Warming up to the idea

Why is it difficult to do a good deed? The Costco gas station in Ajax opens at 6.30 a.m. every day. Between errands, I pulled up at the gas station at 8.30 in the morning. When I stepped out the gusty wind pierced through the four layers of clothing. The wind chill was -6°C. I turned around to gauge its direction and present my back to it. As I was filling up one of the four minders (helpers) came up to me. I asked him.

"How long is your shift?"

"Eight hours," she replied. 

I took it for granted this was the work of a man. I could only see the eyes.

"When do you get your break," I asked more to exercise my face.

"Half an hour after two and a half hours," she replied pulling down the face mask.

I could only screw up my face in sympathy.

"Two and a half hours is a long time in this cold," she said.

I soon bid her farewell and told her to keep warm.

I did my errands, but I could not forget the incident. The least I could do was buy her coffee. So I went to a Tim Horton's drive in and ordered four small double double (coffee with two creams and two spoons of sugar). When I drove up to the utility window, he said, "This is Wendy's coffee. If you want Tim Horton's it is around the corner." [Wendy's and Tim Horton's belong to the same chain of fast-food restaurants and is housed in the same facility.]

"Wendy's is fine," I said.

I paid him and thought that coffee is less expensive here.

Then the Wendy's coffee dispenser opened the window and asked, "Sir. Did you order two coffees?" 

"Four," I replied.

"Please pull up to the front and someone will bring it to you."

Why can't he just give it to me now, I wondered. Within five minutes, a lady brought the coffee in a tray to my double parked vehicle. I thanked her and made my way to the Costco gas station.

It was 10.30 and there was a long line up at every pump. As soon as I reached within calling distance of one of the minders, I rolled down my window and waved for the person to come over.

"What's up?" I think it was the same lady.

"I brought you guys some coffee" and handed her the tray.

"Ooohhhh. You didn't have to do that," she said.

"That's ok. I don't have to gas up. Can I go through the lines?" I asked.

"Thanks a lot man. Sure, go ahead." she said.

Even though I did not roll up the window immediately, I felt a warmth spreading through me. In the mirror, I could see her approaching the others, talking and gesturing. Below another cape, I could see the blond hair of another woman.

What does it take you to to warm up to the idea of sharing this winter? Four coffees, less than $5. Any takers?

Music of the rain

I opened my eyes and saw nothing. First the sounds of rain reached me, then the spray from a water drop. Lightning made the room bright for a blink of an eye. I reached down and pulled the blanket over my head ready for the sound. The deafening thunder made me still shudder.

It began to get hot and I pulled down the blanket. I brought my right hand in front of my face. I touched it with the other to make sure it was there. Another drop of water sprayed on my face. If it was daytime I would have stood outside trying to catch the rain with my tongue, and then the face. When my grandma was around, I'd only stick my hands out to catch the row of flowing water from the ribbed tiles. My uncle, Maniettan taught me how to bend a thin falling stream by keeping my hand close to it.

Lightning struck again. I could see Maniettan’s sleeping form on the cot at a right angle to me. I had pleaded for the cot near the small window with thick wooden bars.

“kraadadadadadommmm.” Up went the blanket again.

How could he sleep through all this?

Maniettan told me he worked long hours at the medical college. He even took me there. Quite a few times. Once he took me to the mortuary. At the end of the big room on a bench there were people stacked up. Although the windows were darkened with paint, some light fell through the peeled paint on the person at the top. The person was small and did not move. They were naked. I could not make out if they were men or women. I looked at the dark forms, going down one by one. There was a person below the bench partly covered by dirty and torn newspaper sheets.

“Why are they lying there?”

“They are dead bodies.”

“Do they have names?”

“I could check them for you.”

I never found out their names.

I felt a pain in my stomach. Did I wake up from the pain or the rain? I had to go to the bathroom.

“Maniettan.” My cry was drowned by the roll of thunder.

I waited. “Maniettannnnn.” I could hear the shuffle of the blanket.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“What?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

He shone a torch at my face and then to the floor.

“Go on,” and pointed the light at the brown doors in an elevated corner of the room.

“Not pee. I have to go to the toilet.”

“Now? In the middle of the night?” He made no move to get up.

“Ohhhh. I have to go.” I begged holding my stomach.

He got up and we went down the narrow wooden stairs. The heavy wooden doors opened with a creak and led to the quadrangle. Tiles from four sides sloped down and opened on top of this sunken place. The rain made a lot of noise falling and shattering on the concrete floor.

To go the toilet Maniettan had to open another set of heavy doors.

"Let me open." I pushed Maniettan away.

I reached up and tried to pull sideways the lower wooden bar from its locking position. It did not budge.

"Why is it so tight?"

"Wood expands due to moisture from the rain. I will push the other door so they are level. Try now."

The bar came out. Maniettan held me up to remove the second bar.

The doors opened inward. We stepped down on to the verandah that ran the entire length of the house. The sounds of opening doors woke up my grandma. She came to the verandah with her big shiny metal torch. Behind her two of her sisters appeared with torches of their own. Inside, I heard the youngest grand aunt opening another set of doors and waking up her husband.

Like Maniettan, my grandma also was a doctor. She poked my stomach. How did she know.

“Does it hurt here?”

I pulled at the suspenders of my khaki trousers trying to figure out where it pained.

“It was hurting there. Now it has gone.”

Maniettan had this funny expression on his face. “Did it really hurt, or do you just want to go into the rain?”

“No. I was not lying.”

My grand uncle picked me up and stood me up on the low cement parapet. Six adults stood in front of me. By then Maniettan pumped up the Petromax.

Grandma asked if I really wanted to go to the bathroom.

“Yes. I really do.”

Maniettan took my slippers from the rack above. At night, all slippers get transferred to the wooden rack just below the sloping roof. I wore them and jumped down. Grandma opened a big umbrella and proceeded to take me.

“I can go alone. Just give me a torch.”

Even in the dark, I could see the white washed walls of the toilet. For my small feet, it was 356 steps to the outhouse that had three toilets and a bath house.

I stepped into the rain and shivered. I tried to hold the umbrella with one hand and hold the rain with the other. The umbrella slipped and slid to my shoulder. I caught it on my shoulder and locked it tilting my head. I made my way up the steps stepping in and out of at least three beams of torch lights.

I jumped into a puddle. It was more fun without the umbrella.

“No. you are not stepping out of the umbrella.” Maniettan shouted. They all shouted, I thought. The grand family was watching my every move.

I stepped under the roof and closed the umbrella. I went in, lit the torch and kept it on the ledge inside one of the heavy bronze water jars. The torch rolled a few times throwing its light on the tiles and cobwebs between the wooden rafters. I sat down on my haunches with the door open, looking out at the dark sky.

The next flash of lightning stayed for a longer time. Through the leaves and the trees it looked like a live electric wire from the heavens. I flattened my ears trying to hold my head.

Did those people die from lightning? Maniettan will know. If I die, will I have a place on top of the bench? Will they put me under it? I will always keep the umbrella above me when I play in the rain.

Freedom at Ten

Women think way far ahead. They plan, plot, and gently let their men loose in a maze that resembles their mind! And those pour souls believe they are getting away with IT. IT could be anything from an iPad to an unsupervised visit to Costco or Best Buy. These two incidents will elaborate my point.


Incident One. The wave of Apple’s first iPad mania washed all over me. I cooled my overheated mind to a simmer telling myself that iPad2 will be better. I waited. I prepared the groundwork to get it by iHook or iCrook. There was a major project in my company to introduce tablets and iPads to managers. Being part of information technology, I hit upon the plan of using this to get my iPad. I believed, strongly, that the company would need me to develop apps for it. As backup I thought, I’d research on net books and narrow it down. In case iPad fell short, I could always get a decent net book for half the price. When my wife saw the price of iPad she shuddered. I immediately introduced the netbook and sealed the deal. Without hearing a “nay” or “aye” my pour soul got battered between the shiny wall of the iPad and that of a rust-colored net book. Looking back, I wonder if that shudder was due to a chill in the showroom. Could I have had my iPad after all? My soul has become something in between a flotsam and jetsam after 25 years of floating on turbulent seas.

Incident Two. Some Sundays I get the freedom - the nod to go to an electronic shop or even Costco, unsupervised. There is no pattern to this period-of-enjoyment. This Sunday the leash fell away just before 10 in the morning. In between calls my wife expressed a desire to get two things from Costco. I was out of the door with a leap and a bound. And bolted in right back. The weather woman had me again. She had promised 14⁰C. Gloomy, but double digits. With a blowing wind the day was chilly. I grabbed a jacket and made it to Costco under three minutes.

As soon as one enters the world of Costco, the scheming mind of supermarket chains becomes evident. The size of TVs seem to grow every week. The brightest, sharpest, and biggest in front. The smaller ones at the back. Four rows of moving images on TVs thinner than my eyeglasses. I caressed the bigger ones, turned them around, measured the thickness with my fingers. 

"Wow. 70 inches. Look at the size of ..." a voice behind me began.


"You are not getting it." It could only be his wife.


I smiled knowingly and walked to the end of the electronic isle. Like a pup I wandered the aisles of the electronic section with a drooling tongue and wagging tail. They were offering giant TVs for such a low price. Not that I could take home a fourth TV. If someone was tailing me, all they had to do was follow my drool path. I stopped in front of BOSE speakers and turned it on. Two companion droolers also joined me. I closed my eyes and listened to the pure crisp sound from such tiny speakers. 


I went through the accessories aisle. I can probably manage a $50 purchase without authorization. But I had most of them. Propped up next to the external hard drives was a small black box that promised to stream YouTube directly to TV. That would save so much of time and effort hooking up the laptop when my wife desired to see an Indian movie. [These desires are often a few collection of words, sometimes a “hmmmm”, a nod, or a mere look. I have written a book of codes to decipher them all!]

Next to the electronic section was the digital section where a family was taking pictures. “Do not smile.” A huge lady dwarfed over a small girl. The ten-year-old was sitting on the stool and giggling. The mother explained to the photographer that the photographs were for a passport. She asked the young photographer if he had enough experience with children. He replied that he started taking photos only a month ago. “I don’t trust you. Will you take more photos if they did not come out well?” The poor sap promised he will show the images on his camera and then, only when she was totally satisfied, will he print it.


I moved away. My freedom time was ticking along. The Citizen watch with eco-drive looked tantalizing. So did the wireless pod lights. I pondered in front of the automatic night lights on stairs and dark hallways that doubled as flash lights. The Dyson vacuum cleaners were obscenely expensive. The U-shaped computer station looked neat. At $19.50, the battery re-charger was cheap. I pulled out the snow gloves. Four layers of padding. I always had problems with my fingers freezing in winter. It did not have my size.


The choice in shirts was limited. There were more fleece and Calvin Klein sweaters. Calvin Klein! I took off my hoodie and tried one. No. I will need a new closet to hang any more sweaters. Steve Jobs' biography caught my eye. Just like all Apple designs, even the book on him was clean. At least on the outside. But it will be in the library soon.


When I was in line paying for the groceries, there was a pain in my stomach I could not figure out. As I got into the car, it hit me. I did not buy anything for myself that I wanted, but did not need.

Thanksgiving

I first heard about Thanksgiving eight years back. Of course, I was familiar with the literal word, but never gave it much thought. What I knew of Thanksgiving till then was in bits of conversation and stories. And, till recently I presumed Thanksgiving was a religious festival!


The first thanksgiving I truly enjoyed was in the year 2000. The senior most member in my friends' circle took it upon himself to celebrate Thanksgiving and roast a turkey. Four families met in Hamilton on a cold rainy night. After we hung our coats, we paraded into the kitchen and found our host staring at this big bird on the kitchen island counter.


"I should have bought an axe to hack this thing," were the first words he uttered. We burst out laughing and started clicking pictures of the bird, the host, and both of them together. That day he looked like an unlikely chef; this big man with a brand new apron around him standing and threatening an equally big bird with a huge carving knife and what looked like a smaller pitchfork.


Like a ninja warrior he swooped down on the bird with an "eeeeaaaaagh!" The theatrics stopped as soon as the knife broke the skin of the bird. Then, to soothing Mozart in the background, he gently started carving up our dinner into thin slabs. Although an engineer by profession, he wielded the knife like a scalpel. A trait no doubt passed from his father, a surgeon.


It took him half an hour to strip the turkey to the bone. And it took us more than an hour to do justice that evening.


Over the years my friend fine-tuned his turkey carving skills. Now he can slice a live turkey without the bird knowing it. And I have begun to learn more and more about the harvest festival to the point that I have started drawing parallels, or rather I should say contrasts, to the harvest festival we celebrate in India.

Has Apple lost its bite?

"iGrieve. iMourn." - postings from facebook. Should I say Steve Jobs made 'i' even more personal? As an iGeneration mourns the passing of a legend, will Apple change, beginning with the logo?

iRead somewhere this story about the Apple logo. When it came time to project the vision of what Apple stood for, the creative team came up empty. Steve Jobs who was sitting at the session held up the apple in his hand from which he had taken a bite. That became the symbol of innovation, first from within the creative industry, and then to a whole generation. Did he take a bite off the Apple with him? When Tim Cook took over by saying "iDo" did he have an inkling of the shoes he was trying to fill? The next few months would be interesting for Apple and non-Apple users?

The Butterfly Effect

At the bottom of the bridge over Welland Canal, the overhead sign flashed once. “30 minutes to 1 hour wait at the Peace Bridge Crossing.” On cue, butterflies in Arun’s stomach emerged from their cocoons.

The first time, Arun and his family crossed the border to the US of A with their friend and family. They were pulled over and Arun was subjected to questioning by tough looking security agents. He did not have a job at that time and had migrated to Canada just a month before. Although the friend vouched for their safe return back, the patrol officers flexed their combined muscles. Finally he retuned the passports with a terse warning. Decoded, it meant that jobless people were not welcome; they let them through this time. Arun, Chitra and Arjun had since crossed the border, on an average, three times a year, twelve years in a row. The questions have reduced, wait times depended on the season and time of the day, but the butterflies remained constant.

“Perhaps you should let amma drive,” Arun raised his voice over the din of hindi music.

“He has done this many times.” Chitra pulled down the sun visor and looked at Arun in the mirror.

Arun eased his grip on the arm of the chair. His crossed legs flapped in rhythm to that of the butterflies. After 23 minutes and 34 seconds, Arjun rolled the window down and put the van in park. Chitra handed the passports to Arjun who passed it to the seated patrol officer.

“Where are you going?” The officer checked the passports one by one.

“New York.”

“Why?”

“Visiting family.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tuesday evening.”

Arun had a few theories. Border patrol officers were trained to sound intimidating; they never smile; by the time one approaches the officer a history of the car and its occupants would be on the screen; based on this information visitors would already be flagged green, amber, or red and were treated accordingly; always answer to the point and keep it short; let the woman or the person who can best explain their relationship to the occupants of the car, drive… he had voiced his opinions every time they crossed the border. Chitra and Arjun kept the windows open and turned deaf ears; the theories went out their merry way. Chitra stopped asking from where he got his theories after the fifth crossing.

“You are all set.” The agent returned the passports without making eye contact. The butterflies and Arun’s body parts stopped flapping.

Dunkin’ Donuts: - As one enters the US of A through Peace Bridge, one is in the city of Buffalo in the state of New York. Arjun pulled into a coffee shop. Arun stepped out and stretched back and forth. Bright evening sun shone on his thick forearm. The watch with black dial was synchronized daily with the atomic clock. He watched till the second and minute needles aligned over 12. 7 o’clock. He walked inside behind a giant woman, without touching either of the doors. Chitra was scanning the overhead menu; Arjun was seated and sipping his chocolate drink. “America runs on Dunkin’.” The tag line in white over red ran across on top of the wall behind the counter. He looked around; the place had the effect of an unfinished canvas by an aspiring artist.

Outside, two stalwart women, who vied for the position of Dunkin’ Donuts’ poster models, dug into substances oozing and sticky. An even bigger woman stood in front and aimed a device at them. After a minute, she gathered her belongings covered by a colourful bed-sheet deftly tailored and swept into the shop. With the device aimed in front, her battering-ram-of-a-left-hand banged the glass doors open. Inside, she turned a full circle and took us all in with a small video camera. Arun collected his coffee and made way for her. The bed-sheet had five bands of colours – pink, dark pink, orange, sage green, and white – two inches high and fell over each other over to the ground over her dark skin. She left with her loot shortly.

A thin elderly Chinese couple nibbled around a table. An older gentleman sat near the door. Among Arun’s many talents was his ability to identify ethnic groups. The Jewish man, Arun thought, was dressed well in jeans, red and white checked full shirt and golfing sneakers. He sat next to the recycling bin with two large opaque plastic mugs on the table in front of him. He slowly stood up. He must be only in his early sixties. With deliberate movements, the Jewish man went to the counter and got two pink coloured sachets. He tore them, dropped its contents into the larger mug, stirred it, kept the stirrer on a napkin, held the glass with both hands, and took a long sip. A little more fluffy hair on his face, some heavy padding around his waist, and he could pass off as Santa Claus in a department store. Then Arun saw the Jewish cap.

Manhattan:- The smells woke up Arun. The windows were down. The cool night air stank. Arun’s impression of Manhattan was rooted in images of a glittering skyline. Behind the façade, he now saw, prowled humans and demons from all over the world basking in its neon lights; traffic lights signaled other traffic lights as far as the eye permitted; headlights kissed brake lights; small mounds of black garbage bags lined the pavements; and the smells and noises confused the senses.

“Doesn’t it remind you of Bombay?” Chitra leaned forward and looked up at the tall brick and glass walls disappearing into the darkness. “And so much of history.” Familiar signs came up. 5th Avenue. Madison Avenue; some of the best advertising campaigns came out of this glass corridor.

...to be continued

The cycle of life

On political correctness:- A front line newspaper in Canada posted the photo of a languid-eyed pup on the front page. The news item went on to say that the group of living beings referred to as animals should henceforth be called companion animals. Pets, wildlife, vermin and animals were terms of abuse; the politically correct form to address them was free living, differentiated beings, and non-human animals.

This was the take by animal ethicists in their first academic journal dedicated to animal, beg your pardon, companimal ethics. Now my wife can legally call me a worm along with the so called “terms of abuse” or liberated words from companimal land.

My foot!:- Reinventing the wheel, or the circle of life. Till the time I was 25 I wore slippers or shoes only when I stepped out of the gates. Inside and outside the house I walked barefoot. Once a year, for seven years, I would go on a pilgrimage barefoot taking in my stride mountains, gravel, thorns, leeches [when it rains], hot rock surfaces, and anything that dared to step into my path. I wore a pair of slippers or shoes, depending on the occasion, otherwise. When I got my first job, I bought a pair of sneakers, and have been buying them every year. Last year I bought three of them along with other foot warmers and comforters. At home I had a padded slip on during winter time.

Yesterday my wife bought a hairy rug for the cooking area. I happened to step on it barefoot, it felt really nice. I stepped on the stone tile; that felt nice too. I also read a news item about a new technology in shoes; shoes shaped like the feet with separations for each toe called Vibram Five Fingers and talks about the health aspects of running [almost] barefoot. Do I have to pay $130-180 for walking barefoot?

Don't take it personally

I was brought up with the habit of sharing. In school there were the textbooks, the bench we sat on, the pencils and erasers, teasing the teachers. At home I had to share the last piece of chicken.

As kids we rarely received gifts. On the ethnic new year's day the oldest member of the family presented shiny coins. One Indian rupee. In the present day, it converted to 1/40th of the Canadian dollar. Once in two years a long lost uncle came flying down from a foreign land bearing gifts. There were always more children than gifts.

Peep. Mum's the word!

The highlight of Chitra's New York trip was lunch. Hunger pangs dug in when her car entered Holland Tunnel on the way to a rain-soaked Big Apple. Though it was Saturday afternoon, guide and cousin Shalini found a parking spot on Thomson St. She flipped out her iPhone and scanned for the nearest Thai restaurant.

Chitra led the four women around the block. A keen observer at the corner of Spring and Broadway streets may have seen puffs of white smoke with every one of Chitra's steps. If she jogged past Chitra and looked back she would see the smoke alternating between nostrils. If that person knew Chitra well, she would have decoded the signals: extreme hunger.

Making India proud

1 April 2011. Today everyone was an Indian. The stylish couple who wanted nothing to do with India or Indians waved the Indian flag high. The university intern who reeked of beer running up and down Gerrard Street waving the flag with one hand and directing traffic with the other remained Indian. The two young girls shouting, dancing, shrieking, and waving flags had recently migrated to Toronto; they were proud Indians too.