magrib’s Martyrs”. The concert was the first of its sort for the orchestra. It was a part of its humanitarian effort of raising money for charities. Africa had experienced a series of famines and money was being raised by international organizations to contribute to the solution.

The concert was an astounding success. Nobody expected that such a fusion could work. On one hand were the nomadic Chaabis who enthralled the crowds with their rich ethnic flavor while on the other hand the orchestra used its sophistication and eloquence to win the hearts all over again.

“We did well”, Mendonsky commented. Smiles of relief followed.

In the evening, the King of Morocco hosted a dinner for the artists. The King was a noble man. He ruled the land as a benevolent ruler who used his demi-godly status coupled with his western Education and took the country on the road to development.

One by one the artists were introduced to the King. When he met Saboto Masake, the principal Trombone who came from Mali, the Monarch could not hide his excitement and hugged him. Masake kept smiling as the shutterbugs around him captured the moment again and again.

******

Arihant and Radhika had broken up. It wasn’t sudden. Like the slow pace at which their romance blossomed, the crash was also slow- and painful too. It started with an argument one day.

“You have never been serious about anything. All you can think of is your flute and that god forsaken Carlo”, Radhika shouted at him. Radhika was focused as far as her career was concerned. She knew that her aim was to be at the best management institute of the country. She wanted Arihant to take up a vocation which the society considered a career, but the flautist dreamt otherwise.

“Don’t talk about things which are alien to your understanding”. Arihant snapped back. “Being a flautist might not earn me a fortune, but it will give me the basic necessities”.

“Who wants basic necessities, I aspire for more. Can’t a girl dream of a good life with the man she loves. Is she under an obligation to be under an insecurity with respect to his finances and career”, She had tears in her eyes.

Arihant held her. The argument hadn’t reached a conclusion. They had just swept it under the carpet. It was a disaster which neither of them realized. Small arguments crept in from time to time. They too were comfortably swept under.

Distance took the biggest toll. The second time Arihant went to Tuborgen, he returned after five months. When he landed Radhika was not there to receive him. When he met her later, she was all quiet.

“What happened”?

“Nothing”, she replied. Now, when a girl says, “nothing”, one should know that there’s something and it is time for trouble.

“Who is Ingrid?” Radhika started.

“Nobody, just a friend”, he replied. Ingrid Klocheberg was a student of Psychiatry at University of Cologne who was at the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory for a short period to research on therapeutic qualities of music. Arihant had interacted with her and they had become friends.

“I just saw the scraps on your Orkut account. Very flirtatious ones, I should rather say loaded scraps from Ingrid. That was not surprising. Surprising were your replies. They were equally loaded”, Radhika charged him.

“I did not write any such thing”, he said remembering no such thing.

“What? Arihant, you are lying on my face. I saw them with my own eyes”. Arihant had no replies to that. She was right. He had replied to Ingrid’s scraps. Without realizing what she wrote, he replied in the same genre. A blunder, not realizing what Radhika would think when she saw them.

“Arihant Iyer, you are nothing but a gasbag. You are the most horrible looking fellow I have ever known. You have nothing in you except the ability to play the flute which will yield nothing for you. I put my life at stake for you, but you never mend your ways. You claim to be in love with me, but you never assured me of a secure future. You are the most selfish, self-centred son of a ***** I have ever come across. On top of that you flirt with women behind my back. I am done with you and your lies”. She walked off. He tried to stop her but she jerked off his arm and went away. He stood on the street where a hundred eyes looked at him with curiosity.

The “mirror” had cracked.

He tried calling her up. Initially, she wouldn’t pick up the phone but when she did, all she did was scream at him. He tried to explain that he had nothing to do with Ingrid and it was she who he was in love with. But she would not listen. When he said that he had only flirted with her without anything in mind, she sharply rapped back, “flirting is cheating”. Then she hung up. Arihant’s world came crashing down.

He screamed and wailed, but the damage had already been done. Realizing that it was the question of his life, he called again.

This time she was more curt, “Arihant Iyer, there’s no point calling me to make amends. You did what you have to do. Now, it is my turn. I am not putting my life under any kind of insecurity. Just drill it into your head that every relationship has an expiry date, and WE have expired”. She banged the phone on him.

His tears had no effect on anybody. All he could do was curse-one and all. But that changed nothing. Only he was hurt, and only he bled.

******

The group was out touring the city of Casablanca. Arihant and Saboto Masake did not join in. Masake left for Mopti, a city in Mali where he hailed from while Arihant wanted to rest. He virtually slept the whole day.

******

Insomnia can be a very painful disorder. You go nights after nights without sleep. It ruins your health, disturbs your mind and totally eats up your happiness. Arihant was going crazy. The word peace had just disappeared from his life. He stared out of the window in his room. Except for the occasional cars which passed on the road, the night had pulled a veil of silence over the rest of the world.

“Did I deserve this”, he wondered. Maybe he did.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The image was of a broken man. He clenched his fists and started screaming. The screams receded into moans which reflected pain- more emotional than physical. He sat down on his bed and reached out for the small cupboard next to it. When his hand came out of it, a bottle of Vodka came out along with it. He brought it close to his lips and took a swig. It was actually a gulp. Gulps followed. After a while he passed out. The bottle fell on the carpeted floor spilling the few milliliters left inside the bottle. What a waste!

Drinking did not come suddenly to him. He initially drank socially. It was always a controlled quota which was never violated. But all a broken man looks for support. A fall, however small is inevitable before a rise. And there is nothing which eases your bleeding than alcohol. It makes you numb to everything-pain to be precise. Pegs became sips and then nips, pints and quarts. Arihant’s soul was in control of spirits.

Vinayak and Akshara became really worried after it became a daily routine. He would wander around the whole day and come back late into the evening. He would scream and shout inside the confines of his room and then wail and weep. When his body could no more take the intake of alcohol, he would pass out. They both could understand what their child was going through.

When they tried talking to him, all he said was, “Appa, Aai, you guys can’t understand what I am going through”. But, you can’t see your child’s life going down the drain.

They thought things would improve with time. They could not have been more wrong. When they found that Arihant was not writing his final year exams and that he was not going to Tuborgen for the third summer, they understood the gravity of the situation. They decided that since the situation was sensitive and that rebukes and arguments were not the solution- Arihant needed counseling.

“You are not going to Tuborgen?” Akshara asked him on the breakfast table. He did not respond. His eyes were red and swollen. He looked like Tom Hanks from “Cast Away” sans the malnourished constitution.

Similar instances followed. Both of them constantly tried to talk to him. But he somehow did not feel that they were his biggest benefactors. The word “counseling” made him behaves like a lunatic. Once, when the discussion went a bit overboard, Vinayak lost his cool and slapped him.

Arihant walked out.

******

“Is that Mr. Iyer”, the voice said on the telephone. On receipt of an approval it went further, “This is Sub-Inspector Rathi from the Police Station. A drunken youth was arrested last night. His driving licence says that he is your son”.

Vinayak secured his son’s release using his contacts. Sub-Inspector Rathi was more than cordial after his superior called him up and asked him to co-operate. Papers which proved that Arihant had broken some rule were destroyed.

A free Arihant returned home. The surprising thing was he showed no remorse.

Finding no other solution, Akshara dialed an overseas phone number.

******

A furious Carlo Manzini entered Arihant’s room. It was more of a garbage heap than anything. He did not say anything as he bolted the door. He turned and looked at Arihant with eyes that clearly displayed anger and despise.

“Carlo…”Arihant started, but before he could finish, Carlo slapped him hard across his face. He then opened the door and left the house.

Arihant fell down on the floor again.

It was dark when he woke up. Her jumped up and switched on the lights. Darkness always unsettled him.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The image was of a broken man. But there was a difference. This man had enough of breaking. He wiped his face and came out into the living room. It was past midnight. He softly knocked on the door of his parents’ bedroom. Finding no reactions, he entered the room. He flicked on the lights. Akshara and Vinayak woke up startled.

“Appa, Aai, I wanted to say sorry”, Arihant started, “I know I haven’t been the best child around. I have been stubborn, unreasonable and ungrateful. All my problems were self-created and when they went beyond control, I through my actions tried to put the blame on you. It was not correct on my part. I was about to become a deviant, but you saved me from that social stigma. You accepted me with all my faults”.

There were tears in Akshara’s eyes when her son spoke like this.

Arihant continued, “I failed to prioritize people. I hurt people who cared for me. I am sorry for hurting you guys. I love you”. He hugged his parents as mixed emotions of smiles and tears came alive in the room.

As the happy reunion ended, Arihant walked towards the door. Suddenly he turned and said with a chuckle, “Don’t you guys make out? Don’t tell me your life’s that boring”. He smiled and closed the door.

Arihant was a changed man the next morning. When Akshara went to him with a cup of coffee, his room was tidy as before. It was a different issue that the clutter would require a truck for disposal and the laundry would take days to be cleaned. But her happiness made her forget that. When they saw him at the breakfast table, his hair was neatly cut and combed. The beard was gone. The Iyer household had a happy breakfast after a long time.

“Aai, I am taking your car. I need it for a while”, he said as he rushed out of the house. The drive wasn’t long but it was full of fear and anxiety. He parked it in front of the building and went in. He knocked on the door. When the door was answered, Arihant spoke nothing.

Carlo Manzini did not waste time in hugging his favorite student. After a short talk and a few laughs, Arihant left.

Life probably was back on track again. Probably!

******

The next seven years were spent at the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory. Arihant lived his life like a monk.

Arihant had made three resolutions before he left India- one, he would sacrifice everything to become a flautist of repute in future; two, he would never hurt the people who cared for him; and three, he would never be emotional in life again. What happened between him and Radhika was painful, but passing on that pain to his dear ones was not correct. He knew he would never come out of that pain but keeping these three resolutions would give him a pain-killer. He planned to keep these resolutions whatever may come.

Carlo was a tough taskmaster. But he equally loved Arihant. They worked tirelessly together till one day when the offer came for which both were waiting for. Gunther Von Broffenberg, the scout for the Bremen Chamber Orchestra offered a place to Arihant. But before he could join, The Saxe-Tuborg Chamber Orchestra offered him a trial. Arihant chose the latter.

His trial performance with the orchestra was in the French Town of Lyons. In attendance were the three most important people in his life- Vinayak Iyer, Akshara Deshmukh and Carlo Manzini. As he finished his performance, they beamed with pride and had tears in their eyes. At the end of the performance Arihant was told what he wanted to hear- his first performance with the group would be in a week at Cairo.

“I should never had stopped you from becoming a flautist”, Vinayak later said.

“Yes, after all I never finished my bachelor’s degree”.

Akshara and Vinayak left for a tour of Europe the next day. The holiday was a gift from their only child. As they got into the car, Arihant whispered into his mother’s ear, “Aai, I love you”. He waved as they drove into the mist.

With two resolutions kept, it was time to keep the third. He would keep it too.

******

It was seven in the evening when he woke up. It was good that he had slept this long. Insomnia can be a very painful disorder. You go nights after nights without sleep. So, it was good if one could take care of this need of the body during the day. As he shaved and showered, the sun went down. From the window of his room he could see the moon was full and lit the sky in a colour which could make poets write stanzas on it. He dressed and went out.

The lounge was called “Rick’s”. Arihant smiled. Rick Blaine (Character played by Humphrey Bogart in the epic “Casblanca”) had still not left the soil of Casablanca. He walked into it. It was not very crowded. A jazz artist was performing who barely managed to grab anybody’s attention.

“A Cup of Coffee and some cream crackers please”, Arihant ordered.

The cup of coffee arrived. A steward in a crisp uniform poured it into a cup and said, “Freshly ground coffee from Ethiopia, Sir”. Arihant nodded. At Arihant’s instructions, he emptied two sachets of sugar into the cup. The aroma of the strong brew entered his nostrils as he carefully took a sip. His face gave out an expression of satisfaction. His eyes caught the steward looking at him and he raised the cup towards him and nodded in approval. The man smiled back.

“May I join you”, a voice said. Arihant looked up. Standing in front of him was a girl in her late twenties. Her accent was British but she looked more North African. Latifa came from Algeria but had spent most of her life in London.

“I know you”, she said, “I have seen you performing. It is just that the genre of music I follow is different”. Arihant smiled. They continued talking. Coffee was replaced with a bottle of wine (She did not drink anything else, and Arihant had given up drinking everything else!) and time flew. Guiseppe who entered the place with a familiar face winked at Arihant who winked back. Guiseppe was doing more than standing under the poster of Simone Potter at Piccadilly Circus in London.

Dinner was Couscous, Moroccan lamb with prunes and apricots and Green Tea with mint.
After dinner, she rose to leave. Arihant walked her to the door. Although he felt disappointed, but he hid it well with his smile. But she was smarter. “We Algerians are a bit slow”, she quipped. “Understandable”, Arihant replied.

He walked to his room. Although it was half past midnight, sleep still evaded him. He decided to take the stairs to his room on the seventh floor. A little bit of exercise could get him some sleep. Optimism! A slow run up the stairs followed.

Arihant stood on the balcony of his room at “The Casablanca Hilton”. He stared into the moonlit sky. His greatest fears were still inside him. Wherever they inhabited inside him, they disturbed him to the hilt. They would come out like demons and dislodge his composure and then go away, haunting him with their disappearance. It had been many years since he had been dealing with those fears. It was getting difficult day by day to deal with them.

He took off his shirt and hung it inside the wardrobe. The air outside was warm but the air-conditioner managed to cut the heat. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. He walked up to it lazily and turned the knob. What he saw outside was a pleasant surprise.

“It probably escaped your attention that my upbringing was British. Imperialists you see”, Latifa Said.

Arihant took her in his arms and whispered, “I am an Indian. Did you know that British ruled India?” His grip on her body tightened.

After a point of time, she broke away from the embrace. He walked up to the wall opposite him and switched off the lights. The moonlit sky gave them the necessary light as they took each other in their arms. They were wild. It was tiring for every part of both the bodies. It seemed the pleasure would go on till eternity. They reached a height where they cried out together in ecstasy. Tired and exhausted, they lay down on the bed next to each other. Everything in this world had to come to an end.

After a shower, they got into the bed. She held him close and slept while he stared into the darkness.

At four in the morning he left the room. The reception was instructed not to disturb or charge anything to the lady. Charges, if any, were to be billed personally to Arihant Iyer. The clerk smiled and asked, “What would be the tentative check out date?”

Arihant looked at his watch and replied, “19th April 2007”. This was followed by a smile.

Guiseppe found him smiling and asked in his thickly accented Italian, “Why are you laughing”?

Arihant gave out no reactions as he boarded the bus. When they were settled into the seat, he turned to Guiseppe and said, “I suddenly remembered that India became independent from British rule in 1947.” The poor Italian could make no sense.

P.S. The plot and the characters are figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental.

Sounding the Bombay Bugle

At the outset, I think it is my duty to express my profound gratitude to Ms. Rao (See I told you, that your name would be in the first line) - an attractive and bubbly 20-something whose creative use of languages amuses me to the hilt. Not to forget the “Roys”- the charming couple who has always made me feel at home in Mumbai (After telling me that I have started looking like somebody called Omar Abdullah). Also, my sincerest regards to a gentleman by the name of Dr. Anirban Bose who wrote an amazing read in “Bombay Rains, Bombay Girls”.

An archipelago of seven Islands, the city was under various rulers before the “Treaty of Bassein” ceded it to the Mughals. Later on, the Portugese occupied it before it became a dowry for the British Ruler Charles II, who married the Portugese Princess Catherine of Braganza. It was the Portuguese who gave the city a majority of its regal buildings-mostly churches. Charles II, unable to find a fruitful use for this piece of dowry, leased it to the East India Company for an annual lease rent of £10.

Life changes for anyone the moment one steps into the city. From the far flung suburbs like Dahanu road, Bombay starts getting into your system. By the time once reaches Borivali, the secretion of adrenaline into one’s body increases manifold. Even the laziest human being who lives in a state of trance between “play” and “pause” is forced to go into the “fast forward” mode the moment he steps into Bombay. The city is huge and the distances unimaginable. This however does not deter any “Mumbaikar” from pursuing any kind of vocation.

Bombay is comparable to a “Big Mac burger”. There is a different layer giving a different taste every time one bites into the city. Bandra or Juhu shocks you with awe with its elite rich while Dharavi makes u shake your head in disbelief with its poverty. Colaba & Churchgate gives you the taste of British remains with its old Victorian architecture while the skyscrapers at Andheri or Powai welcome you into the future. Nariman Point oozes of power as the address to India’s biggest corporate giants while Hiranandani Gardens at Powai send you to a foreign locale without any air fare. Oh! How can I forget the mills in Parel. Numerous nameless mills stood there as proof of the “industrial revolution” of India’s commercial capital. Most of them have now gone down with time and given way to office complexes and shopping malls. One of them was “Phoenix Mills” which gave way to “High Street Phoenix”- a shopping mall that could compete with the best in the world. A part of this is “Palledium”- home to biggest brands worldwide.

Ms. Rao, I think of you as I type out these words. Your expert comments as a tour-guide coupled with your motherly affection for me (although our age difference could be termed a “generation gap” with me on the higher side) makes me always remember you with lots of warmth.

Now, my readers need an introduction to this charming young lady. Ms. Rao is a smart and attractive, bubbly student of advertising who is on the right side of 20s. She owns a variety of talents which include speaking half a dozen languages (at least she abuses Holmes in all of them!) and designing posters selling you things which one is in no need of. Her choice of world cuisine is phenomenal and she was successful in introducing Holmes to “Nachos” (Please don’t try to pronounce it as it is Mexican and is more related to a certain Ms. Mori) and “Maroosh”- a Lebanese joint that serves yummy “Butter Chicken wraps”. Her words & pictures speak of a beautifully designed 22nd floor apartment (imagine 22 floors) but Holmes decided not to think of it as he suffers from “Vertigo”. So, in a nutshell- she is a “pure” Mumbaikar.

Ms. Rao’s directions led me to Matunga. The distance was to be bridged with the help of a “local”. The Electric Multiple Unit (EMU) trains run by Western Railways and Central Railways affably known as “locals” in Bombay parlance run like arteries through the heart of Bombay. Now, if one is not from Bombay and is not used to this mode of transport, one has to be very careful. First, there are three lines-western, central and harbour. A wrong choice might lead you to the opposite direction. Secondly, they are a quick-guide to the aftermaths of having the 2nd largest population in the world. They are so crowded that an infrequent traveler would be scared out of his wits. There is no room for being gentlemanly and all primate skills remaining with us “homo sapiens” should be used to the maximum. So, if one wishes to board or disembark, following rules is extremely important. Failure to do so might result in different kinds of injuries.

Braving all of this I reached “Matunga Road”. Without asking for directions Holmes used his “sixth sense” of topography. Now this is something one should not do in Mumbai. This led him into a “vicious circle” which did not end till a Junaid Miyan, a tea-stall owner gave him proper directions. The advise that I give you in the above lines also came from him along with the directions.The hunt for “Ramashray” was over. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the place that serves the best south Indian food in Mumbai. The idlis melt into your mouth and the sambhar seems to be straight from Tamil Nadu or Karnataka.

Supporting the Railways ably is the Bombay Electric Supply & Tram co. (BEST) which run the bus service within the city. Nostalgia sets in when the sight of BEST double deckers in old feature films run in front of our eyes. Not to forget the yellow and black cabs that ply around the city. Known locally as “Dukkads” (Gujarati for Pig), originally they were cabs run on Fiat 1100 model cars which later changed to Premier Padmini (Holmes so much misses the sight of a Premier Padmini in India now) and now cabs in all models can be found plying. No Indian city can beat Bombay as far as public transport is concerned.

The biggest problem Holmes faced in Bombay was that every face looked familiar. It was during a visit to Bandra Bandstand and Marine Drive that this problem surfaced. There were beautiful faces all around and all looked familiar. It is said that any visit to Bombay is incomplete without going to “Chowpatty”, but Holmes decided to keep the visit incomplete. The crowd was too frightening.

Initially, this problem of familiar faces was dismissed as some kind of delirium, but later this was confirmed when Holmes visited the “Roys”. Mr. Roy happens to be a classmate of Holmes since his teenage years. An extremely sharp fellow, his technical skills were always in demand. After a degree in Engineering, he served the Tatas for a while before he shifted to another MNC which weighed him in “pieces of silver”. It was during his stint with Tatas that he found his better half in “Mrs. Roy”. Now, the lady in question happens to be extremely beautiful. These two lovebirds have always proved to be the best of hosts whenever I have met them. She dishes out the best chicken biryani in town and his bar serves handsome proportions of Scotch whisky. So, the combination will attract Holmes time and again to Mumbai.

I was on my fifth helping of “Jack Daniels” when the bell rang. The hostess was out shopping and the host was in no mood to get up. I kicked him on his posterior as I got up to open the door. As the door swung, what do I see? An angel was standing in front of me with a cup in her hand.

“Hi @#$#$%” she said as she looked at Mr. Roy. “Hi &^%”, Roy replied back lazily.

“I need some milk” she said to me. I wished I was a cow, but “by Jove”, I was not. So, I walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and poured a cup of milk for her. As I put the cup into her fragile fingers, she smiled at me and said, “Thank you so much”. My eyes remained opened as the smile smeared itself on my heart like butter. A flustered Mr. Roy looked at me and quipped, “She is Sonia from #$%^**- the serial that is aired on ……”

Oh Yes!!! (I copied Archimedes). I was on cloud nine.

This “Oh Yes!!” continued the whole days because his apartment complex hosted more than a dozen TV artists. Mumbai is full of people from the “silver screen”. With Bollywood being based there, the city is a dream destination to all who wish to shine in this tinsel town.

This brings me to the two greatest wonders of Bombay- Bombay rains & Bombay girls. I am ignorant of Dr. Bose’s standing as practitioner of medicine but as a writer he is par excellence. The beautiful way in which he weaved a story on both these sensuous topics is simply praiseworthy. So, Holmes couldn’t help adding his own observations to them.

When the almighty turns on a faulty tap which leaks for a while before it is fixed, this phenomenon is called Bombay rains. Come July, and nature starts with a heavy downpour. It is so extreme that it brings life to a standstill. Television footage shows different walks of life reacting to it in a different manner. The poor curse nature, while the “secure and dry” elite talk of coffee & romance. Then it recedes but the drizzles continue till the last weeks of September. It keeps drizzling non-stop for days together. Any hope of the rains stopping completely is futile.

Normally, rains stop life in various cities. Life doesn’t stop here even when the heavens are pouring out. The whole city is engulfed by umbrellas. From an aerial view it looks like the earth has been engulfed by a myriad of colours. On a normal day all one can see in Bombay are people. On a rainy day all one can see is umbrellas.

It is during the rains that “Marine Drive” is the most romantic of places in the world. Holmes too decided to get drenched in the rain. Although the feeling was quite incomplete without the presence of Ms. Adler, but it was something that I could use to coax her to join me in Mumbai. A merry-making Holmes was walking down from the “queen’s Necklace” to Churchgate when a stern voice said, “Have you gone crazy? Dancing like this in the rain would kill you with pneumonia”.

The voice belonged to Jankibai. Jankibai in her 50s and lives in one of the suburbs of Mumbai. Everyday she travels two hours to and fro to sell flowers. Her clientele she tells me consists of the office-goers who get down at Churchgate and buy flowers in various forms before going to their workplaces. Her day starts at 3 in the morning and ends at 7 in the evening. How much struggle one has to go thorough to survive, Holmes thought.

Bombay girls- my face lights up as I write on them. Ladies, Holmes is a big fan of yours. Dr. Bose, I must tell you that your observations on them have been slightly incomplete as well as inaccurate. Holmes wishes to add a few more tit-bits to your observations. These women are the mascot of Bombay’s grace and charm. They portray the strength and agility of this city and its steely resolve.

The best places to observe them are the “local” railways stations. As the trains pass and one cast a glance at the “Ladies only” compartments, one can see the different women who constitute Bombay. Madam Sandra Felix lives in on Sandhurst Road and travels everyday to the “Portugese Church” at Dadar. She has been doing so everyday for the past four decades. She was on one of the trains which some miscreants blew up some years back. Did it scare her to travel in a train? Holmes’ question had a very queer effect on her. She blankly stared and got into the train as it made its way into Sandhurst road. Holmes did get the answer he was looking for.

Abhilasha Kadam was my co-passenger in the first class compartment from VT (Victoria Terminus, now renamed as Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus after the biggest Maratha Hero) to Panvel. We got talking on the way and she told me that the marathon journey from her house to VT never tired her. She was interning with a law firm which had its offices near VT. Dressed in a lawyerly white shirt and black pin-stripe trousers, she gave me a word tour of the Bombay High Court and the field of Corporate Law in Bombay. Two hours later when the train made its way into Panvel station, she bid me goodbye and walked her way into the crowd. I would never see her again but she had made her mark on me.

It is the gritty determination of these womenfolk and their confidence which make me appreciate them so much. In one of the compartments, I saw an upper middle class girl reading Kafka’s “Amerika” and in the same compartment a group of ladies returning from the office were chopping vegetables. What a sight. This could never be seen in any other city of India. Where can one two such different kind of women coming into close contact of each other in their daily lives?
Now guys, please at no point think that Holmes took a disguise to get such details. You can compliment my sharp sense of observation for that.

Another piece of addition I wish to make is the”Bombay Spirit”. This is a city which will never be short of it. Anything may come by, anything may happen, but the spirit and morale of the “Mumbaikar” will never be found lacking.

Assistant Sub-Inspector Sharad Mulshankar Gaitonde retires from his service in Mumbai Police in a few months time. These days he is posted at Juhu. In his prim and proper uniform and his peak-cap by his side, he sipped a “cutting” (A “cutting” is a portion of tea which is over in 3-4 sips. This peculiar portion originated in Bombay and is an integral part of it) on a roadside joint. I approached him asking for directions to Colaba and then tried to strike a conversation while I ordered a cup of coffee. Initially, he was very reluctant to talk about his profession to a stranger like me. So Holmes had to use the old method to befriend him. When I offered him a Benson & Hedges cigarette, he did not miss the opportunity (After all cops in India never refuse anything they are offerd).

Then he got talking. He was an eye-witness to two of the most gruesome happening in this city. In the 1993 bomb blasts, he was a constable on rounds near the Air-India building when the blast took place. And when the terrorists attacked on 26th Novemeber, he was in a Patrol car near colaba. Both the incidents are fresh in his mind. One sentence of his is fresh in my mind, “I have seen enough bloodshed in those two days to last a lifetime. But that will not dampen my spirits. I shall serve the “force” till I retire”.

As me and ASI Gaitonde talked suddenly a chaos broke out. I was surprised. In a cool voice he said, “Amitabh Bachchan must have come out to his balcony”. What a city! What a city! Holmes did not even realsie that he was standing in front of his house. ASI Gaitonde added, “Earlier they came to see him. Now they come for Asihwarya Rai”. Holmes smiled at the grey-haired man whose irritation with the crowd was clearly visible on his face. He called a constable and asked him to disperse the crowd.

Bombay evens out everybody. From fishermen to milkmen, from middle level babus to well-dressed executives, from top-notch Investment Bankers to coquettish starlets, from industrialists who drive Indian economy to entertainers who drive India crazy—everybody shares Bombay. It doesn’t belong to anybody. Even the regional elements who tried time and again to stake a claim to Bombay being theirs failed miserably to do so.

In the end- it is the spirit of Bombay that survives and triumphs. Victoria Terminus may turn into Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, Parven Babi might fade away to give place to Katrina Kaif, a new economic scandal may come and go, even the nature of attacks on Bombay may change, but one things remains standing upright- The spirit of Bombay. It is the grit and determination of these people which keeps this city standing on its feet. People like Assistant Sub-Inspector Sharad Mulshankar Gaitonde, Abhilasha Kadam, Madam Sandra Felix, Jankibai, the “Roys” and of course, the bubbly Ms. Rao.

Shalom! Bombay.

The tale of Agnes, Steak and Caramel Custard

“Yes Madam, can I help you”, the clerk at the reception asked her.

She had just entered the magnanimously imposing structure of the Head Office of Imperial Bank. She was frail with a recognizable hunch which was clear evidence of her eighty something years on this earth. She was dressed in a floral printed skirt with a white blouse which had frayed with innumerable washes. She carried a small plastic basket along with her polished leather handbag. A scarf fluttered whenever the high powered revolving fan threw a gust of air towards her.

“Anybody walks into this office these days”, the clerk thought while he continued to smile at her. Her appearance was not imposing by any standards and thus gave him no reasons to entertain her more than necessary. “Can I help you Madam”, he said again.

Removing her spectacles and keeping the basket on the desk in front of her she politely moved her lips, “I wish to meet Raghav Mehra”. The clerk almost burst into a sarcastic laugh, but then he did not wish to be impolite. “Do you have an appointment? Mr. Mehra is a very busy man”, his sarcasm was now completely evident. She gave him a blank stare which showed her disappointment. She continued to stare at him for a positive reaction, which made him all the more uncomfortable.

“I am sorry; In that case I won’t be able to help you then. Mr. Mehra would not be available without an appointment”, his words were giving her a signal to close the conversation and walk out. She picked up her basket and turned around. Her face was drained and all one could read in it was a melancholic expression. The clerk breathed a sigh of relief. “What a pain”, he thought as he went back to his work.

But his apparent ordeal was yet to end. The lady retraced her steps and put the basket on the desk again. Slowly she muttered in hope, “Could you please tell him that Agnes wishes to see him. I saw his photograph in the newspaper today and wanted to see him. Maybe he will find some time”. This irritated the clerk. With no options he dialed a number which was fresh in his memory and spoke into it before he put down the receiver.

“Could you please sit on the sofas over there. I have called his office. They said they will call back in a moment”, he raised his hands to show a line of sofas behind her. A few people were sitting on them. All were visitors who were waiting to meet Bankers at Imperial Bank. Some were nervous, some irritated while some gave out no expressions at all. The old lady found herself a seat in the corner and waited for the moment she was looking forward to. It did not take long.
The clerk hurried to her with an “ear to ear” smile. There were movements around the reception. A well dressed man also came quickly towards her. “Is she the visitor”, he asked the clerk. At his nod he addressed her, “Hello Madam, myself Krishan Kumar, Protocol Officer. Nice to meet you. Chairman Sahib is coming downstairs to receive you”. Agnes gave him a blank stare. Either she hadn’t expected his sudden change in behaviour or maybe Kumar’s “murder” of the language made her numb. It was difficult to say. All around her she could feel that the attention had shifted to her. People were referring to her in hushed up tones. Why had she suddenly become important?

Suddenly she saw that a few people had gathered around the line of elevators. One of them opened and a man with authority came out. He was in his mid-fifties and he oozed of power. Dressed in a grey pinstripe suit he walked up to Agnes in a hurry. There were so many feelings visible on his face- surprise, restlessness, happiness and not to mention, a smile. “Nothing has changed about him”, Agnes thought, “the same face, just a bit wrinkled with age, a smile that still had the same innocence, as it was thirty five years ago, hair that had become thinner and had turned grey. But the same walk”.

“Agnes, how are you”, he said as he hugged her. People beside him smiled. Such reactions were not expected from Raghav Mehra, the Chairman of Imperial Bank,an organization that had the ability to influence the nation. An orderly took the basket and followed them as she slowly accompanied him to the elevator that would take him to his plush office on the 37th floor of the building.

The reception’s telephone rang. A known voice asked the clerk “has somebody by the name Agnes D’Cunha arrived”? The phone clicked after it had got the necessary information. Then the phone rang again, and again, and again for the same reason. The clerk was flustered. What is so important about this frail lady that more than a dozen top executives of the Bank were enquiring about her?

Darshan Banerjee was surprised to see his boss Hitesh Mishra smiling. Mishra, Country Head of Treasury Operations at Imperial Bank was known to be a fellow who never smiled. Today he grinned as he left his office. Banerjee dialed into the intercom and called up a colleague, “Meeesraaaa is smiling”, he said into the phone.

There were similar occurrences in other departments as well. “Old Men” were acting like “young probationers”. The Executive lift (available to Senior Vice-Presidents and above) was constantly doing rounds to the 37th floor. Protocol went for a toss. The chairman’s secretariat was wondering who this Agnes was, who had broken all hierarchy in Imperial Bank. The Chairman’s office was crowded with people. Senior Vice-Presidents, Country heads, one Vice-Chairman and the Chairman himself. Extra chairs had to be sent in to accommodate twenty nine executives who were sitting with the old frail lady.

“Order some tea with chocolate cup cakes” Varun Mathur, the Vice-Chairman ordered. “Sir, ensure that you get five for Harirajan, or else he will snatch ours as he did earlier” quipped Sakar Ray, Senior Vice-President of the Human Resources Department. Everybody broke into laughter. People outside the room were still confused as to what was happening. Suddenly somebody found a common link. All the men in the room had joined the bank in the Western Provinces area.

******

“Coming for lunch. Lets gobble up some lunch before the boss comes back”, Diwakar Pandey said to his batch mate Anil Verma. Both of them were probationers at Area Head Office of Imperial Bank. Getting into a conversation, they hurried down the flight of stairs and walked out of the office. After walking almost a kilometer in the sun, they came into a residential area. From a distance they could see a huge man coming towards them.

“Hey Hari, what’s for lunch?” Verma asked the burly man. “Your favourite caramel custard is there kiddo” said Harirajan to his junior colleague.

The board on top of the house said, “Lisboa”. It was originally painted in blue but now could be confused with black. Motorcycles were neatly lined in front of it. Inside the house sat scores of young men and women eating. Both the fellows got inside and found a place. “Agnes, we are here”, they smiled at the lady who moved around the tables with an apron around her and a smile on her face.

“Man, you have lost so much of weight” she looked at Diwakar and said. “Johhnyyyyy…..get baba a bowl of custard” she screamed at one of the stewards. “I will have a steak with potatoes and rice” Anil declared. Everybody was referred to as “baba” or “baby” by Agnes. She nodded in approval before she went to the next table.

“Lisboa” was the house owned by William D’ Cunha. He had arrived in Khudabad, the capital of Western Province just before independence. Western Province was full of textile mills which employed a lot of Christians who came all the way from the Portuguese ruled parts of the country. They came as technicians and settled there. When William lost a hand to a malfunctioning machine and could work no more, his wife Agnes turned the house into an eatery. Initially, Willie (as William was affably known to all) sat on the counter and chatted with customers while he collected the bill. One fine day he died leaving everything to Agnes and their son Thomas. Agnes had run the place well. Imperial Bank and the Police Commissioner’s office were in the vicinity. Officers from both the places frequented the place for steak, roasted meat, cutlets and caramel custard (which was Agnes’ delicacy). Business was brisk.

It was “family” for everybody. Most of the officers had come from various parts of the country and found “Lisboa” a good place to eat and chat. Most stayed in the nearby area of Kamalpur and frequented the place. Agnes knew all of them by their first names. She was like a mother-figure to all the young fellows. Everyone had a “line of credit” which had to be liquidated on the 5th of every month. People who failed to meet the date were allowed access only if they had a valid reason. Once in a while somebody ran off without paying but Agnes did not care. She was not a professional. She cooked, people ate and paid. Jesus was kind to her.

The “Bankwallahs” were a vociferous lot while the “Policewallahs” were quieter. This was contrary to their professions. As most were “regulars”, there was hardly anybody who sat there without company. Couples were to be found chatting over innumerable cups of coffee followed by dinner after office hours before Agnes had to tell them that it was time to go home.

Friednships and love blossomed equally there. When Nilkamal Singh, a Police Service officer got pick pocketed of his salary (imagine what an irony), it was Raghav Mehra who overdraw his account to lend him money. And when Joe Sridhar, another Police Service officer asked Neelima Matthews to marry him, she said yes only on the condition that Joe would bring her twice a week to “Lisboa”. An excited Joe had agreed to all seven days.

Raghav himself had found love at “Lisboa”. It was in the form of Anette Faria, a junior at Imperial Bank. They got acquainted during the “annual closing” in March. He would drop her home after the day. Soon it was innumerable cups of coffee followed by dinner for them. A wedding was a bit tricky for them as they both came from different “faiths”. But love prevailed as in the end as they got married to each other. Agnes gave an “on the house” to the regulars on this occasion. Seven happy years later tragedy struck this beautiful love story. Anette went down to jaundice. At her funeral, Agnes said to a teary Raghav, “Man, if you break down now, she will lose her faith in love.” Raghav never forgot those words. He lived by the memories of Anette. He channelized all his energy to build a future for the two things he loved most after Anette- their son Roshan and Imperial Bank. Roshan went on to become a well-known Cardiologist while Imperial Bank became the largest Bank in Asia.

Years went by. Probationers came and went by. They grew in age, they grew in the organization. Some stayed in touch while some got lost. Every week dozens of postcards and letters came in Agnes’ name. They contained news of weddings, births, promotions, transfers and of course, deaths. Agnes had learnt to live with the realities of life. As she grew older, Thomas started helping her out. He had his mother’s benevolence and was liked by all. “Lisboa” never got a facelift as far as exteriors were concerned, but inside Agnes and Thomas and all its patrons, it was always in “top condition”.

“Let’s have steak with potatoes and rice for lunch. And some Caramel custard too. What do you say Agnes?” Varun Mathur asked. Agnes took out a small tiffin box and smiled, “Am an old woman now Baba, I have brought my lunch. I will eat it before I catch my evening train to Khudabad”. But none of the “babas” would listen to her. Thomas was called and told that his mother will fly to Khudabad the next morning. Lunch was ordered from “The Oriental Lotus”- Suraj Kothari,the Senior Vice- President in charge of Public relations was on good terms with their management. A dinner was organized in the evening at “Kimberley”- the official residence of the Chairman of Imperial Bank. It was time for Agnes to meet the “families”. It was late into the night that old jokes and anecdotes did rounds at “Kimberley”. Agnes was visibly tired and went off to sleep early. The “Babas” and the “Babys” kept chatting late into the night.

Next morning Agnes left for Khudabad. Raghav personally went to the airport and personally took her to the aircraft. After ensuring that the airline had made special arrangements for her and after making a call to Thomas of her safe departure, he came back home.

******

About a year later, Raghav was taking the elevator to his 37th floor office when his cellphone beeped. He saw the message and asked the operator to take him downstairs. He made a few calls. Soon twenty-eight other people came down. Innumerable executives of Imperial Bank attended Agnes’ funeral. Many faces saw each other after decades. Quite a few Khaki-clad gentleman too were present. After the service was over, people offered their condolences to Thomas. Raghav walked up to a burly Sikh in uniform and said, “Nilkamal, I hope your wallet is safe today”. The man laughed aloud and hugged Raghav.

In the evening, when Raghav was dropped at the airport by Azam Bashir, the Area Head of Imperial Bank at Western Province Area, he whispered something in his ear. Bashir knew exactly what to do. Days later when Raghav was flying to Zurich for an international conference, he was served steak and caramel custard on the flight. He asked the air hostess, “could you please give me something else to eat. I have given up eating steak and caramel custard.” Raghav knew they would never taste the same now that Agnes was dead.

******

“Coming for lunch. Lets gobble up some lunch before the boss comes back”, Kabir Pant said to his batch mate Ankit Grover. Both of them were probationers at Area Head Office of Imperial Bank having joined the Bank three months before. Getting into a conversation, they hurried down the flight of stairs and walked out of the office. After walking almost a kilometer in the sun, they came into a residential area. After a few minutes they found the board- “Lisboa”. As they entered, they found many recognizable faces. They wished those faces before sitting down on a table.

“Arnab was telling me that the table on the extreme right is the one on which the Chairman always sat in his younger days. Apparently he dated his wife on that table. And that photograph above the counter is probably of Agnes D’Cunha”, he said.

“What will Baba-log have?” the steward asked them. Both of them gave their orders and continued chatting.

After they walked out post lunch they entered an office next door. It had a well known signboard in blue and green which read, “Imperial Bank, Agnes Mansion Branch”. Azam Bashir had ensured that Agnes became immortal for Imperial Bankers.

P.S. The plot and the characters are figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental.

A Cook’s Broth

“Roasted Lamb steak with peas to be served at number seven. Baron Wolfenson wishes that the meat should be from the right hind leg of the lamb”, shouted the steward to the cook as he hurried out to the dining hall with an order of “fish and chips”.

The kitchen was steamy and moist with the evaporating water in huge vessels. The surroundings were also sticky with particles of cooking fat mixed with steam floating in the air. Stewards were continuously coming in and going out of the kitchen. Voices echoed as cooks were ordered by the stewards. Dishes clattered and made a shrill sound as they made their way into serving trays before going out into the dining hall. Cooks would hurl various ingredients into different kinds of utensils and create dishes that could satiate the taste-buds of any living being.

“The Oriental Lotus” was restaurant known all over London as a symbol of class dining. The ambience was inviting. The décor of the main dining hall was done in a manner which reflected the taste of a man of panache. I t was a well known fact that Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi affably known in the social circles of London as “ Mr. Bakh” persoanlly chose artifacts and fittings from various parts of the world. The chandeliers were chosen personally from the glass works in Venice while the furniture was Burmese teak. The Bone China came on order from potters in Lixang village in Xingjiang, China while cutlery was chosen carefully in Paris. With such an exotic décor it was one of the obvious choices for the elites of London.

The maitre’d and his teams of stewards were carefully chosen by Mr. Bakh and all of them were high on loyalty for their master. They had all joined as apprentices and did odd-man jobs before they rose through the ranks with experience. They knew most of the diners and their families, individual tastes were taken care of (for instance, they knew that Lady Annette of Dover liked raisins in a chocolate pudding while Harold Kaminski, the Russian emissary to the United Kingdom preferred scrambled eggs slightly less cooked). Mr. Bakh was friends with almost all the Patrons. The lotus was in full bloom.

Not only English, but even the Indian nobility and intelligentsia was regular to Mr. Bakh’s place. Maharaja Shauryamangal Singh of Jhapiala State in India preferred sautéed vegetables in butter along with vintage French wine from the house of “Moet et Chandon” (Yes! He is the same Maharaja Shauryamangal Singh of Jhapiala who had bought a fleet of Rolls Royces and dispatched them as garbage collection vans in his state when he was refused one in England. What a man, what a man!). And revolutionaries like Harman Walia, Homi Firzoedaar and Premkumar Sen turned up on Saturdays to savour the “Awadhi Biryani” and “Dhanshak”. India - the jewel in the English crown was feeling slight tremors with a chap called Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi returning to his homeland from South Africa. He had introduced Indians to a new concept called non-cooperation and the whole country had jumped into a movement to claim independence for India. These days the talks in the dining room were mostly of Gandhi and India’s future.

It was destiny that had brought Ram Kotwal to “The Oriental Lotus”. Mr. Bakh was eating at Sir Jamaluddin Khyabji’s house when he liked the way the meat was cut. On enquiries with the butler it was found that the pieces were cut by the “Indian lad” who was recently brought to England with Khyabji as the boy gave good foot massages. Mr. Bakh tipped the emancipated soul a pound and said, “Buy yourself some good clothes”. Those grateful eyes that looked at him said more than a “thank you”. Quietly pocketing the shining coin the boy bowed in salutation. This was the starting of a relationship that lasted a lifetime.

Ram Kotwal was born in Champawat village in the United Provinces of British ruled India. His birth was looked at as a curse by the family- he was unwanted and was conceived by mistake. He was ugly compared to his siblings. He never wanted to work and was always lost in dreams. Now this was not an asset for a boy who was born in a family of thirteen children and whose father was a daily wager. Initially christened Kaalu Singh because of his wheatish complexion in a household full of fair children, he started calling himself Ram because he felt that a decent name was the pre-requisite to making it “big” in life. Kotwal was added to his name later by Sir Jamaluddin Khyabji when Ram single-handedly chased away burglars from his estate with a stick and mimicking sounds of bullets fired from a rifle.

Sir Khyabji was travelling to the “Duns” when his car got stuck in a huge pothole. Kaalu Singh was loitering nearby when he saw the aristocrat in trouble. Without being asked, he started pushing the car. Although the ten year-old boy’s efforts yielded no results (later some villagers got together and pushed the car out), Sir Khyabji knew that the boy was of “use”. He called the boy and said, “You have two options. Either you take this two-rupee note for your effort or you can come with me”. The boy thought for a while and said,”Saheb, where should I sit?” On Sir Khyabji’s gesture, the driver opened the front door and Kaalu Singh got in.

“What is your name?” Sir Khyabji asked. “Ram”, Kaalu Singh replied. This was the end of Kaalu Singh. And thus started the journey of this young fellow from the valleys of Himalayas to the capital of England.

Ram travelled to London aboard “White Derbyshire” (Owned by the Imperial Shipping Co. of Manchester) along with Sir Khyabji and Lady Dilnawaz. He was so loyal to the aged aristocrat that he never left his master. Be it any moment, he was always at the beck and call of his master. His loyalty was unquestionable and his sincerity and devotion towards the family members was admired by all in the household. The eldest of Khyabji next-generation Gustaad used to joke with his father,”Pappa, I want nothing from you except Ram. After you, I should inherit him”.

But fate willed otherwise. The Khyabjis perished aboard “Arizona Star” while crossing the Atlantic to go to Canada. Seven family members died when the liner went down with 200 people aboard. Only Tanaz, the teenage daughter of the Khyabjis who was at a finishing school in Zurich survived. The executors of the Khyabji estate found no use for Ram and threw him out. With his meagre belongings packed in a bundle, he knew where exactly to go.

“Sir, a vagabond wishes to see you. He says you know him. He refuses to go away although we tried to shoo him off”, said Kirpal Singh, the guard to Mr. Bakh.

As Bakh stepped out of his office, he knew who exactly had come to meet him. He sat on a table and gestured for some tea as he asked the burly Sikh to fetch the fellow. When Ram came in Bakh smiled at him. Ram touched his feet and sat down on the floor with his eyes on the bearded Parsi. None of them said anything as Bakh finished his cup of tea while Ram kept looking at him. The clock kept ticking.

“Can you cut meat the way you cut it at Khyabji’s?” Bakh started the conversation. The boy just nodded.

“I won’t pay you any money. You can stay here, eat here and learn here”, Bakh said as he got up. Gesturing to Zuber, one of the waiters, he left the room. Zuber gestured Ram to come with him.

In a short span of time, Ram Kotwal was Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi’s most hard working employee. He was always found working in the kitchen. Although it was his small hands which made him cut meat artistically but with the precision of a surgeon, he never restricted himself to it. He would be found assisting the cooks in their work or he would be learning how to serve from the waiters. Once when he dropped 6 pieces of Bone china while he tried to balance them, Christopher, the maitre’d whacked him with a stick injuring him. When Mr. Bakh heard of the incident, Christopher was sacked and replaced by Alfred Shaw, the Head waiter and personal butler to Mr. Bakh. Mr. Bakh was very clear in his style of business. If at all anybody is to be punished, it would be him who would give the verdict, not anybody else. He was in charge and it should be known to one and all. Alan Cunningham, the new personal butler to Mr. Bakh was asked to train and ready Ram Kotwal for his job as a steward. But before that the boy was to be taken to Dr. Thomson to treat his injuries.

After almost one year of being under Alan, Mr. Bakh asked Ram to get ready for the evening. He was to start his stint as a steward in “The Oriental Lotus”. Ram jumped in excitement when he was told of his apparent “promotion”. Lord Delaware was dining at the restaurant and Ram was to serve table seventeen where the Lord would be seated in the evening. Exactly when the clock struck seven, Lord Delaware strode into the hall with his wife- Helena, The Lady Delaware. Straightening his bow and adjusting his tailcoat, Ram went up to the ageing yet handsome aristocrat and his charming wife and took the orders. An Indian steward was not heard of in those days but reassuring looks for Mr. Bakh from a distance put the couple at ease. After a well served sumptuous meal, the Lord left. He left behind a gleaming silver coin for the “boy”. An ecstatic Ram could not sleep that night.

Soon Ram became one of the popular stewards at “The Oriental Lotus”. His speed and precision and his “eye for intricate details” made customers ask for him. He knew exactly what his regular patrons ate or drank and the ‘minute details’ they expected. Many affluent Indians tried to lure him away but Ram exactly knew where his loyalty lay. He knew that the man who gave him sanctuary during this “impoverished days” can never be forgotten or left. Loyalty was always rewarded and Ram waited for his destiny to find him his place on earth.

The second “Great War” had started. Ram had heard that some German with a small moustache was holding the world to ransom and everybody from the king to two “big men” on both sides of the earth were trying to stop him. In India Gandhi had made it very clear that India would not accept anything else apart from independence to support the King’s war effort. With his limited ability to read and understand and the information caught by his ears from diners, Ram knew that the world was in for some great change.

On day, the news came for which almost 30 million Indians had waited for close to a century. India had become independent. The “Union Jack” had come down and the “Tricolour” was majestically hoisted over the historic Red fort at Delhi. This was the time when Ram felt that it was time to go back to India.

“I want to go back to India”, he said to Mr. Bakh. The master looked up but said nothing. He walked up to the safe, took out some money and put it into Ram hands.

“I knew, there would be a day when you would want to fly out of my nest. A person like you has a much bigger destiny that I can give you here. I am giving you a thousand pounds. May it be of some use to the destiny that you are going to make for yourself” As he said these words, the Parsi walked out of his room giving directions to his staff. Ram knew he was out into the “big bad world on his own”.

It was the chill in December that welcomed Ram in Delhi. The journey wasn’t easy. From England, he took a ship to Bombay. It took him 75 days to reach the Indian coast. With the thousand pounds and his bundle of clothes, Ram Kotwal Bahadur (This was to be his new name he though as he bought his ticket under this name) set foot on his motherland. With no friends or relatives or acquaintances in the city, he roamed around the city aimlessly. He looked at the “Taj Mahal Hotel” opened by a visionary Parsi gentleman and thought, “one day I am going to own such a hotel”.

“Hotel for sale in Shimla. Interested parties may contact….”Ram found this advertisement in a newspaper which he had picked up to sleep on. He did not read anything else. He bought a ticket to Delhi in “Frontier Mail” and started on his journey. The hotel was a rundown place called, “Rosewood Hotel” owned by a Britisher called Ray Balfour who wanted 5000 rupees for it. After convincing him for 4 days, Ram gave him 500 pounds in “British currency” and bought the hotel. Ram finally owned something.

It looked nothing like a hotel. It has twenty-four rooms of which the fourteen on the first floor were gutted in a fire long back. The kitchen looked nothing like the kitchen. The only plus point was the location. The hotel overlooked the city of Shimla. Ram decided that this would be his selling point. After borrowing another thousand pounds from Mr. Bakh, Ram set out to refurbish the hotel. (His letter to him asking for some money as loan came back with a letter and an Englishman. The letter read, “I want two thousand pounds in five years”.)

He knew that he had to be like Mr. Bakh, if he wanted to become big. He started slow and small but his plans were huge. He personally worked with the masons, the carpenters and the plumbers to put the “run down” place back on its feet. Days would pass by fast and Ram feared that if the work was not completed on time before the tourist season started, he may land up in a soup. At night when the world was sleeping, he would quietly watch his dream coming up from a distance and wait for the sun to rise so that he could start working again. The work finally paid off and after 4 months of perseverance (and luckily just before the tourist season) the hotel was ready for the guests.

Ram carefully chose the staff he employed. There were three cooks, and ten stewards. Ram himself donned the role of supervisor. The first guests who came to the hotel were the Mehrotra family from the plains. They stayed for ten days but when the bill was asked for, the family was surprised. They were not charged for anything.

“You are the first patrons of my venture. All I expect is your blessings and wishes”, Ram politely said to the patriarch of the family.

Words from the Mehrotra family reached a lot of people in the plains. “The Rosewood Hotel” became a preferred destination for travelers to the region. Ram always ensured that his guests got something “extra” than what they asked for. Letters and telegrams always arrived well in advance to book occupation. References were made by satisfied guests who appreciated the efforts made by Ram and his team. Ram was getting closer to what he wanted. But he was still far from what he actually desired.

It was through one of his patrons that Ram Kotwal Bahadur came to know that a certain hotel in the national capital was up for sale. When Rams aw the property, he liked it in one go. There were no major changes required and the place could be started immediately. All it would require is a change in the team. The asking price was twenty five thousand rupees. It took Ram countless visits to Banks before a dynamic banker at Imperial Bank of India saw the spark in Ram. “The Derbyshire Hotel” was renamed as “The Rosewood Hotel” and commenced business. A part of the team arrived in Delhi along with Ram a complete turnaround was done with a new team and a new strategy to do business.

Business travelers were the key to the future and Ram understood this quite early. Business was picking up in independent India and he was able to perceive their demands. His acumen to perceive things beforehand was a huge advantage which the “Rosewood Hotels” cashed on heavily.

Ram’s wedding to Sonalika Dewan changed a lot of things in his life. They had been introduced to each other by Inder Chauhan, a common friend and soon romance blossomed. Although she was not the first woman that Ram had known but she was indeed the most elegant that he had ever met. Initially, they used to meet each other “by chance”. Then it shifted to meeting “by convenience” and soon they were meeting out of “sheer necessity”. Ram was driving her around the city on his new “Hindustan 14” or the “Willys Jeep”. Very soon the compatibility rose to such levels that the pot of morning tea to Ram’s room had two cups, sherry & Scotch whisky co habited in his liquor cabinet and even their clothes were laundered together. One morning Ram said to her, “I want a home. Let’s get married”. Lazily she pulled the satin sheets on herself and said in a sleepy voice, “Defer the proposal to dinner. I am not an early morning person”. That evening Sonalika agreed to become Mrs. Ram Kotwal Bahadur.

Sonalika was earlier married to Suresh Rai, a member of the Indian Civil Service who died of malaria while serving in the “Terai”. Barely into her early twenties, she had joined her father’s distillery business where she ably assisted him. The Dewans were one of the leading distillers in the northern part of the country. With popular brands like “Frontier Whisky”,”White Stag Rum” and “Silver Cedar Beer”- their flagship Brand, the Dewans were a known family. When Manoharlal Dewan found his daughter interested in a “self-made” man, he accepted his daughter’s choice and got them married.

Mr. Bakh came to the wedding. Age showed in his constitution, but the straight walk and crisp voice still remained the same. He gave an piece of paper to the couple and said, ”Ram was the son I never had”. The paper was Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi’s will which brught tears into Ram’s eyes. Ram could not have asked for a better gift. The couple spent a month at “The Rosewood Hotel” in Shimla. Sonalika was proud of her husband’s starting point. At the end of the month, Ram Kotwal Bahadur, was a satisfied man who was crazily in love with his bride.

The Dewan’s presented them with a property as a wedding gift which was named “Champawat” in memory of Ram’s village. Initially Sonalika wanted to see her husband’s family but Ram negated it by saying, “Kaalu Singh died long ago”. Sonalika Kotwal Bahadur accepted the void in her life with grace and the couple set up their house in the capital.

Ram was in Rajputana when news came which shook everything inside him. He immediately started for the capital where Sonalika was waiting for him. They boarded a flight which took them to the place where Ram had started his life. Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi had died. Sonalika held her “broke” husband all through the way. She knew that the “strong” Ram was very vulnerable at this particular moment and if she did not support him now, he would crumble. Tears kept rolling down his eyes and he hardly spoke a word. The aircraft was taking eternity to reach London. When the Kotwals arrived in London, Ardeshir-the eldest of the Batliboi children was there to receive them.

After a few days in London where they attended the last rites of Mr. Bakh and Ram showed Sonalika the places where he evolved from, they returned to India. A very important decision was made at London. Ardeshir was a comfortably placed lawyer in the United States who knew nothing about the hotel business. As per Mr. Bakh’s will, the name “The Oriental Lotus” would be inherited by Ram whereas the restaurant would go to Mr. Bakh’s family. So, after discussing a while, they decided on a plan. Ram would keep the “name” as well as the restaurant whereas profits from the restaurant for a period of 25 years would go Ardeshir and his family. Although, it was a totally losing proposition, but Ram accepted it. Had he not accepted it, Ardeshir would have sold the restaurant. Ram could not have let “Mr. Bakh die”.

All the Rosewood Hotels in India were rechristened as, “The Oriental Lotus”. In the coming months, Ram acquired two small hotels in Lucknow and Calcutta at throw away prices. His business strategy was very simple. Look for run down properties at throw away prices. Buy them, rebuild them and take them to glory. In the meanwhile Swarnalata Kotwal Bahadur arrived in this world. At the sight of his daughter, Ram told Sonalika, “I hope to add another hotel with each year of her life”.

But his biggest achievement was yet to come- a hotel in Bombay. Ram’s next course of action was to open a hotel in Bombay- the commercial capital of independent India. He was going beserk at his failure to find a good property in Bombay. He had to wait for four years before he found what he was looking for. The “Frontier Hotels Group” had gone bankrupt and their property, “The Sea horizon” was up for sale. After months of negotiations and the latest “push and pull” of politics, Ram inked the deal.

Ram was walking on the pier overlooking the Arabian Sea that night after the function was over. His mind had innumerable thoughts inside him. He thought of his whole life. From a small place in the valleys, “Kaalu Singh” had come a long way to become Ram Kotwal Bahadur. After a while, Ram walked back into his new hotel. Like all his other hotels, the reception area had the same look. There were pictures of Sir Jamaluddin Khyabji, Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi and “The Oriental Lotus” at London. He smiled at them and walked towards the elevator.

As Ram got into the elevator to go to his room, he found an old couple talking about the food. The man said, “The meat in the steak was cut so well, I tipped the waiter ten rupees to give it to the lad who cut it so well. I hope he gives it to him”. When the elevator stpped at their floor and they were stepping out, Ram addressed them, “Sir, I will ensure that the money goes to the lad. A cook’s broth will never go unrewarded”

The couple was puzzled while Ram smiled towards them as the door of the elevator closed.

P.S. The plot and the characters are figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental.

Dedicated to the members of the “Hotel Industry” who are not visible from outside but inside and in reality they are the ones who keep it running.

Bacardi & Nostalgia- A Cocktail to Déjà Vu

Let me start by accepting what is “axiomatically true”- I am “highly spirited!” (Don’t cock up your eyebrows at this. If I am not spirited and if I don’t write, very soon you guys would be standing at my funeral. So, in order to deny all of you guys the pleasure of such a mishap, I slowly attempt to walk into “the end” with a few notes here and there without anybody even coming to know of it. )

The whole incident starts with a piece of paper that was lying on my desk. I am generally a very tidy fellow and prefer my desk to be free of all kinds of papers. Even if there is work pending which is a general phenomenon with me, the papers should be at a place which is away from the gaze of the customers as well my boss alike. Now this is an art which can be perfected by employees of a public sector undertaking over a period of time. I won’t say I have quite perfected it, but I am on the “road to perfection”. During the day your table should be full of papers strewn here and there. In between these derivatives of cellulose, one should bury his/her face and constantly bring out a bored and victimized look. This look should continue till your boss walks past you with a certain degree of appreciation. Now interchanging roles- If you are a boss, and your subordinate is presenting such a picture, please don’t be fooled. Even if he is genuinely working, give him a casual glance with a complex mix of appreciation, confusion, contempt and rebuke in varying degrees. This will demoralize the worker. I know you are shocked, but this is what you are expected to do. Oops! I forgot about the piece of paper.

On the paper were instructions to report to the training college of the organization. The words were “divine instructions”- I would be away from my desk, irate clients, a sadistic boss and above all a ‘dry state” for a fortnight. What a respite from the daily dose of office work, cribbing and earthly worries. I jumped in happiness when I saw my pass to “freedom”.

Since time was short, there was no option but to use the “stratospheric” mode of travel. The “Top Boss” was kind enough to sign the small piece of paper which put me on the lap of the “Maharaja” for transhipment to the National Capital and from there to a suburb where the training college was located. It was not the first time that I had arrived into this “recreation resort”. Approximately 500 days back to I had come here, but there was a catch in it. My stay last time was as a “cub” to the organization. This time it was a Tiger who was walking in.

The cab driver who picked me up at the airport felt that it was his prime responsibility to act as a tour guide while he drove me. It was only after I started giving him tit bits about the place that he understood that his action towards me should have been more of a “directive principle” than a “fundamental duty”.

At the gate of this “magnanimously imposing” structure, I was accosted by a group of twenty security guards. They probably had suspicions that I could be remotely related to a certain “Al Qaeda” or “Shri Ram Sene” and hence a stringent search was made of the car as well as me. Although I had nothing in my possession which could be remotely called a part of an arsenal but I was apprehensive about surrendering the bottle of “Bacardi” if they found it in my person. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they did not find the bottle and I merrily strode into the institution with considerable ease.

At my arrival on the reception, I was welcomed with a smile by a chap who was no more than twenty years old. He made me fill up a register (at this point let me tell you that my organization is an extremely register-centric outfit. From stamps to leased vehicles, and from entry into a room to exit from the organization, everything has a register.) A column in the register read, “Vegetarian or Non-vegetarian.” I so much wanted to write “Dinosauratarian” in it. And how much I failed to do so.

He also made me log into a computer and fill up the same details. I failed to understand which one- the register or the computer-made more sense. Also, recently the “top Management” had enumerated a policy which said that all “controllable expenses” should be curtailed and brought down by 25 per cent in the present fiscal. I did not know curtailing which one can be called “controllable”- the register or the computer. Not spraining my brains further, I walked towards my allotted room.

The room given to me was a beautiful one. Did the hospitality department fellows realize that I needed “space” and hence a spacious room with an exclusive balcony was given to me? I could keep an eye on any side from this balcony and this proved to be very fruitful in the coming days. The moment I stepped into the balcony I saw a gang of “cute faces” beneath my balcony.“Should we go for a movie or should we go shopping?” The point of contention was no contention. Do both, I wanted to instruct them. But again I failed to do so.

I seriously like the serene atmosphere of the “School of learning”. It is built like a “resort” with small buildings spread over a vast area of landscaped earth. Exactly in front of my room stood the huge water reservoir that resembled a “Tangri Kebab” (A mughlai version of Chicken Drumsticks). Classes were built in an aesthetic manner with the architecture probably borrowed from a management school. I know you would be thinking that we are such “apes” but let me tell you that there is no law which can penalize you for plagiarizing an architectural idea. Hope you got it. No? Then go, sue yourself. Classes are named after seats of learning in the ancient and medieval history of India. This is surely classy. With all modern gizmos and ergonomic furniture in it, they can closely compete with the boardroom of any “Fortune 500 company”.

Every week one amazing or the other group joins this “School of learning” for short courses that assist us in carrying out our duties in the organization. I could see porters carrying luggage of entrants coming in. Most were fresh “recruits” and arrived to this place in groups. (Makes me nostalgic about my arrival some years back when I too arrived in a similar manner) I could see the young faces merrily striding into the place with excitement. Their chirpy faces, enthusiastic demeanor and their gaiety to meet their peers were very clearly visible in their expressions. Youth these days was the buzzword in my organization. It was a pleasure to see and hear the buzzword constantly.

At this point let me mention that we are the biggest bunch of hypocrites to have ever stepped on this earth. We have a “different’ standard and a “different” set of rules for us at different places. One gentleman was complaining to the housekeeping staff that his cup of morning tea did not the requisite quantity of sugar in it. I wonder if the same person could make a similar statement to his wife at home (I assume he is married because he looked all hen-pecked). If he did, maybe, he would never get a cup of tea again in his life. There came constant complaints from people about the quality of food, the taste of it and the trivial, “why doesn’t my room have a phone”. As if what was expected that a hotline be installed in his room with direct access to a certain Obama fellow. There are umpteen examples some of which I will quote during the course of progress of this creation.

The best place in this place of learning was the dining hall. Different species of human beings could be observed there. The youngsters were a vociferous lot whose tolerance and patience level was really low. There is a certain fella who can be called “surfer”. His primary vocation was to conquer the remote to the television and keep changing the channels. Whenever I saw him, his affection towards the food would be less and he was more engrossed in “channel surfing”. The action was irritating but nobody ever raised an objection. Nobody after all was here to watch television. Another group of people had descended from the fishermen of some coastal area. Their primary job was to “fish” out the slightly more edible pieces of fish or fowl served. Using the ladle in a manner with surgeon-like precision these “masters’ would “artistically glide” the ladle inside the serving bowl. Then making sure that nobody was watching them (Kiddos! Don’t be an Ostrich, the whole place is watching you) they would in the fraction of a second “fish out” the good pieces and scoot. Some went even further. They carried a separate plate to carry out this action. Guys, do it openly. Your “attempt” to do it on the sly and then being caught makes the whole issue very funny.

Another “experienced” fellow also made me laugh to my heart’s content. Approaching the serving dish he asked the steward suspiciously, “This is sheep? Or is it Goat?” The perplexed steward called his superior who enlightened all of us by saying, “Sir, this is mutton”. Wow! The answer did not satisfy the questioner. He moved on to help himself to some curd leaving a few of us to a round of hilarious laughter. I wanted to walk up to the fellow and tell him, “Sir, this is Elephant in brine mixed with chimpanzee nails. Try it. It is delicious”. I am sure his appetite would have died for the period he would be here had I said that.

Another Gentleman had the habit of collecting cutlery. I cannot for the sake of being polite called him a kleptomaniac, but his collection bordered on this disorder. Next time you want cutlery (not fresh, mind you) or if you find cutlery missing from your home, contact him.

As the evening set in, I sat on the balcony and observed these freshmen. Couples walked hand in hand (one couple after another), groups lazed around on the soft grass while the sporty ones played badminton on the court. Keep them here for a year and I am sure, a male version of Saina Nehwal would come out.

At last, it was “Alas in wonderland” for me. It was celebration time. The “Bacardi” bat was let out of the bag!

After about 100 milliliters of Bacardi shifted its position from the bottle to my stomach, I was nostalgic. I missed all my peers who were here with me the last time to “get some sense” into us. When I saw the gangs of juniors laughing and bantering among themselves, I missed my peers all the more. I immediately called up the “pocket sized dynamite” friend of mine who had been my constant companion through my 730 days of probation. Although he tried to console me (He exactly knows how emotional I become when “Batman” gets into me.), I was inconsolable. Fifteen minutes into the fundas on “Darwin”, “Freud” and “Dickens”, I told him, “okay go to hell” and I banged down the phone on him. Poor fellow always puts up with all my tantrums. Thank you, mate!

Walking into the classrooms on the first day wasn’t easy. I missed my friends. But this time I had come to take the sessions seriously. Even the instructors knew that the “seriousness quotient” was high. A few “wise men” whom I had come to know during my interactions with them the last time smiled and nodded to my greetings as we passed each other. A few faces I looked for were missing and a few I did not recognize formed a part of the school. But then the “serious” part started. I did not have the time to think of anything else. The courses really made more sense as I attentively got into the “study mode”. Time flew and knowledge accumulated.

Trainees did everything here which they would never do at home. Early morning the “experienced” people would be found in morning walks or the yoga class. I wonder what made them get up so early in the morning to tie themselves into such a “Gordian knot”. Phew! People like me like dozing away to glory till it was minutes for the class to start. A cross section also believed in using the gym to glory. The best part came to light when I was walking down to the breakfast table. One of my fellow trainees was playing football with the exercising ball inside the gym. What a messed up effort to become Messi. God save us and every lover of soccer the torture of watching such a sacrilege.

One of the evenings we were subjected to a talk on “Gender Justice”. It was after I entered the amphitheatre that I found that the talk was actually about “sexual harassment at workplace”. The organizers had decided to “sugar coat” the lecture fearing that the mere mention of the word “sex” as a noun or verb or adjective or whatever might thin out the crowd. The speaker tested our patience with wrong quotations from the Indian penal code, illogically minute details of committees formed to address the issue and unrelated anecdotes. What was scarier was that the mere mention of qualifications like “sweetheart” or “darling” could land you behind bars. The talk was unnecessary elongated to such levels that at the end the head of the institution had to ask the speaker to conclude (in fact he wanted to say, “shut up”). When I could not take it any further, I got up and told the speaker, “Instead of enumerating punishments and making every male feel like a sexual deviant, it would be appreciable if you sensitize them”. I also added a few legal jargons and quoted a few sections from the penal code to draw a round of applause. How happy I felt.

The two best things about the trainings at this institution is the visits to malls (we Indians still start running the moment a shopping mall is mentioned. I know, we are compulsive shoppers) and the group photograph. As soon as the classes ended, people ran to get a seat on the bus going to the shopping malls. Like a group of “Scouts and Guides” people sat patiently for the bus to start. Once it reached the malls, quite a few gave such a awed expression as if they had found “The Statue of liberty” in front of them. After two hours when the crowd came out everybody had packets of sizes bigger than them. One gentleman had bought a carton of aerated colas because it was cheaper in “The National Capital”. Please don’t be shocked. The carton did not go back. Every boozer inside the campus knew of this acquisition and whenever the sources to dilute alcohol went dry, this gentleman would be woken up. He went home empty-handed and even lost the money. Do drunks ever pay up?

Oh yes, the group photograph. The cameraman who clicks the “Nikon automatic” is probably dumb. He can’t speak. Well, it is not that he is dumb buy birth. It is just that his vocal chords get temporarily challenged whenever he shoves a sachet of “Guthkha” (An Indian innovation made of a hundred unmentionable inedible substances) into his mouth. He kept on adjusting people by the stroke of his hand or shaking his head in disgust till the Principal arrived. Some chairs were vacant to adjust certain dignitaries who could not make it to the photo session. (Please introduce me to the fellow who invented “Photoshop”. He is a genius who made it possible to circumvent time and be able to be present in the 'present' in 'future') Days later when I saw the photograph I was shocked. A lady who was “fitted” into the photograph was seen sitting at above the “ground level” and a gentleman who in reality was capable of giving close contribution to Clive Lloyd was instead giving Prince Charles a run for his money. Technology, I salute you!

On my last day on campus, I again sat on the balcony with a glass of Bacardi in my hand. The thought came to my mind that this same routine takes place every week. But we never get bored of it. The drama is repeatedly telecast every seven days. It is just that the actors keep on changing. It had happened one and a half years back too when I had come to this place, and it was happening now too. Was it real? Or was it virtual? Was it déjà vu? I know Bacardi and nostalgia make a really potent combination.

As I put my luggage into the trunk of the cab, I saw freshmen bidding adieu to each other. Some eyes were moist. People frantically hugged each other. One couple even stole a moment to be passionate. Cabs moved out one after the other. I too started the drive to the airport. But then that was not the end. At the gate, new cabs were coming in- asking for directions, filling up forms, smiling at each other, showing excitement and full of enthusiasm.

Life indeed moves a full circle.

An Ode to the “Nose Diving” Maharaja

Holmes and Watson recently hitched a ride on “The Maharaja’. The whole experience was horrendous. Standing at the counter to get our boarding passes felt as if we were entering a crèche. From the desk attendant to the luggage porter, everybody had celebrated their “Golden Jubilee” (The statement proved true later when we saw the Captain and the crew. The only respite was the fact that the aircraft was the only exception to this general observation). A Stern looking lady (She looked more like a school headmistress than an airline ground staff) behind the counter rebuked Watson for carrying more luggage than his prescribed limit. It was only after Watson represented that he was a medico and the extra weight was due to his medical kit that she allowed him the excess baggage. Along with the boarding passes came the curt instructions, “The flight is late by 90 minutes. Please bear with us”. Did we have an option? No! ( At that point of time Holmes did not know that the overzealous, salt and pepper haired lady had given both of us window seats resulting in different rows for both of us. I failed to understand that from which angle did we both look like vagabonds who were capable of violating public tranquility).

Commercial aviation was brought to India was the visionary entrepreneur- Jehangir Ratanji Dadabhoy Tata, affably known as JRD. Known as TATA Airlines, the service was restricted to the elite of this sub-continent. When India attained independence, the new policy of “mixed economy” coupled with the concept of “Nehruvian-Socialism” led to the nationalization of the service. Ably led my luminaries including a chap called Bobby Kooka (Who also happened to be JRD’s brother-in-law), the smiling “Maharaja” became a symbol of India’s rich cultural heritage fused with modern technology. It gave its flyers an opportunity to be proud of flying. Monopoly could be clearly seen in highly priced tickets, total ignorance of service standards and no efforts put in to improve technology or service standards. Travelling by air was planned by the rich while the comparatively less rich used it in extreme exigencies like weddings and deaths of close relatives, exams, and employment interviews. Politicos and Senior Government functionaries formulated important policy decision at airports. Flying was almost ‘regalia’. The “Maharaja” was flying high.

In 1991, a certain turbaned gentleman economist opened the doors of India Inc to the world. Aviation Industry was opened to the private sector and foreign investment. Overnight, new players entered the skies. Upgraded aircraft, services of world standards and the commitment to improve on these parameters everyday made the new players snatch away the market share from “The Maharaja”. But the permit to scale the Indian skies and enter foreign airspace still remained with the national carrier. Then arrived a certain avitator who started a commercial airline which took Indians to the sky at a pittance. Fares were as low as Rupee Ninety Nine. Called “No Frill Airlines”, initially, they were like “General compartments” in air. Holmes remembers his first journey in such an airline where he ran faster than Jesse Owens to grab a seat. A tired Holmes rejoiced when he managed to get a seat in the airliner. But the happiness of travelling for a pittance soon turned into a journey of tense moments. The airliner vibrated like a pendulum as soon as it entered the stratosphere. But more should not be expected for a pittance. Soon, every Tom, dick and Harry in India was travelling on an airline.

Anyways, soon “The Maharaja” arrived. Both of us sighed in relief. As we queued up to board the flight, a pan-chewing not so gentleman arrived to help out the passengers. He was nearly six feet tall and could cause displacement equivalent to two people. He constantly murmured into his walkie-talkie but like a seasoned politician refused to answer the irate passengers. After a delay of nearly two hours we boarded the plane. At the gate we were welcomed by stewardess who was so shabby and disheveled in her looks that irritated us more. She was indifferent to the passengers and tore a part of the boarding cards as if it was a punishment thrust on her. When we found our seats, it came to light that both of us had to sit in different rows. Holmes threw a fir but to no avail. Huffing and puffing Watson sat away from Holmes while I made myself comfortable between two middle-aged gentleman who talked about “losing money in the stock market, gall bladder removal surgery and prices of chilies in the wholesale market”.

As opposite to this Holmes remembers his visit to Bombay on an airline service owned by a liquor baron. From the moment Holmes stepped into the airport, the airline staff took over. The luggage was checked in by hospitable porters who seemed really eager to serve the customers. The attendant who issued the boarding card smiled at you as if you travelled with them every day. The stewardesses on the flight welcomed you with such affection that you feel like coming back again and again. There was another apprehension in our mind. Recently “The Maharaja” had caught the habit of ditching its passengers and scooting off to ferry the exponents of the “Gentleman’s game” (Not so gentlemanly anymore, I must say). So, if it did the same to us, my appointment with Ms. Adler would be in utter trouble. And given her ability of burst like a volcano, I feared I could not take such a risk. I somehow managed to keep calm.

Soon, Holmes drove the headphone jack into the allocated slot and turned on the in-flight television service. His co-passenger tried the same but when he failed to find the slot, he shoved the jack into his ear. Holmes thought that he might be trying to hear his own personal TV station, but it was case of mistaken identity. The fellow was cleaning his ear with the headphone jack!!!!!!!!! Ewwwwwwwwww! After has found what he was looking for inside his ear, he shifted to the conversation of “losing money in the stock market, gall bladder removal surgery and prices of chilies in the wholesale market”.

Any piece of writing on airline travel would be incomplete without a reference to the air hostesses. “The Maharaja’s attendants” were a real lousy lot. They were at such a juncture of age where needed to be rather than serving others. Once when Watson smiled at one of them, the smile was returned with such a stare that the poor chap did not smile for the rest of the flight. The scorned look looked as if saying, “What are you wretched people doing here. Why don’t you jump down?”

The lady who served us food must have been on the verge of retirement and was more interested in her social security pension than our culinary needs. Holmes also strongly suspects that she was wearing a wig. She was armed with the latest weapon of “cosmetic poison” and constantly intimidated passengers with her “drop dead or I will kill you” looks. After she served us, she just disappeared never to come back again. The bell to summon attendants it seems was “for cosmetic use only. Do not ring because no one will come”. This was in stark opposition to the other flight I just mentioned above. The prim and properly dressed young ladies showed utter eagerness to assist the passengers. Food was customized to suit our taste-buds. Service was prompt and the smile never disappeared from their faces. And here, they never smiled even once. Not that we paid to watch clowns in the stratosphere, but we were expecting that at least would they would make us feel wanted. Why give us “parachutes mentally” with the constant non verbal cue to “jump down”? How un-elementary.

The food here was less than edible. But no one in the vicinity seemed to be wasting a morsel. The “Headphone jack ear cleaner” gobbled his plate and then cleaned up his neighbours’. Holmes was scared that he might eat up the cutlery too. Phew! Holmes was to his happiness proved wrong. Had he done so, the next morning headlines in the tabloids would have read, “Maharaja robbed of cutlery”.

What a stark difference in the service between the two competitors when the fare charged was almost same. No wonder “The Maharaja” had lost majority of its market share. Instead of prim and properly dressed attendants (as expected in the service industry) we were subjected to shabbily dressed out-of-shape people sporting all kinds of religious insignias. “Punctuality” was confused with punctuation marks and disorder seemed to be the order of the day.

When we got down and waited to collect our luggage, there was utter confusion again. An airline staff arrived at the scene again, not to help but to create more confusion. He killed some time by chewing on some inedible substance and threw the wrapper around as if his littering would turn the plastic wrapper into gold. How disgusting? Collecting our luggage, we walked out to hail a cab. As we settled inside, I looked at Watson and said, “Doctor, we are never traveling on it again. We can become common Indigo coloured kingfishers who can spice jet around and go air but we shall never take an opportunity to be hosted by the Maharaja”. Watson nodded in approval but by habit asked, Why My dear Holmes? Why?” I replied, Elementary my dear Watson, elementary!”

It would be utter foolishness to break one’s nose with the “nose diving Maharaja”. Indeed his nose is too long and needs a snip.

P.S. Dedicated to all those customers who are making “The Maharaja” understand that “privy purses” don’t last forever.

Playing Cricket with a Tennis Ball or Tennis with a Cricket Ball?

Opening the newspaper these days can be extremely “juicy” but the flavor was indeed different on that day. The headline read, “Shoaib bowled over, Sania hits an ace” and this was followed by a detailed account of Indian tennis –Star (Can’t call her a player because she hardly plays) Sania Mirza’s proposed wedding with Pakistani Cricketer Shoaib Malik. The column went deep into the careers of both the sportspersons followed by the “family connection” but did not forget to add, “Sania has been single since her engagement with Sohrab Mirza was called off”. Damn it. Poor Sohrab who is already nursing an injury in his heart because of the “media coverage” of his engagement and then the break-up was hit again on his stomach. The “watchdog” press did not even spare him.

Returning back from office, I switched on the television to find every news channel wishing the couple a very best in life. “Analysts” (only the Almighty know what these out-of-work and totally unrelated to the issue souls analyze?) did a in-depth analysis of how Sania and Shoaib met and all that blah blah! The same clippings were reproduced on the screen again and again to the point that one had a headache. I switched it off.

Next day’s newspaper had inputs from an anti-Pakistani “right-winged fundamentalist” organization that said that it would not let Sania represent India if she married a Pakistani citizen. Pakistan Tennis Federation (PTF) were jubiliant that she would play for Pakistan after she is married, but Sania came up with a statement that she would always play for India. I know, you would ask as to why BCCI did not make such an offer to Mr. Malik. He was banned from international cricket for a year and I suppose BCCI is not into “rejects”. The Pakistani High Commission played a smart move by giving Ms. Mirza a visa but denied her entry into Sialkot (Shoaib traces his origins from Sialkot). Then the couple declared that the wedding would be held in Hyderabad on April 15th followed by a reception in Pakistan and then they would proceed to Dubai. (everybody these days is going to Dubai. Even the bearded psychotic fellow who claims to be a painter has landed up in Dubai.I wonder why?) Dubai is where the couple would keep their “nuptial home”. I really found interest in Sania’s comment to the press, “These days a lot of cricket is being played in Dubai, so we decided to set-up house there”. Wow Ms. Mirza, how interesting? I think Mr. Malik should be invited to lead the UAE national team (if it exists!) and you would play tennis in a “Burkha” there.

Then came the “big boy and little man” (they are the two bombs dropped on Japan in WWII) which gave media their new “flavor”. Some woman by the name of Ayesha Siddiqui (or Maha Siddiqui- who cares what her name is?) came up with a “nikahnama” which bore Shoaib’s signature. She claimed that they were married two years earlier (On Internet or telephone as both the parties have apparently never met each other). God! It remined me of the wedding of a fellow whose sword was placed at the altar because he could not present there and later on created a furore that a different girl was married off to him. What a scene he created. Anyways, every major news channel in the Indian Diaspora pounced on Ms. Siddiqui (Holmes has never been good with first-names). Overnight she was being googled more than Carla Bruni-Sarkozy and Victoria Beckham. Although her looks can’t be called “drop dead gorgeous”, but the press soon labeled as her as a “victim” who had been “”cheated of her marital bliss”. A new breed- lawyers (God! How much I hate them) jumped into the scene. Every possible law book was opened and these “black-coats” gave their expert opinion on the case. Some said it was valid (implying that Mr. Malik was married) while some called it of no value. Devoid of any conclusion and being hit like a “tennis ball” with allegations and counter-allegations, the matter was going nowhere.

Suddenly Shoaib flew down to India and the paparazzi found him in Sania’s house (Holmes envies his luck!!) He was seen barking something into the phone while Ms. Mirza was being cajoled and coochie-cooed by her mother. The last shot was of the “couple” practicing a “wedding waltz” (probably) before the doors were closed for the media. But the channels did not stop. Elaborate details of the wedding trousseau (Umpteen designers claimed to be the designer. Some even had dresses ready for them), the rituals and the wedding menu was given. Best part was the cuisine which was truly mouth-watering. Please pardon me but in weddings, Holmes doesn’t care who weds who! He always guns for the food!

Mind you ladies and gentlemen, the spice of news did not stop here. More fodder was collected and fed to us. First came Sarfaraz Nawaz. Introductions? He is a former Pakistani cricket player who even led them before he became a cricket administrator. The veteran called Shoaib names (I can’t reproduce them here as Holmes also has a female audience) which translated goes, “Agent of the bookies” (I have made a subjective translation as a literal one could land holmes in prison for using abusive language). He also alleged that there was an ulterior motive behind the wedding as Mr. Malik was planning to “fix” his wife’s tennis matches. Great going Sir! But let me mention here that Ms. Mirza is a tennis player of the same genre as a cricketer who has played a lone one-day match leave aside a test match. Her best shot was at the 2005 US Open where she went to the fourth round (That’ is far away from the Grand slam if you are ignorant-Ignorance cannot be bliss everytime, you know!). The only Grand slam she has won is a mixed doubles title with Mahesh Bhupathi. Even in Asia where there are very few women players and even fewer participants in Asian Games, our (I use our due to her Indian citizenship. She is still not a Pakistani Citizen) girl won a silver medal. Will that be called “fixing”? Or is there any chance of “fixing”? Holmes thinks the only such chance is the “match-fixing” of both these players which has already happened. Mr. Nawaz, you remind me of a deranged Parveen Babi who in her last days claimed to be aware of a CIA plot in India. Poor woman! The same “bombshell” who made India sway to her eyes died a lonely broken woman. May the almighty give you some wisdom.

Jumping next into the phone (not camera thankfully) was a jerk by the name of Imran Hassan. Should introductions be given again? Okay, he is the brother-in-law of Mr. Malik. Is it enough? Or does the audience expect Holmes to get the size of his left-shoe? Initially Mr. Hassan made some very interesting remarks. (When the anchor said that Ms. Siddiqui has refused to face the camera, Mr. Hasan said, “If you fellows can peep into the Mirza household, why did you spare the Siddiquis”) But soon the “stung” anchor put him into a “soup”. His new theory that the “nikahnama” was a draft was torn to pieces by the line, “If it was a draft, then why did Shoaib sign on it?” He sounded dumb when asked, “Why are you guys not showing the picture of the girl Shoaib was made to believe he was marrying, when the real bride was Ayesha”. Or when asked, “Why is Shoaib getting his trousseau in India. Are there no tailors in Pakistan?” The poor fellow was ragged like a college fresher before being shooed off with a smile. You would be surprised how disgusting he was. And the anchor too.

Holmes feels that the whole event could have been ignored. But, we the citizens of a new “voyeuristic” world need a constant feed of “tabloid gossip”. Imagine the angle the story would take if some bloke came up with an allegation like “Sania was dating and ……..me”? He would become an overnight hero. Somebody wants to try this out? (Please remember to do it on your own risk. Holmes will not take any responsibility for your actions). News channels make revenue out of these “juicy” topics while we ignorant junta label it as “journalism of course”. Our receptive faculties need a serious and a sincere overhaul.

My first answer is to the anti-Pakistani “right-winged fundamentalist” organization. Dear Sirs, When Reena Roy married Mohsin Khan, there were no protests, although she was a big-time actress? When Clive Lloyd and Vivian Richards dated Indian starlets where were you? Imran Khan went gaga over Zeenat Aman, but we felt no tremors? Plus, Sania doesn’t even stay in the city or the state which you guys want for yourselves. So, what is the protest about? You guys need a “focused agenda” first. Be clear about what you want or very soon you guys will of the same genre as the “IPL-Party hila denge” advertisement.

Media! Guys, Holmes can’t even write a word against you. Or else you would gag him. A widow from Haryana fought a long –drawn judicial battle to get justice for her dead son and daughter-in-law who were killed as a part of a “honour-killing”. India subsidizes food grains for 6.8 million people. The Chief Justice of a High Court is asked to proceed on leave because there are allegations of corruption against him. These all find coverage in obscure pages while the wedding menu and the “nikahnama” are the burning issues. What a prudent use of the fundamental right to freedom of speech and expression.

Both Shoaib and Sania are “losers” as far their professional life is concerned. Pakistanis are more interested in his “off-field” exploits while Indians are keener on the length of her skirt. Compared to International couples like “Agassi and Graf” or Indians like “Jwala Gutta and Chetan Anand”, these two love birds have hardly achieved anything but infamy. Shoaib was banned for “underperformance” whereas Sania was more known for her link-ups than tennis (I have no plans of mentioning the fake MMS on her).

But at the end of the day these two are human beings who look for a certain amount of happiness in their lives. Is it too much for a girl to expect a “fairy tale” wedding? Or is it criminal for a man to expect a “almost perfect” bride? Then why don’t we give them their due. Mr. Malik’s past is of no consequence to Sania, then why are we analyzing it? Now the matter is between the Maliks and the Siddiquis, so why not let them solve it? Why are we glued to TV sets waiting for new feeds on it? What difference would it make if A designs her trousseau and B designs his instead of C and D respectively? Will “Murgh Mussallam” taste different at their wedding but mine or yours? Their “marital home” or for that anything around them is of no consequence to us. Why not let the love birds live in peace.

On the other hand we should feel happy for them. Shoaib may be the worst guy for Sania in our opinion but in her world he might be the charming Prince. Adolf Hitler was a despot for us, but if one reads his love story with Eva Braunn, one would hate him a bit less if not start to like him.

Okay, enough of all this. I want all of this on my wedding with Ms. Adler (If at all she decides to walk down the aisle with me). After all I too can yield the tennis racquet and the Cricket Bat alike. If I haven’t won any trophies, then these two fellows also have not. Plus I am a “voyeuristic Indian” whose receptive faculties haven’t been overhauled till yet. And till it is done, I have every right to ask for such privileges (although I know well-in-advance that I would be denied it).But let me mention it- I have no “nikahnaama drafts” or “MMS-es” in store. You won’t get much of “spice” but I still want the coverage. Do I expect too much?

Till then please leave Mr. Malik and Ms. Mirza alone. I wish them all the best in their future life as man and wife.

And my last line for Sohrab Mirza. Sir, please don’t feel bad. Nice guys always finish second. This includes Jawaharlal Nehru, Dev Anand, Salman Khan and of course you.

P.S. The views aired are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to hurt the emotions of any person living or dead.