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SERPENT FIRE

The board, plain and simple,  hung loosely from a lamp post. “SNAX COT HERE -Rs. 50/=”, it read, with the letters intertwined with what seemed to be the figure of a snake. Ben Branson -BB for short- took a little time to figure out that the board advertised the services of a snake-catcher. At Rs.50/= per snake. A bargain perhaps – BB wouldn’t know, he was new to these parts. The taxi, on its way to the Ashram on a very hot day, had stopped by the wayside. The driver had spotted a seller of green coconuts and decided to stop.

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Rumours of enchantment always troubled him. Ever since he could remember, it was always the next phrase, the next scrape of the bow that promised that elusive pleasure…

But never, never could he get his violin to sing in that extraordinary fashion!  He must have been eight or nine years old then – his father was still alive, and he had taken him to a concert at a sabha near the Mylapore temple. Rajamanickam Pillai was playing the violin. And Ariyakudi was singing, that much he could recall. The sounds of the violin mesmerised him: he did not now call to mind either the raga or the kriti . But the exquisite feelings of pleasure that the violin engendered remained with him forever.  Only the promise of a masala dosai at the Udipi Sri Krishna Hotel got him away  from the concert-hall…

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NABI HASSAN

/Ahmad and I go back a long time, to our first years in engineering college – now we are in our forties -and, if I am in Delhi, we generally meet up around Id-ul-Fitr  every year.  I work for a construction company, and projects take me all around the country. But Ahmad was wise – he opted for Electronics, back in college, and now he is a big-wig in the software industry, travelling around the world.

During the month of Ramadan, for a bachelor like me, subsisting on ‘project food’ most of the time, it was always pleasant to drop in at his home towards the late evening, just around Iftaar  time. His wife was a wonderful cook, and the food mostly vegetarian during this time, which suited me fine, considering that I am a Brahmin from the deep south with strong views on food and drink!

Ahmad was in an expansive mood that day, and he told me NH’s story, between cups of hot tea and samosas…

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MONEY FOR JAM

When Mr. V. Iyer found himself transferred to a branch of the nationalised bank in New Delhi, he knew that he would be in some trouble. He could have refused, of course, but with the transfer came his promotion – he would now be Senior Manager- and that was something that he couldn¹t  ignore, not at his age. After all, he only had a few years to go before retirement, and this promotion would mean a substantial increase in his pension and other post-retirement benefits. The trouble was that he knew no Hindi – he did not even watch Hindi films, and all his life had been spent in various towns in Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. He knew how to handle the idli-sambar crowd, but he wasn¹t quite sure about he should tackle the samosa- chole bhatura lot.

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The Visitor

(2756 words)

Tucked away in the obituary columns of the ‘Deccan Herald’ that morning was a fuzzy picture and a line mourning the passing away of Dr. Mark Arokiaswamy in Austin, Texas. I wondered who had put in that notice: was it Victor, or David, or Vincent or any of the others whom I had known when I was young? The notice was skeletal, only the years of his birth and death were mentioned. And of course, the place of his death, so far away from his native Bangalore. Perhaps somebody had cared for him, after all, despite everything…

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This IT business

Ram Gopal, thin and tall, in his twenties, a cigarette forever on his lips, imagined he was an activist: he thought he had all the answers, and thought that he did all the right things. He knew what was right with the economy, and what was wrong, and how things had to be fixed with the Left. He was always to be found in the right places. If there were the Dagars singing Dhrupad at the Siri Fort auditorium, he would be there, and if Hussain were exhibiting his paintings at AIFACS, or if there was a protest march to Parliament House, there he would be, too.  

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“You are neither body nor mind!”

Bombay in May, 1943 was steaming. The humidity was overpowering, and to Jan, everything seemed exotic: the crowds on the roads, the clothes people wore,  the dirty streets, the  sounds of people speaking a medley of tongues – English, Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati, Konkani, Tulu…

Of course, he did not know the names of the languages then, nor could he tell them apart. It was different now, of course, but then he had spent practically a life-time in India, and how his life had changed!

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Ravi’s plan
Ravi wanted to marry a girl who had been brought up in the South – none of these Dilliwalis for me, he had told his father. She should understand Hindi, sing a bit, and be beautiful…

Vishalam fitted his specifications perfectly. When photographs were exchanged and horoscopes matched, a meeting was proposed. Ravi and his father travelled down to Kerala…

Vishalam’s father had been a college lecturer in Trivandrum. She was, her father announced proudly, a Visharad, referring to the examinations conducted by the Hindi Prachar Sabha. He got her to sing a Meera bhajan. Which she did, in a most atrocious accent. Still, she had a pleasant voice and could hold a tune. Ravi was satisfied…

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Vikram Chopra must have been born under a strange set of stars. He had everything going for him when he began life in Delhi¹s scorching heat in the summer of 1945.

His father, the rich stock-broker, Jayant Chopra – JC, for short – wanted only the best for his wife.  The best gynaecologist had been consulted, and the biggest  suite in the Lady Hardinge Hospital had been booked for her confinement. No wartime shortages  troubled his family – his extensive clientele included all the powerful civil servants in the city. He made sure that they got the best deals on the stock-market, and they, in turn, ensured that JC¹s interests were looked after nicely. JC was ecstatic when he learnt that his first-born was a boy.  And happier still when he learnt that he had made a killing betting on New  York cotton futures: the boy had brought  luck to the family! The family pundit  was consulted, and after drawing up his horoscope after great deliberation,  he declared that the boy¹s name should begin with the letter V. Vikram, he would be called, it was decided at the family conclave.  A daughter was born two years later but Vikram would forever remain his favourite child.

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Gopal’s Farewell Speech

From the tenth floor of one of the tall buildings that dot Bhikaji Cama Place in Delhi, you get a pleasant view of the city. On one side is the villa of the Scindias, its urban acres untouched by the politics of the day. Swivel round, and you see another bit of history – the gumbaz that marks one end of the ‘urban village’ of Mohammadpur. Look down, and there’s an endless stream of traffic. 

A pleasant place for a smoke! Six years since Gopal had left his job in a private company to join this public-sector company, and still he couldn’t get used to the idea that he was getting paid, and paid handsomely too, for what he was doing, or not doing…. 

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FAT CATS

At the party, the talk was desultory. Of how this friend had become a Secretary to the Government of India, and of how that one’s marriage had failed.

Sivaraman was full of his recent trip abroad: he had been to London, and then he had gone on to Boston. At New York, his first stop-over in the U.S., he had been strip-searched! They thought he could be a terrorist, and this despite his fair, clean-cut features, and the vibhuti on his forehead…

Sivaraman was aggrieved, and he had a loud voice – which meant that everyone had to listen.

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The googly

He was pushing fifty now, but his heart still leapt at the sight of young men in whites playing cricket. Nothing that had happened to him since the age of fifteen had ever matched that thrill of happiness when he had first seen his name in the papers.. .‘6 for 32”, he could still read that phrase in his mind’s eye. A fine bag, the “Deccan Times” had called it then, and that was why St. Thomas had won the Bangalore Cup Finals that year, beating arch rivals, the B.C. High school handsomely.

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” But Whiskers has diabetes!”

The house on the hill had been well worth the money: six bedrooms with every possible convenience, and terrific views from every single one of them. $600,000 was the price, but Savitri had set her heart on it and Sukumar was glad that he could afford it. He was making more money than he ever thought he would make – as Professor in the department, he regularly received lucrative consulting assignments, and that added significantly to his earnings.  Their children had moved out – they were all married now, and Sukumar was a grandfather twice over, so the house was seldom fully occupied. Still, when the children came home for Christmas, the house would fill up…

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“Best Deal I ever made!”
Thomas Abraham was happier than he had been for a long time. He was on his way to Bangkok.-  his first trip overseas, and there was the prospect of making a lot of money. He was only twenty-six – but still, he felt that Fate had dealt him a lousy set of cards, and only now had the game begun to go his way…

Thomas had secured a job – with some difficulty – in a company that traded in gems and jewellery.  DivyaRatna – the firm that employed him – was a family-owned enterprise that had been in the business for decades.  A new generation had come into ownership of the firm, and they had been on the look-out for honest youngsters who could talk English well, and came from a decent family background. When Thomas¹s uncle, who knew Sambandam, the patriarch of the DivyaRatna family well, mentioned to him that he had a jobless nephew, he immediately suggested that he join the firm. The suggestion was gladly taken up, and that was how it was that now, three years later, Thomas was on his way to Bangkok.

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A Bakr-Id to remember

MK Jamboonathan, Jamboo for short, was pleased. He had landed a job – with little difficulty, it must be admitted – at the CIL in Hyderabad. The factory was being newly set-up, and the third cousin of an uncle was the Managing Director, and Mama had put in a word. He had the required qualifications and that helped his case. His mother was ecstatic when she heard the news that he had got the job. Jamboo was the youngest member of his family. His father had passed away two years ago and his mother had always worried about what would happen to her youngest son. 

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A cook for the Ramaswamys

For some months now, S had felt that it was time to get his eldest daughter Sumangali married. Sumitra- his wife – had been thinking that way for some years! After all, she felt, Sumangali is now twenty-six; it¹s time for her to settle down. And there¹s Urmila to worry about, too! Sumangali¹s opinion didn¹t count for much: she was a docile girl, good at her studies – she had an M.A. degree in Mathematics- and an excellent cook, and she was willing to go along with whatever her parents suggested.