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?

The Real Bagheera of Bagli

 

Jowan Singh Alava is a real hero.  

Hanumanth and I are in a tiny, non-descript village, along with PS Vijayshankar from Samaj Pragati Sahayog, on a learning journey.  We discuss agriculture with the denizens and then I ask, "Has anyone had any encounters with wildlife?"
The answer is unanimous: I should, they all say, speak to Jowan Singh.  
We walk a bit to reach his modest home and he comes out to greet us with a big smile (as you can see).
And then, with no pretensions whatsoever, he tells us the story.

Twenty odd years ago, on a warm summer night, the family was asleep outside their hut, in  a little village about three hours from Indore.  
Jowan Singh awoke to a rather odd sound- a stifled, yet terrified cry - and looking around, he saw a leopard taking his five-year old daughter away.  The animal had moved silently among the sleeping family, picked up the little one with its mouth and was now dragging her over the hard wheat field.

With a yell, he began to chase the animal.  He then did the unthinkable: he caught up with the leopard and held on to its tail, shouting all the while.  (As he described this, my heart began thumping away and I got the goosebumps big time).
The leopard tried to pull away with a growl, but Jowan Singh would not let go.  The animal dropped the girl and that was when Jowan Singh let go as well, half expecting the leopard to attack him but the now-frightened animal bounded off.
Jowan Singh then took his daughter - who was bleeding badly from the skull where the leopard had its grip - on a bullock cart to the nearest hospital (a Government one) four hours away in the middle of the night.  The doctor on night duty examined the wounds and, with a shrug of indifference, said that they would have to wait for the day doctors to show up to do the needful.  

And that was when Jowan Singh Alava, this man of incredible tenacity and courage, finally lost it.  "I told him that, if my daughter did not survive, he wouldn't too. I had blood all over me and a frenzied look (like a paagal), so the doctor got really scared and treated her." he said, with a cheerful laugh.  

She survived and is now in her twenties, though she carries the scars on her temple and face.  What Jowan Singh carried on his face, when we met him, was a charming smile and a modest acceptance of our encomiums.

Yes, Jowan Singh Alava is a real hero 

When the Pahadi spoke

He spoke animatedly, his face aglow
Of elegant, dignified, Pahadi stock.
He spoke of ageing, loneliness and health
And the impact of the migration shock.
Of hardship and attachment as seasons go by
Of the regular, crunching uphill walk.
 
As I listened, noted and marvelled within
At the Pahadi’s resolute grit and smile
My eyes took in with utter fascination
His charmingly easy fetching smile.
The teeth; they were perfect, white with shine
Some secret mountain herb or chamomile?
 
After the conv, I popped the Big Q
‘Just how do your teeth fit the perfect Bill?
I spend on toothpaste, on dentist and brush
And yet my set are over the hill.”
He smiled again, that sparkle of white
And removed his dentures from behind the grill

My Farmily and Other Animals

I reach the farm around 9 this morning, the morning after a night of gentle, persistent rain.  The air is heavy with moisture and the tall grass greets me with a fragrance, while its bushy heads brush against my skin.  I pick my way carefully on the soft, wet earth, for the-morning-after is time for the Kingdom of Animalia.  This is mid-day already for the birds – white-headed babblers (damn their new name), bushchats, bulbuls, tailor birds, sunbirds, white-eyes, mynas and the odd bushlark me thinks, though I am missing the chatter of the white-browed bulbul family that’s usually around the young mango.  As I open the house door and deposit the bag, a wasp from the in-house nest greets me with a buzz, a menacing keep-away whirr.  Two of her female ancestors had given me a nasty sting some years ago, so I get this message well (males are the benign, retiring type who’d rather curl up with a book than pick a fight, and that’s why we’ll get along well if we e’er meet).  Over the years, I have removed the wasp nest often (after saying my prayers), but they always return and the last time Anand, my extraordinary brains trust, was asked his opinion, he lit a quick small fire and finished them off, which destroyed not just the wasps but my heart as well.  So, I have decided to let live (and not provoke the females, after all this #MeToo stuff).   

Anand and I walk to the back of the farm, a patch of horse gram (huruli) that is as nutritious as it is unfussy to grow.  The lush sight is a delight to see, the little saplings waving excitedly in the breeze.  He shows me the impressions of the hoof of wild boar as it traversed through the patch to the ragi across, being grown, thankfully, by my neighbour (who is not averse to occasional flavouring of rice-and-curry with some bacon).  Even as we stand there, a small flock of baya weaver birds descend on the guava tree by the small pond and their excitement suggests that it’s nesting time – indeed, monsoons is when they work their magic.  The path is dotted with gorgeous lemon-yellow butterflies – the Common Grass Yellow – flitting about with purpose, in which pursuit, of course, they differ vastly from me. 

Did I just hear a Crested Serpeant Eagle?  It isn’t to be seen, which is odd, but the call – that deceivingly plaintive cry – is, as an Ornithologist would say in his tongue, diagnostic. “Do not enter the Tuvare (toor dal) patch, Sir,” Anand says, “there is a bee hive there.”  Which, of course, is great news for pollination.  I would not have entered the Tuvare anyways, for it has grown taller than I am and is densely packed – a walk through this would have had the heart doing a lively gig.   

We begin the walk to the front of the farm – the Western side, so to speak -  and, a few steps ahead, a grey francolin (a big name for a partridge) takes off just ahead, giving me quite a start and Anand a hearty laugh.  A month ago, I had seen their dainty little nest with eggs under a clump of grass.  They are generally heard more than seen, yet they are lovely birds, tubby and compact, in the line of evolutionary thought that includes quails and pheasants.  Thankfully, in our area, they aren’t caught for the table (well, at least to my knowledge). 

We are now past the little patch of greens that I am looking forward to eating next month (if not beaten to it), and Anand stops all of a sudden and points to a solitary scat on the path.  “Jungle cat,” he says with assuredness, and I feel a thrill, for this is a first.  “It seems to have gone this way last night.”  As we walk further, he points, with disappointment, to the now-sparse patch of jowar by the water-channel.  “The monkeys came a couple of days ago and destroyed this,” he says in irritation, and I share the emotion, not being particularly fond of bonnet macaques.   

Even as we stand there, staring at the soil, he bends down and examines a paw print in the soft earth.  Hares, two of them, went by last night too, their prints and droppings pointing the way.  At one point they seemed to have both stopped to deposit an entire load of droppings and I can, in my mind’s eye, see them now:  the male standing up and sniffing nervously, looking around all the time, with his black-tipped ears twitching like vibrant antennae.  I love to see hares bound across a field in a sprint that can leave you breathless and awed.  They are, in a phrase, Nature’s great dashers.  When in my teens, I read an eerie story called “The Rabbit’s Paw” (read it at your peril), but it only enhanced my fondness for rabbits (and, by extension, their Indian cousins).   

At my foot is a tiny LadyBird beetle.  Can Nature be more resplendent than this?  “We call it Guruganji vola (insect),” Anand says in reponse to my question and, on reflection, this is a brilliant name.  Guruganji is the local name for Abrus Precatorius (or the Crab’s Eye), which is Kunnikuru in Malayalam.  The LadyBird looks just like the Crab’s Eye, so what could be better than naming an insect after a seed that it resembles?  Damn the science, admire the simplicity.   

After Anand leaves for lunch, I stroll on my own – there’s a treepie up there, and his cousins, the crows, come around when I have lunch.  They know that I will give them a piece or two, not just of food, but of my mind as well.  My Great-Grandmother, a woman of incredible fortitude with a toothless grin and a yawning earlobe, used to keep one ball of rice for the crows on the low roof at the back, for these were, she insisted, her ancestors reborn, who would keep an eye out for her.  I share no such sentiment (or perhaps I do).  She, my Great-Grandma, lived to the age of 98, so the crows have a trick we don't quite know about.

I am in the porch and, taking a step forward, I see a movement on the stone patch a few feet to my left.  A striped keelback – a beautiful, harmless snake – is moving rapidly away from me, for the last thing it wants is to be near humans.  The moment it enters the grass I know that I have lost it for good. 

I must be honest, I miss Colonel Haathi.  It’s been a while since he visited, but I know that when the ragi is ready to be taken, you can’t keep a good elephant away.