Pay Obeisance to the Obese. Or else....

 I know of two rulers
One of whom was super fat

And he quite abhorred

Being called just that.

To be stamped lissome

He passed an obese Act

So those who were lissome

Could now be called fat

My Deep Research Into Why Rural Males in Maharashtra wear Gandhi Caps or have Mushroom Haircuts

Public transport buses in Maharashtra are red in colour for good reason. 

I got a seat at the back in one in Amboli once and, after a quick break, it took off at top speed. The roads were in awful shape after the rains and the driver reminded us of this repeatedly, taking great care to go into and out of every pothole with excruciating precision. Every time he did so, the entire crowd in the aisle – almost all male - would be launched vertically upwards and hit the ceiling with a soft thud. Soft, because, you see, the impact was absorbed by their strategically worn Gandhi caps or, in its absence, a robust mushroom haircut with a dense mop on top (such critical insights now-a-days are worthy of higher encomium, but I shun the spotlight).

These buses – all decades old - are held together only by coalition politics, I think, and their windows rattle like a skeleton doing a night trek in the Himalayas in winter. Once in a while, as we approached a village, the driver would discover the brake with surprise and stamp it with a hydraulic press. The aisle passengers would now be propelled forward like a battering ram and they always found their target – a middle-aged fellow who was facing them, who’d get about 440 volts electrical equivalent of impact in a soft spot of the male anatomy that I can only delicately describe in the language of trains as ‘frontier male’.  As nobody had any place to move otherwise, such involuntary movement was taken as a useful opportunity to adjust positions or jostle with a friend or step on people’s new footwear. 

The driver was very patient with people getting in, but the conductor did have a dim view of those who took time to exit, providing me with a rich, wholesome education in local abuse (entirely free of charge, I must add). 

People often leaned out of windows at perilous angles to 
a) wish those on the roads whom they thought they knew, as we shot past or
b) get rid of some paan masala (often, close to those on the roads whom they thought they knew, as we and the paan masala shot past them) 

And then there was an old monk who had eaten something he should not have. And a farmer who had had more Old Monk that he should have (no, not the former’s companion. This Old Monk is a farmer’s companion).   And a little boy who had eaten more than he should have (and was regurgitating some of it into a plastic bag).   At one point, a whole bunch of school kids got onboard with school bags that weighed about two tons each. As the bus swerved and bumped, these kids would giggle as their bags swung towards the seated passengers who (except me) seemed to duck and sway expertly in a skilled contest of brawn and brain. There was some excitement after I got a school bag on my shoulder and much jostling and negotiation amongst them to be next to me. It was all healthy, wholesome fun and, as you can see, left a deep impression (most significantly, on my hip). 

Combine this with charming sugarcane fields and a setting sun and I could not have asked for more. The next time I go on one of these, I will ask for less though.

Locker, Stock and Double Barrel

When I was growing up, the Indian middle class was deeply divided into two sub-castes: those who had bank lockers and those who did not.

When my father moved to Bangalore in 1978, about the first thing he did was to open accounts in forty different branches of nationalised banks in the hope that anyone of them would honour him with a locker.  He even tried to get a locker at the SBI branch on St Marks Road – which, in probability terms, is the same as trying to reach the US by riding on a tortoise with hernia. 

Finally, we got a locker in State Bank of Mysore.

Now, until its merger with SBI, State Bank of Mysore was the second worst bank in the world, a title for which there was great worldwide competition. The locker room in SBM had 2 characteristic features:

1.       It was on the 2^nd floor, with the sole intention of dissuading those retirees whose principal source of entertainment was to use them

2.       The room had a full-length mirror.  More of this later.

Indiranagar in Bangalore used to be packed to its rims with defence retirees in those days, all of whom had lockers because of some dumb scheme (Why, I cannot imagine.  “Manager, I have a used surface-to-air missile.  I need a large locker.”).  Generally, defence retirees– because they abhor civilian life and its attendant inefficiency – spent all their time opening fixed deposits, closing old ones and threatening to shoot anyone who comes in between these two tasks. 

So, we’d wait until the assistant bank manager, who looked like a bull dog that had chewed on amla soaked in lime juice,  called you and pulled out a ring with thirty Godrej keys, all of which looked just the same.  He would try one key after another, which reminded me of Geoff Boycott’s batting because it was so soothing and sleep-inducing and there was no notable application of intelligence.  At last, when a key fitted, the locker would reluctantly open and he would stride out of the room mumbling deep curses at having passed the Probationary Officers exam twenty two years ago. 

The mirror in the locker room was placed to enable women to try on their locker jewellery, the idea surely coming from a bank employee who hated humanity.  One particular lady from Andhra would labour up the stairs to the locker room, her chains clanging like those on a temple elephant and waiting customers would just go off, see ‘Gone with the Wind’ come back and take their place in the queue.  It was hopeless.

When my mum made me the joint holder of her locker, I knew this was clear revenge for the times I did not appreciate her cooking.  But things have changed at the bank too: every time I go to SBI to close the locker, the Manager tells me how lucky the bank is to have a customer like me and offers me a free credit card for life.   I have a bigger locker as a result and all it has is an old Nikon F 80, which, I hope, will be worth half a million dollars in 2119. 

Jumbo and the (Chinese) lock

April 2nd 2019

The jumbos who visit Random Rubble are good natured chaps - Mottai Waal in particular - with a keen sense of humour  and smell (not in that order though), so they are welcome to my pumpkins anytime.

In the last couple of weeks, Jumbo has been a regular at Random Rubble, leaving behind his usual gift of a prodigious amount of dung.  He seems to pick the visiting hours when I am not there (12 am to 4 am).  The other thing he picked last week was the padlock on the front gate (a Chinese one, I must add). 

 

From our reconstruction of the event, Mottai Waal, the Jumbo – along with a younger male – seems to have strolled up to the gate and examined the padlock closely.  Then, that astonishingly supple  trunk twisted the padlock with the most delicate of movements (analogous to the rather intricate way in which the Swiggy delivery man at the traffic signal yesterday was picking his nose inside his helmet).  What makes this utterly fascinating is the knowledge that the trunk alone has 40,000 muscles – we have only 600+ in our body and none in our nose (but the Swiggy fellow contorted each of his 43 facial muscles for optimum productivity, reaching into the depths of the Black Hole).  

But back to the story – serious reporting follows.

  

Mottai Waal goes after my gate locks, I have closely observed, only if they are Chinese, and, with that delicate flip of his trunk, renders each one into an  object d'art and a needless addition to my growing collection of paperweights. That gentle twist from Jumbo and the padlock snapped open, with the shank (which is the inverted-U of the lock) now resembling Jumbo’s extended trunk.  He seems to have considered flinging the thing away and decided that it was not worth his effort.  He and I, of course, share this view in general of Chinese goods.  Had he flung it away, the resultant missile would have been duly reported as a successful test in a special address to the Nation.

The gate had a Godrej lock earlier.  Jumbo had treated this with much more respect, choosing instead to lift the entire gate off its hinges to make way for him (the repair cost me 5000 rupees in the juiciest notes, but the lock – Rs 360, including taxes – was intact).  When the gate was re-fitted, this resilient lock made way for a Chinese one, which, of course, is now past its prime and is an exhibit in the living room. Not having understood this apparently salutary lesson, my farmer, Seenappa, replaced the Chinese padlock yesterday with another Chinese one, so I do expect yet another addition to my art collection very soon.   I then go back wearily to that Marwari hardware guy who's grinning from ear -to-ear (with pan masala in between) because he's heard the story from someone (no, not Mottai Waal - he's the silent type). 

Between us, it's this atmanirbhar thing that gets to me.  Since Jumbo and the Supreme Indefatigable Leader seem to share the Made-in-India ideology, I wonder if the latter could offer to be the Chowkidar at Random Rubble.  It would save me an awful lot of money and perhaps there would be gainful employment on the other side too.

This was a lock until last night. 

On another note (or key, pun, pun), can someone tweak that atmanirbhar thing to exclude locks please?

Luke-warm

Imagine for a moment that you are standing in front of a skeleton, a tall one.  Its limbs dangle loosely, the skull and the involuntary smirk send a shiver up your spine and the demeanour is thoughtful, almost pensive.  Now, add a layer of fair skin to this skeleton, a pair of non-descript eyes, a light brown suit and bowler hat and you would get Luke D’Souza.

You could do the reverse too: add a smile to Luke and you’d get a skeleton (now that’s creeping you out). 

He taught us geography and history (Luke, not the skeleton) and quite rightfully so, for he was a walking relic himself, his tall gangly body carrying the typically British suit – entirely out of place on a summer day in Bangalore – while striding down the grim, unlit corridor leading to our class.  

In our days in school, there were two kinds of history books: those that were horrible and others that were unreadable.  Luke would read out from a brain-numbing tome in a flat, low, deflated monotone, sometimes adding a sentence while staring at an imaginary Alauddin Khilji on the wall.  And we would listen.  Well, truthfully, we would pretend to listen while doing the following things:

-          Play book cricket (now an extinct game, thankfully.  It reduced my IQ to around 27)

-          Pass notes onto others who would pass notes onto others who would pass….(you get the drift)

-          Doodle.  There were two variations – doodling in our books or in the books of others (where creative forms of expression were at their peak)

-          Carving on the desks.  This requires explanation:  the desks, having been used by generations of carvers, were like the roads in Defence Colony and hence required Mohen ja daro-like excavations to be enriched.  This, in turn, required an annual supply of compasses, most of which were supplied (unwillingly) by Sarosh Guzder, whose dad was wealthy enough to buy first-hand geometric boxes.  

There were two things we would never do in The Skeleton’s class:

-          Laugh

-          Throw paper at anyone (which was otherwise our national sport)

..for these crimes called for capital punishment and the impact of Luke The Skeleton’s bones on you stayed around for a few days.  

He was in charge of a dreadful activity called figure-running in our Annual Day, that was supposed to highlighted collaboration, but, instead, showcased carefully-controlled-chaos.  He would be in a bad temper every year at this time and everyone - even the pariah kites that stole our lunches - avoided him.  And, when this was all over and we were back in class, Life (and our excavation) went back to normal.  

The other day, I saw a skeleton in a lab, that looked eerily like him and (was I imagining this?) smirked as I slunk away.  Luke-the-Skeleton’s place in History isn’t assured, but if I am right in my guess, his place in Biology is.

Where there is a Willys, there is a Way

A couple of years ago, when a friend of mine called me excitedly to tell me that he had just bought a Willys Jeep of early 1950s vintage for about 3 lakhs, I asked him if there was a history of insanity in the family.  He didn’t seem to mind the question as, apparently, his wife had asked him the same thing on learning of the purchase.

You see, there are two kinds of people in Bangalore:

Those who work to support their family

Those who work to support their Willys jeep 

I suggested that he apply right away for a housing loan, and add a bathroom to the jeep and move in, as the rest of the loan would be spent on repairs.  He laughed nervously and invited me home to see it. 

When I fetched up at his home a few days later, he was still excited and showed me all the documents of the vehicle.  The Registration Book weighed slightly more than the Constitution of India and there were papers relating to the engine that ran into two hard bound files (no, I am not making this up.  Actually, one hard bound file).  It had a petrol engine that had been changed to diesel and after the change of a couple of engines had gone back to petrol which made me wonder if there was a sort of buy-4-tyres-get-engine-free scheme going for Willys jeeps. 

The vehicle was a neat green in colour, the seats were extremely uncomfortable with the cushioning dating to the Mughal period and there was a spade and a petrol canister attached to the back, which I simply couldn’t quite comprehend: if you need to pour petrol into the tank, a funnel works better than a spade, but I didn’t say this.  The car had 3 gears and the keychain had a legend which said, “My other car is a Rolls”. 

We climbed in and settled down, which took about five minutes because there were wires everywhere, one of which gave me a slight shock and my leg kept getting stuck in them, and then he started the car, but – and here was the crux – it did not move.  It sort-of hummed away loudly and stayed in the same place, exactly like my labradors, who are, amongst other things, the laziest dogs above the Equator (my cousin’s dog in New Zealand is lazier).

After a few tries, he abandoned the attempt to start it rather sheepishly, but we did take a selfie together and he sent it to everyone except the Prime Minister.  Soon, he joined an association of Willys owners which has a President, Secretary, Treasurer and lots of internal politics and, while the association works very well, none of the Willys do.  Like my Labradors, the Willys tends to flop and pack up when two conditions are appropriately fulfilled:

 There is no mechanic within a ten km radius; and

There is no mobile signal 

Early last year, my friend wasn’t as enthu about the Willys anymore and had gone back to earning a living.  A couple of weeks ago, I learnt from his wife that he had sold the vehicle, and I was pleased to be proved just right.  

“So, our friend lost a packet on buying this Titanic?” I asked; a rhetorical question.

“Actually, he sold it for a profit of 20k, after including all his costs. He’s waiting to brag about it to you.” 

Now, I don’t know why I feel so low.  Is it because I didn’t get the last word, or is it because I now know there are so many suckers around?