Bitter Coffee

It is bad to overhear a conversation but one cannot help if the conversation is happening in the row of seats behind you in the waiting lounge of an airport. And I heard this conversation in Hyderabad airport.

'Excuse me, excuse me.' I heard a man say.

The voice was coming from behind and I turned to see whether I was the object of his effort to draw attention. He was in fact leaning over the seat next to him to reach his voice to a woman sitting four seats away from him who looked immersed in a book particularly because she had half of her hair covering the side of the face from him and me. As I had turned the woman turned towards the man who sought her attention, and I turned back.

'Hi, are you from Banjara Hills?' the man asked. There was silence.

'I think I have seen you somewhere before.' he said.

'May be.' the faint female voice was heard.

'Tell me where is your office'  there was eagerness in the man's voice.

'Why?' the woman asked

'I think I have met you sometime.

'I don't think so' the woman said

'What work do you do?'

'I am a consultant' the woman said.

'You get jobs for people? You do recruitment, right?'

There was silence

'What consultancy you do?' the man made his voice louder.

'We are into various types of consultancy.' the woman seemed to give a definite answer.

'Where is your office?'

'In Begumpet."

'Oh near the old airport?' he sounded glad

'No.' the woman said

'Then where?'

'Mayfair building.'

'Oh, now I know,' he sounded confident, 'I keep coming there. I have seen you there. My office is close by. We have done a lot of jobs for the consultants there. What is your consultancy called?

'It is ***** Consultancy.' she was barely audible.  

'Hey, I know it.I have seen you there' I thought he jumped.

'But I am never there. I keep travelling.'

'Oh ok. Are you travelling on work now?'

'Yes.'

'Where are you going?'

'Bangalore.'

Silence

What is your good name, please?

Renita

Nice name, ha ha

We offer communication services, I am in ********

Ok

Silence again.

'How is that book that you are reading?'. He must have leaned over at least two seats towards her that his voice sounded as distant as hers.

'It is nice.'

'Who is the author?'

Silence

'Ok, I think you are busy.'

Long silence

'Those people make good coffee.' He must have pointed at someplace far away because there was no coffee dispensing facility in the lounge were sitting in.

'Ok.' I heard say.

Silence

'I am getting some coffee for myself.'

Silence

'Would you like to come with me?',

'No, you have it.'

Silence

'Can I get you a cup? he sounded like a kitten.'

'No, thanks. I think you are not allowed to drink here.'

Silence again.

Silence continues.

Then I heard her in a louder and clearer voice,' Hey you were supposed to go for coffee, aren't you going?'

I heard some murmur and some ruffle behind me and then...

 a very long silence.

I turned to look and I saw the woman reading the book with more hair hiding her face from me and I turned more and I saw nothing and nobody behind me.

I am sure the coffee was more bitter than usual.

The Horrible Citizen

Climbing up the stairs on the outside, to my office in the first floor of the building, I heard the most horrible noise coming from somewhere from behind the building. It was a harsh drilling sound like someone was making a hole through a metal wall and had a rock in between to take care of. The sound could have blasted anyone’s ear drum and certainly could bring headache to any one in the vicinity.

I was really angry and upset. This was intolerable. I am always against public nuisance and nuisance of this kind? My God, I could have strangled the person who was causing it if I were the violent kind.

There are so many monstrosities being constructed around my office building and I looked around to take note of them. The constructed frames were so huge and indifferent looking; I was sure that anybody’s civic sense was not their bother. The sound was surely coming from such a menace close by.

I looked down and found some women washing vessels. I thought they would know the story behind the sound and asked them about it. They said that the sound was indeed bad and threw their hands in the direction of the infinity behind our building. I made an expression of disgust which was shared and reflected on their faces too and I was happy that my indignation was understood by others as well.

I turned and saw my office assistant walking behind me. I expressed my anger with him saying how uncivilized people were, to be so unmindful of the nuisance being caused. Our business functioned the best in a quiet environment where every sound produced or heard was only as much as necessary.

The boy was perplexed too because the sound was not just harsh and intolerable but also dirty, as it had some vulgarity in it. I made a snide remark about the sound and asked him to look for the number of the municipality official whom I would immediately call upon entering the office, to complain about the crime of insensitivity and noise pollution.

I also debated about how someone would justify making such sounds during the day to keep the nights calm and quiet. I was also troubled by the fact that as construction was unavoidable; noise and dust were part of it, and how I could explain that a functioning neighbourhood on a working day needed peace.

I was obviously distressed and my mood was getting worse. I even refused to acknowledge the greeting of the person at the door, as all I had in my mind at that moment was to find a way to stop the noise, and if possible punish the person responsible for it.

India is like this, I thought, ‘no concern in anybody for anyone’. May be the worker was unaware, maybe his eardrum was perforated after all these years of work, but what an ass that contractor or the supervisor must be! Or, did not the owner of the building, constructing such a glowering mess, have the civic sense to know that his activity should not be the cause of his neighbour’s misery? I had to do something.

Entering the office I could hear the noise even more and defined. It was coming from the nether part of the building. The people sitting in the first room were working as if nothing was wrong. I felt sorry for them.

‘How can you work in this noise,’ I asked, ‘how can we tolerate this?’ I was furious.

The office was supposed to be busy with an important project which required everyone paying undivided attention to their work. This nonsense had to stop. Nobody said anything.

This was the way our people reacted to everything, tolerating every nuisance, be it corruption or pollution – some kind of moral impotence. I would not take it lying down. I would do something about it.  I would stop the sound – this time – for sure.

I walked further into the office and heard the sound more and more. It was like the sound was just a few feet away. I rushed to the room at the back to get closer to its source. Now, the sound was so loud and shattering, that it appeared like the sound was shaking my office by entering it. Yes, it was inside my office. I opened the closed door of the room at the back and the sound was indeed there, coming from the heavy duty drill which was boring a hole in the wall.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ I asked, almost trying to shout over the sound of the drill.

The office-in-charge came running out and said ‘Sir, it is you who asked to move the air-conditioner to the corner of the wall and these are the service people.’

The equipment had to be moved since it was causing a problem as the waft of the air from it was troubling the people who worked in that room. I wanted it done without delay and today. It was being done.

I walked out of the room and out of the office, into the open air, still unable to espace the sound that was all pervading at that moment. 

The Second Coming

Going to college in Kodag was a journey of experiences. I had to travel about fifty kilometers by bus traversing the arduous terrain and reach the college, definitely not missing to account the mile long walk to the bus stop.

In those days it was interesting to travel in buses for long distances with a sheet of rain constantly hitting against the tarpaulin covering the windows and the warm human huddle inside. The bus would move slowly and the journey would be always longer than necessary with infinite number of stops owing to people stopping the bus sometimes every hundred metres to get in or get down at a place nearest to their homes, avoiding slush and dirt on the roadside.

I used to always manage to get a seat and also play custodian for seats for my friends and teachers when they got into the bus along the way. To get a  seat in an almost always crowded bus is not an easy job. All that it took was a kerchief or a bag or an umbrella during the rainy season. You could even just slip any of these through the window and if it fell on the seat then the seat was yours for the journey. That was the unwritten rule.

In my experience there were no disputes ever, unless you had put your seat-booking object on the seat of a person who was on an onward journey but had temporarily vacated his seat for a brief recess. The code was followed to such an extent that people would even stand stuffed in a broken back position while a seat waited for someone who had put a pen on it.

It was a routine that I was used to. Since I had classes almost every day of the year, particularly because I was in plus two and ensuring more classes was a way by which the college gave out a signal that it was serious with the exams that we were supposed to write, I could have done this routine in a state of deep sleep.

The day started with me almost always getting up a good half hour later than the set time, in most cases with a good shower of scolding from my mother and hurrying to the wash room that was almost always occupied and then wearing the clothes that was kept ready by the doting mother, who I had to be extra nice to, to enjoy a hassle free life. \

I went by the radio at home and the radio was always on. It was a time when the tv signals did not reach the remote corner of my existence. The radio functioned on both electricity and battery. When power was cut off, which as more often, the battery mode got switched on and all the set programs on the radio would play as definitely as the markings on a clock. That is one thing about the government radio, the programs start on time. While I woke up for an advice on the radio, and brushed my teeth for the English news, and bathed during the counseling for farmers, got dressed during the Kannada news and picked up my bags and paraphernalia during the songs, it was time for me to run when the Sanskrit news started.

It took me exactly under seven minutes to reach the bus stop and there were very few occasions when I walked to the bus. I was so certain of the bus and the bus was so certain of me. The bus turned a corner and I saw it, as always, every day and if I was late the driver would wait even upto a minute. That is the relationship one builds in a routine in addition to the routine being a synonym of boredom.

From the stop in the next small town the bus provided enough opportunity for someone to keep the seats reserved. Though now I would think of it as unfair, in the days of everything seen as a challenge and achievement , even something as being able to keep seats reserved for one’s friends indeed looked like no small deal.

I regularly kept seats ready for a teacher, and five friends in different towns. In some cases I would allow some people to sit with the warning that they had to let go of the seats the moment my wards boarded the bus. Everyone obliged, perhaps only to not get into a tussle with a 17 year old brat.

I remember the long journeys spent with the teacher when in the sparse light seeping into the bus, I would read from books and discuss literature, endlessly. But that was only when the teacher was in a good mood and also when I did not have a reason to escape her attention in the class, during the day. A good relationship in the bus certain helped in maintaining diplomacy in the class. An excuse was easily swallowed by even a tough teacher like her.

One rainy season, I had started keeping seat for a senior student in college, who was polite and affable. He always greeted me with a smile and exchanged pleasantries on boarding the bus. I confirmed to myself about the eligibility of this person to get a bona fide seat from me, and after a few days more, one day, I offered the seat to him. He traveled in the bus only till the next town because he said that he had to every day collect some stuff to be delivered on the way before continuing the onward journey to college.

This went on for almost a month. Every day, him getting into the bus, me giving him the seat next to me, us talking about the college and the lecturers and about other seniors of mine who were his classmates, and then him getting down in the town midway. This was a company I looked forward to every day. We never spoke anything personal and in spite of being most curious, I did not volunteer to know beyond what mattered in the journey.

It was a Monday and as usual I was ready with my seats and even some friends and a teacher were already in and settled. I waited for the stop where my friend would get in. The bus was crowded. The bus stopped at his stop and people got in and the bus moved. I craned my neck looking for my friend. He was nowhere to be seen. I stood up. This guy was tall enough to be visible so I knew that he could be seen even in a crowded bus. He was not to be seen anywhere. I raised myself on the bar behind the seat in front me and looked. I caught a glimpse of him standing on the footboard.

Silly guy, why was he standing on the footboard when I had a decent seat waiting for him! I waved at him and he looked in my direction and expressed a blank stare. I frantically called him to come, I called his name. He did not move. This was bad. I was hurt. Why was this bloody guy behaving like this, was he mad? It looked like he avoided me. Forget about avoiding me, he behaved like he did not even know me. Could it be that he was in a bad mood and early morning was not the time for friendship. I was sad but I did not do much. I sat in my seat and got lost in my own world.

The next day I was more eager. This time he moved a little closer to my seat but did not take the seat, though I offered earnestly. I asked him what was wrong, he did not reply. Today he smiled a bit but was serious otherwise. My mind was working overtime. Why was he not speaking, what bloody thing was wrong? I was more confused than anything else.

This is the way the world is, I decided. I ran the most of my memory with him through my moral scanner to see if I had said or done anything that would have warranted such behaviour from him. Nothing that I could remember, and even so what could have I said or done that could make a person go so cold and dry with me. If he did not like to be my friend he would have avoided me or turned away from me. But, why was this guy just not talking, and behaving like a complete stranger?

I spent a sleepless night, thinking about the whole saga and my helplessness to find a plausible explanation. I woke up a little late the next morning and had to rush through the chores. It did not miss my mind to remember again about the pain of losing a friend, and more so when someone considered a friend suddenly became a stranger. I decided that it was time to move on and to take this too as a lesson in life. It pricked my conscience so hard that I even started thinking whether it was time to stop being good to anyone and consider anyone a friend at all. But for now, I decided to put it behind me and to think of better things. And finally, I was firm that for at least some time I would stop keeping seats and stands for anyone.

When I reached the bus stop the bus had been waiting. Look, another example of someone doing something for someone, out of the way. I got into the bus but not before thanking the driver with a wave at him, which he rightly acknowledged. I sat on my usual seat by the window and continued a quiet journey. As the bus stop where my moral anguish would commence I stayed motionless to avoid looking around. The bus continued its journey. It is common to make mistakes and I too committed mistakes and this time inadvertently looked around. Before I realized my mistake I saw this fellow, my former friend, standing leaning to the pole behind my seat. I looked at him and he looked at me. The same cold gaze but this time from both sides. I immediately turned back and looked out of the window and in a few moments had forgotten him. He was out and done.

I felt a strange sense of peace. Throwing him out of my mind and my own suffering at being treated badly was forgotten. Mind can make peace with itself and time heals. These are not cosmic secrets, I am sure, but mechanisms that we perhaps forget to put to use.

The next day the day started as usual, fresher and brighter. I was in the bus and the innards of the bus was full choc o bloc. In the town next to my stop an old friend got into the bus and sat next to me. We had a good chat and discussed many things as he went to college in a city and of course there were a million things I wanted to know. I did not even notice all the stops the bus stopped at and was brought out of my chatter mode only when someone tapped on my shoulder.

I was shocked and angry. The friend who had become a stranger was bending over my seat and had placed his hand on my shoulder. He had a broad smile on his face. “How are you?” he asked. What would I say? I had the urge to say “Yes, look I have become an asshole and how does it make you feel?”, but I didn’t say anything.

I turned my face and continued my conversation with my friend. The stranger, tapped on my shoulder again. I ignored, but my friend from the city was now curious. He looked at me in askance and I ignored that too and continued to talk about something else.

The fellow was calling my name now. I looked at him and since I had no reason to consider him as anything but as someone who needed urgent medical attention in a medical facility, I raised my finger to my mouth and signaled him to keep quiet. I could have hit him, if that was the right thing to do. What did he think of me?  I did not want to be part of his games.

There was another tap on my shoulder and now I was really irritated. I did not want any truck with him. When the tapping continued I threw my last glance at him, almost meaning that one more tap and he it would be a war.

“Let me please explain to you” he said. With my friend sitting next to me feeling uncomfortable, I thought I could put this off for a while and told the stranger “Ok, let us talk later.” He looked serious and looked like he was going to indeed give me an explanation for his folly and antics.

My friend from the city regaled me with his stories about his college and his life in the city. It was like a breath of fresh air in the already stagnant routine life.

In a few minutes, my friend got ready to disembark from the bus since the bus was reaching the town he was to go to.

As he was getting up and going out I saw my friend turned foe trying to get into the space. I hurried to see if I could get someone else to sit there, but by then this guy had already put his bag and the seat was reserved. Since the unwritten rule had to be followed, I kept quiet. He came and sat next to me with a heavy thud. The thud itself sounded like a sigh and it took my peace away.

I sat motionless. I could feel that he was looking at me. What was there to look? What was there to speak? What was there to be understood? I would not speak to this guy ever. That was my decision.

“Hey, I know, why you feel like this.” He said. “ This is not just you, so many people feel like that and many have stopped talking to me after that”

Oh what a thing, so he is crazy and he behaves like that once in a while and the whole world should understand. How funny. I am not amused, Sir. I rattled off in my mind but did not speak a word.

“I am sure you will not forgive me, but I cannot be sorry too” he continued “because I have not done any mistake”

No, Sir. You did not do any mistake at all, it is my bloody fault, I thought you were a friend and thought that I would be treated like one. Can I please punch you in your face and pay back, please?

“I know you will not understand but I want you to know the truth, though it is hard to believe”

Come on, of course it must be some earth shattering truth about amnesia, some split personality, some possession something, I am sure. Do I look like a sitting duck? The only audience in a freak show, the only person you found to regale for your circus?

“Please believe me” he said, pleading, but with a smile on the face. I was looking at him now, like I was going to listen to the last words from him.

“It was not me.” He said in a soft voice.

“Yes, I know it was your ghost.” I spoke for the first time.

“Not my ghost, but my brother, my twin.” He sounded like he had said this so many times. “Didn’t you notice that he had a different hair style? That is the only thing that is different. He is my identical twin and everyone mistakes him for me and me for him. This has been happening from my out childhood.”

I was just looking at him.

“You believe it sometimes even our mother gets confused when she sees us from a distance. We have stopped explaining to people. That is the reason he goes to a college in a different direction altogether. Last three days I was unwell and you know I need to reach something to a shop every day in the next town. Since I could not go he came in my place. I am sorry I had not told you earlier about my brother. I am sorry.

“But he could have told me?” I protested.

“Yes, but he has to do it so often, explaining to people and people think it is funny. If he starts speaking to them, they will talk things only that I know and he ends up looking like a fool. So, he does not even open his mouth when people seem to recognize him and when he does not recognize them. I am more outgoing and I can handle it better, but he is more reserved in behaviour and disposition and he finds it difficult. I cannot say anything more, but I hope you understand.

I had nothing to say. I understood. I also understood that how it was not him but my overactive mind that had given me the double trouble which most often perhaps is the cause of everyone’s misery.

Lost, for sure.

I am not very comfortable when I am asked to check in my luggage at airports. That is the precise reason I travel light and most often I end up buying clothes in the places I visit. It is just those few extra tiring and anxious minutes that you need to spend at the conveyor belt that makes me avoid checking in my baggage.

I had also heard from many that sometimes it is the most comfortable thing to do because once you checked in your luggage you were free to roam about the airport, go hands free to the security check point and then even saunter into the toilet with a free hand and heart, if need be.

Traveling to Coimbatore recently for some reason on the spur of the moment, I asked the lady at the check-in counter to take my luggage in. She looked like she was glad with the additional job. As my bag went in on the black belt my heart started sinking. Anyway, you need to try things once in a while. It is not that I have never done this before, but those times before when I put the luggage for check-in were justified because then I had the kind and size of luggage that could certainly not go into the cabin even if I wished to take it with me.

This short flight to Coimbatore was safe. Since I knew that the airport in Coimbatore is a small one compared to the ones with many many conveyor belts where one had to scurry around looking for the luggage in the arrival area, I was sure this airport would be easier. I felt free for once, without the trappings of my luggage around me. Even disembarking was a less cumbersome deal.

I got out of the plane in Coimbatore, walked the short distance to the terminal like everyone else and hurried to the baggage claim. It was just one big bag, and the other fear I always have is about recognizing the bag and whether my bag is claimed by someone else before me. So I was all eyes and waiting for the conveyor belt which was already in motion, to display my bag. There was a crowd around the belt and the anxious ones were pressed precariously against the casing of the belt and looked like they could fall on it and start rolling any moment.

I waited and waited but my bag did not show up. It was a long wait of over ten minutes. Things were getting bad in my mind. The belt stopped and there was nothing on it and nobody around the belt except me. My heart was beating violently, threatening to come out of my chest. I looked around and saw a big crowd of people gathered around an airport official and a representative of the airline company. I ran there. People were talking about their luggage.

Now my heart sank from what I heard. ‘The luggage did not arrive’ the executive continued, ‘it is back there in the airport. It was not loaded.’ ‘What nonsense!’ I thought. My fear was bad enough and then this had to happen to me? I pushed myself into the crowd and now was in front of the officials.

“So what happens now?’ I asked.

She said ‘Please give your address, Sir, we will ensure that it reaches you wherever you are.’

‘How can you?’ I protested’ I am going fifty kilometers away from here and I myself don’t know the address.’ I could have cried, but I didn’t.

‘I shall wait, but when will it arrive?’ I asked.

‘By evening, Sir.’ She sounded cool like it was natural.

It was still morning and what would I do till evening and I had a meeting before lunch and it was important.

‘But, why till evening?’ I was getting restless.

‘Sir, it has to come from Delhi.

My God, Delhi! How did it reach Delhi? I came from Bangalore to Coimbatore and why would the luggage go to Delhi in such a short time? Or, was it that the luggage was mistakenly loaded into a Delhi flight and that was why it would come from Delhi?

What would I do now?

“How did it go from Bangalore to Delhi?” I wanted to know clearly.

“Bangalore?’ She sounded like Bangalore was on another planet, ‘The luggage was not loaded in Delhi.’

It was all very confusing.

The others were watching me keenly.

I asked my final question. ‘But, why did my luggage end up in Delhi.’

Now the executive smiled and said ‘Sir, if you came from Bangalore, your luggage is on that belt’ and showed another belt, still rolling, at a distance.

And my big bag, unmistakably mine, the only bag on the belt now, was doing its final rounds.

I ran to my bag with the thought that it was always better to lose one’s face than lose one’s bag.

Sweet Kitten, Delicious Chicken

This actually had followed my tv show the previous night - I had a chat with an ecologist and in the course of the discussion had spoken about dogs and cats and how it had particularly become difficult for cats to survive in a city like Bangalore. The few things that he told about the hazards a cat faced in the city made me really worry for my favourite animal. Even before the show was over, I had decided that I would have to take care of at least one cat and alleviate its suffering.

The next morning, climbing the steps to an office I saw at a distance a cat lying on a gunny bag in front of the door of an outhouse in the compound, feeding five little kittens which sucked at its teats unmindful of all the sound and noise around. I was immediately drawn to that scene and climbed down and walked unto the cat family. The mother cat was indeed a scrawny famished female and the kittens too were not in the best of health. The mother looked like she had lost all her weight having fed the kittens even the last drop of milk in her body. A small bowl of milk placed a few feet away looked like it was consciously ignored by the cat and her kittens. I picked up a kitten that by now had finished her sucking and was stretching in the sun. The kitten looked clean, a tabby type. I wanted to take it.

I asked the lady who hovered around the scene and decided her to be the master of situation and asked whether the kitten was available to be adopted. She, for some reason only known to her, readily agreed and was in fact for a moment appeared hoping that I would take all the kittens and even the mother cat. I told her that I was interested in this particular striped grey tabby kitten. She said there were better ones and picked the two that were more acceptable to Indian mentality; a white kitten and one with orange stripes. One look at their faces and the next look at the kitten in my hand confirmed to me that the kitten I selected was neater, cleaner and really the one I wanted.

My kitten looked too small and did not resist much. It fit in my palm and I held it close to my heart. I decided that I would take care of it no matter what. But, I did not know when I could take it. Whether it was ready to be weaned, and whether it would survive away from its mother. I was told that the kitten was over a month old and could be taken. I did not even wait for a moment. I asked whether I had to pay any money. The lady flatly refused like, one less kitten out of the house was like one less burden and nuisance. I picked the kitten up and went to my office.

Not many were pleased with my idea of keeping the kitten in my office. Kittens are to be brought up in home. I did not agree. I wanted a kitten for my office. Why? Because my kitten would grow up in freedom and would have all the space for itself. My kitten would be my stress buster and companion in my office. I named it Simba and also gave it my second name so it was official. Though we had cats in our home in Kodag, taking care of a kitten after three decades in Bangalore was almost a new thing for me.

I knew that a kitten would drink milk. I placed a bowl of milk in front of it, which remained untouched the whole day till it got spoilt. I was worried, so I force fed it with a syringe without the needle. After a few doses of milk and glucose water, there was some activity and that pleased me immensely.

I spent the rest of the day or two by taking care of the kitten all the time. The kitten spent more time on my lap than on the floor of the office. My kitten was not very active. First I had to get it the anti-rabies shot and also because it had some infection in the eye, I had to get it treated. It was taken to a government veterinary clinic close by and the doctor cleaned its eyes, checked it thoroughly and gave it the shot too. The kitten had fever that night.

In the meantime I was soon becoming its foster mother. Simba would crawl up my pants and settle on my lap and in a better mood would crawl up my shirt and settle on my shoulder and have a sleep. I had to sometimes sit still for an hour to allow it to have an uninterrupted sleep.

It would respond to my calls and would do my bidding like – eat, go, come, sit on my lap and all that. I was getting attached to my kitten. Whenever I was in the office, I was either feeding it, talking to it or cleaning it. It was too small to know much. I had to make it happy.

Me and my friend went to a pet store and bought it a litter facility, a sleeping pad, toys and cat food. To watch it play and eat and move around was giving me immeasurable delight. It was becoming difficult for me stay away from my kitten. I beseeched the watchman in the building to take care of the kitten and also the assistant in the office was given specific instruction to spend most of his time for the kitten’s welfare.

The office space is on the fourth floor of the building, is quite secluded and is seldom visited by strangers. With very few people having access to my office and the kitten, I felt safe for the kitten as it was secure.

The remarks that I heard about my kitten made me happy as well as scared. Happy that I had a cute looking kitten, liked by everyone and scared that a cute little kitten would end up in someone else’s house sooner or later and all it took was a bag and the sleight of hand.

I started spending more and more time in the office and most of my time was spent training the little one, feeding it or cleaning after it. In fact I feared the whole association becoming an obsession and that is when I started fearing about going away even for a day or two without having access to the kitty.

In between all this some matter came up that I had to leave for Mysore and had to stay away for a day and a half. Even that felt like a huge plan because the watchman in the building had left for Nepal, to his hometown and as it was Saturday and Sunday the next day, even the office assistant would not be available from afternoon on Saturday. This became a head ache. I had heard that kittens could survive without much food and water for a day or two, and I did speak to a few people who pretended as cat experts and gave me an awful lot of advice which I carefully stashed in a corner of my brain.

I, with an unwilling mind left the kitten in the office and went to Mysore. For the sake of the kitten, I ensured that the trip to Mysore started only towards evening much after sufficiently cuddling, petting and feeding it and ensuring that enough food and water was placed all over the place that there would be no dearth of anything for the little fellow.

Through my journey and during my overnight stay and till the next day evening, I had nothing much in my mind apart from the welfare of the kitten. I had no way to know the condition in my office. The office and the building were closed for Sunday and one particular floor though would be open for a few hours, I had no contacts there.

I had every opportunity to stay back in Mysore with friends and have a good time, since I was there in that city after almost a year. It was a time to enjoy and to forget problems and office worries. But, my mind could not be taken off from my muse, my kitten. I was just waiting to return. Me and the others who had come with me; after enough convincing by me, started back late in the afternoon, with my plan to reach before it was too late in the night to see my kitten.

I had not told anyone the real reason but through the journey I was worried about my feline ward being hungry and going feeble without water, food and companionship. I was quiet and thinking. Reaching the city, I wanted to be on my own, so after dropping off the others at their homes, I headed straight to my office. Me and my driver. It was 9.30 in the night. The moment the car stopped I did not even look for the lift and ran upstairs, four floors, as I thought running up the stairs was faster than taking the lift.

My kitten always came to me the moment it heard my voice. I ran into the corridor that leads to my office, screaming my kitten’s name and waiting for it to come running to me with its feeble meow and tiny claws scratching at my pants. There was nothing. No kitten, no scratching, not even a sound. I had made a small hole in the wall for the kitten to come out whenever it felt like. It was nowhere. I opened the door. There was no sign of the kitten. I looked around. I looked above, below, inside, outside, every nook and corner. I even peeped into boxes, and opened the drawers. I screamed its name and pleaded it to come out. I went out and looked in the open space around the office. I looked in the toilets and in the lift well. I called my office in-charge to tell me whether he knew its whereabouts. The guy never seemed likely to love cats, still managed to sound concerned. And I was desperately making phone calls and since I had not charged both my phones, both had their charge completely drained off and the phones were dead.

I peeped over the parapet and called out to my driver and asked him to come with his phone. I went back to the office and kept looking. The lift worked and it does not take fifteen minutes for anyone to come up even if someone were to come up crawling. I was still searching for my kitten and when even after fifteen minutes there was no sign of the driver with his phone, I went and looked down. The driver was standing there next to the car and was saying something which was clearly unintelligible. I was out of my patience now. I ran down the flight of stairs and reached the ground floor and there the driver was standing in front of the grill shutter unable to come in. The main entrance to the building was locked. The driver told that in some way the part-time watchman who was in some corner of the building had come out exactly after I had entered and had locked the shutter without being aware that I was up in the fourth floor. There was a big padlock sitting pretty in the fix and there was no way anyone could even break it.

I immediately decided that since I had to stay the whole night in the building, perhaps sleeping on the sofa, I would reconcile to the fact and search for the kitten to my heart’s satisfaction. I ran up and looked for the kitten. I was crying. I found a charger and charged one of the phones and made a few calls. I was hurt and it was heard in my voice and I made it clear to everyone that it was the saddest moment because my baby cat was missing and it was impossible for me to imagine it gone. It was a little sick a few days ago and though I had arranged for some food and water, there was no sign of anything. Even the food bowl was overturned. A thorough search in the open area around my office showed some scary signs. Someone had fed some biscuits to the kitten and I was now sure that someone had taken it by trying to feed it. My grief knew no bounds. I had to shut my mouth with my hand to stop a loud howl escaping it. I ran up and down the building looking for any trace of the kitten. Who would tell me and what would I see at eleven in the night! I with all sadness closed my office and came down. To my surprise the watchman was traced and brought, and he had opened the shutter.

The watchman said that he had seen the kitten around afternoon and he had even given it some food. He said something else that shocked me. According to him my kitten would walk up to his pad in the other corner of the building and play with him whenever we were not around. I know how people place demands for nice kittens and how sometimes watchmen and maids can easily pick up kittens and deliver them to some house.

I sized his height and width and came to a conclusion that he was the first suspect.

He did not show much worry on his face and told me that he would look for the kitten. He stared looking for my sweetie under the watchman’s table and around the doormat. I was getting irritated.

I knew it was getting late and whatever could be done would be done only in the morning. With a stern warning that I would bring the police and help them flog anyone who stole my kitten, and after ensuring that atleast there was a streak of worry on his face, I left. By then, I had many calls from friends and family members assuring me of my kitten’s safe return. I did not believe them one bit. It was impossible for the little kitten to return from wherever it was because it had not stepped out of the building even once, apart from the time it was taken in a bag to the veterinarian.

I even refused to seek help from God because I knew it was useless.

I went home with a sad heart and a sadder face. My mom who by now had measured my agony tried to console me. I had my heart crying silently. I reached out through facebook for some solace and many posted comments praying for my kitten’s safe return. I just needed a good night’s sleep. I slept. Somehow I had a good sleep, probably also owing to the tiredness of the journey earlier in the evening.

The moment I woke up, the first thing that I did was call a person whom I trusted to do things right, and asked him to go to the building before anyone went there and to ensure that he would wait in the premises till anyone arrived and would broadcast my warning to everyone that whoever stole my kitten would have to pay in may ways for it. The reason was, that if anyone had any other plans for the day they would not have a chance to change it. This guy asked me the reason and I told him about my loss. He said he would look for the kitten. I said it was useless. I was half hoping that he would either get some clue about the thief or some reason to console me further.

People found it funny that I would complain to the police, but I was getting ready with a complaint. I am one person, who has always believed that an animal has as much right as a human being on Earth. I don’t know about other places.

I had concluded that the kitten was gone and was even thinking of how I could fill the loss and the space that it left behind. Then I wanted to call the guy who had already reached my building to see what happened. I saw a notification of a message that had come in. I opened the message and the message was from the guy, I had sent to prepare my investigation. The message read, ‘Sir, your chicken is safe’. I called his number. I wanted to know what I had told him and what he had found. I asked him, ‘What?’. He coolly said ‘Sir, your chicken is here and playing. It is fine.’ ‘Hey pal, are you talking about my kitten, or something else?’. He continued to be cool, ‘Yes Sir, sorry, your kitten, not chicken, is safe. Don’t worry.’

The news was more delicious than any chicken dish I had ever had. 

Love without a voice

My grandmother told me that I would grow up as a zoo keeper. Even I thought so for a while. Not a bad idea, but I did not know whether someone could become a zoo keeper by just loving animals; especially wild animals.

Growing up in Kodag, savouring the beauty of a verdant landscape, watching and enjoying the company of domesticated animals and wildlife, I was being schooled in biology better at home than in school.

My earliest memory of a pet is of Moti, a tall lean dog with a lean and long face. I remember that it was a friendly dog, and it remained a favourite of everyone at home till its death, of which I have a faint memory since I was a little kid when it died. Then came Biligiri. Biligiri meant a mountain of white and the dog was a furry, happy white dog, with a fluffy tail. Biligiri was most loved and cared for by the family. Biligiri lived for years, through most of my childhood till one day it was killed of poisoning.

I was never too close to dogs because of a few bad experiences I had with some dogs in the neighbourhood. I remember the bad experiences were- either being chased by a pack of dogs, to being mauled by another, to being scratched on my legs by a dog that I thought was safe and friendly. All this had made me very wary of dogs. I could never trust a dog after that.

In fact I took to cats. Cats were safe and less eager to do anything once their stomach was full. I was impressed by their apparent indifference and the careless attitude. All the inhuman traits in cats got me attracted to them. A cat rarely bothers about how much love you give it but when it decides to need your company it comes to you no matter what. A cat takes care of  itself and allows you have a non intrusive petting whether it is eating or sleeping or even playing with its kittens. The apparent insensitivity of a cat to your petting and offer of love makes one feel that whatever love you have given is not sufficient enough and you keep giving more and more. Even a small reaction from the cat could ensure a great sense of gratification.

We had many cats and in a big house to keep tracking cats was not an easy thing. So often me and the other cat lovers in the large family, that was ours, waited for the feeding time when a big bowl of milk attracted the cats from every corner of the house. The circular assembly of cats around the rim of the flat bowl with their tongues dipped in the milk on top of the cooked rice, was such a delight to watch. Though the cats growled at each other, unlike most dogs they allowed an eager person to pet even while eating or drinking. Some playful ones even licked the petting hand in intervals between the business of licking milk in the bowl.

Many cats in the house over the years did not die a natural death but were mostly killed by rogue dogs and some of the dogs were our own. It was the most depressing thing for me to wake up some mornings to see the dead body of a cat or a kitten on the yard in front of the house and a dog walking carelessly as if celebrating an achievement. It was the turn of the servants of the house to drag the dog in a chain to the dead body and forcibly poke the dog’s snout to the dead cat’s body and to beat the writhing canine till they believed that the dog had learnt its lesson. That was the only solace to the cat lover in the house to comfort oneself amid a tearful outpouring of grief at the loss of an insensitive but lovable pet.

My love for cats reached its lowest point sometimes after I started showing interest in other pets. Every Sunday or a holiday were days for me to put together a small band of  bold children including my sister and other children from the estate labourers quarter, to go and fish in the only stream that ran in the middle of our village. After a day long fishing trip which was mostly an act of setting out with a cane basket, a big bottle with water in it and a sickle and going all day on the edge of the stream by shoving the basket into the water at the brink of the stream under the grass and other green growth and then pushing the basket once clockwise and then anti clockwise and then slowly lifting the basket to find some tiny fish, a few tadpoles and sometimes baby crabs and some exotic worms and insects.

The day would end with the  bottle full with a veriety of tiny fish swimming busily inside the bottle. Though I don’t know the species of the different varieties of fishes that we caught from time to time, the only three varieties were what I called the colour colour fish; because of the colours, blue green, red and purple on its body, and morante menu, and the common fresh water eel. I still don’t know as what the first two varieties are known in biology, but the last one, the eel, I was able to particularly remember after one eel cut through my hand and escaped into water after I tried to hold it clasped in my fist.

The bottle had to be guarded in the night against the curious visits of cats, lest I find the fish disappearing into the hungry bowels of my feline friends. Though sometimes I would tease a kitten by keeping the bottle in front of a naughty kitten which would curiously look at the swimming delicacies for hours, I always knew that one hand at the top of the bowl with a claw hooking the top and a tug from the bottom would have all my tiny fish flapping on the floor.

The morante meenu with their fat heads resembling tadpoles- but different from them with their streamlined bodies- were the survivors. I had enough experience with them- from getting my grandmother to make curry out of some bigger catch to putting a few in the well, which grew into a foot-long friable variety, to putting a few in the bottle to wait and watch them do nothing. Yes nothing, only if you waited till morning, this fish would have jumped out of the bottle and would have reached some corner of the floor, and would appear to be breathing even in the absence of water. It was a marvel. The fish is one of the best built kinds, and while all the small fish would die in the bottle in a few days, invariably, morante would live forever or end up in a cat’s mouth, if the cat found it lying on the floor before I would.

The stream that was about twenty feet across when my mother was young, had now become under ten feet. The water was slushy and with pesticides from the adjoining paddy fields and effluents from the coffee curing units in adjoining areas being let into the water the first casualty were the fish. I was told that there were many big fishes in the stream decades before and other creatures like crabs, waterfowls and other animals in and around it. Unscrupulous poaching and attack by greedy human beings had indeed left the flora bereft of most of its fauna. We children were most importantly warned about human contributions floating among other things and sometimes a site of such a thing made me sick.

The place I was brought up in was not a great wildlife sanctuary, since almost every inch was cultivated. Even the bits and parts that were called as forests have now completely got transformed to coffee plantation. The shrubs, thickets, grass patches are all gone. But, during my childhood there were still those virgin zones with unseen elements lurking within.

On a sultry afternoon walking on a forsaken road one could get to see a large snake coming out of one hole and getting into another on the freshly cut slope beside the road. It was a frequent event to watch a fox standing alone at high point, poignantly watching the lonely walker. It was a time when there were not many vehicles plying on the roads and the population was as thin as ever. A mongoose scurrying across the road or a wild fowl or hen with company hurrying to some place were common sights.

I particularly loved cows and calves. It was a time to rejoice when a cow calved. Though the calving and the after show were always happening away from a child’s eye, the first look at a calf made most of us run to it and want to play. Calves spend a lot of time at the mother’s udder. Whenever the calf is weaned away and is tethered at a distance, that is the time for little children to play with it, in the watchful gaze of its mother. A calf is good to touch and feel. The smell of milk around its muzzle and warmth of its body are most inviting for any child to feel a sense of attraction. Even a very young calf can be very active and strong. A human child can be easily thrown a few feet away even with a little shrug by the calf.

It was only a few days after I had watched the Kannada actor Rajkumar riding astride a buffalo in a movie. It was late in the evening and everyone at home was busy. I think some relatives had come too. I was not older than 8 years, if I remember right and I had a companion, a child of my age, to play with. He was a quiet child more of a follower than a leader and since his parents worked for us, the feudal rules were understood by children even at that age. A calf of around 6 months was left to play around the cattle shed and the the images of the buffalo ride by the actor was still fresh in my mind. I asked my friend to hold the calf tight, which he did by putting both his arms around the calf’s neck. We dragged the calf to a stone nearby and I ordered the calf to be held still. For a moment the calf was still. I stepped on the stone and threw a leg over the back of the calf. I felt that I was secure on the back. I asked my friend to release the calf.

The calf with me on its back was more happy that the contraption around its neck made by the tight hug by the other boy was released, walked a few feet, steadily, obviously oblivious of the weight on its back. Then it realized. There was a jerk in its body and as if startled the calf jumped, by first bending its forelegs and then straightening them suddenly. The next I knew was that I was on the ground. I had landed on one hand and had rolled over. For some reason, I could not get up. I was screaming. My alarm woke everyone at home though half a mile away from the slumber of hospitality they had slipped into serving the guests.

I was writhing in pain and I was being consoled. My grandmother ready with her home remedies brought some oil and rubbed it on both my hands. I was given a painkiller tablet. By then I had found out that the whole family was setting out to go the nearest town to take a family photograph. With unbearable pain in my hand I still posed my best and I looked nice though with a sad face.

By the next day morning, my hand had swollen. After consultation from the family doctor I was taken to another town with a facility to x-ray. It did not take much time after the x-ray to find out that I had fractured a bone in my right arm. My hand was in a cast for the next many weeks. And that was the end of my interest to ride a calf or a horse.

Parrots are beautiful on trees but for a child like me, a parrot in a cage was more beautiful. I did not like to clip the wings like most others did but I really had believed that a parrot could be taught to speak so I could have long conversations. I remembered buying parrots from some tribal youth for some paltry sum. People did not eat parrots so they sold. I was told that under the feather cover the parrot did not have much flesh and you needed at least half a dozen parrots to feed a family of few. Maybe that is why parrots did not end up in cooking pots but in cages.

My first parrot was put in a bamboo basket and I felt sad because I could not even see the parrot properly behind the weave. A parrot sits comfortably perched on a wooden stick placed across a cage and can sit in the same position for hours and even sleep in the same position, until it gets hungry. I have not seen very hungry parrots. In fact a parrot in captivity is a frugal eater. I was not aware much about the species but I was told that a parrot with a red beak was more valuable and upper class than a parrot with a green beak.

For the rest of this story, please wait for the release of my book. :-)

Future Perfect

It was in the early 1980s. The Commissioner of Bangalore Municipal Corporation then had a guest in his office, a friend from Hubli, a senior doctor. The doctor had come to meet the commissioner with a problem and had the hope that the Commissioner in his position of power and influence would do something about it.

The doctor was  a respected and no-nonsense medical practitioner from Hubli and had known the Commissioner from the officer’s earlier stint in Hubli as the official in-charge of the twin cities of Hubli and Dharwad.

The Commissioner was glad with the doctor’s visit and readily offered to help him in any way; even before listening to the actual problem. The old man had come with a strange problem. His daughter was happily married and had two children. Her husband was employed in a company with not less than ten thousand rupees as monthly salary, which was a big amount in those days. But the man, the doctor’s son-in-law wanted to quit the job and start a company.

The father-in-law was terrified by the idea. The problem was that his daughter did not seem to object to her husband’s decision. The business scene was not excellent and the field was not for people who wanted secure lives. Both, his daughter and her husband, were well qualified and could look forward to a comfortable life together working for good companies. He did not know where, when and why the ghost of entrepreneurship had entered his son-in-law’s mind and he was in search of someone who could successfully ostracize it.

The doctor knew that the Commissioner was a man of influence and was also a person who had an immense network in the business space. He had seen the street smartness with which the officer had handled many issues and was sure that he was the right person to advise his son-in-law.

The Commissioner readily agreed because it was a small thing. He just had to tell the right things and with his overbearing influence would put sense into the person and expel the bad thought. The officer agreed with the senior citizen that it was of course not right for a person in a good job with a good background to try something as uncertain and impractical as starting a business in a new field. The Commissioner saw the good doctor off and asked him to come back soon with the son-in-law whom he was eager to meet.

It did not take many days before the doctor was back one day at the Commissioner’s office. He had come with a  young man with an average build. The man appeared to be decent and well behaved. After the initial pleasantries the good officer asked the man about his work and other things. On receiving the answers the officer asked a few more questions. The man had a big dream but not the kind of money to match the dreams and in addition there were other friends who shared his dream and they too were ready to quit their promising positions. The Commissioner was totally aghast. Why on earth would someone quit a well paying job to start a company in a new field, just because he had a big dream! It sounded preposterous.

The officer offered tea and snacks and lightened the atmosphere as a prelude to the brainwashing session. He told the doctor’s son-in-law about the dangers that lurk in a new field, he told him how risky it was to leave a secure job in a good company, he advised him about how with a good job he was more lucky than the others, he urged him to think about the security of his family and listen to his father-in-law, a man with a high credibility in his society and profession. He also told the doctor’s son-in-law how as an IAS officer he was earning only three thousand rupees whereas he as a professional in the private sector was already earning ten thousand rupees. He promised on the basis of his experience as to how much more as a professional he could earn in his job with promotions.

The son-in-law was determined and it did not look like he was going to heed to any advice. He continued to say that he would start the company and the company would do well. Even the commissioner was worried towards the end of the meeting because he had not made any headway in convincing. The father-in-law too joined the convincing bid half way through with  examples from the life of the Commissioner to put sense into his son-in-law’s head. Nothing worked.

The doctor and his son-in-law left just like they had come in, the old man grumbling and the young man sticking to his decision. There was now a new person in between, the Commissioner, sitting worried.

The father-in-law Dr. Kulkarni’s son-in-law went on to start the company with his friends. The field was new and the risks were huge and the number of nonbelievers and detractors aplenty. The company became a global success. The man came to be known as the face of the industry he was involved in; the software industry. No one can doubt that the father-in-law was in the end indeed proud of his son-in-law, N. R. Narayana Murthy, the founder of Infosys.

In the meantime the IAS officer, J. Alexander, went on to become the Chief Secretary (the top bureaucrat) of Karnataka State.