Come Christmas

Christmas is in the air. SMSs and e-mails wishing ‘Merry Christmas and Prosperous New Year’ have started choking my mobile phone. Even the Rickshaw-puller ferrying passengers from Dwarka Sector 14 Metro Station to Housing Societies are preferring to blare ‘Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells…’ on their Radios.

The Patisserie at Tiraha Behram Khan at Delhi Gate bazaar, from whom I buy my regular supply of cakes and pastries, has stopped making plain cakes. Now, he has only Chocolate cakes with a small star and Santa Claus cap thrown in inside. The price obviously jacked up by 25% per cent.

Yesterday night around 10 pm, suddenly some music lovers converged on the road in front of my house. As I peeped from my window, I saw two persons dressed as Santa Claus dancing on the road, and a group of around 20 people playing drums and singing merrily. I told my son, “See, now it’s the turn of the Christians to seek attention. We did our Durga Puja, the Malayalees did their bit with Ayappa a few days ago, now the Jesus-followers are celebrating with vengeance.”

My son, who is now home for his Winter holidays, and interning with a law firm, didn’t believe initially. So, we went out to the balcony. And there they were, singing into a loudspeaker. But there was a difference that became clear only when I looked closely. Two young girls were standing on the balcony of the second floor flat across the road, and the young ‘uns on the road were singing, dancing and gesticulating at them, “Aja aja Mary, I love you very very…”

Mary Christmas!

Keeping Abreast with the New Airport

So far, I have gawked at the new domestic airport terminal at New Delhi only from outside. Today I got the first chance of seeing it up close. The inside looked equally swanky, with high ceilings, wide space, and imposing glass and steel structures. It was morning, and I was slated to fly by indigo to Kolkata.

In contrast to the earlier fare of a few small check-in counters at the corner of the wide concourse, here there are only counters, each row with at least 10, and there are rows after rows. Following my international experience, I looked for the name of the Airlines at the top of the counters.

None.

My heart jumped with pride...that means I can check-in at any counter irrespective of which airline I am flying! Also, there were none of those monstrous baggage screening machines around, a la Indian Airlines. That again means my bags don’t need to be firmly tied around with plastic cords to withstand the game of discus throwing by the baggage-handlers.

I got to the nearest counter that had the smallest queue, towing my suitcases and accompanying my wife. As I approached the counter, I offered my ticket printout and the press card.

“Oh, you’re booked in Indigo. This is Jet Airways.”

“But where is it written?” I looked around.

“Here,” the young lady pointed to her ample bosom. Perplexed, I looked at it (or them), and found the small Jet Airways nametag pinned on top.

She informed me that the Indigo counter would be at the backside of the second row from there. Chastised, I started looking for Indigo signs... I mean at the middle part of the ladies womanning the counters for Indigo signs.

Soon, my wife shouted, “This is indigo.”

I jumped the queue, looked at the breast of the lady at the counter quiet critically, and said, “Yes, Indigo.”

The lady at the counter, may be quiet used to it, smiled and said, “Come in the queue please.”

Do You Have A Pen Friend?

Aparna Sen’s The Japanese Wife is a well-made, quaint movie. The main criticism that has surfaced is regarding the veracity of the plot – can friendship, and eventually love and marital relationship, evolve just through letters! I feel the criticism came from young critics, because we have stopped writing letters long ago. I am discounting the e-mails and cryptic SMSs that the younger generation keep on sending 10-a-minute. I had a pen-friend in my younger days, whom I have written nearly 400 letters in a span of eight years. Our close and sweet relationship spanned my school days to the University.

The affair, if you call it so, started in a very innocuous way. I was studying at 8th standard at Narendrapur Ramakrishna Mission School, and staying at the school hostel. Smriti was studying at a Govt girls school at Siliguri, north Bengal. Her father was a Forest Ranger in one of the reserve forests of that region. She procured my address from one of my classmates, who also hailed from north Bengal. It started with postcards and took more than two years to graduate in Inland Letters. Not that we didn’t have secrets to share, but 15 paise for each Inland Letter was quite steep for our pockets. The era of envelopes came much later and we exchanged photographs after four years.

Sprinkled with poems, rhymes and quotes from famous writers, our letters use to talk about our day-to-day life…me narrating the off-beat incidents at the hostel, home visits, future plans and getting prizes at various competitions, Smriti talking about her relatives, and her weekend getaways to beautiful spots in north Bengal forests. The wait for each reply was with bated breath, often more than that for the exam results.

We ‘loved’ each other, but never ‘kissed’. Unlike Snehomoy and Miagi in The Japanese Wife, we never talked of marriage. May be at that age, boys don’t think of marriage. His parents knew about me, and approved of the relationship (at least she said so), I never mentioned her to my dad. But it’s difficult to hide the regular arrival of letters from Mom.

When I was around 25, past the University, the relationship waned, letters became few. It was more because I got into a new set of friends, busy planning life, and there were other ladies to share love. Time became the scarcest commodity. Smriti complained in the beginning, but later accepted the fate. Towards the end, it trickled down two or three letters in a year. We never met, though the physical distance between us wasn’t more than 400 kilometres. Ironically, later I became a globe-trotter.

Thirty years have passed. Smriti must be a happy and busy mother-in-law by now. She was never so slim, so must have gained considerable weight. She had specs even at school, so her eyesight must have deteriorated too. But for me, I see her smiling face even now, eyes wide open.

Aparna’s movie has a struck a sensitive chord.

Moving Up...Or Is It Down

I have changed my car from Maruti 800 to Estilo. And acquired a Lalu Prasad Yadav syndrome.

I met the ex-chief Minister of Bihar when he was lodged in Patna jail for the Fodder scam. Even in the jail, Lalu Prasad was in full form and ease. The conversation moved from opposition-bashing to how people change with passing of time.

Says Lalu, “When I was a young boy, of about eight or ten, I used to ride a bicycle. You know whom I used to hate the most at that time? The car-owners. They used to move like the road belonged to them. I had to often get to the side road or drain when a car approached.

Today I travel by car. Do you know whom I hate most? These cycle-wallahs. They are slow, obstruct your way, and often ride like the road belonged to them.”

After moving up from 800 to Estilo, I have started pitying the Maruti 800 or other similar car owners. They are so slow, don’t know how to drive…

Which MP3 Player?

IPod or Creative? 1 GB or 2 GB capacity? Nano or Video? Or settle for a more affordable Made-In-China knock-off? I am asked these questions too often, and my answer these days is invariably, “None.”

I don’t want to belittle the looks and features of iPod, or the audio superiority of Creative MP3 players, but today even a middle-rung mobile phone would give you the same features. On top of it, it would give you radio listening and recording facility, in some models not just FM but also AM.

More importantly, for most of the people a mobile phone is a necessity, while an MP3 player is an add-on. So while buying a mobile phone, or upgrading to a new model, look for its music playing capabilities. Open today’s newspaper or a magazine. You will find among the features advertised for a new cellphone a line or two about 1 or 2 GB MP3 music playing capabilities. In fact, I would even suggest paying a couple of hundred rupees more to get a higher capacity MP3 playing capability in your phone.

As far as video is concerned, you had been using even your vanilla mobile phone for sending/playing MMSs for ages. Its screen is much bigger than that of an iPod, and the colour comes handy.

What’s more, if you double up your mobile phone as a portable music player, the usage would be more. That’s value for money. Also, less chance of its getting picked and being left on the bill payment counter.

Wide Awake at Jaipur

Last weekend I was in Jaipur. Though the occasion was a visit down memory lane to Aditi’s college friend Sudarshana, who has just turned mother-in-law, I thought it would be an opportunity to drive up the much-touted Delhi-Jaipur highway.

Unlike in most other countries, journey on any highway in India is unpredictable. So the 250-odd-kilomtere distance took more than six hours while going, but just three hours while returning. The smooth, wide tars gave way to a 2-lane service road after the tollgate at Manesar. And to complete the chaos, huge 24-wheeler trucks vied for space with newly bought Skodas and Mercs, rickety Tata Sumos and tortoise-slow tractor trailers. The slow march continued till Kotputli. Starting at 7.30 in the morning, we reached Civil Lines at Jaipur famished and tired at around 2 PM.

I last visited Jaipur a little more than eight years ago. And this Rajasthan hub has changed a lot in the meantime. According to the Google map, I needed to cross the Tripolia Bazaar, Johari Bazaar and Jal Mahal to reach Civil Lines. In my memory, camel-carts, cycles and pedestrians made a chaotic procession at dusty Tripolia, while slush overflowed on the road by Jal Mahal. Miracle of miracles! The road bordering Amer fort, Jal Mahal is now at least 100 feet wide. I made up to Hawa Mahal at the speed of 80 kmph. Johari Bazar too is now wide and organised though the narrow old gates remind of the chaotic past. Quite a few high-rise malls dotted the roadside, while cars of all makes filled the roads. The traffic police must be hard-pressed here, because the oncoming of new cars didn’t mean old scooters and cycles going off the road. Driving in Jaipur is often the best test for patience.

A visit to the next-door cybercafé was also an eye-opener. Even before announcing the tariff, the proprietor asked for my identity-proof, and duly filed in the photocopy. The tariff was a reasonable Rs 15 per hour, and the download speed a zippy 2 Mbps!

I have always thought Amer fort and City palace are the only tourist attractions at Jaipur. Sudarshana’s husband Mahipal insisted on visiting the Jaigarh and Nahargarh forts. And now, I recommend them too. I found the mahals in Jaigarh more well-preserved and ornate than the ones in Amer fort, manicured gardens, and the view of Amer Fort and serpentine fort walls across the distant hills breathtaking. While the Madhavendra Palace at Nahargarh fort was bare and somewhat boringly symmetrical, the 360-degree view of the pink city atop the rampart was enthralling.

One and a half days in Jaipur, under the canopy of dark clouds and mild sunshine, display of the new richesse and pride of the old tradition, the languor of the lazy lifestyle - it was just not enough a recess.

Fuelling the Corruption

Dispensing less fuel than what it shows in the meter is nothing new in Delhi. In fact, there is hardly any Petrol Pump in the city where you get the correct volume and/or right quality. But yesterday on a petrol station dotting the Rohtak Road, I faced a new kind of cheating. As you go from Nangloi to Ghewra Crossing, you’ll find an Indian Oil outlet just after the side road to Hirankudna is past (just about 100 metres before the Ghewra More). When I moved to the bay with an almost empty fuel tank, there was no other car around. Two attendants came up.
“Is the Credit Card machine working?” I asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Five hundred rupees, normal.”
One of the attendants downs the dispenser, and starts pouring in petrol. The speed of dispensing was extremely slow. Meanwhile the elderly attendant goes up to the front of the car, and asks, “Do you want a wipe?”
Free service, so why not. He starts wiping, and asks, “Is the water hose working?”
I take my eyes off the dispensing machine and go up to the front. The attendant shows the two sprinklers on the bonnet. But to start them, I need to start the car, and I need the keys. He shrugs and continues to wipe the windshield with the water he has got. I return to the dispenser to see that the other attendant has already put back the nozzle and is closing up the tank. I look at the meter, the LED is blank.
“How did it fill so fast?” I exclaimed.
“It’s over,” he answered. “The meter sometimes goes blank. You’ll see the average, sir.”
“But that would be later…”
“Come back after a few days.”
“But…”
“Yeh Tyagi pump hai, sir. Idhar cheating nehi milta (This is Tyagi Petrol pump. Here you don’t talk of cheating.)”
Of course, in the Jaat heartland how dare you suspect a Tyagi!
I was on the road again. After a little while, when the fuel meter settled, it was clearly showing petrol reserve of about Rs 300.
How could I know that the attendant actually wanted to wipe off my wallet, and not the windshield.