COUGH AND I - A RELATIONSHIP STORY

It is an oft asked question " Why is hot faster than cold?" The answer comes with a tickle " Since one can catch cold". In my case though I catch cold, it is not the best of my friends. It brings its ally in the form of cough which is left behind as a legacy by the cold which disappears without much ado. Friends and relatives pour out their suggestions for separating us. Turmeric roasted lightly on a tava, Turmeric in milk, a mixture of pepper, betel leaves and other leaves which is known as the ghas boos khashaya in our household, gargling in salt water, salt water bath, the list would seem endless. The recent bout of cough is no different with every soul around me turning in with a helpful counsel.

It was at this stage, I happened to view a programme which eulogised Surdaas for his ability to adapt into every role from Yashodha to Radha to enjoy the divinity of Lord Krishna. The imagination a la Anu Malik made me look at my present battle in a literary light.

The first role of cough was undoubtedly given to the mother. Caring and concerned, she refuses to budge even when told that her vatsalya was suffocating a la the ad in which the parents bid farewell to their adult son on a train journey more so when the co-passenger is a female. Apparently, the cough too did not want to leave its dear son in trouble and tried everything to stay by the son in his hour of need. The son was as usual not understanding and disrespectful in trying to evict her from his system.

The next role for the cough was that of a friend. The adage, a friend in need is a friend indeed haunted the cough from leaving its dear friend in dire straits. Even a Damocles sword is nothing compared to the sacrifices of the cough. The cough undergoes all the trauma of its own dear friend attempting to see its end but remains faithful without any ill feeling.

The third role is that of a lover. The saga of viraha vedane is told with aplomb on its every return after an eviction. Any mention of the time spent angers her into sulking with whooping bouts of cough. Any talk of separation leads her into one of those sob melodies such as kabhi alvida na kehna which makes one hit the cough syrup bottle a la Devdas. The real tug of war starts when she upstages me into proposing a everlasting marriage. Oh no!!! bouts of cough itself is unbearable but a life long one would not be an idea to relish or cherish. How does one tell this to the cough? The lack of poetic abilities to call a spade one without hurting the sentiments of the other is not the best available asset. Another brief adieu is in the offing but how long would this gap last? Only time can tell while the cough smiles and says "Sayanora" with a promise " I will be back". It is said that hell hath no fury than lady scorned and who could invite the wrath of one sitting so beningly in one's throat and aggravating the situation. This leads to a situation of placation with sugary syrups with a dash of alcohol to make things easier.

The next in the thought flow is that of the cough assuming the role of a visiting child. Children normally take some warm up time and as a gracious host one has to try to please the child so that the wards can have a peaceful time. As the time for leaving nears, the child warms up to the place and at the time of departure prefers to stay with the host. Bidding adieu to the child in a civilised mannerin itself would be a task worthy for every aspirant for diplomatic services. Now the child in question being the cough which has endeared itself to my throat does not show signs of retreat for me to feign welcome next time.

Who could ever say only Surdaas could do it? He only visualised while I have experienced it in this strange relationship with cough.

CHILD IS FATHER OF MAN

A day out and home alone have been subject matter of movies. But it would be a matter of curiosity if one were to encounter a kid no more than a couple of feet from its toes wandering around an alien land without fear or curiosity. As is evident from the Krishna Leela stories some children are endowed with this ability. Across our house is an apartment block and is guarded by a Nepali Gurkha. After coming to terms with the culture and cuisine of this land, he chose to take a break and brought home his wife and young daughter. This little one was full of energy and did not comprehend any language other than her native tongue. All of two feet she strutted around with the air of a princess or more of an empress. She regally walked into any home in the locality, gestured for attention and with a smile on her face could get anything which failed her father's reach. Within days of her arrival she made her mark as the female Krishna of this Gokula. Much to the discomfiture of her parents she chose a radius of a kilometre as her fortress. Vehicles passing had to give way for this little one. Elders rebuked youth who refused to oblige her. The lady made a mark in no uncertain terms. She also established Din ilahi by making no difference on caste, creed, colour, religion, gender or race. The more one sees her elegance, one is tempted to put her in front of the royal blue blood of the Windsor Castle and watch them kneel to her opulent elegance. Krishnaa of Mahabharatha would also envy her elegance and the day is not far off to trumpet her arrival on the stage of the world.

No wonder the texts call the child as the father of man.

Dr H R R IYENGAR - prescriptions beyond imagination

Fortune favours the brave is a famous saying. In my case fortune smiles incessantly much to the chagrin of the persons who claim Providence has always meted out the worst to them. Most who do not know me would consider this either as an empty boast or at best treat it as a fount of positive thinking. It is for the benefit of these souls I would have to lead them throught some wonderful events in my life much to my pride and their envy (Sorry Onida I do not intend robbing you of your favourite tag line). The first occasion that comes to my mind is the benefit of being in the caring hands of a retired military doctor Dr. H R R Iyengar. This soul was a jolly good man with a wonderful sense of humour and presence of mind. He would appear at anytime of adversity and place his large palms on the forehead, laugh gingerly and say this boy is fine. The very presence of this bald man would strike terror in the hearts of the ailments.
In those days of my childhood fever would visit me with loving frequency. But the doctor would ensure that it did not remain an unwanted guest for long. The charges for such a cure would be 50 paise to one rupee and the man would say that he would collect higher fees in case I landed a good job.
On one of the occasions when my mother fell sick, he came on a home visit and told my father that he was unnecessarily wasting 50 paise. All one had to do when the womenfolk of the house fell sick was to enterprisingly enter the kitchen and rattle a few vessels or drop a couple of them. Lo and behold!!! the ailment would vanish and the energetic woman may even give the person a sound thrashing. After prescribing this medicine, he downed a hot cup of coffee.
In the days of Emergency, he was a regular visitor to my place. He would drop in after closing his clinic and on his way drop in to listen to the news. He had a golden principle of earning only to the extent of purchase power of coffee powder for the day. He was against any quick treatments and abhorred injections.
On one occasion when I had a fall, he gave me the option of the wound being stitched up or retaining a scar. I preferred the latter. Another doctor down the street had told that the fractured bone and the open wound needed a stitch besides a small surgery. More than three decades later, only the scar remains as a reminder of the man's capabilities. The fractured bone has healed. Wish one could present this miracle man to the present practitioners for a lesson or two.

RELATIVES AND BTS

BTS was a cartoonist’s delight. It was the favourite of the daily DeccanHerald’s cartoonist Murthy. The overflowing crowds in the bus which had a few layers of people hanging out of the footboards and the picture of some on the ladders ( which was a privilege provided only in a few buses) provided in the rear was a sight to behold. The Bangalore trademark motto “Swalpa Adjust Maadi” owes it genesis to the Bangalore Transport Service. It is a different story that not many are even aware today of the official motto either in letter or in spirit. Any two seater would easily have three persons and the rear seat could easily accommodate two extra occupants. The cop who was the source of threat to all kids was the genial man who would rise to give up his seat and would always ensure that he holds the last rungs in the multi layered footboard. No Olympic gold medallist could match these artisans in clinging to the window bars of the bus with a nimble edge of one foot perched at a miniscule space in the footboard while the other was cautiously avoiding the scraping of the top surface of the road on which the bus was plying at an angle which no driver today with all his degrees could lay claim to. A couple of layers would be provided as a protective layer to the front door if warranted by chivalrous men. In fact, one has to give the credit to these young doyens who were confronted with added distractions of the opposite sex apart from the chatter which would provide fodder for their leisure time amusement.
It was in this era, one old (sic) young man who must have been in his late sixties with a few gray hair bordering a bald pate made an aggressive posture and took position in the penultimate ring on the footboard. One mischievous (as described by the denizen in question) co foot boarder requested him in impolite terms “Ajja, (the Kannada term for the post of grandfather) swalpa olage hogthira? (will you please move inside?)” The man in his impeccable white dhothi rose from his normal height of less than five feet to full stature and asked “Yaaro Ajja (Who is grandfather), My grandchildren are toddlers not full blown men like you. “ The man went on to list the attributes of a grandfather and in his seething anger remarked, “For a person of your age, a grandfather must be incapable of moving out of his home or may have reached the abode of Yama” . The young collegian who had listened all this while with a sense of amusement went red in rage. He started questioning the authority of the handsome man with the bald pate rimmed with gray hair to consign his grandfathers to the bed or to the graveyard. He wanted respect and an apology. The fellow commuters sensing serious trouble brewing from the generation gap proactively counseled the two gladiators on the rung. However, neither was willing to be pacified.
The redoubtable conductor waded through the sea of humanity from the front end of the bus bellowing reason to prevail. All commuters on whose toes he stepped diligently pardoned him without even a murmur in the light of the highly volatile atmosphere. Soon, the master of the bus had reached the venue of the war of words. Quickly, he sought an update from the commuter who was close to the door. As the commuter gave his version with a bias towards the collegian, the grandfather of the toddlers raised an objection. The conductor simply cut the man short and asked whether the same question with an uncle would have had a different meaning. The substance he surmised was that the collegian had expressed concern for his safety and he should sagaciously have accepted the same. The man was not happy with this one sided verdict and started blaming the entire generation which lacked values. The Lok Adalat presided by the conductor did not seem to have had the desired effect.
The final punches were yet to be delivered and the articulations of the pros and cons went on as though a jury was put in place to give their verdict. All along, people disembarked from the bus, some boarded the bus, some purchased tickets for their destinations. It was after a good four or five stops the grand (self appointed)jury was suspended and the conductor told the gladiators that there would be no apologies since the old are not expected to seek pardon from the young and as far as the senior person was concerned, there was no disrespect intended so he could cool himself down. He added as a good measure that if the differences still persisted he would ask the driver to head to the nearest police station where both could sort out the matter. The last word had the desired effect. Soon, at the next bus stop the younger fellow found a seat for the older one ( an adjusted seat). The older man said he had come out in a temper and sought the apology of the younger soul. The younger person who had demanded an apology a few bus stops earlier would have nothing of it. Soon, on insistence he passed on his backpack to the senior one to hold as a gesture of affection by the “Ajja” to his “Mamaga”(grandson).

BTS and IFS

Bangalore Transport Service in itself is a mini world which the denizens who possess two and four wheelers miss unknowingly in the name of saving time. This service has been a source of several articles which if any daily would care to compile would form a bestselling compendium by itself and may also have to be released in volumes. The regulars of this service as well as a few guests would readily vouch the fact that the service provides a rich diet for any cartoonist who would like to create multiple caricatures. For three decades I have been a regular in the service and can sample out a few to entice many folks to leave their prized vehicles behind.
Any four wheeler today boasts of a stereo set which enables the passengers to tune into the FM stations, track the traffic jams, enliven themselves as they contribute to the chaos around. Even in those good old days many of the enterprising crew of the BTS had installed stereo sets which would blare the choice hit music of the season. Young boys in the bus would swing to the music despite the constraint of space and the load of their backpacks. Collegians would resort to foot tapping which was an art by itself. There would be hardly any space but the tapping of the foot should be as deft to land at the vacant space or the toes of another collegian. These practices of art led to some elderly persons rebuking the youngsters in chaste Kannada which was popularly referred to in our circles as Sanskrit. The conductors were veritable trapeze artistes who could swing across the crowded bus with their moneybags intact unlike many of their counterparts in the other cities. They also were masters in crowd control, excellent diplomats and knew when to blow hot or cold. Their mastery in languages made us wonder why much was being made out of the mastery of languages of the then premier Narasimha Rao. They would also remember the requests in various tones, tenors and vernaculars to be told of the stop to be alighted at.
This actually brings to fore an experience hard to forget. It was one of those box office hit days when the bus which had a seating capacity of about 40 was stacked with not less than 180 souls. The conductor baritoned the name of the stop and asked the persons to alight. Seeing no movement, he commanded, “Who was that 4 tickets person who wanted to alight here? Do you want to make your family walk a mile?” At this a man moved and pushed his way through to the door as the pushovers sermonized him on his negligence in not reacting at the first time. Another suggested, “If you feel that you are the emperor of all that you survey why do you not take an auto instead of holding a bus to ransom?” The third chimed in “ these guys come for sightseeing and we are in doldrums and my boss will talk about leaving early and reaching office in time. How do I factor these souls in my timing scheme?” Having successfully alighted the man moved towards the front door which was the entry and exit point for the womenfolk. He started saying “I am Appanna, green saree, blue saree get down.” The persons in the bus vented their exasperation. The conductor told the man to call them by name. The poor soul responded, “How can I take the name of our household women in public?” A census of all blue and green saree was conducted with relationship to Appanna and finally two green sarees and one blue saree was successfully disembarked.
In the meantime the conductor fielded a number of pressing instructions which would put a Karan Thapar in shade. Some were insisting that the bus leave while others questioned the legitimacy of the conductor in allowing the single person to hold everyone to ransom. Others were asking him whether the bus was his proprietory one or whether the person concerned was related to him or had paid him more. But the man in charge of these affairs was undaunted. He smiled and replied “Just imagine if it were your sister or mother would you not want them to disembark at the right place” In the event of the IFS facing a shortage of skilled diplomats, it is my considered opinion that these valiant soldiers should be allowed to face the barrage of queries and we know that our foreign policy would be safe in their hands. After all this, the man would just curl his lips and give out the whistle ( which is now far and few) as a signal which the driver would obediently pick up to rev the engines alive again.

SAMARITAN SEARCH

Bangalore was famous for its misty mornings in the seventies and eighties. I had just shifted from a nearby school located in Malleswaram to another in the heart of the city for my high school. Travel by the BTS (as it was then known as Bangalore Transport Service) was inevitable. We used to look wishfully at the auto stand located outside our home and move towards the terminus. The terminus was also the terminal point of the journey of life since it was located outside the crematorium popularly known as Harischandra Ghat. The bus number 85 used to take us to the Majestic bus stand. However, we used to cross the road for the route number 84 which would take us straight to the Corporation bus stop since it would move up to City Market. This bus would embark on its journey by moving ahead and taking a U turn to proceed towards Malleswaram Circle and move towards Vidhana Soudha which would also serve as an optional stop to disembark to enable us to savour the green glory of the Cubbon Park.
The red coloured buses were few and far. We used to have the timings of the buses ready and it was a normal feature for dailies to publish the schedules at the beginning of the year or when there was a reshuffle of the routes. The buses were largely of the TATA brand. We were such loyalists of this brand that there used to be animated discussions on the demerits of the Ashok Leyland buses which were being introduced. It is irony that life has come full circle with the Nano cars grabbing headlines. Another favourite past time was to identify the licence number of the bus by its looks or its honk. We prided in announcing 1293 has arrived instead of using just 84. No wonder we are aghast to see the GenX actually doing the reverse by shortening names and even in route numbers they would choose 4 instead of even saying 84.
1293 was an exception in the Ashok Leyland league and had a headgear. The reason was that the last seat had a special window which would slide either way. Persons used to Volvos and other buses would never understand the pleasure of identifying a window seat in the bus where in the both panes would slide both ways. Adults in those days itself used to consider the school boys as looneys to make a mad rush for the last seat while the conductor was asking them to move in. The latecomers among students had a special privilege even in those days. As a special tribute to the brilliance of one of the back benchers George Washington, the drivers would accept our school bags through their window and then allow us entry from this green room door for a seat on the engine or the sill in the front. All these noble souls may have retired from service but this thanksgiving note would fill their coffers of best wishes well.
It was one of these eventful days that I had managed to beat my rivals to the prized seat at the unique window on the last seat. The others were apparently miffed and chose to boycott the last seats. A middle aged man who wore a mush and beard sat beside me. He engaged me in light talk and I cautiously responded. I was unsure of the attitudes of strangers. He then steered the conversation towards his schooldays which brought some comfort. By the time the bus veered to a halt next to Vidhana Soudha (which was not a fortress then), he had won my confidence. Then we alighted together and walked through the sylvan surroundings of the Cubbon Park. A path next to the Attara Kacheri upto the fork where one led to the tennis courts and the other towards the road towards the Kanteerva Stadium was the end point of our walk. This soon became a daily habit where we would share a lot of good times. The Samaritan must be somewhere in Bangalore and my subsequent quest to trace this soul has been in vain.

CHILDHOOD TERROR

Terror struck Mumbai after striking Jaipur, Delhi, Hyderabad, Bangalore and scores of places in north east and Jammu and Kashmir. In all these instances the definition of terror would be the mortal fear of the death dance in these places. Adults and children alike faced this mortal fear. Few individuals displayed courage, conviction and presence of mind in these situations. They remained unsung heroes. The heroism always embraces the person who embraces death.

Is terror a new phenomenon? For me the answer is a big “NO”. Let me elaborate on the issue. Through the seventies of the last century and the early eighties, I was a mute witness to terror or should I say a mute victim of terror. We resided in a house on the first floor which consisted of a hall, room, kitchen, bath and toilet. A similar house was on the ground floor. The staircase to our house as well as the forecourt of the ground floor was accessed by a common door at the end of a common passage leading from the street.

The ground floor was inhabited by a young couple with their only son and three daughters. The son was an epitome of the saying “boys will be boys”. His exploits could form a novel by itself. Some of the most important heroics of his boyhood were passing under a moving truck a la the movie icon Rajkumar of Kannada theatre, ripping his eye and going to the doctor valiantly holding it to be stitched into place. Another incident which remains etched in my mind is him being locked in the bathroom of their house as a punishment. The enterprising lad managed to pile some items to climb up and squeeze himself out of the ventilator much to the dismay of his corporal mother.

Apparently at her wits end the unforgettable words “Anna barli madisthini” would be uttered. Loosely translated it meant Let father come I will get things sorted out. The father was working in a factory and would return a tired man. Even as he entered he would be given a version of the exploits of his son during the day. The man would immediately caution his son in typical Mahabharat style where a warrior puts his adversary on alert with the famous “Sawadhan”. The only difference in this case was the caution bugle was sounded with the Kannada version ‘Hushar’. No sooner was this uttered, the common access door would be sealed to shut out the escape route for the valiant son. Then the blows would be rained amidst cries from neighbours for sanity to prevail. The boy would be thrashed mercilessly. As children we would be terrified of this entire theatrics even though it was a routine event.

The entire thing would be played out without any media glare. There were no big fights or face the nations. Unfortunately, this boy did not grow up into a jawan or a policeman as terror struck him day after day. Lest he would have proved to be an excellent commando who would fearlessly combat any foe with or without weapons. There may be many such unsung heroes too. The need of the society is now to identify such heroes at a tender age and groom them. Today, this young man is a victim of terror who also needs help.