Once upon a time there was electricity

As India steps into the next decade as an economic power, military power, technology power and other sobriquets garlanded by so-called pundits of the new world, its engines on which it runs - Mumbai, Delhi, Bangalore and other cities stumble along on some old fashioned crutches. As a member of its tech-engine diaspora, yours truly has endured the necessity for the crutches that Bangalore supports itself on. While it is the grit-determination combo of the Mumbaikars, the tradition-innovation duo of the Delhiites and various innate qualities bequeathed by tradition for the other engines, it is more of a portion of chance and benevolence of nature that fuels Bangalore's crutches.

One of the turrets of infrastructure taken for granted is electricity. In Bangalore, its more of an amenity, which one pays for in case its granted by the all pervasive BESCOM. It has for one, managed to change a habit in me which my mom had given up hope on - the age-old wisdom 'early to bed and early to rise makes one healthy, wealthy and wise'. Although the former part is still untouched, the latter part is now literally controlled by BESCOM (sounds like MOM - guess providence had a dirty hand to play in this one).

Even though Indians' dependence on electricity is not as 'scary' as those of the Americans (they have almost everything from their alarm clocks to smart homes hooked-on), it has a stronger story to get an entry into the roti-kapda-makaan coterie than does India in getting into the UN security council. One reads the paper to often see the powers-that-be put up an act of helplessness when mildly troubled on such issues - but its never surprising that they dont break a sweat even in the face of global warming (which may have something to do with the fact that media coverage usually happens in the confines of generator backed 5-star environs).

The day usually starts with one being woken up by the tickle of a drop of sweat that traverses from brow along the contours of the face to the neck. When realization dawns that one's sleep is no more accompanied by the fan or A.C. and the bedsheet needs some bit of sun, there's not much option than to get under a cold shower. Some cold milk and the soothing confines of the air-conditioned office has become more enticing than a usually logical work-at-home option. The age-old 'warm welcome back home' is quite literally warm! You are back home, but not Mr. Electricity! The plot of a racy Frederick Forsyth novel might have contemplated a nexus between the candle traders mafia (or the generator makers association) and the government, but had the grey cells of our politicians enough ability to digest lesser authors, our mom's wouldn't have had to thank BESCOM officials for waking us up early!

Hmm...On second thought the lack of TV or the internet at night gives me some more time to be spent with my wife! Thats when one manages a long pending snap of hers :)

A Play called Life

Silhouetted; many an outline,
Of characters in various plots,
Plays parts of his, hers & mine,
With shades of all sorts.

Memories etched in mind,
Experience, the beacon of light,
Losses left behind,
As friends become our might.

As tears wipe our sins,
And laughter's the ale,
As we learn from our wins,
And through losses we sail.

From womb to the end,
Life tells us a lot,
Through curves and each bend,
Love, forgive & forget not...

Cakes in the bay

There's always a birthday or two in the bay every time I warm my ass in front of my system for some serious work. Its just one of the occassions the bay turns into something short of a patisserie - only that most of the whipped cream ends up on the outside rather than the other way round. Its kind of a tradition in the bay. Irrespective of gender, the baked flour adorns faces, legs, hands, backs and body parts usually not privy to baked food even in the most improbable of circumstances, except of course this one.

Last week this honour belonged to one of my team members - Bhavani. As per her, it was her best birthday ever! Doesnt look like she has had too many evenful birthdays. Despite all her efforts to look her naive best, she just could not evade the legacy of this tradition (the history of which I have absolutely no idea of). Tsk tsk - some really good mixed fruit gateau from the Oberoi was the martyr!

Cow dung vs. Hope

My home state is known as God's Own Country. It is lush, green and as close to nature as you possibly wouldn't want it to! I would have loved to be within smelling-distance of nature, but not when it stinks. Cow dung! That’s what we had to dig into everyday in front of our gate.
The view from my window paid glowing tributes to the imagery I have so often mouthed with the utmost ease about a country which God so lovingly moulded, but had to be content with being a state. This view had (and still has) cars, trees, rickshaws, road-salesmen of various hues and wares, fauna of an abundant variety and the odd cow which trudged along with its master everyday between 10am and 10:30am. I had often wondered what kind of a relationship the master shared with the animal, apart from being amazed at the consistency with which it dropped dung right in front of our gate everyday…
Sometime last month there was a gap of 3-4 days before my dad and I realized one day that we didn’t have any dung to clear, partly because of the fact that both of us had much more important things in life than to keep track of dung outside our gate and partly because of the local festivities that resulted in a lot of fanfare in our immediate neighbourhood. It also caught my fancy then on that I did not see the duo walk past our gate in the morning. Even though I ran this observation of mine past my dad, it did not elicit more than the usual flick of his eye-brows. This meant either of the two – ‘why the hell should this bother me’ OR ‘good point’. Considering the fact that it was me who had made the point, I figured it was the latter. Whichever way, I had made up my mind to find out a rationale.
A couple of weeks passed by without me being able to locate the master (I hadn’t made an attempt to locate the cow, as I didn’t think I could differentiate it from two similar looking ones). Not that I had made a great attempt, but I presumed asking the neighbours and watching the gate from my window would be good enough – wasn’t so. It was during one of my sulky trips to the local vegetable market on one of the 'accompany-missions' with my mom that I chanced to see the fellow. He was trying to sell a couple of old rickety chairs in the corner of the market where locals usually sold used house-hold items. I went up to him and caught his attention. He responded with a flick of his eye-brows. It wasn’t similar to that of my dad’s, but was clear from the add-on expression that he didn’t particularly like me eating up precious time of his. I later wondered if my presence with my dad when he reprimanded the fellow for his cow’s droppings had anything to do with it. I enquired with him as to why he and his animal no more walked past our gate everyday morning. The change in his expression from annoyance to that of extreme grief was instantaneous! He broke down. It was as if a large swathe of moisture laden clouds had been waiting for a prick to result in a downpour. It would have been an understatement to say that I was embarrassed, but it was then that I realized why my teachers always ‘commended’ me for my thick-skin. Embarrassment turned to sympathy and later to outright helplessness as the downpour prolonged. It was when he managed to gather himself that he looked directly at me. He then told me how he the cow had been left back when his wife eloped with the local meat seller and how he took care of the then ailing cow. He talked about how he would go to the temple everyday with it to pray for his wife’s return. It was when he told me that the day after the cow died (of some illness two days after it had collapsed) he had received news of his wife’s death, that I had tears rolling down my cheeks…
People standing around us then might have thought it odd for two grown up people to be weeping together, holding hands sitting on two chairs propped up close. But I shed all my inhibitions to join in grief for the first time with somebody I hardly knew.
That was the moment I realized that a nuisance such as cow-dung for someone may have been even more sacred for another and that one day this would bond us in the most bizarre of situations.
My mother saw me and had the good sense to sms me to come home when I was feeling better…

3 firsts in a go

There are times when one waits for a day of 'a first'. The first date, first 5-star hotel feast, first drive, first marriage (oops!)...well today Firstapopulous (the name I would have most likely given had I been asked to name the God of Firsts) had diarrhoea...it had nothing to do with how my bowel behaved today morning. It was a triplet - first time I bought a laptop for my wife, first time my brother bought me & my wife lunch and first time I started a blog.

The next time Firstapopulous decides to eat bad, I better be prepared...thank God it is a Sunday today...