One of them

One of the thrills of traveling to Mexico and Spain is being mistaken sometimes to be their own native. 

And in Bangalore even after  20 years, Somanna, Proprietor of Swagath Tailors, whom I have known since  my school  days still recognizes me.  No, he does not stop and inquire, "Oh, when did you come from America?" or "Where have you been all these years?".  Instead he simply half-smiles and half raises his palm and moves on as though I had run into him only last week and had never left  Rajajinagar. 

 

Guadalajara, Mexico

 I was traveling on business to Guadalajara in Mexico and  had just dozed off  in the flight when a gentleman across the aisle said, "Ola!"  Thrusting into my hands his passport and arrival card he started muttering to me in Spanish as though I was naturally expected to follow him.  I turned towards him and raised my eyebrows. Although upset at having my sleep disrupted I was courteous enough not to vent. He muttered more Spanish and made a motion with his hands drawing my attention to what he had put in my hands. He seemed to want my help to complete his arrival card. His tone was more of a demand than a request for a favour. I looked at the document; it was in Spanish.

I stared at him closely, discarding my politeness. He must have been in his late sixties. With his dense hair, thick eyebrows and a formidable build he could have passed for one of those celebrity drug lords whom the  Mexican military arrests from time to time while they try to escape through sewer lines.  I indicated curtly  that I did not speak Spanish. He looked at me  in utter disbelief and snarled more Spanish which struck me as, "Is this a joke on me? Eh?! How dare you?"  I was glad we were not in a dark alley of his hometown.

I remained calm and shrugged an indifferent shoulder.  He turned his  face away and let fall a few curses.

I reached out my right hand to give away his stuff back and he stretched out his left hand reluctantly to receive it. It was only then I noticed how brown and how nearly alike our skin colours were. And only then did I realize  why he considered, me - the guy far across the aisle the natural choice to seek help instead of the white guy immediately next to him who looked like  the typical Tea party Trump type.

In a split second my bitterness towards him vanished. The  drug-lord had transformed into a dear uncle needing a nephew's help. I took back his documents and signaled him to wait and began to work on the English side of the arrival card.  I had no difficulty in locating his name and address in the passport and entered that into the arrival card. However when it came to the Yes or No questions on "Are you carrying drugs?", "Do you possess firearms?", "Have you been arrested before?", "Are you carrying more than $10,000 cash?".. I checked the "No" boxes without actually ascertaining from him whether  that was true or not. I stole a quick glance at him. He was smiling approvingly at this nephew. I smiled too, glad to be of help to that uncle,

Madrid

Fellow travelers of Indian origin in Spain are not as common a sight as in some of the other  European countries like UK, Switzerland, Italy and France. And it may also be because they too have a tinge of our own brown, Spaniards tend to think we are one of  them with delightful consequences.   

La Mallorquina

After a long and tiring afternoon of having explored Madrid by foot, we went to La Mallorquina  - the good old bakery in  the good old part of Madrid.  Ground floor  was swarmed by impatient lines of tourists, trying to get the attention of the brusque staff behind the counters  for their to-go orders. We were pondering over the racks of tempting pastries, unable to decide which, when much to our surprise, one of their  staff smiled and ushered us upstairs. We learnt that locals who want to sit down and savor, quietly find their way to the staircase at the remote corner. We headed  above and were delighted to find a place where we could unwind. As luck would have it, we got the table with the view of the lively Puerta del Sol.  Inside there were only locals: friends-only groups  in an animated conversation while enjoying their wine and sangria, next to our table was an architect, who, assisted by coffee was going over the drawings of home expansion plans with the couple seated opposite and there were big Spanish families relishing the freshly baked croissants and cakes. We were perhaps the only people, aliens, being taken in as one among them. 

Upstairs where the locals sit back and savor.

Rhonda

After briefly peeping in the gift shop displaying  made-in-China thingummies, I stepped out of the shop. They didn't interest me one bit. There were a few other men like me who were checking their mobile devices outside while their wives did the shopping inside. I leaned against the wall, switched off my phone  and watched the flow of life on the street. A few minutes later an elderly lady came out of the shop, looked at me and said, "Loved your place! You have such an amazing collection!" Instead of correcting her, I decided to take her complements. I bowed gently  and said, "Gracias!" (Thank you in Spanish) reminding her to have a nice day too.

With Flemenco dancers, Seville

Seville 

Of all the encounters this one tops.  We were walking briskly towards our hotel, having already checked the route on Google maps earlier. We saw a middle aged Indian couple approach us.  The lady in her saree and with her heavy shopping bag was slightly behind her husband. The gentleman, a sikh, with a guide book in one hand and water bottle in another, stopped us as asked, "Can you speak English?"  A little taken aback and wondering if I appeared to him an illiterate, I said, "Yes, I can speak Hindi too".  He looked both surprised and embarrassed and said, "I am so sorry, I thought you are from here!"  I smiled at him and was still able to help him with his question on directions to a flamenco show. 

Back in homeland

Now this is not about colour of the skin but about how the sound of my name makes me feel as one among them at places where I was clearly not.  

It seems my grandfather had actually named me as Jayateertha, a word designed to leave the caller with a feeling of oomph at having delivered  something delightfully mouthful.    Alas, the mighty Jayateertha, over all these years morphed into the tepid Jairaj. Interestingly it is only in Tamil Nadu that I do not recoil with horror while having to announce my first name.  In Coimbatore whose mapillai I am, I  realized that it would be a blunder to use my last name.  My first  name Jairaj was already a visa for being considered one among them. There my name makes me feel as much at home as  brother-Jairajs who are  brokers, barbers, rikshaw drivers, kerosine pedlars, chit funders, and the Jairajs who get routinely rounded up during political rallies.

However in Pune, where I spent the best part of my life, I had hidden  my first name like the convict who hides his face under a towel on his way to being arrested.  I merrily hobnobbed with the Puneris using just my last name. It did not matter that I could not  speak Marathi, thanks to my melodious Maharasthra-border family name, I  was always their "amchya Galagali".

With a kirthanakar in Pune

 

Arathi time at Ramakrishna Mutt

A soothing calmness welcomes you as leave behind the traffic, the noise and Vidyarthi Bhavan  and enter the gates of Ramakrishna Mutt. I suggest getting in there at about 6:30 in the evening. After freshening up, you wash your feet and head towards the prayer hall. A congregation of 200-300 is already seated. Considering  that the prayers would be in Bengali, you look around expecting a good number of dark haired, wide-rim glassed and kurtha-pyjama clad Dasguptas, Senguptas,  Chatterjees, Mukherjees, Roys, Sens and Basus in the crowd, but there is not one Bengali babu in sight. You are instead greeted by a potpourri from all over.  

Old timers here, with  a dash of vibhuti on their forehead are engrossed in their well thumbed prayer book, and techies there in jeans are looking up the arathrika on their smart devices. On my left are women:  many have come straight from work, homemakers with their homes out of their minds, grand mothers with their gadgets turned off, great grandmothers in their 9 yards sarees, teenagers  off of Facebook,  and tiny tots sitting handsomely in a meditative poise. Spare a soft whisper guiding the late comer where to sit, there is an overpowering silence all over.

A life size statue of Ramakrishna adorns the altar and sets the tone for serenity that envelops the hall. About 5 minutes before the hour, a line of monks walk in along the central hallway and take their seats in the front where a harmonium and tabla artist await having already tuned in to their customary shruti. 

Arathrika 

At the stroke of seven the lead monk starts the arathi, ringing the bell with one hand  and circling the lamp with another. And at the sharp cue from the harmonium, the  Ramakrishna arathrika -  Khandana Bhava gently begins. The effect is magical: the monks start synchronously in their healing baritones and the  rest of the assembly joins  in perfect harmony. The beautiful Bengali prayer breaks in like the rhythm of a steam engine, slowly coming to life, building momentum, pacing into a crescendo and gradually coming to a stop like the train arriving at its destination.

The hymn was composed and set to tune by Vivekananda as a salutation to his master. Interestingly, nowhere in the prayer Vivekananda takes his master’s name. You could invoke  your own guru and the song would  reverberate the same sentiment. 

Who is my guru?

Raghavendra High School staff (1975)

I wonder whom to revere as "my guru" as my life has not been shaped by any single towering master. After contemplating on the blessings from our family's gurugalu, I turn my thoughts to  my high school teachers.You won't find them on Wikipedia but  they were uncommon people with an extraordinary love for teaching who laid the first building blocks of a solid education. Most of them are dead and sadly no one wrote their eulogies.

Prof D N Buragohain (1985)

I also remember Prof D.N. Buragohain  from IIT Bombay whose teaching was the reason for ISRO to have happened in my life. More particularly for having survived Dr MSS Prabhu  during the technical interview and during my wonderful 6 years of  career. 

Having reached the end of my guru list, I pause for a moment and reflect at my surrounding. I feel overcome at the sea of people immersed in the arathrika with utmost devotion and realize that I do not need any more gurus to be rejoicing in the moment. I hesitate no longer - thinking fondly about Paramesh and Priya-behen for introducing me to the arathrika, I join the singing. I soon find myself resonating with everyone around, none of whom I know. My heart is  filled with immense joy, a joy  sublimer than even the dosa at Vidyrathi. 

(Concluding part of arathrika, recorded live. You need to stop after the song to prevent unrelated audio from playing.)

Sunrise at Narasukaka's house

Sunrise at Narasukaka's house 

Prelude: Narasukaka was our grandfather and  the most beloved person in our family. His house was (and still is) is in Bijapur a short distance behind the railway station.  This is a  memoir from the idyllic days when, other than one's grandparents' love it didn't take much for life to be beautiful. I  wrote this initially only for my immediate family but  thought this might perhaps appeal to pretty much  anyone with memories of being doted by those who are no longer with us.

Many decades have past but I still vividly recall our visits to Narasukaka's house in Bijapur.   I  must have been  ten or eleven years then. It was an early morning of the Navarathri season. My sleep was interrupted rudely by the siren from the nearby oil mills which blew promptly at an impossibly early hour in the morning. I made a half eyed attempt to come to surface on Narasukaka's cot. He  was already awake and was lying next to me with his face up and one leg crossed over the other. The Bush radio was on his chest and his hands fiddled with its tuner to catch the Dhardwad station for the early morning news. "This is All India Radio..." declared the radio.  I lazily tracked the seconds needle of his Favre-Leuba wrist watch while my fingers tried loosening it's belt.  As I drew myself closer to Narasukaka, the familiar odor that was blend of  beedi (ಬೕ ಡಿ) and Mysore Sandal soap seemed vaguely soothing. 


I could hear the bur-bur of a stove coming to life. Akka (we called our grandmother akka) was in the kitchen. Some minutes later the aroma of tea boiling over the kerosine stove floated through the corridor and spread across Narasukaka's room. "Get up you ಎಬಡೊಜಿ ಮಾನೆ (dumb-wit)", said Narasukaka tapping me gently, "your grandmother is calling you inside".

"Brush your teeth first," I heard my mother's stern voice from inside the kitchen. 

"Hurry up dear. Your tea will turn cold if you don't come soon. You can always wash your face later," akka pleaded. I conveniently ignored my mother's orders and headed straight to the kitchen. Akka handed me the cup and bending  down, slowly wiped the little smudges (ಕಣ್ಣಾ ಗಿನ ಪಿಚ್ಚು) that had gathered around the edges of my well slept eyes with a corner of her saree.  Plump and of fair complexion, akka looked  graceful in her nine yard saree. She always smelt as though doused in a perfume that was made from chapati flour.  Her eyes were large and round and held a ready reservoir of tears.  She sat down and with a glazed expression drank me in with her compassionate eyes. Amma  and Shobha maushi were already up and having their tea. My father had gone to Delhi on some training and both my siblings were still asleep. 

A few minutes later Narasukaka joined us in the kitchen. He was clad in a dhoti and an ultra thin cotton banian (ಗಂಜಿ ಫ್ರಾಕ್ ). You could have passed him for Devananad's brother when he turned on his mischievous smile. I spilled some tea with a jerk and I like to think that it was due to the house cat entering from near where I was sitting.  Finding her way towards Narasukaka, the cat stretched it's legs and cuddled next to him. Narasukaka poured some milk into a saucer and watched with satisfaction as the cat started drinking. He turned towards my mother and said teasingly, "Maali, look how clean and tidy this cat is - much better than your son! " A couple of dimples lit his handsome face as he chuckled "heh hey!"


"Can I go out and play with Puttya?" Puttya was my neighbour and chaddi friend. In addition to cricket we also played "Train" or "Bus" - games that we ourselves had invented. One of us would be the driver and the other the guard or conductor.   "Play now? Are you out of your mind? First change Hemi's  ಧುಬುಟಿ and then  do your maths tables," amma told me in her no nonsense voice. 

"Let him go back and  sleep,"  said akka. 

"He is weak in maths, he must study now akka," declared amma. 

"It is still very early in the morning.  Let him sleep," insisted akka 

"Yes, let him sleep," echoed Shobha maushi. As though this was the verdict from Supreme court that had gone in my favour I ran down to Narasukaka's room, jumped up the cot, and this time edged into his side of the bed that had been left vacant and warm by him. I huddled  inside the blanket  and looked around. I could hear the distinct whistle of the early morning Golgumbaz express heralding it's arrival from Hubli.  Inside the Bush radio Mallikarjun Mansur was spiritedly singing  ಅಕ್ಕ ಕೇಳವ್ವ ನಾನೊಂದ ಕನಸ ಕಂಡೆ (akka keLavva..).  The sun's early rays fell on the stack of jowar bags from Narasukaka's ancestral farms in Hipparagi.  I didn't have to count even five of them; my carefree mind soon melted into the sweet embrace of the early morning sleep.

In pursuit of Rabindra sangeet

Let me tell you this upfront -  Rabindra Sangeet isn't everybody's cup of tea. Unlike other popular genres, say, Kishore Kumar songs, it lacks en masse appeal because Tagore's compositions do not  lend themselves  to be readily unleashed like tere naina sawan bhadon, the way a spirited Kishore Kumar fan would in response to ek gaana ho jaai;  and at desi parties you will invite weird and sometimes condescending  looks if you tell them you are into Rabindra Sangeet. So, I don't. This blog is for the sake of those kind minority who I know would  listen to with sympathetic ears about what else I have been up to these days.

I chanced into Rabindra Sangeet many years  ago in Bombay because of my cousin Nagesh Havanur who had in his possession an obscure cassette of Hemanta Mukherjee. I don't think he was into RS himself, but he had a fascination for original Bengali compositions that had Hindi children. I have listened to a good deal of RS ever since. 

What is it about  Rabindra Sangeet  that I find soothing?  The melody of the composition? The sweetness of the language? The baritone voice of Hemanth Kumar?  Or hmm..that Bengali girl of Hostel 11? I still cannot explain why I  find myself  strangely drawn to Rabindra Sangeet  even though much of its lyrical meaning remains alien to me. Furthermore, I have been intrigued to no less extent by the Nobel Laureate's artistic creativity that churned  over two thousand poems, composing  them into lasting melodies.  

It was only recently that  I was able to cast aside my inhibitions and ask around for a teacher; and not surprisingly enough, for it is the Bay area, a Bengali friend of mine was able to find a RS scholar (that's what they like to be known as) who was willing to teach me.

Historical contexts  below are based on the book - Rabindranath Tagore: The singer and his song by Reba Som and  conversations in the RS class.


RS  scholars will tell you that Tagore's songs have to be first visualized in order to appreciate the rich gamut of  emotions he captured. Like me, if you are not a Bengali, you will have to rely on the threadbare translations before soaking yourself into the melody of the songs.

Tagore saw  human nature in nature's nature. While describing the drag of famine or the splendor of spring, he  projected into them the sensitivities of overlapping human emotions. Reba Som gives many tidbits from Tagore's writings:

 "The spring breeze passed like the whispers of long lost secrets"
"In the plunging waterfall was the sense of total surrender to the inevitable"
"The fragrance of flowers that wafted across were memories  of long forgotten moments"
"In the fresh green of new leaves was the desire to begin afresh, to reinvent oneself and cast off old mores"

Purano shei 

Rabindranath was seven when the nine year Kadambari came into the Tagore household as a shy bride of Tagore's elder brother. She found in her home a perfect playmate in the lonely Rabi. She would celebrate her dolls' wedding with Rabi, quarreling with him for letting out her caged birds. Together they graduated from childhood through adolescence to youth.  Together they learnt to read and write, and together they fell in love with music and poetry.  However, soon after Tagore's marriage,  in her full bloom of youth  Kadambari  died an unnatural death  leaving Tagore devastated. In Purano shei, written around that period, you can feel the poet's poignant wish to meet his lost and unattainable platonic friend. Here is the translation by Reba Som:

Memories of those days, can one forget them, ever!
Can one forget those glances and outpourings of the heart?
Come once more, my friend, come unto my heart
Telling tales of joy and sadness let us fill our hearts,
We have plucked flowers at dawn, swung on swings
Played on the flute and sung under the bokul tree,
Alas, somewhere along the way we parted
Going our separate ways.
Come once more, my friend, come unto my heart

And her memory continued to inspire many more poems in the years that followed.

 It feels like Hemant-da is holding your hand when you sing along with him, like I do here in purano sei!

Nilo Anjono

This song celebrates the onset of monsoon after a prolonged drought. In Tagore's poetry, as observed earlier, rain dances in merriment, clouds hold each other like brothers in arms, flowers feel sad if the bee doesn't stop by, trees bid a tearful good bye to winter before giving a welcoming hug to spring -  nature has complex mood swings much like humans. 

Translation, even if you are the master of the language can seldom be accurate. (e.g., what is the English word for gambhir? or  shokha? no, sakhi is more than a mere friend and not necessarily a lover.) With  fidelity to the original  near impossible, the translator at the best  hopes  to  recapture the poem's ambiance. As another chap nicely said, "I sometime realize the feelings and emotions expressed by a word in a language are like birds and bees clinging onto that tree in a big forest. If I uproot the tree and plant it in another forest the birds and bees don't often go with it. Their attachment is more with the forest and less with a tree."

 Notwithstanding the above I have dared to paraphrase Tagore's poem Nilo Anjono with the help of verbatim translations from my  RS teacher:

The dark shadows of the deep blue clouds 
have turned the majestic sky solemn 
The forest! Restless inside, her body shivers
Whilst the crickets chirrup as though they were her anklets
The scorching earth thirstily awaits
the downpour of nectar from heaven
and greets the rain,
as she splatters her song to the
rhythm of the roaring thunder
The kadamba flowers are deeply engulfed
in their own fragrance of happiness
The new buds raise like victorious flags
The captive seeds within, yearning to sprout
spread themselves all over the welcoming earth,
emancipated at last
And the festive temples celebrate the joyous season
How serene! How solemn!

And here is how it sounds - a recording from our class 
 

Kar milono:

This song dwells on the fruitlessness of a virohee's pursuit.  (And how on earth can you translate the word virohee?)  Tagore must have been an advaiti.  I am guessing here the gist:

With whom are you yearning to conjoin, hey virohee?
You have lost your way in this dense and difficult  forest
Your mind is bereft, void of peace and happiness
Stop searching all around and
Look inside, at the one standing on her lotus feet!
How radiant! how uncommonly beautiful! 
The Divinity shining inside your own self!


Ekla Cholo

The song written during the peak of  India's freedom movement  oozes patriotic fervor all over while exhorting  the listener:

Don't hesitate to walk alone and speak alone
even if  your cohorts cower and mutely face the wall
even when your path turns red from the thorns under your tread
Walk alone, walk alone nevertheless
When there is none to hold the torch  on the stormy night
ignite your heart with the thunderous flame of your pain
and let the lone light from your heart lead your path

Ekla cholo was recently revived  and re-purposed for Vidya Balan to draw  courage for her mission in the movie Kahani  and Amitabh Bachchan's towering rendition of Ekla Cholo sky-rocketed the song's popularity.
 

Here is me doing Ekla Cholo, not the modern Amitabh's version, but in it's classic vintage form. 

2020 Update - Cocktail of  Urdu poetry  and  Bengali songs:

I have a penchant for Urdu poetry too for the wide rage of emotions you can feel  even while watching someone struggle with the translation.  With a friend of mine I have been into discovering  matching Urdu poems for the Bengali songs I love, and the cocktail  has been enchanting (at least for me). Here is one I invite you to  sample after having come this far in my blog:  Ei raat tomar amar

 

 

 

Janatha hotel sambar recipe

"I have cooked for the chief minister Bangarappa. I was also a chef at the Janatha hotel," bragged Shri Gururaj as he rolled up the dosa from the hot gridle. Gururaj was no ordinary cook. We considered ourselves very lucky to have been able to engage his services during our visit to Bangalore in 2002. The mention of the Janatha Hotel caught my attention like a lump of jaggery's  to an ant.

"How do they make sambar at the Janatha Hotel? " I asked eagerly.

"Do you want another dosa?" replied Gururaj.

"Sure," I said readying my plate and transferring my thoughts on the crispy red dosa. It was not until I finished my plate  that I realized he had overlooked my question.

"You didn't tell me how they make sambar at the Janatha Hotel," I asked him again.

"Do you want some chatni?" replied Gururaj. Was he hard of hearing or was he simply eluding my question?

"ree Gururaj, " I said raising my voice, "You must tell me how they make sambar at the Janatha Hotel."

"Are you ready for coffee?" replied Gururaj dodging me again.

I was not going to give up. I was only a split short of shaking Shri Gururaj by his collar.

"You are not leaving without telling me the secret of the Janatha Hotel."

"solpa gasgase haaki sar," was all that Shri Gururaj said to my nagging request.

I could  never learn the actual recipe but Gururaj had given me a valuable clue. I have been trying for years and  my sambar still doesn't taste like Janatha.  What follows next is by best attempt.

Ingredients:

• tur dal 3/4 cup
• tamarind 1 fistful (or to taste) - soak in water for 30 mins minimum
• MTR or any sambar powder 3 tbs
• chili powder 1 tbs
• poppy seeds (ಗಸಗಸೆ /  खस खस)  3tbs
• coriander seeds 2 tbs
• tomato 8 med size - cut each into 2-3 slices
• onion 2 - chopped (not quite finely)
• coconut grating 1/2 cup
• haldi 1 tbs 
• salt to taste
• curry leaves
• jaggary - 1 or 2 cubes.

Preparation:

1.  cook tur dal in pressure cooker
2.  boil  tomatoes with a little water for about 20 minutes , add haldi 
3.  shallow fry onions
4.  shallow fry poppy seeds + coriander seeds for a couple of minutes (taking care not to over burn) and then finely grind using a hand stone grinder with a dash of water  or dry grind in a coffee grinder 
5. wet grind with into a thick paste the mix of: 
• the above powder from 4
• half of  cooked tur dal from 1 
• half of boiled tomatoes  from 2 
• half of shallow fried onions from 3  
• coconut grating 
• sambar powder and chili powder. 
• add a cup or two of water to aid grinding. 
6. In a large pan start boiling everything together, adding the remaining tur dal, shallow fried onions, cooked tomatoes, tamarind paste and curry leaves
7. add  jaggary and salt to taste (how much jaggary? sorry it is hard to quantify).
8. add just enough water so as to bring the samabar to the right consistency
9. let it boil for a good 20-30 minutes in low heat
10. garnish with vaggarne

 

A Desi party and the reluctant host

-A very short story

(Printed in Deccan Herald: February 11, 2007)

J T Galagali (jgalagali@yahoo.com)

It was one of those merry desi parties in America, where a dozen or so families had gathered at a mutual friend’s. It might have been a birthday or a house warming or a pot luck or baby shower or some or the other such party. The occasion is irrelevant here; suffice to know, it was simply one of those merry desi parties, where a dozen or so families had gathered at a mutual friend’s.

Ladies sat in the family room and slashed conceited opinions about the schools their children studied and the expensive jewelry their anxious husbands gifted. One’s depression collided empathetically with another’s of an identical shape and size , and the third, whose children were in college, felt her depression was even deeper than the Grand Canyon. Someone’s decision about going back to India for good the year next was met with someone else’s ridicule.

A friend nudged at another and whispered spice, feeling compelled to point at the moral defects in an Indian artist, whose local fame had been reigning supreme in that easily excitable community. A mom spoke passionately about what children must do to make it to the Ivy Leagues; and another mom who knew all about it and more, remained silent considering it unwise to share her knowledge lest others took advantage; and a vast majority of them unequivocally agreed, there ought to have been strict laws that dealt categorically with all mothers-in-law.

Little girls played noisily in the backyard and chit chatted about Barbie dolls. Bigger girls debated with heat on Tom Cruise and Hrithik Roshan. Boys screamed for their turn at the video gadgets; older boys being older boys exchanged notes on Kobe Bryant’s misadventures; and the teenagers talked about driving licenses, cool web sites, hot crushes, and shared mutual gripes about the nuisance of having to accompany parents on their socializing trips.


Men, having earlier switched TV channels and browsed free copies of Economist and Times at the book shop or internet or perhaps while waiting at the barber's , spoke with authority on matters such as Bush, Iraq, economy and outsourcing. The knowledge they exhibited seemed profound. The insider information about corporate America they exchanged seemed red hot off the press. Their insights on the economic future seemed as crystal and clear as the images from the Hubble telescope. So much so that, Greenspan, had he been eavesdropping behind a window, would have scribbled notes on his cigarette case and called his broker to place rush orders on his privately held stocks. A couple of recent home owners listened apprehensively to their renter friends lecturing on the imminent explosion of the housing market and the old timers dismissed the bubble theory with supreme confidence.

The desi party, in other words, was progressing with a text book like perfection.


II

Our courteous hostess, Tulaza Gowpande (“Tula” to friends and “Tulazabai” to her mother-in-law and to the IRS), ballooned with satisfaction not only at the puris she bulged from the frying pan but also upon the reflection that, before the cycle of obligation fell once again upon her to owe the next party, she could look forward to many more owed by others where she would just be a nonchalant guest.


However, our hero, Tukaram Gowpande loathed all such gatherings and was cursing himself at the painful necessity of playing the amicable host. He loved reading thrillers and would rather have stretched his legs upon the teapoy, treating himself to a cup of tea and Dan Brown’s latest. Instead, he lent his wife a helping hand, or rather two helping hands, for he was a conscientious husband who understood what was good for him. Casting a tolerant smile like a male Mona Lisa masking his sorrows, he went about his errand, refilling the empty glasses with the cheap wine of which he had gotten an abundant supply from the Trader Joe's.


At the prospect of striking a conversation in the nature of even an idle chat, such as remarks about weather, Gowpande’s reluctance resembled the engine of an overloaded bus. He, instead, found it less cumbersome to put on the act of a good listener. He had learnt to alleviate the awkwardness of a pause just at the point where it would have become uncomfortable by interposing an innocent remark or a harmless question. He would then fix his eyes upon the person who wished to hold the floor, shake his head in just the agreeable direction, raise his eyebrows by the correct inches, shrug his shoulders to the precise width or merely say, “really?" in a manner so as to indicate complete harmony with the speaker’s opinion – only Sherlock Holmes with professional help from detective Karamchand, after exhausting their respective stocks of tobacco and carrots could have detected in Gowpande’s manner, a poised attention one hundred percent fake.

Gowpande wondered dreamily when would he see the moment, when that moment would be his own moment. Wouldn’t the day ever dawn when he could indulge himself in so much as simple pleasures of life? Wouldn’t he ever be able to bring himself to reading the unfinished pages of The Da Vinci Code?

Wouldn’t he? He pondered. Why couldn’t he? Or rather, why shouldn’t he?

What, thought Gowpande, if he disappeared now to a quiet spot where he was unlikely to be found and engage himself with some of his favorite things that he wanted to do, but never quite got to? Would anyone notice? Would anyone come looking for Tukaram Gowpande?

Probably not, he reflected. He was already done with his errands for the party. Earlier in the afternoon he had helped his wife with the cooking, vacuumed the house, and had laid out the dinner buffet, complete with paper cups, cutleries and trash bags.

Gowpande was alive to the realization that his was not a compelling personality that caused guests to long for his society. They seldom payed attention to him, unless they wanted to ask their way to the toilet or needed a spoon, which he knew to be an unlikely contingency, as none of the guests were strangers in his house. He knew his society attracted as much social attention as a paper weight. A professor of psychology would have summed up Gowpande as, “a subject, neither whose presence can be felt, nor whose absence.”

He looked at his watch. It was only half past seven. Experience told him that the party would not be over any time soon. The propensity of the guests to linger around for indefinite periods was well known. During this time he could have sneaked out to watch a movie, or play solitude, or visit a book store, or simply curl up and read a thriller.

Thriller! It was at this point while contemplating the possibilities that he remembered the unfinished Da Vinci Code.

Strange, how people, while brooding intensely over questions of extreme complexity react when they see the answers suddenly in a flash.

Einstein, one day, while eating turkey with his relatives, is reported to have risen abruptly and said, “excuse me, I shall be back in a moment. I just discovered the theory of relativity.” He then is said to have sprinted to his study, and just in time before it eloped his memory, wrote down “E=MC2” on the back of an envelope that contained a sharp reminder from one of his creditors. Some centuries earlier, Archimidis, under the influence of a sudden flash on a different topic, is chronicled to have flung out of his bathroom and ran all over Syracuse in an underwear, shouting, “Eureka!”

Gowpande hesitated no longer. He headed towards the chest in his bed room, picked up his copy of Da Vinci Code, and, unlike Archimidis, who had chosen to run away from the bathroom, walked into it with purposeful steps and closeted himself inside. And there in the bathroom he sat, happily catching up with the trail of detective Langdon- the book's hero.

Outside, children continued to make merry; ladies, compared this, contrasted that, playing on each other's emotional strings; and men, humdrum-ing their views on raising interest rates and other current affairs, made themselves comfortable sinking their trouser seats deeper into the sofas - none had the foggiest inkling that their host was not among those present.

To put everything in a nutshell, God was in his heaven blessing the world; the host was inside the bathroom absorbed in the thriller; and, outside, all was splendid and just right with the desi party.


END