Business Out of a Suitcase.

               His child was admitted in the pediatric ward of the hospital I used to work in. Bills were rising and money was scarce. The mother shuttled between home and ward, juggling the routines of her other child and the ill one.

One day, during a random walk-through, I came across the father and was annoyed: he had opened up a suitcase in the lobby where the relatives sat, and was hawking socks and handkerchiefs.

“How can you do this?” I demanded, at the ready to call for Security. “How can you make money right beside the room where your child is still struggling for her life?”

He was sweating, apologetic and he blubbered something about not being able to pay for the treatment. I let him talk.

He said, “I buy the goods at night when I get things a bit cheap in the wholesale market. Usually, I go from office to office selling these things. I used to have a stall on a pavement, but with this child’s illness, I couldn’t go daily and someone quickly occupied the space. Either I attend to my family or to my business. So I combined the two and started my dhandha here.” I had no idea whether he was telling me the whole truth, but I decided to err on the side of kindness.

I said, “Come down to my office.”

Enroute, I thought, this man wasn’t thieving, wasn’t cheating; he had no savings, no insurance, no mentor, no boss or colleagues who could pitch in and help. Being in ‘business’ at that level was tough. He had been managing to pay his bills on time on most days. His daughter she had spent over fifteen days in the ICU. She was a salvageable case, and in a couple of days she’d be home. It was a short-term obstacle.

I told him. “Instead of selling your wares in the ward, do it somewhere nearby, but not inside the hospital compound.”

He said the existing hawkers weren’t letting him. I requested a friendly newspaper vendor to help out. He did, for a fee.

Within two days, besides the usual stuff, he was selling cheap hand-towels, underwear and some snacks.

Talk of knowing what the customer wants… His hours were long and other than vada-pav and some chai he probably consumed little else through the day. He throatily advertised his ‘sokkus, henkees, bodees, chuddees, tuwaals’. At the end of each day, he’d pay his bills and take the rest of the money home. I learned to respect the man in that crumpled, sweaty-smelly attire, who knew no refined language or manners, who told me: “ Izzat was more important than a couple of rupees.”  

Our patient got discharged and is now probably in senior school. The man befriended many of the staff who walked to and from the station, discovered that they welcomed hot, fresh, snacks. He employed a local woman to cater to them and moved on to diversify to other businesses, other locations. His clothes progressively changed and the last I remember, they were fresh and ironed. His hair was neatly cut, his attitude more ‘middle-class’… he even owned a scooter. These, I believe, are the examples that make India shine.

Clutching Plates

          In spite of my driving with a valid licence for so many years, and in remote parts of India, Sri Husband still gives minute instructions when I’m at the wheel:

          “…motorbike on the left.”

“…tanker overtaking.”

“…Karnataka number plate is showing a right-indicator.”

“Watch out -- policeman.”

“You’ll hit that stray dog.”

“Let the bus go.”

“Hurry up, the signal won’t stay green forever.”

“You can change into the third gear now.”

Considering that I’ve driven through the craziness of Ghaziabadi markets, the arteries of Mumbai, the highway crossing Bareilly, the sand-tracks near Jodhpur and the very narrow ditch-bordered lanes of Goa’s villages, Sri Husband should consider it lucky that I’ve never hit or been hit by a goat/ buffalo/ fellow driver. Why give credit to luck… maybe I’m just an ‘awesum’ driver. He’s never had to repair a dent on my account.

(Ok, once I went through a wire fencing and the windscreen had to be replaced. And another time when a lamp-post suddenly knocked the bumper… rare events.)

In most places, car-servicing centres stand next to smelly urinal walls, invisible to genteel eyes. But ‘my’ centre in Goa is on a prime river-facing site. I can get my culture-dose at nearby theatres/halls whilst overalls-clad, polite mechanics grease, oil, calibrate and vacuum the bowels of my car.

The last time my eight-year-old four-wheeler was serviced, I had to change a clutch-plate. Aging process, I was told. Within a year, the new plate wore out. This time I was told ‘bad driving’.

‘No aging this time?’ I asked.

Came the reply, ‘Driving problem’.

Come on, I reasoned: same driver, same car, same conditions, same road, same routine; the previous clutch plate had lasted me eight times as long. I was shown greasy black bits around the guilty plate and further informed that this time the flywheel was also in trouble.

Articulate supervisors drew diagrams and explained to physics-challenged me why the plate had worn out in twelve months. Pedal met washer met clutch met flywheel quite often in ‘half clutch’ they said, especially if one drove through bad traffic or on slopes, and that caused the damage. Oh yeah? Why hadn’t that happened in the last so many years, I wondered.

Maybe the part was spurious, I timidly suggested. Nope, they declared, quality checks are perfect; besides, every part is numbered and traceable. Maybe the workmen had erred, I guessed, a little less diffidently. Impossible, I was assured, for if the several screws arranged in the metal circle weren’t tightened enough, the gears wouldn’t move. Not a millimetre? I queried. Not even a fraction, I was guaranteed. There was no scope at all for mistakes (ISRO should hire these guys for the Mars Mission).

The computer archives had recorded that some hardness had been experienced during the previous servicing, that was so, but since I’d not nit-picked in the interim months the fault was mine. I heard a senior person tell someone over the phone that the customer isn’t always right. New management mantra!

Never, I vowed to myself, will I postpone complaining, or suffer any malfunction by ‘adjusting’.

Back home, there were more questions from Sri Husband than answers from me. He asked me what I’d asked the supervisors and I told him what they had told me. Difference was, I had listened patiently to the former, whist Sri Husband was restlessly interrupting me every alternate quarter-second. Next time I’m going to take him along and let him loose on the company people. Let them have nervous breakdowns.

I have finally concluded, I think to the satisfaction of all concerned, there was nothing wrong with the clutch-plate. It’s my leg. My foot has a will of its own, presses the pedal when it shouldn’t or needn’t irrespective of the order given by Brain. This flaw is not just restricted to the leg. The moment I get a new spare part installed, or an electrical/ electronic gadget repaired, parts of my body conspire to make it fail. Sometimes the thumb misbehaves, or the finger pressing the switch, or the eye watching what’s happening… elbow, wrist, knee, ankle, every joint is untrustworthy when it comes to dealing with appliances designed primarily to make human life easy. Secondarily the same appliances are meant to, as depicted in films, rule your (or rather, my) life.

Some things, I figured philosophically, are (not) meant to be. Did that apply to clutching plates?

“Clutch-plates,” corrected Sri Husband. Matter over and ended.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

Binding The Nation.

Which of the following has helped unify India quietly and stealthily:

a)   Cricket.

b)   Bollywood.

c)    Garbage Heaps.

d)   The Nighty.

e)   None of the Above.

The correct answer is ‘e’.

Cricket-- nothing quiet or stealthy about it. Bollywood has competition from Tolly-, Molly- and other woods and aren’t we sometimes ashamed that it’s a lesser-talented relative of the Hollywood clan?

Garbage heaps are truly Indian, but they have competition from The Nighty. Irrespective of religion, state or status, from Guwahati to Goa women are linked by the printed-cotton sack-like National Female Attire that is hawked on most bazar-pavements in every town, every district of the country.  Like the Railways and the Postal Services, all the above have helped unify India, but the correct answer to the above question is Tombola or Housie.

It fascinates me that so many tax-avoiding, law-breaking adults can sit together quietly in a disciplined manner next to their best friends, bitterest enemies or total strangers without staring at a swami or television serial. Playing tombola is like meditation. You can empty your mind whilst concentrating on words like “Sai ne bola number sola”, “Independence: forty-seven” or “limbs: four”.

I ‘attended a tombola’ last week after nearly two decades. It’s still an adult activity. Children participate under supervision: I heard a parent (or an aunt/uncle) whisper: “Five-and-five fifty-five is gone. This time it’s all-by-itself number five.” Then, “All the twenties and thirties are in one straight line. See?” (Great way to teach number identification to kindergarteners.)The rest of the crowd hissed ‘shut up’. Interruptions and disturbances aren’t brooked.

Under a starlit sky or inside large rooms lined with moulded plastic chairs, reigning tombola silence is broken by a voice calling out numbers spiked with phrases: “Happy family, number three,” “What babies do, number two”, “Women get flirty at four-zero, forty”, “Men get flirty at ten less, three-zero, thirty”, “A dozen, twelve.” Regulars understand the terms and cross out the numbers on their colourful tickets as quickly as they are called out. Some enthusiasts buy a full sheet of tickets and expertly cancel several numbers in one go. Prizes depend on the number of tickets sold. Where I’d gone, the ‘full house’ (when all numbers of a single ticket get cancelled) was five hundred rupees and the second or out-house was three. The ‘lines’ and ‘corners’ were much less. Winning mattered, everyone paid careful attention to his/her ticket and the announcements. Afterwards, we wrote our names at the back and submitted the tickets for a lucky dip.

The phrases accompanying the numbers varies with the nature of the attendees.

In a housing colony gathering, the MC might say: “Nadkarni’s flat, number ten.”

During a doctors’ evening out: “Total number of wrist bones, number 16”.

In a posh Raj-era club: “Sweet… sixteen.”

In a temple aangan: “Vanvaas plus two -- sixteen.”

At a dentists’ gathering: “Incisors: eight.”

At a housewives’ kitty party: “Minutes taken to micro-warm a pizza: three.”

If you’re an ‘outside’ guest at one of these functions, it’s hard to follow the comments. At a Defence Forces venue, I once heard “…second round…” and couldn’t guess what it meant; everyone near me scratched out seventy-one, the year Bangla Desh was born. Then, when I heard “…first round…” you knew it meant the first skirmish with ‘the neighbours’, and I looked for sixty-five. A good way to pick up general knowledge. I’d recommend tombola for school-kids to learn history (even simple maths) in a fun way.

 I was introduced to tombola as a bride. It was torture for me to raise my hand and cry ‘yaa’ when I deserved a prize. After walking through the chairs and tables to the MC’s desk, if there was a mistake made, those present would boo and heckle. Tombola helped me get over my shyness.

I’ve seen tombola played at the Diwali get-together of a Gujerati joint family and at a school alumni meet. I’ve come across a group of trekkers in the Himalaya, hunched around a camp-fire, playing with the tiles and tickets. In Assam, at a village festival. And in Coonoor at an anniversary party. The accents were ethnic. The phrases and comments were in the vernacular, but the numbers were called out in English.

The Brits inadvertently left behind the tombola tradition. From snobbish clubs it has filtered down to urban slums, satellite townships, retired people’s associations and others with little on their minds. Unsung, this simple gambling pleasure has contributed to unifying the country.

(feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in)

 

      

         

Bhatta’s Catamaran on the Mandovi.

          The deep voice over the cell-phone ordered: “Last ride of the season, Coco Beach, 1800 hrs, you have to come.” I went.

Coco Beach is in line with Reis Magos fort, towards the mouth of the Mandovi. Across, I saw the Kala Academy, Raj Bhavan, Miramar… then an ugly brown building hit my eye. “People have spent some crores to buy a flat in it,” I was told. So much money, such poor taste.

The boy holding out his hand to help me into the small boat that would take me to the Catamaran warned me that one of the stairs was loose/ slippery. Just like last year. Reminded me of a hospital incident: a state-of-the-art expensive ultra-sonography machine was installed in Radiology; the tests were priced profitably high; the staff got a good raise after the training, but paper tissues were/are never available for patients to wipe the gel off. Small details, forever remembered. Like when I serve crab and can’t find the claw-cracker.

We were 22 of us in the catamaran, whose name I still don’t know. Boats have names. “Sea-zar’s Love”, “Bai Treza,” I read on the trawlers going by. (I can’t tell you here why boats are considered ‘feminine’, because respectable people, their parents and children read this paper. Also because disaster might strike me: my politically correct friends will unfriend me from their FB list.)            

Everyone aboard called her ‘Bhatta’s Catamaran’ after the owner of the deep voice. Inversely, in Goa he might be known as Catamaran Bhatta, like we have Taxi Diago in our village; and Shorthand Sada (speaks very fast) and Exercise Shiva (practises physiotherapy or teaches PE, not sure).

We sped towards the Aguada Fort. The setting sun was shocking pink and saffron. I tried to imagine people at the other edge of the Arabian Sea, beyond the horizon, on the east coast of the Africa. They would have just finished lunch.

Aguada must be the world’s prettiest located jail. My uncles were imprisoned in it for wanting the Portuguese to quit Goa. Subsequently, their professions took them away from here. Ironically we, a generation removed, returned to settle.

The catamaran was turned around and driven into the darkness, Britona (later Chorao and Diwar) on the left, Ribandar to the right. Once we’d crossed under the two bridges, and left the casinos behind, I thought I was dead. Not the slightest sound anywhere. No boundaries of any sort, thick darkness. It was so peaceful that I even forgave the gentleman who’d nibbled off the potato wafers kept next to me whilst I was deep-inhaling that crisp salty breeze.    

‘Bhatta’s Catamaran’ rocked. Not swaying side to side like the ferries that take you from Gateway of India to Alibag. Those make you nauseated. But ‘rocked’ in the way Elvis Presley broke the rules to change the world. Slick, moving tidily, fast. The ripples didn’t raise froth nor waves. I was sitting in front, on a stretched canvas-like material. I could see the black water below me and the dotted sky above. I remembered journeys by ‘Chowgule steamship' from Mumbai to Panaji as a child, sleeping on the deck with hundreds of other fellow goemkars. On the return, we’d carry with us mangoes, jackfruit produce, kokams, rice. Those ‘steamships’ had a lot of froth around them. When two ships crossed (these journeys were at night), they blew their horns and everyone in/on them waved and clapped.

One vacation, we visited Hankon, near Karwar. We had to cross the Kali Nadi in a big basket that could fit four humans.

 Another time, in Dubai, we went on a dinner ‘cruise’. The route was lined by glitz, glittering lights and buildings scraping the sky.

Here I was in a modern watercraft, now heading towards the silhouette of Alto Betim and the nebulous halo of the Secretariat lights, enjoying such luxury but a few kilometres from my home … if I wasn’t dreaming, then I must be dead, I figured. No such luck. Someone roared and startled me awake: “This is the good life.” 

Friends, I tell you, ek minute shaant busspaa dinaat.

 “Why did you shout in my ear?” I asked.

 “In what did you want me to shout?” was the reply.

I gave up.

The trip had taken three hours. A ramponnkar on a traditional erstwhile hodi would have taken half a day for the same. Both have their own charm. Now the barges will ply again. I’ve heard more yachts are likely to visit Goa in coming times. ‘Bhatta’s Catamaran’ will have company. More the merrier provided, as on our roads, the traffic rules are followed.