At Delfino 7 Apr 2020

We had stocks estimated to last till 14 April, the last day of the ‘lockdown’ as announced by the PM on 22 Mar. Not that we were running out of daal-chaawal-sugar-oil-soap, but since the news hinted that the curfew might be extended, we went shopping. To avoid a crowd, we went immediately after lunch, the hottest part of the day. Others had the same idea, for there was a crowd outside Delfino’s, our closest ‘supermarket’. All the small grocers and other shops in our area were shut, although the CM had requested them to stay open for 24 hours. Considering that they are usually shut most of the day anyway, didn’t expect anything different. A few did open for an hour or two in the morning, as was the usual routine pre-Covid-19 anyway, to sell milk-bread, onions-potatoes and maybe cigarettes-chai and then pulled shutters down. At the best of times these shops sell wilted, soggy ‘fresh’ vegetables. Except the ‘horticulture’ sheds. These days, hawkers who sell the local farm-produce have hiked their prices. We pay them what they ask for. In the Delfino’s compound, a shamiana had been erected to give shade to the customers waiting to enter. Small white circles were drawn to indicate where we could stand, 1.5 metres away from anyone in front, behind or to our sides. Like chess pieces, we stood, waiting to make a move when the Security chap indicated we should/could, when someone exited from the payment-counter at the other end of the shop. He sprayed the handles of the trolleys and every palm with a lemon-smelling disinfectant before entry. As senior citizens, we were entitled to break the queue. Shri Husband, a stickler for ‘go by the spirit not the letter of a regulation’ said we should go when our turn came, as it wouldn’t be fair to the younger folk. ‘We’re in good health and it won’t take long,’ he said. Strange how he’s patient at the oddest times. Not with me, but I’ll save that for another article. Every time a young person’s turn came, a senior citizen turned up and went ahead. Stay, ordered Shri Husband and I shifted from one foot to another and back, smiling through my mask at a woman standing across the square, who had focussed her spectacled eyes on my huge canvass bag. When she didn’t smile back, I folded the bag and pressed the creases to spite her. Little else to do. When my turn came, I exchanged four cardboard egg-trays for coupons. Two bucks per tray is what Delfino’s takes off the bill. I stuffed the coupons into my wallet. I have a collection of those coupons. For some reason, I do not remember to present them at check-out, so they accumulate. “The lockdown hasn’t made a difference to your memory,” Shri Husband remarked after we went home. Snide. I should never have mentioned the coupons to him. Inside Delfino’s, there was quiet music, air-conditioning, no jostling, pleasant staff. No Amul buttermilk, but milk aplenty. No kurmuras, but poha available. No mutton, but beef and pork looked fresh. No toor or moong dals, but urad and masoor were in stock. Our favourite rice, ambe-mohar, the ponni-rice for idli, rava and the flours we love—jwari specially—were available. We aren’t into insta-foods, but I noticed that the noodles, bottle-can-and-carton shelves were empty. Maybe customer-habit researchers are doing a study? Convinced that the electricity-department wasn’t letting us down, we bought butter, paneer, peas from the frozen section. Oil, soap. Once I’d run through my list, I reached out for non-list items—snacks, sauces. Shri Husband was impressed (rare!) that I had made a list. Like budgets and dusting, it’s on my never-to-be-done things. But these are unusual times we’re living through and persons (being politically correct here) like me in other parts of the planet must be doing the same, I imagine. I saw other trolleys piled high. Were they stocking for six months? Was I doing something wrong by buying for just another four or five days? Influenced by the others, at the chemist, we decide to buy a month’s medicine. I walked out pleased that I had ‘everything’ now. Coconuts, curry-leaves, green chillies, drumsticks and pumpkin flowers we get from our compound. The nustekar blows the horn every alternate day announcing the arrival of a scooter-ful of fish from Betim. Bony, scaly, down-market ones, but they’re a good source of protein when we’re tired of eating eggs. What I can buy at and around my house, I don’t buy from any supermarket. Like leafy vegetables, alsande, chawli, tambdi bhaji, etc. I must admit, and not reluctantly, that Shri Husband is a good house-husband. Sweeping, mopping, washing he does, and happily. Possibly because I’m tidiness challenged. He lends a helping hand in cooking, chopping, clearing, too. Through Facebook and the Whatsapp groups of my schoolmates, ex-colleagues and other acquaintances, I have gathered that many husbands around the world are as kind and supportive. There is no way I will let him read this paragraph, let him know I am fortunate. Might change his persona. This is not the time to disturb status quo. After the Delfino trip, after putting things away, I sit to check messages. I have friends in ill health. One is living by herself and missing face-contact with other humans. One cousin is unhappy to be imprisoned in a tiny flat with unpleasant family-members who are not talking to each other, for twenty-four hours, day after day. One is an alcoholic getting severe withdrawal symptoms. One is worried because she cannot reach her daughter on phone or via the internet and doesn’t know what to do because the daughter fiercely protects her ‘privacy’. Contrary-wise, many are enjoying their solitude, the company of their partners/pets/books/music. A very few, like me, are grateful that life has been, so far, good, that I am able to have excursions to places like Delfino’s. Approaching 14 April, I say, que sera, sera.

A Festival of Scraps and Leftovers.

What’s the word for the last gooey rice-and-gravy slurp of a meal which we Indians 'mop' up with our fingers? I can’t get up from a meal unless the plate is ‘wiped’ clean. Four fingers of the right hand caress the plate in a circular, scooping motion. Some law of physics attracts and holds together near-liquid dal/curd combined with a quarter fistful of rice, flavoured with the last bit of fried fish or dry vegetable. It’s a skill as complicated, but messier, as eating non-filleted fish with chopsticks. It’s childhood conditioning: ’don’t waste food’. How my polishing a plate would help anyone starving anywhere in the world, I didn’t understand, but the mantra stuck. There were more ration shops than private grocers where/when I was a child. In the early days of my marriage, I often cried over curdled milk (no fridge), collected multi-ingredient one-pot-meal recipes (I owned ONE kerosene-fuelled wick-stove), and cooked with whatever was seasonally, locally available (nation-wide transportation was primitive). Erratic electricity supply meant undependable running water. I enjoyed solitude in remote corners of Uttar Pradesh, through bitter Kashmir winters, drought-stricken Tamil Nadu and in Punjab through its troubled years. Cellular phones, cable-television, and the internet were decades away. I learned from neighbours/acquaintances ‘make-do recipes’ with whatever the neighbourhood grocer sold. I became clever at creating recipes out of odd ingredients. Be informed, there’s madness in the methods. I’ve always had a pukka roof over my head and enough food on the table to welcome guests, but because of circumstance, frugality ruled. So, when the lockdown was announced, I went into kanjoos-mode immediately, stocked until 14 Apr 2020. Gas, check. Oil for cooking, check. Milk powder, in case fresh milk was rationed and we had problems with the fridge. Rice, for making idlis and dosas, too. Flours -- wheat, jwari and nachni. Pulses -- rajma, chana black/white, matki, kuleeth, moong, masoor, alsande. Onions and potatoes. Fruit and fresh vegetables that lasted, like gourds and apples. Masalas. Sugar. Soap and scrubbers. Eggs, bread, butter. Done. Since we can’t trust the voltage in our village, I chose to not stock anything that ever swam, flew or trotted. The freezer held icepacks for predictable headaches. Presently, all vegetable trimmings, rinds and peels are used to make stock for soup or dal, or grated to plump up polle. Early every morning, I soak a fistful of a whole pulse. Shri Husband, peering to see what I was typing, said ‘soaking a pulse’ sounded strange. So, to rephrase: I soak a fistful of one of the pulses mentioned above. And not in rum/brandy as Shri Husband hinted; plain water works. After sunset, I strain it and allow it to sprout overnight. The following morning the grains’ nutritive value is increased multiple-fold. (A good way to cheat price rise, too; you get more value per rupee spent when you soak-sprout seeds). A different pulse is soaked each morning, for variety. After pressure-cooking, I add to it cut drumsticks and the odd pumpkin flower, both freshly plucked, and cook again. Salt and dried kokum bring alive the curry, a tiny piece of jaggery neutralizes the tanginess, a pinch of haldi and spoonsful of the impulse-driven masalas are added. Lastly, I temper it with mustard-cumin-methi seeds and some curry-leaves, again freshly plucked. The last sentence is the post-speech ‘Jai-Hind-Jai-Goa’ of every recipe. Mandatory. Occasionally, I garnish with a spoonful of fresh coconut gratings and a few chopped coriander leaves, the metaphorical ‘icing’. There are no restrictions on playing around with ginger and garlic for those who swear by their medicinal properties. Gardening and I are incompatible. But, in times like these, I rise to the occasion like a German hausfrau during WWII. On Day 1, I buried the sliced tops of onions and garlic in soil in a discarded plastic container. Two weeks gone and I have micro-greens for salad. When, in 1969, the Shiv Sena riots to chase away all ‘Madrasis’ introduced me to my first curfew, I was twelve. Cauliflowers, carrots and peas were luxuries, then. Mother used pumpkins and bottle-gourds to make interesting baked dishes. I boil cubes of the gourd/pumpkin flesh, mash coarsely, add salt, pepper, dried herbs, oil/butter, sautéed cashew-nut bits, grated cheese to taste, some milk-powder, blend an egg into the mixture, then bake until set. I don’t worry about proportions unless things go terribly wrong (much like governments worldwide). Retrieving/salvaging takes a lot of imagination. Shri Husband, intruding: “You should know. New mistakes every day.” My Goan genes miss xit-kodi. Unusual times call for sun-dried, gas-roasted Bombay-duck/mackerel, whose smell I love and most non-West-Coasters abhor. My logic: if people can have nutri-nugget korma (ugh!!), no reason why I should not have salted shrimps with brinjal. My stock of dried fish is packed in ten—ok, exaggerating—four layers of plastic bags, each held firmly with a rubber-band. These packets are kept safely in my grandmother-in-law’s heavy-gauged, tight-lidded brass dabba. I removed my virus-proof mask to sniff the stuff before I put it on the gas to roast. Love that raw smell. Shri Husband spent that morning in the balcao. I should do it more often. I was living through an ingredients crisis; the internet told me tomato leaves were edible. We had them as a side dish, lightly tossed in garlic butter: served that plant right for not producing fruit. Snacks comprise fried peels of gourd/pumpkin. Potato, that import by the goras, now beloved of Indians as stuffing in another import, samosas, unites humans from Alaska to Australia. “Other than the Corona virus?” quipped Shri Husband. Lockdown means monotonous meals, a reminder that I have food. Hunger, an indication of good health, unattended can lead to illness, death. I watch in dismay workers trudging home, pockets empty, stomachs rumbling. Curfews are often indefinite. This one’s unrestricted, planet wide, a first. I would kill for mangoes with cream right now. Or a bite of ripe banana. Others would kill for scraps and leftovers. If the virus doesn’t get them first. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sheela Jaywant is a humour columnist and short-story writer who likes to hear from her readers on sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in

The Corona Virus in Porvorim Goa

I was boarding a Mumbai-Goa flight. As always, I looked around to see if there was anyone I knew, who looked familiar, to chat with. This was at 0300 hours. Everyone around me was wearing masks. I didn’t know nose and mouth masks came in such variety. Plastic ones with punched holes, the usual porous green and white tissue ones, some resembled foxes’ noses in colour and shape and others were triangular-folded handkerchiefs knotted at the back of the head. At the main entrance, I wondered how the guard (masked himself) recognized who was entering with whose identity-card or ‘photo-proof’ as he called it, considering that all he could see was the eyes and forehead of the person presenting it. “Irregular protocol,” Shri Husband agreed. Cheers to the Corona-V, after four and more decades we agreed on something without arguing. The girl at the counter didn’t need to ask me questions more than once because she could hear me and read my lips. Because I was unmasked. The virus was a ‘maybe’ attacker, whilst any mask is sure suffocation for me. I took my own precautions by sitting next to masked persons so that I got filtered air to breathe. If they had germs to share, those germs would get right back into their own nostrils, I reasoned. (“Stupid logic,” remarked Shri Husband. Why he wanted to read over my shoulder what I typed I don’t know. Gave both of us a headache.) The others’ mouths could be made out through the masks. Whatever they spoke was indistinct and lots of guesswork, shouting and gesturing happened before the communication was complete. Sample question: ‘Sir, aisle or window seat?’ Answer: ‘Ju oo half a cee er da aafoo?’ After a couple of frustrating minutes, the mask was momentarily removed, exposing the to-be-dead-if-infected, near panic-stricken passenger to unfiltered air. Passenger quickly spat the words “Do you have a seat near the bathroom?” and before you could say ‘covid-19’, adjusted the mask and elastic to shut the mouth again. No one seemed to mind removing the mask-filters whilst consuming chai and samosas, though. Inside the aircraft, we were all zombies, having spent most of the night awake, a large majority of us ‘faceless’. Back in Porvorim, Goa, following the Centre’s advisory to take precautions against this micro-sized part-living part-inorganic creature that was killing planet earth’s most important biped, the CM announced on a Saturday evening, on television, that schools were to be shut till the end of March. I celebrated. Prematurely. No students to come to school, I read the soft-copy circular on Whatsapp, but exams would be held as scheduled. Confused, my colleagues and I waited ‘virtually’ for another circular from the God of Schools, the Department of Education, or the ADEI. (Aside: my colleagues say ‘Dipaamen’ when they refer to the former. Dropping the ‘r’ and both the ‘t’s, I have learnt, is the Goan thing to do. The long form of ADEI has been long forgotten. We all know that when a notice/ circular/ letter/ anything comes from the ADEI, we must jump and do whatever is ‘ordered’, unreasonably late though it may reach us. Now I find the same folk saying Coyona Viyus. Peculiar Goan thing.) Doctor friends sent scientific facts—I’m convinced by them-- to say:- • we were and have been for a long time more at risk of dying from multi-drug-resistant tuberculosis or plain old diarrhoea than this new pathogen that doesn’t survive at Goan summer temperatures, • that Corona was heavy enough by virus standards to, if exhaled in a sneeze or cough, drop to the ground and not bounce back into another nose, • that we needed to worry only if we were immuno-compromised, old and frail, or plain unlucky, • that hand-washing with soap and water before and after touching suspect surfaces (including other people’s hands) was not inferior to expensive and out-of-stock ‘sanitizers’. • that the collective immunity of the sub-continent was possibly better than that, say, of the Canadian population, as we were regularly exposed to garbage, sewage, pollution and mostly not in air-conditioned environments. Other friends sent other ‘facts’—I’m unconvinced by those—to say:- • cow urine would solve this health problem amongst others. My retort: bull-shit. Why it (cow-urine, not bull-shit) could never stop or cure small-pox, leprosy or diabetes amongst the old-fangled diseases, I don’t know. • that if I suddenly and permanently converted to veganism and additionally cut off onions and garlic from my diet, I’d be protected from harm. Here, there was some confusion on Facebook, because one party insisted that garlic was medicinal and another said it was not sattvic (pure) for human consumption. For some reason, that diet hadn’t saved anyone from renal or cardiac failure or any dreaded illness. Wondered why. • that this virus was created to teach the western world a lesson, etc. Um…we have some organisms that teach us lessons, like the amoebae, the Salmonella typhimurium, the vectors causing leptospirosis, malaria and dengue, etc. India is dealing with them on war-footing, too, but the media doesn’t give it credit for that because the western world might not be interested in those headlines. We, as responsible citizens, decided to self-isolate ourselves. Of course, the poder, the nustekar, the bai who got the bhaji from the fields, the linesmen from the electricity department and those digging our roads were at work. No one had told them they should restrict themselves to their huts. They couldn’t afford masks/ sanitizers anyway. I don’t know whether they used soap or had running water, but that was not the time to ask. The policemen were manning their posts. No shops were shut. Those highest at risk-- doctors, nurses, technicians, taxi-drivers, bus-conductors, were doing their duties diligently, not taking rest, not looking for glory. Whilst Twitter told me the number of deaths due to the C-V, I googled to find out how many died in rail/road accidents that very week, in India. I don’t worry about the planet or humankind. I don’t worry about the country or the state most times. My world is restricted to my home in Porvorim. When this self-confinement to contain a pandemic had to be tackled, my worry was spending twenty-four hours without respite, with Shri Husband and Bai Goanna at home. It was panic time for me. I carefully re-re-heard what the CM had said on television. School would be shut for students, but exams would be conducted. Teachers and the rest of the gang had to clock in. I had to go to school. I smiled. Shri Husband grunted. Amicably, I think.

Free Samples

Come January and sales representatives from publishers come to my office, carrying bundles of books in big canvas bags, or holding them by the tough thread that holds them together. The watchman doesn’t bother about getting their names entered because they’re unable to liberate their limbs from the heavy wares they are lugging, to sign, and he’s illiterate. If they were saleswomen, I think they would have carried the bundles on their heads. “Or,” said Bai Goanna, joining Shri Husband to peer over my shoulder to see what I was typing, “they’d use a second-hand foldable pram to wheel the stuff from their scooter to your office. Women are smart.” I agreed silently about the smart bit, but prams? Doesn’t occur to her that some of these marketing types might come in four-wheelers, mostly the bread-box Maruti Omni that none else wants? Folding prams, come to think of it, are practical solutions to take to the market, a trolley-substitute, see? Then again, anything on wheels would be defeated on the way to my office; like any decent path in India, it is strewn with pebbles, gravel, twigs and every and anything that would rip the tiny metal balls out of a bearing and break a pram into many useless angular pieces. “That sentence,” pointed out Shri Husband, “sounds awful.” He could have used the word ‘inelegant’. I didn’t—never do--- have the courage to say ‘then don’t read it, stay away’. I just ignored him and typed on regardless. Where was I… the publishers send book samples, several per subject per class. Doesn’t sound like much until you do the arithmetic. Take LKG (lower kindergarten, which takes children between 3.5 and 4 years of age, approximately 2.5 feet in height) as an example. The children have to ‘learn’ line drawing. If they are clever, they do patterns and colouring as well. The little ones spend three hours in school, in which, besides doing a page of work, they have to sing a verse, memorize numbers and tell us the names of their grandparents if they have any. How many books do you suppose each child would buy for the year? I have seven SETS of books for pattern writing, joining dots, gluing cotton swabs and reading aloud, each set containing at least ten books. Do we really need so many publishers printing out the same stuff? At nearly the same cost? So many, many ‘samples’ are gifted to each school, with ‘not for sale’ or ‘complimentary copy’ stamped prominently on the front cover or first page. To prevent ‘misuse’. What misuse could one think of for a hundred pattern-writing books? Now, multiply each set by thirty-five students. Go on, do the maths. By the time I see what the teachers are selecting for the fifth standard, I’m exhausted. I’ve watched them go through tables-books, small sums, problems, divisions, decimals and …wait until I tell you about the high school workbooks. The Devnagari script books are, like the script, complicated, with red and blue lines with broad spacing, medium spacing, narrow and very narrow spacing. The mathematics notebooks have squares of varying dimensions: 1 cm square, 1.5 cm square and worse. There are ‘un-ruled’ books, too. Would you believe, there are at least a dozen different kinds of blank-paper books for art. Did I tell you about graph-books? If the government and/or activists are serious about saving the Earth/trees, by law we should be using only slates. Consider this: if a book costs Rs 100, the supplier gives a discount of 30% to the buyer (parent) and another 20% ‘concession in cash’ to the in-between (i.e. school). And schools, the salesperson tells me, do make profit on the sly thus. I’m stupid, he tells me. I agree. Husband and Bai Goanna also agree. For once, we’re on the same page, the three of us. Now, if we dismiss the supplier from the chain and connect directly with the manufacturer, a student can actually buy an item for 40% of the printed price. Nice, no? What is true about books is true about cosmetic products in a more complicated way. When I buy a toothpaste, I’m paying for research done a century ago, plus the cost of the company’s marketing director’s ‘with family’ holiday abroad, the advertisements showing twenty-metre smiles on hoardings on way to the Dabolim airport, the plastic-coated cardboard box and heaven knows what else. Of course, I buy toothpaste for oral hygiene, but that’s not the point here. I need friends who are dentists (or purchase managers in hotels) who can gift me some tubes; am sure they get plenty of free samples. In the hospital where I once worked, receiving free samples was a way of life. The MRs (as Medical Representatives of pharmaceutical companies are known) came in hordes. On days when the patient-footfall was low, MRs occupied all the benches, laptops on their… what else… laps, typing away, resting their bags by their feet. The moment they saw Target Doctor, the computers were speedily put away, the bags swung on backs as they hurried into the clinics. Those bags contained syrups, capsules, pills, little devices to check sugars/salts/whatever was the latest fad. To be given free, of course, with ‘Physician’s sample, not to be sold’ boldly printed across the label. Samples were often accompanied by calendars, pen-stands, watches (now definitely not in vogue), note-pads, mouse-pads, mobile-phone covers and other cute goodies to make prospective prescribers happy and motivated. “What,” asked Bai Goanna, “About foreign trips and sponsored conferences?” “She,” said Shri Husband before I could answer her, “will write about it later, in another piece. That’s beyond the scope of this piece.” Correct for once, I thought, keeping my thought to myself, adjusting my posture to prevent them from reading further what I was typing. Tea-bags, cosmetics, paan-masalas, pickles, choorans and chivda, everything has giveaway samples these days. We pay for them when we buy the actual stuff, never forget. The good quality stuff needs no small introduction. No matter what the marketing gurus say, a Wendell Rodricks (a man I deeply admired, may he rest in peace) product is to be cherished for design and quality. Word of mouth works best. Just wondering, are any free samples involved in big money products like fighter-aircraft, ack-ack guns and submarines? Never read about India getting free helicopters on ‘trial basis’. “You’re ignorant,” chorused Bai Goanna and Shri Husband, adding, “Remember how we damaged the Tejas (train, not plane) seats on its trial runs?” Sigh. Yes. Said and done, I love free samples. Don’t we all?

At the Airport

The woman squawked out ‘last and final call for Mr Ram Verma’. I craned my neck to see who was delaying the flight. The others in the queue seemed not so flustered. Minutes went by. Next announcement: ‘last and final call for Mr Ram Verma, Shrimati Sita Verma, Master Lav Verma, Miss Lavina Verma’. Hainh? I thought, an entire family is late now? When for the fifteenth time that same staff called ‘a last and final call’ for the same lot of names, I went and asked her whether she knew the meaning of ‘last and final’. She was flummoxed; then she said, if I don’t make this call three dozen times, the passengers will say ‘you didn’t tell us’ or ‘you told us only once’. Apparently, if a single ‘last and final’ announcement is made, that’s insufficient. That’s not the only thing that makes Indian airports special. Last weekend, whilst waiting for a flight, I discovered that when a flight is delayed, after the initial message of ‘by two hours’, it’s delayed by ten minutes at a time, sometimes for another hour or more. The truth is hidden behind accents no one follows. The twenty-something lipstick-wearing girl handling her boyfriend-via-mobile and irate customer simultaneously hadn’t a clue why the morning fog in Thane, Mumbai, was causing a problem at Kempa Gowda, Bangalore, after sixteen hours. Another thing: a flight which must take fifty minutes to a destination, on the ticket shows sixty minutes as flying time. So, when it does reach in fifty, wind conditions being kind and all, the pilot proudly announces how his airlines is always before time, pre-punctual, so to say, a new addition to the Indlish lexicon. Who’s to tell him that that’s rubbish? Most of us don’t even wish the pilots, nor they us, what with the cabin crew forming a protective namaste barrier between flier and flown. If I thought the ground staff spoke in a strange accent, I have to admit that the flying employees talk in stranger accents. Even a normal ‘hullo’ to answer a phone call is a ‘hellyo’ for them. Someone in that industry should explain that to me. These days, old timers say, there’s no charm in flying. All sorts of riff-raff occupy hard steel benches and eat (God forbid!) samosas with cholay. Seats have to be alongside courier boys and unshaven IT types. And humour columnists. Gross. It has interesting moments, though. I once entered the ladies’ loo-cubicle and found a handbag on the ledge above the flush. Immediately, I alerted those outside, who were washing hands, adjusting straps or trying to make sense of the hot-air drier. Everyone had a dazed look in their eyes: no one speaks to strangers at airports, right? When they do, they make friends, exchange phone numbers, offer jobs, insurance policies, and more. So, I made my announcement again: there’s a purse in here, someone’s left a purse here, who’s purse is this, etc. One woman sweetly, unexpectedly and very stupidly asked, ‘are you sure it’s not yours?’ I love Indians from India, I tell you, especially those we meet at airports. It’s a breed you don’t find at railway stations any longer. As for bus depots, no one has the time to spend in chit-chat there. Bus-stands are no longer addas for non-destitutes. The real fun in watching human behaviour is at airports these days. And in aircraft. As in trains, so in aircraft, everyone switches seats to sit with old acquaintances met at the airport or new one’s made there. Drives the cabin-crew crazy, trying to figure out who’s in which seat and whom to give which pre-sold meal to. We’re Indians, no? In spite of the fact that our mobile phones occupy forty-nine percent of our waking hours exchanging news like what we had for the last two meals, and the digestive episodes that followed, we still love live company. Seating arrangements and systems be damned. If one can get a free wheelchair and someone to roll us around in comfort, we book one; do our shopping, see the pretty sights inside these glamourous new airports and—oh, yes—break queues legitimately. The queue; a topic I could write a tome on: we know we have to stand in one, just not sure which end to join. Those yellow lines behind which we must wait make no sense to us. One woman behind me at security asked me whether she could go before me. She was on my flight. I let her. Did she know that whether or not she went first, the flight would not leave without either of us? I don’t know. I think she just wanted to be ‘first’. ‘Main first aa gayee’ carries a lot of weight, doesn’t it? A feel-good factor, seen at buffet meals and, of course, at airports. One woman who thought I looked familiar (I have such a common face, everywhere I go people say they know someone who looks just like me. I say to them, in my mind, ‘damn, not again’) stared at me, smiled, asked if I was Y Z. When I shook my head to say ‘no’, she said, ‘sorry, but what’s your name’. I mean, why did I have to tell her? I did. Conditioning. I’m Indian. I also asked her what her name was. Within minutes we talked about our childhood illnesses, in-laws’ problems, the consequences of voting for a certain party and how to cook without onions and tomatoes. Tomaatoes. Tomaytos. Tamaatars. Tambaaters. Indians at airports speak in several Indlishes; Marathindlish, Hindlish, Assamglish… and therefore, various pronunciations are heard and spoken, repeated, echoed so the other person comprehends… in ‘silent’ airports it’s great fun, uninterrupted by the growl and squeak of the (very) loud-speaker. Best of all, was landing and exiting at Goa. Even Allahabad and Gauhati airports aren’t as good. We have carpeted ramps with little ripples that engage our sense of balance, tripping us at intervals, ensuring we never get old with all that jumping to avoid the bumps under our feet. Dragging trolley-bags over a surface with resistance helps us strengthen shoulders and wrists. The fungus and mould that flourish in the tropical temperatures and humidity build up the immune system. There’s more, but I’m running out of words. Best of all, this is a military airport. No photos, say the signs. But they who own and will and must use all features of their mobile phones don’t know that or can’t read or aren’t bothered. As it is, in this age of satellite pictures tracking where we live and where we go, does it matter if we take a selfie with a loved one with the backdrop of runway lights? Apparently, in our airports, it does.

Customer Service.

What’s customer service? I asked this question to friends. We Goans are so involved in the tourism industry that we hear these two words quite often, so I wanted to know just what they meant and what they meant to people. One said: “Standing around wearing some make-up and a smart uniform, greeting with hands folded and smiling all the time at everyone.” You mean like in airlines? I asked. Yes, was the answer. Another said: “Getting mobile phones or televisions or fridges or computers repaired, or the technicians who repair those.” Yet another said: “Call-centre agents who sit phoning customers.” An online definition says ‘Customer Service is the process of ensuring customer satisfaction with a product or service. Often, Customer Service takes place while performing a transaction for the customer, such as making a sale or returning an item. I asked my friends whether they considered lawyers’ clients and doctors’ patients as customers. They looked shocked. But, since the client/patient is paying for a service, s/he is a customer, no? No, was the firm reply, given with no explanations, no reasons. To add to my friends’ consternation, I explained that it was illogical that a doctor and a hair-dresser (the word barber is no longer used in polite society) should charge the same amount of money for giving 30 minutes of advice or activity. It takes a doctor takes years of training, skill and experience to know which tests to prescribe and declare a customer normal after seeing the results. The hair-dresser takes three months, take or give a couple of weeks, to learn to expertly cut, curl, straighten, wash, rinse, dry, plait, bun, roll and style hair. Yet, people are willing to pay more for the latter because they sit in a comfort zone, not in a waiting area, get pampered without experiencing pain/nausea/breathlessness. How strange is that. I’d imagine that one would want to pay more for being in good health. But the fact that people happily pay for a meal in a hotel many times the amount they’d pay to get their dental problems resolved proves me wrong. Back to Customer Service; it is the provision of service to customers before, during and after a purchase. The perception of success of such interactions is dependent on employees "who can adjust themselves to the personality of the guest". The more complicated the components, the more innovative the product and the higher the price, the better the Customer Service is the thumb rule. In a tourism-dependent place like Goa, hotels, shops, cops, taxi-drivers (sigh, we have to rope them in everywhere) must be trained pro-actively not only to say ‘hullo’ and ‘good-time-of-day’ nicely, but in their jobs, too. The old technicians in the Central Laboratory at Porvorim don’t pain or injure my 88-year-old relative when they draw blood from her veins to check for sugar: they don’t need to smile politely and say pleasantries. The proficiency gives the customer satisfaction. Taxi-drivers who help with luggage, receptionists who freely share information on cheap shopping-centres, postmen who fill in forms for illiterate peasants are all doing Customer Service of a fair without anyone writing about them. A good customer service experience can change the entire perception a customer holds towards the organization. A tourist who has enjoyed his hotel stay will return. Or will tell his friends to visit the place. A telephone operator who speaks clearly, accurately and patiently wins over customers as much as a slick marketing executive. If you’re in business, make sure your telephone operators are well trained. Professionalism works. Customer Service includes taped messages that tell me to press a number for English and another for technical problems and yet another for complaints and a fourth to speak to a human being. I prefer directly speaking to a proper voice and giving instant feedback. Recently we bought a computer. When we tried to load a very basic, home-use software on it, an error message informed us that the disc didn’t have enough space. The company, when contacted said, that’s how the product is made, if I wanted the software, I’d have to either be constantly online to use the free online software or buy an addition to attach to the computer. No one from the company could tell me why such a user-unfriendly product was being sold at all in the market. Make in India promoters must make note of such examples of poor customer experiences. Make in India need not be shabby or sub-standard. Make in India can well be superior to or at least equal to the best in the world. Read about Kiran Muzumdar-Shaw’s work and you’ll know it’s possible. Criticism keeps quality high. Customer Service was born out of criticism. If one wants to improve, one ASKS FOR criticism and takes it to heart. Customer Service assists customers in making cost effective decisions, buying suitable products (like they do in shoe-shops) and using that product correctly. See the stall-walas at ‘exhibitions’ showing the public the various uses of peelers. Customer Service includes assistance in planning, installation, training, trouble-shooting, maintenance, upgrading, and disposal of a product. Plumbers, carpenters and electricians are the ones to be trained in these points. Architects, and garbage disposal experts, too. These services even may be done at customer's side where he/she uses the product or service. technical support Automated customer service[edit] Customer service may be provided by a person (e.g., sales and service representative), or by automated means[citation needed]. Examples of automated means are Internet sites. An advantage with automated means is an increased ability to provide service 24-hours a day, which can, at least, be a complement to customer service by persons.[5] Another example of automated customer service is by touch-tone phone, which usually involves a main menu, and the use of the keypad as options (i.e. "Press 1 for English, Press 2 for Spanish", etc.) However, in the Internet era, a challenge has been to maintain and/or enhance the personal experience while making use of the efficiencies of online commerce. "Online customers are literally invisible to you (and you to them), so it's easy to shortchange them emotionally. But this lack of visual and tactile presence makes it even more crucial to create a sense of personal, human-to-human connection in the online arena."[6] An automated online assistant with avatar providing automated customer service on a web page. Examples of customer service by artificial means are automated online assistants that can be seen as avatars on websites.[5] It can avail for enterprises to reduce their operating and training cost.[5] These are driven by chatterbots, and a major underlying technology to such systems is natural language processing.[5] Metrics and measuring customer service results[edit] The two main ways of gathering feedback are: customer surveys and Net Promoter Score measurement, used for calculating the loyalty that exists between a provider and a consumer.[citation needed] Customer service metrics that are followed by companies depend on the tool used for customer service. Most popular metrics include: • first response time, • average response time, • total handle time, • customer satisfaction score (CSAT).[citation needed] Instant feedback[edit] Recently[when?], many organizations have implemented feedback loops that allow them to capture feedback at the point of experience. For example, National Express in the UK has invited passengers to send text messages whilst riding the bus. This has been shown to be useful, as it allows companies to improve their customer service before the customer defects, thus making it far more likely that the customer will return next time.[7] Technology has made it increasingly easier for companies to obtain feedback from their customers. Community blogs and forums give customers the ability to give detailed explanations of both negative as well as positive experiences with a company/organization. Standardization[edit] There are few standards on this topic. ISO and The International Customer Service Institute (TICSI) have published the following ones: • ISO 9004:2000, on performance improvement • ISO 10001:2007, on customer service conduct • ISO 10002:2004, on quality management in handling customer complaints • ISO 10003:2007, on dispute resolution • ISO 10004:2012, on monitoring and measuring • The International Customer Service Standard (TICSS) • CCQA Customer Care Standard (Care Quality Alliance) www.CCQA.org.uk There is also an Information Technology service management standard: ISO/IEC 20000:2005. Its first part concerns specifications and its second part the code of practice Some have argued [8] that the quality and level of customer service has decreased in recent years, and that this can be attributed to a lack of support or understanding at the executive and middle management levels of a corporation and/or a customer service policy. To address this argument, many organizations have employed a variety of methods to improve their customer satisfaction levels, and other key performance indicators (KPIs).[citation needed] • Demand chain • Institute of Customer Service (UK) • Interactive voice response • Live support software • Privacy policy • Professional services automation • Public Services • Sales • Sales process engineering • Sales territory • Service climate • Service system • Social skills • Support automation • Technical support • Help desk software References[edit] 1. Jump up ^ Buchanan, Leigh (1 March 2011). "A Customer Service Mak

Never Mind the Floods

“Whatta month,” exclaimed Bai Goanna on the last day of August. “Floods, rain, more rain. And then the government does away with Article 370, BJP’s stalwarts dying, a Major General dismissed for sexual harassment, fish still being injected with formalin, taxi-mafia being tamed by the CM, so many things happening.” “Do you,” said Shri Husband, “have any idea what Article 370 is about?” To my, and definitely to Shri Husband’s, surprise, Bai Goanna could tell us the pluses, minuses and in-betweens of whatever has happened in Jammu and Kashmir and Ladakh, what is likely to happen and the pros and cons of the Parliament’s most controversial recent decision regarding that region/ State/Union Territory. Before we could react, she explained that she’d been watching a lot of television lately and hence her knowledge of current events. Ah, technology, keeps everybody informed, stupid or intelligent, illiterate or schooled… What would we do without television crews sitting in Army boats? Does it occur to anyone that the Press guys might actually be hampering work? I remember, during the tsunami rescue operations in Tamil Nadu, reporters had to be given shelter, food, whatnot by the public servants (cops, municipality workers): they were coming the way of the real rescue teams. Also, spiritual-messengers from modern ashrams teaching the distraught to de-stress when what the ‘victims’ needed was drinking water, food, dry clothes, preventive (allopathic) medicines and sanitary napkins. …Bai Goanna was quoting leaders, writers, politicians, historians… pat! Shri Husband and I almost simultaneously vocally agreed on one thing: “We have to thank the electricity department of Goa and Saligao-Porvorim in particular, for keeping the facility going come storm or blocked drain-water.” Shri Husband took the first breath and asked me: “What does blocked-drain-water mean?” He’s the only one in India who’d ask such a question. And my grammar-Miss in school. Then, having successfully irritated me, he said: “I’m joking, re. Really, the light-men and the water-men did a fantastic job, hanh. So, also, the fire-men and the poder.” Truly, our village, marooned by the Guirim flood and the Porvorim traffic, was not much inconvenienced thanks to the utility men. Except for the one day when the government of Goa declared a holiday, come hell or high water, our teachers and students made their way to school for exams, sometimes wet, but always smiling. The scowls were more on the faces of habitual cribbers, more to do with in-house politics, less with Nature’s fury. In cities, the municipality workers who are the world’s greatest shirkers, according to some, rose to the occasion to clean up whatever mess they could. A question of too little too late, perhaps, but they did it. In our village, the postman and the gas-delivery chaps did their work with a sense of duty-is-duty. Valor, guys. No vegetables bothered my wado as, a rarity in Goa, it’s a vegetarian wado. Please note, I do not use the juvenile word, veggie; always the full forms, vegetables and vegetarian. The nustekar, too, unfailingly made his rounds to supply ‘fish-food’, as English-speaking Goans say, to us ‘fishies’ (like ‘veggies’). Formalin-laced or not, it’s a treat to eat tisrya-ek-shipi with hot rice and bhindi-solan kodi when it’s pouring. Available only in people’s homes. The fungus, the cobwebs, the damp clothes, the sunless days, we smile through them all, we Indians. Now, with Facebook connecting us, we smile into our mobile phones and then share the pics with the world, for those who know us even vaguely, to say ‘awesome’. I often wonder how many of those from non-affected areas contribute to the rehabilitation of losers of limb, life or property. Even those who claim they support the Indian Armed Forces and are proud of them, seldom give jobs or pay for the tuitions of the dependents of the soldiers/airmen/sailors in times of need. We’re still into the mode ‘government must do it’. I dislike this question that reporters ask: ‘what has the government done for you?’ We citizens love cutting down trees, using tons of plastic, refusing to segregate our waste, showing off our bullying talents, and we expect our elected representatives to be responsible. Ha. Strangely, whilst our national media was crying itself hoarse defending or attacking the government’s way of dealing with the removal of Article 370, an important national event, our school teachers were worried about seating arrangements, supervision, answer-sheet collections and marking. Truly, the lives of the migrant junta and we who deal with the daily living of their children, our students, is far removed from what’s happening in Parliament, Delhi. When the new Education Policy comes to us, we’ll wake up. Until then, it’s chalta-hai. By the time this goes into print, Ganapati would have visited and gone. The rains, too. A large number of us, unfazed by natural calamities and other such silly words, would have bought and discarded un-dissolvable statues of the beloved Lord. The traffic snarls and cars that need unnecessary trips to workshops are mere nuisances in times of heavy rains and floods. We in Goa take those in our stride. Tillari and other faraway places are, well, too far for us to worry about. Ditto with forests. We urban folk are happily detached from reality. I wasn’t surprised when a modern, well-informed mother told me there are no Dalits in Goa; her daughter had heard about the floods, saw them on television, also, but her world begins in Porvorim and ends in Panaji, so watching them on screen was no different from watching a movie in Inox. They faced the problem of not being able to celebrate a birthday properly because favourite restaurants weren’t getting the correct ingredients for the items on the menu. In my school, in contrast, the parents are worried about their next meal. The women who make the midday meal made do with green grams for a couple of days; but they did their duty well, cooking it in different ways, making sure it was freshly cooked and served hot. Teachers managed with leaking ceilings and sniffles. Never mind the floods, was the attitude, we’re there to make the school run, we’ll do it. Floods? said an acquaintance, it’s a temporary thing. Life goes on, true. Without safe drinking water, with destroyed homes, dead pets, it takes time, but life goes on. Right? What worries some is the fact that the auto-industry has a slowdown happening.