All about (not) getting late.

It was almost half-past-two in the afternoon and I was getting abominably late.  Although  it was a Saturday, and a holiday for me, I had to be back in time to take Mama at 3 o'clock to Puri and the Sands of Time seemed to be running out on me. I was, therefore, quite fretful of this inordinate delay on the part of the concerned desk in completing the pending paperwork. Be it said that I had arrived there before noon, with all pre-requisites in hand, and had been lightly assured that everything would be over very soon - in a way that made me revise my personal definition of the word 'soon', while requesting for quicker compliance.

The Sales Guy butted into my peripheral vision and made me miss out a lollipop on the desultory Candy Crush game I was hunched over.

"Ït's about time," I said, pointing to my watch. The same phrase was written on the dial in a catchy font and the Sales Guy mistook my icy remark for a display of personal pride in the matter of ownership of such a trendy watch. I have no qualms in selecting this adjective for the watch, for he said it in no uncertain terms - "Sir, that is a Trendy watch."

"Forget the watch," I grumbled. "Ï'm getting very late. Aren't the documents ready?" I put a threatening note to that last question.

The SG remained unflappable. That's what I don't like about SG's. They are trained to remain unruffled under duress; something the common man should be offered as a complimentary gesture on booking a car. Especially, if the company's executives idolise the slow and steady principles of the proverbial tortoise while doing their job..

The SG was pointing at a typed fool-scap in his hand. "Sir, kindly check out the details for correctness before we take out the final print." I could see the end approaching and brightened a bit. A thorough reading revealed that he had done a good job, all details being correct in spelling and in place - except for one small prefix.

"Ëvery thing is fine. Just add 'Late' before my father's name."

He was on his cellphone in a twinkle and this was the instruction he passed on. Translated into English, it would read somewhat like - "Listen, Sir said everything is fine. Go to Father's Name and just make it Late. Do it soon, we are waiting."

I processed this weird instruction more objectively than he would ever have done, even if it had been part of his school curriculum. Would the Instructee take the literal meaning of the Instructor's word, or make out the subtle difference between 'Late' and 'late', esp in the spoken form? At leisure, it would have been an amusing thought. But, I wasn't taking any chances now.

Fifteen minutes had gone by, jogging at first and barely crawling by towards the end. That's the measure of human patience - the rate of flow of Time. I ended the ennui with a resounding and abrupt "What happened?"

The SG, who was absently doodling on a scrap of paper, did a sitting jump. I looked him square between the eyes and asserted, "Your instruction sounded confusing. Please check whether he has added Late before Father's Name as instructed. And please ask him to hurry up. I'm getting very late."

He was back on his cellphone saying, "Why are you making it so late? You are taking so much of time just to make the Father's Name 'Late'?" ... and then.. "What? Ok, I'm coming." (Loose translation from the Odia vernacular). He looked at me obliquely and I could see that he looked a bit dismayed before his training took over. I watched him unruffle as I felt myself ruffling up for the nth time.

"Sir, he wanted to confirm about adding Late to Father's Name" he said lamely and I said what amounted to Yes in about twenty words. He had been edging away sideways and, by the time I concluded my opinion, he had left saying "... otherwise it will be too late" leaving me gaping at the unfortunate play of words and making me feel distinctly victimised.

It was a quarter past three when I finally got my papers, corrected with the 'Late' entry, and left the dealer's - very, very late. My only consolation was that I hadn't become Late myself.

A day in the life of Shady Sid - Much ado about nothing.

Siddharth Padhi

It began as a dull and unhurried Friday and the problem uppermost in mind was the usual early morning debate on whether Today was The Day to kick-start my grand plans of achieving a superior physical fitness. This internal upheaval usually lasts until the conscientious part of my brain comes up with a distraction, the easiest at hand being the newspaper. I could blame with some conviction the crispiness of the morning daily, with it's fresh fragrance and crackling pages for this particular weakness, for I'm sure I wouldn't care about a soggy sample. On other days, it could be a cup of hot tea or an interesting discussion on the chatlines.

I'm not one of those chaps whose lifeline is plugged into an alien system (read -Company) that controls and regulates their existence through myriad electronic devices and human schemes. These individuals follow a time pattern dictated by The(ir) System, and having settled down comfortably into their man-machine-organisation interdependence, really hit it off well. They are the guys you point out to your children, when you talk to them about striving hard to be successful in life. On the other hand, I'm rather loosely attached to several organisations, much like an ionic bond, which is kind of detachable and can do equally well with a little substitution here and a postponement there. In short, I do have the liberty to tweak my program at a reasonably short notice. 

My typical working day may be summarised as: First half- TCS; second half- RBI. All else - adjust. It unwinds as the demands pile up. There could be a thing from the past that can no longer be set aside and there could be something new that has popped up and appears important for the time being. If they are accommodated, it's mostly at the expense of TCS and sometimes RBI and is like a time-share concept. (The Zurd says that in India, given enough time, problems generally resolve themselves. I have adopted this as my modus operandi for dealing with drudgery. It is, in fact, this that accounts for the clean state of my diary).

0845 Hrs: 
Last date for processing the IPO. 
Plan: Get it done on the way to RBI. (Few minutes late won't matter).

0917 Hrs:
Get a call from Gotya. His Dad had been keeping unwell and it was time to consider admission into a hospital. I ask him to proceed to the Kalinga hospital and give me a call so that I could come there directly.

Alternate Plan: Go to TCS early and exit on getting Gotya's call. Do the IPO thereafter; maybe in the afternoon.

1033 Hrs: 
Not enough petrol in the car to risk TCS.

Another Plan: Fill up petrol at Sahid Nagar and finish the IPO thing. Go to hospital. TCS- we'll see if something comes up.

1036 Hrs:
Mama has called an electrician for some fault repair and has gone for her classes. (She still teaches at the University). Now I have to supervise this guy.

Fresh Plan: Hospital when Gotya calls.  TCS- we'll see. 

1102 Hrs:
Call from TCS (something came up). The electrical job is almost done.

New Plan: Go to TCS. Get petrol on the way at CSPur. Wait for Gotya's call. IPO- we'll see.

1118 Hrs:
I'm on my way to TCS and I get a call from a patient's phone. It's his wife - in panic mode.  She is incoherent and the call terminates before I can gather tangible details. Busy on repeated redialling. The patient is a diabetic, on insulin and erratic habits and has probably done something irresponsible. Got to attend to him first.

Revised Plan: Call TCS and arrange for sorting their requirements online, by and by. Divert to patient's residence, which is closer to RBI and on the opposite hemisphere of Bhubaneswar as TCS. What about lunch? (I'm supposed to have it at home on the way to RBI)- We'll see. IPO- Afternoon, maybe.

1125 Hrs:
I'm at the petrol pump filling up and get a call from the patient's wife. Things are under control and the patient is resting after receiving some medical attention. No reason now to rush over. Meanwhile, I have crossed Kalinga Hosp. I call up Gotya. He says the admission process is over. will let me know if he needs help.

Plan?? I have an hour to waste and still reach RBI in time. How about a pasta and chicken wings at Pizza Hut?
                                          ----------------------------------------
In the evening the good wife enquires: How was your day?
Me: Hectic. (I give her a brief outline of the c 
She: Did you reach RBI in time?
Me: Yeah, just about. Couldn't be home for lunch.
She: Poor chap. You mustn't run around so much.
Me: Yeah (wink,wink) 

Once Upon a Letter

Sipra Pati 

I recently found a letter written to me by Minakshi in January 1991. Needless to say, it triggered memories of a time when letters were the only means of long-distance communication between friends – the purchase of flowery, coloured stationery to write on, visits to the neighborhood post office to pick up postage stamps (beseeching the postal clerk to sell one stamps, newer and more interesting than the tired brown-on-white Gandhiji ones), settling down on a cushioned diwan propping the letter pad on the knees with previously received letters on the side, sometimes a cup of coffee to stimulate the connection between the brain and the fingers… No sooner did I stop smiling at the image, that I had the urge to share this papery blast from the past with folks who would, perhaps, feel the same flush of nostalgia.

I was not wrong. Well… not entirely. Minutes after I posted the picture, Sankalpa responded – rendering my nostalgic foray into the past a fleck of dust. I had no way of anticipating the ‘what’ the letter would trigger or the roads and inroads my friends would amble into. This much was true – they did not disappoint me! I thought it was too interesting of a conversation to languish in the bowels of WhatsApp drudgery and bonhomie (not necessarily in that order). So here’s the conversation. 

On Nov 28, at about 6.30 pm, I posted the picture of Minakshi’s letter with a caption that read “Long, long ago… when the post office was an integral part of our lives.”

Sankalpa: Those were the days! I could write a letter and tear it up. Nowadays I post on   WhatsApp and tear my hair.

Sushant: Sankalpa, you still have the luxury of tearing something and that too hair. Many will envy you...

Sipra: Why all the drama, Sankalpa - just clear as you go!

Gautam: Yes Sankalpa. For guys like me & Tariq, it's a luxury!

Sankalpa: I have, for your information, almost total alopecia. And I don't think anyone's baldness is better than mine. That is the problem, how can anyone stop himself when he has a dramatic urge?

Sipra: I retract.... Do not... You have a captive audience here!

Mrigank: Thanks for explaining the dramatic urge...someone else I know in my vicinity happens to have the same trait

Sankalpa: Hi Mick, don't you have these feelings, just after you hit the send button?

Mrigank: Kinda do... although some of it is mildly calculated.

Gautam: All of us have.

Sankalpa: I suppose most people have it.

Gautam: You know best doc!

Mrigank: Not being able to tear your hair is still a few cuts better than having someone's vicious dog set on you!

Sankalpa: Is that what happened to you? Gosh! This fellow (who set his dog on you) has a malignant dramatic urge.

Mrigank: No – thankfully I made the progression from acquaintance to friend rather late in life and so the dog wasn't set on me either as a passing fancy or in actuality!

Sankalpa: ‘Can't be too careful these days.

Mrigank: Some kids grow out of their teenage hormones that compel them to set their pet dogs at people that might cross them – you know how it goes Doc. 

Sankalpa: I will give an example. One doc thinks it is right because it is a congresswalah getting hit. I have told him off. I am going have one friend less.

Mrigank: Graphic!

Sankalpa: One of my college friends (a boy) went to see a class mate (a girl). The girl denied she knew the boy. The girl's father set the dog on the boy. True Story.

Mrigank: In my anecdote too I haven't hinted at the gender of the dog whisperer yet... maybe someday.

Smarajit: Kahin woh ladka tum to nahin....

Sankalpa: Not that time. I chose girl friends who either didn't have a dog or didn't have a father or both.  Did you ever have a girl friend who had a dog?

Sipra: Your process of elimination does seem to have a scientific undertone to it, Sankalpa.

Sankalpa: I know, it made my sample size very small.

Sipra: Very smart! But how did you get access to the data?

Sid Padhi: Concentrate on the dog. The jaw size matters.

Sankalpa: Whose jaw size?

Sid Padhi: The dog, not the GF.

Mrigank: Depending on the moxy of the girl one of those options could have endangered you still!

Sankalpa: What is Moxy?

Sid Padhi: Are you talking of the dog or the GF now?

Sankalpa: Mick is talking about kulfi. I was trying to remain quiet.

Mrigank: Yeah that's better. Sid – when the ice is thin on the lake it is better not to skate on it… 

Sid Padhi: I had to clarify.

Smarajit: It's the dog… 

Sid Padhi: So it's moxy by proxy.

Sid Padhi: I had a dog who had a girlfriend. She was quite a •itch•. Parding your beggon, kister monductor. 

Sankalpa: I knew you would find it difficult to resist. You must have been itching.

Sid Padhi: At the right place at the right time.

Sankalpa: The pleasure of a good itch scratched! 

Sid Padhi: The only real pleasure in an eczematous wretch.

Mrigank: Moxie not moxy.

Subhashis: Moxy is noun.

Sid Padhi: You are out of context here. We are discussing the pleasure of an itch, well scratched.

Subhashis: I am following.

Mrigank: Thanks Subu...

Sankalpa: Why is Moxie better than Moxy?

Subhashis: Your North American usages

Sankalpa: I don't like either. Reminds me of amoxycilin and paroxetine and other work-related things.

Mrigank: It isn't, but someone forced me to believe I was wrong... but you guys came to my rescue.

Sankalpa: So you weren't wrong and no one had set their dog on you.

Mrigank: No one had set their dog on me – no, but they shared their feelings of being tempted to set their dog on other people 

Sid Padhi: All the best with the moxy. Carry on. Amoxy – that which is not moxy.

Baldness, dogs, girlfriends and their fathers, itches and antibiotics, the tussle between the American and British usage of words – this was much more and beyond the expected oohs, ahs, sighs, and the odd chance of someone playing the curious cat and asking me about the contents of a letter written a quarter century (yes… the number is right; the collective us are at a point in life where this unit of time can be used in reference to ourselves) back – but oh, for the many digressions of the human mind!

A couple of acknowledgments and disclaimers: 

Some of our friends gave me a blanket ‘go ahead’ in repeating their statements (thank you for the trust), while some wanted to be sure about what exactly I was quoting (I would have done the same thing). Thank you Sankalpa, Gautam, Mrigank, Subhashis, Siddharth Padhi, and Smarajit for a fun conversation that did test (to some extent) the distances a human mind can travel... and some.

I took the liberty of omitting talk that flowed in between pertaining to things that did not emanate from or pertain to the letter. I also omitted the emoticons punctuating the conversation, which was more a compatibility issue than anything else. The conversation has minor edits pertaining to spelling, punctuation, and the occasional grammar, all which are not priority in a fast-flowing conversational atmosphere, characteristic of WhatsApp.

********

Sports Day Dreams

Mick Das

There is this person you may all know that as all young boys of his age had a desire to be a school age athlete. He had this secret longing to take the podium on sports day. Not that he didn't try - he tried year after year. However the school sports day would come and go and he would never be able to impress anyone or tell his parents that he won something. His parents were quite Ok with it actually.  Because this slightly chubby geeky boy with an unruly mop of hair used to do quite OK on the school's annual academic day and in some other competitions that related to academics.  However the greatest disappointment was that Sports day came and went with different sprints, high jump, long jump, javelin, hurdling, long distance running and many other events and even some hokie pokie ones like slow cycling and sack race and kabaddi, but although he tried, there was always plenty of seeming athletes who were better than him.

In 6th grade the disappointment came and went, and in 7th grade the same sequence was repeated. Even the slow cycling wasn't slow enough, the boy's partner in the sack race usually had two left feet and so they couldn't even scrape the bottom of the barrel. Couldn't make the kabaddi team either...boy was all forlorn and sad at the end.  All the so called 'popular girls' cheered for the winners and this  boy came home empty handed once again and to drown his sorrows doubled down on the next novel to hide his pain and disappointment. His skill set in the languages, science and math did not translate to the sports arena. Even all the evenings playing cricket and soccer with the colony kids didn't help him any on the biggest stage with the biggest spotlights.

On to 8th grade with no fantasy in sight...
Somehow this boy had developed an unlikely friendship with two chinese boys whose family ran a chinese restaurant in town; John and Peter Wong. The chinese boys liked this geeky boy because he was very nice to them and had hung out in their restaurant often eating some yummy chilli chicken and learnt a lot about their family. They had a sister Daisy who happened to be the geek's sister's friend too. So a bond had developed. The boy told his sad sport's day disappointments to the younger of the chinese brothers John.  John was pretty moved. Both the chinese brothers were quite athletic and did pretty good on Sports day. So John had an idea and he shared with this boy... and a plan was hatched.
As 8th grade rolled on, every day at recess or in Physical Ed class the two chinese brothers and this boy would practice a certain skill. Now this skill had a peculiarity in that it has some physics and body mechanics to it which wasn't trivial.  The chinese boys were very magnanimous.... and very encouraging as coaches. Finally they told the boy that he would take the podium. The boy was very skeptical... he wasn't a jock and he knew it.  But he enrolled for that particular event.  Hopefully the 'popular girls' would see it and realize he could excel in more than just exam scoring.

The 8th grade Sports day rolled around with a lot of fanfare. The school principal was there, a lot of the teachers, the usual ensemble of girls and boys and the games began.  Then that particular event was announced. Our boy's name was called.  There were a few encouraging cheers since he was well known for reasons other than sports... but those cheers did not hide the tenor of 'what the heck is he doing participating in this event?'  Doesn't he know this will be embarrassing for him. Two Punjabi girls who liked this boy even asked him to let it go.. but the boy was stubborn. He didn't want to let down John Wong (and his chili chicken :)).

The event was Discus throwing. Some very athletic lads came up, but they didn't know how to throw the discus. They just hurled it like a rock without trajectory or spin. Then Johnny came up and pirouetted 360 degrees and sent a superb parabola arcing through the sky with great spin and came up first place in the measurement.  A couple of others tried after that with little success. Our boy, as usual was called last borne of the knowledge that he was just a footnote to be ignored and humored as he won accolades for the school in other regards. They almost hoped he had left the arena. But he hadn't. He came up and inspired by his two chinese friends who stood there and encouraged him, did the same pirouette as John and sent the discus with spin with the body mechanics that John had taught and the thing flew skyward in a parabola, magically arcing the sky. Not as good as John's but it was good - the discus landed a few feet behind John's marker.  Nobody noticed - this boywas no good on this field anyways. But the event was over, and the microphone announcer called the names on the Podium of the discus throw. John Wong - first, the slightly chubby boy with the mop of unruly black hair - second, and God only knows which poor sod got third. The 'popular girls' did cheer... some of them who were the boy's sister's friends even came up and offered their congratulations. The dream had come true!