Here we go

The Metro is the newest form of public transport in India, still out of reach of most Indians, not because of cost, but because of its scarcity, Metro lines being restricted to very few cities & very few routes. Like everything new that is introduced to our country, we have embraced its use, never forgetting that most of us would not bat an eyelid if we had to sit in a bullock cart to get to our homes from the Metro station, if that was the only mode of transport available. As it is we have to take the "shared auto" and that's not a huge difference.

Before I go further on this post, let me clarify that "overloading" was never a bad word in the world of Indian transport. We're so many of us, and when we gotta go, we gotta go and no lack of transport is going to stop us!

In fact about 30 years ago the Delhi Transport Corporation which ran the only mass public transport in the city came up with the brilliant idea that an ordinary DTC bus could be converted into a Luxury DTC bus by merely increasing the fares to 3 times. This would result in less people getting onto the bus, so the lucky souls who did could have the "luxury of breathing without discomfort". Either the passengers were conned into getting on by the unassuming exterior- which was a carbon copy of the non- luxury fellow, or they just couldn't get into the bus which went ahead and decided they would forgo half a kilo of onions the next week (an odd fellow would have won the lottery recently, but was not brave enough to get into a taxi or an auto rikshaw, the drivers of which were considered more dreadful than the dacoits of the Chambal). Once a cynical guy who belonged to the former species refused to pay the exaggerated fare and argued that the bus had no curtains, no air-conditioning & no fancy seats, so why was it called a Luxury bus?  The conductor solemnly replied, in a tone that brooked no further argument, that this was a luxury bus, "Because the ticket was a Rupee."

All the way back about half a century ago or more, "bus number 11" or our two legs were considered good enough to get anywhere. Back in our village a senior IAS officer would think nothing of walking to & from his office 25 km away in Delhi. Younger men, who offered to keep him company would be gently told, "Son, you wont be able to keep up with me". When one needed to transport luggage, one collared one's neighbour who would pile it onto his bicycle & spend half a day walking with one to the railway or bus station.

Then along came my generation, pseudo villagers who grew up in the city and would, much to the disgust of the robust villager, fall down & threaten to die after 8.23 km. Alternative transport had to be arranged for us weaklings and so we traveled in horse carts, bullock carts and on bicycle carriers up to the bus stand, only to get into an over crowded bus. Till the advent of the Car.

Let me clarify, the Car existed everywhere in the world. It had been seen and it's existence was not doubted in the village, but it took a brave man with a stick, such as my father, to bring his car to his village. He had to stop every 500m once he had entered the village, to chase away children (waving the aforementioned stick) who were hell bent on committing suicide by slipping under the wheels. Not that that is what they has set out to do, they were merely chasing the car in an attempt to touch it, a chance that they got only once in a few months. This was never a difficult task, considering the lack of roads usually reduced the speed of the car to walking speeds sometimes and the suicidal kids could be even as little as 3 years old.

A lot has changed since then, but across the country one can see a vast range of means of transport, some very old but still very much in use. To all the foreigners who have been told by funny Indian expatriates & amusing net friends that we go to school by "Elephant", I'd say, Believe it.

A friend once picked up an American lady from the Airport on her very first trip to India. "Would you believe it," he later groaned, "in the very first 15 minutes of her arrival to the capital of India, we saw a Camel and an Elephant on the road!" See? She witnessed this with her own eyes, who are we to tell her any different?  But if she was adventurous enough, we could take her on even more exciting rides. After all, what sense of achievement does a person who goes down the Niagara Falls in a barrel feel as compared to a Mumbai local train commuter who manages to extricate himself at the station he planned to, eh?

Quotation on successful authors

There are two kinds of successful authors, those who are good & those who are inspiring. When one reads the books of the latter, one thinks "If they can write this and be successful, why not I?"

From the book "Happy Sisters' Insights"
(yet to be written, by me of course- when I'm sufficiently inspired, naturally)

Way to go

When I was a little kid, my teacher gave us an assignment to make a map from the school to our respective houses. I dont remember what my map looked like, but ever since I have been afflicted with a bad case of mapophilia. Before Google maps became a rage, I would have voted for the Eicher map of Delhi in the contest for the greatest thing that happened to Delhi in the last century. Given the state of the city, the locals would have sniffed at the award, of course, and would have probably handed it to something like this or maybe a sari from Karol Bagh. But you get the point, dont you?

Before any reasonable map was available, the only way to get anywhere was to ask for directions. Mostly if you followed the directions faithfully, you would get somewhere, but not necessarily where you set out. The idea was to keep an open mind and possibly lunch out at a roadside dhaba instead of at Kanta mausi's house. If you were lucky you could reach for dinner, but then she may not still be in the mood to feed you, a topic you may want to evaluate before you bravely wandered the city after lunch instead of returning home.

The office I worked in at that time got regular jobs for property valuation. Every morning a handful of people specifically appointed for the job, would set off in various directions to addresses they were supposed to check on. A new guy, who was obviously doubly handicapped in a city where too many people were themselves lost, would pounce on the first pedestrian he saw outside the office for directions. "Bhai Saheb, would you tell me how to get to..." He would fish out the paper and rattle off the address of a property 7 km away in a city of 11,000 persons per square kilometer right down to the floor he wanted to visit. The result would be that even if the person could have safely guided him to, say, Janakpuri, he would regretfully have to shake his head when it came to 2nd floor, House no. 103, C1 block, Janakpuri. The chances of finding a person who knew exactly that house were so minimal that our friend soon found he had the most challenging job in his life and was completely in awe of those who managed to cover 3 or 4 properties in 8 hours and have a leisurely lunch in between.

As for me, I greedily devour the city map whenever I go to a new place and often I cant bear it if I'm regularly with someone who knows all the routes in my own city. My husband spends more on petrol when he is traveling alone because he is so used to an aggressive navigator in the next seat, he often takes the wrong turns when no instructions emanate from there. If he is perchance bringing my mother back from an outstation visit, my father and I add an hour and a half to the normal estimated travel time, some for the wrong turns & some for 2 relaxed souls jabbering away and momentarily forgetting where they are headed.

The high point wearing my navigator's cap came when I sat in a bus which plied from the Interstate Bus Terminus to Gurgaon, about 30 km away. While still a long way away, the driver came to a diversion because of some road repairs and was soon lost and looking about helplessly for guidance from the passengers. It was as if I had come across Van Gogh admitting he was colour blind, till I realized the poor guy probably had no need to know a single other route than the one he faithfully followed day after day. I saw my moment and moved to a seat closer to the front. Someone was trying to help and I couldn't just jump in knowing how men in these parts react to women telling them what to do. A little later I made a suggestion, and then another. Soon both the guide & the guided were looking to me for instructions. And so it came to pass that not only did a woman tell a Haryana Roadways driver where to go, but also for the first (and maybe last) time a bus rattled through the posh Embassy area like the Starship Enterprise!

Neat!

A lot of mothers, when they hear that my kids have a room a piece, will ask if they keep their rooms tidy. In my humble opinion this question can be answered only with foot notes and clauses. In the first place the whole room is not theirs. There will be "papa's stuff" (hereinafter called PS) tucked away in many corners because the room was occupied by the desperate child after many days of "pleading with papa to clear away his stuff" and in a fit of "this is the best I can get" when papa helplessly wandered around the house trying to ascertain where the remainder of his stuff can be safely stored. So only depending on whether PS is out in the open or under lock & key, will the neatness potential of the room be ascertained. PS is very vast in quantity and varied in its potential usefulness, though I suspect if we got around to figuring it out we could probably run our household on its antique value.

Lest my kids are reading this and feeling like martyrs- (though only I have the license for that on my blog <evil snicker>), the rest of the house is also theirs to keep untidy, a right they freely make use of. The reasons for spreading out in my room could vary from the correct temperature (only in my room), to the absence of noise (the crazy neighbours all live on their side of the house), correct lighting or correct position of bed to lie in (!!!) Of course they leave these little tokens of love for their dear parents and I could wake up the next morning having dreamt of battling with Alexander of Macedonia, only to find a fat history book under my pillow. (No, I'm not recommending this as a tool for study, it just explains why my neck feels like Alex chopped it off with his sword).

So let me sum up: neatness really is in our bones. (That's where we get the feeling someone else in the house is dying to clear up, ha ha). It only has a bit of a time lag. We'll definitely clear up somewhere in the hazy future (and definitely once a year before Diwali). Till a few years ago I used to spend 3 days preparing for a party, of which 2-11/12 days used to be spent in cleaning the house. Then I began to feel guilty about the deception of fooling my friends into thinking I was someone different, so now I only spend the mandatory 2 hours cooking. Anyone who is hungry enough will find their way up to the dining table, that's for certain.

A few years ago my 10 year old daughter's classmate came to our house for lunch. She sat gingerly in my daughter's (at that point, and for obvious reasons,) very neat room looking pretty nervous. I figured she was just shy. Then my daughter took her for a tour of the house. Slowly I could see this transformation in her. When the tour was complete she looked at me with a happy smile & told me "Aunty, this is the most untidy house I have ever seen!"

I think we pipped her's to the post and only just!

Wisdom T(r)ooth

"I'll have to extract this wisdom tooth" she said and I wondered what was holding her back.
Go ahead, I told her, what are you waiting for?
I'm like that with dentists, I've seen them so often they dont intimidate me anymore.

All the same this doc was not ready to pull out my wisdom tooth till I was upto the gills in antibiotics. After some days she performed the extraction and I went home and waited in vain for the swelling & the pain. I was thoroughly disappointed at not being able to lie in bed and get fussed over. I had to take some action.

The last time I had a wisdom tooth extracted I observed frenzied activity half way through. The suction tube stopped working, then the doctor couldn't get a grip on the tooth. Finally it came away but a piece was broken off and stayed stubbornly put and required some more struggle. All value for money, you could say. I  took a week off & stayed at home with my mother feeding me soft food & listening to my groans till my face was swollen out of shape. She urged me to call up the doctor who assured me that a little swelling was perfectly in line.
"Doctor," I told him, "You extracted my left bottom wisdom tooth and my face is swollen up to my right eye."
There was a moment of silence while he digested this, then he said I had better come and see him the next morning. Funny, how these doctors always want us to see them, we're the one that's ill, he should be seeing us!

Now let me explain why the doctor telling me to see him was such a big deal. He's an "Armed forces dentist posted in a Metro". These dentists are terribly busy guys. Jawans are taught as part of their drill how to go and see a dentist. The doctor will line up 6 jawans in a row and bark, "Jawans are going to open their mouths! OPEN Mouth!" The Jawans comply with their mouths open at the right angle so that the doctor can spend 6 seconds to peep into each mouth and another 6 to write instructions for the dental assistants. Often a poor jawan has a tooth extracted instead of the guy standing next to him, but he never notices since his boots are the things that hurt him the most anyway. (Ok, so all this is a bit of an exaggeration, but what are you reading this blog for if not this).

The Officers & their families go in for a slight variation. They are seated in the chair and the dentist cracks the "joke of the day" (he mugs one up every morning at breakfast). This is to put the patient at ease and to ensure that after 3 hours in the waiting room the patient doesn't burst into tears when the doc peers into his mouth and says, "Come back after 3 months, Sir/ Maam/ beta." I have gone through the ecstasy of hearing these sweet words so many times in my childhood and while my mother cribbed all the way home having wasted 5 hours (counting the commute), I was developing a rare condition of dentistophilia.

Of course one can get  even a root canal done at one of the smaller units where the dentist will treat your having turned up as a social visit complete with chai & biscuits. I suspect that on the border areas or the Nicobar Islands he will even open a bottle of Champagne kept solely to celebrate the occasion.

But back to my second wisdom tooth extraction, this was getting nowhere. Considering the first one was for free (since I was still the unmarried daughter of my Armed Forces father) , the money spent on the second was really hurting. I called up the doctor and told her that unlike my previous extraction, this one had resulted in no swelling or pain. "And?" she prompted. I swear sometimes a person brilliant enough to pass the Medical entrance exam can be so dumb!
" I want my money back" I said.

There was a long moment of silence as she digested this (at least all dentists are consistent on this score, they have these moments of silence when they think of what to say to me. However I suspect this behaviour doesn't confine itself to dentists, but we'll get back to that some other time).
"We have no policy of returning money, " she finally said, "However I shall be glad to extract some more of your teeth free of cost if you just turn up at my clinic right away."

My family is generally pretty sane, but they were quite hysterical when they heard this. To top it all they wouldn't let me leave.
"You're not going anywhere," I preached, "if you cant stand up for your rights."
You're not going anywhere, they replied, and blocked my exit.
Idiots! Do they have any idea how much Dental treatment costs these days?

PS. I heard my husband explaining to my younger daughter who seemed very worried that the loss of wisdom teeth has nothing to do with "losing it." I don't know what that was about but sure hope it had nothing to do with me.

Quotation on Snoring

(And why not?) 

Blessed is the person who can sleep soundly & snore, for he can sleep. Blessed are the people in his house for they can use ear plugs, a different room or a divorce lawyer. As for me, I can only weep over my wretched fate, for when I wake up having heard a horrendous snore I find I was the only one asleep in the first place.

Rats!

When our cat died these fiends swooped upon our premises in hordes. We had almost begun to believe mice were eradicated from the world like small pox and could only be found in a lab in the US (and maybe one in Russia, just in case), but there they were, coming along, laughing in our faces, and settling down to make themselves comfortable.

     Every morning when I went bleary-eyed into the kitchen, I'd hear one behind an unopened box of wine glasses on the top shelf, crunching away at something. Appeals to the only brave man in the house would be met by a sleepy "Let me sleep, for God's sake!" when all the while God's creatures would be eating only-He-knows-what (in my wine glasses!). And then one morning most of the back of the box was pushed to the edge of the shelf in tiny pieces and I could have sworn a small face peeped out and rebuked me about the quality of the box, but I'm told I must have still been asleep.

     Enough was enough! All the plastic boxes in the kitchen with anything to eat in them were nibbled at the edges and every little packet that came into the house was opened and checked by these miniature "Customs officials" (needless to say, a lot of stuff was confiscated). The worst part was that one kept running into them everywhere, night or day there was always one fellow on beat duty.

     "Do something!" I begged of Brave Man, "Before they get an army together and drive us out of the house!"

     "Relax!" he said "And anyway there's only one mouse."

     "Nonsense! There's a dark one that lives in the kitchen on the top shelf, the one with the beard lives behind the fridge, and the one with blue eyes lives behind these books in the bedroom. And that's not counting visiting relatives and friends."

     I got a strange look and BM muttered "You're right, I'd better do something." (Although he looked like he wanted to do something about me rather than the vermin).

     The first mouse trap was a disaster. Within an hour of laying the bait, one little demon had skipped in, eaten the nice fresh piece of bread, scribbled us a "Thank you" note and danced out, without the darn trap ever having suspected a thing. The next trap was bought with much care and we spent a good forty minutes checking very scientifically the weight of the mouse that would cause each trap to close. At the end of it the shopkeeper was lying on the floor and wailing "But its only Ten rupees!" over & over again. Silly fellow, no one said we wouldn't pay him.

     Well, we caught the dark fellow and various assorted relatives, but they're still coming in thick and fast. Anyway, Beard & Blue-Eyes are still at large (although every time I mention them I get a stern "Get a hold of yourself! Dont get hysterical.")

     Short of hauling them out physically or advertising for the Pied Piper of Hamelin, we've tried everything. Now I'm back looking for one of the species which is "man's best friend". Yes, of course, a cat.

I wrote this piece 14 years ago. Subsequently we built our house and used a very simple & effective detail for keeping mice out. I haven't seen a single one since then, in fact I've forgotten what they look like.  (I still want the cat, though, but cannot keep one for various reasons). 
Will share this detail with you all some day.