Routes (BH:D45)

Hari uncle shared his experiences in Ambalapuzha, Delhi and London. He said he never understood why some nationalized banks in India are listed in the stock exchange. Profitability is not much of a priority and these banks have risk free backing from the government. The stock prices stay nearly flat. They just provide another avenue to park your money. But who wants to buy stocks when the interest rates on deposits run as high as 10%. 

In Ambalapuzha, there were only two studios in the 60s . All the women flocked to the photographer who would do a bit of touch up with whitener, black ink and brush. The women would look fairer and mustache-less but at the same time get endowed with darker, thicker, hair on the head. Before the days of Adobe (not trader Adoboli), this three dimensional fixing would leave miniscule hills and valleys of brush strokes and paint that were obvious on inspection. But once framed and wall mounted, the secret of youth was safe.

While working in Delhi, he was familiar with the folks who ran a newspaper called The Patriot. All the group photographs in the newspaper always had smiling faces. Even the notoriously short tempered people appeared positively pleased when printed on this paper. He would wonder what magic the photographer had. Finally, one day, he saw a group photo being taken. These were the days of flash powder cameras. The photographer would ignite the flash and give it a split second before removing the shutter. The grim, serious faces being photographed strongly believed that the flash was the moment of capture. So they would naturally relax the instant it is over. That would be the instant that would get imprinted on film and then printed on the newspaper. Relaxed faces, happy faces!

Another incident he recalled was a lady in Delhi who refused to believe a photograph was hers. The studio was a reputable establishment that even had contracts with movie production houses. The photographer and manager tried hard to convince the lady that it is indeed her. But her self-image wouldn't agree. That homely creature on the photograph couldn't surely be her! Fed up after half an hour of arguing, the photographer said, "Madam, if you can go to any studio in town and take a photograph that makes you look any better than this, we will refund your money and take another photo free for you." She left in a search of a studio that could develop her mental impression.

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Since Amma couldn't join me for the morning walk today, I decided to deviate from the main road and retrace my old high school route to the physics and chemistry coaching classes. The anglo-Indian sexagenarian lady, whose name I am ashamed to have forgotten, used to live around a mile away from home. The narrow side-roads that lead to her home are still narrow. Owing to the 'hartal', there was very little traffic today. 

The road includes a steep slope while going which transformed into a speeding adventure on bicycle while returning. I used to be Sisyphus on two-wheels for three evenings a week.

This cloudy cool morning, there was a young man walking in front of me with a backpack and an umbrella. He was definitely heading to some coaching center in the area for a 7am class. Just as he neared a side alley before the climb, two girls joined him with clockwork precision. This one guy-two girl unit is traditional. The other girl is a support system meant to neutralize any suspicion. One guy and one girl is the much dreaded romance recipe in this society. The extra girl is meant to allay this fear. Surely, he can't be romancing two girls. This threesome are harmless coaching classmates who randomly met on the street, right? 

The object of affection of the young man was the girl walking in the middle. Dressed in elegant wedge pumps, deep blue jeans and a bright green puff-shoulder half-sleeve top , she had a chiffon scarf casually pulled over her head, the Islamic way, as if to prevent all the westernization going from her feet up, from getting into her head. 

The three of them reminded me of the Usha-Chitralekha story from the Mahabharatha. Usha, the princess, daughter of Banasura, the son of Mahabali. Chitralekha, her friend, servant, consort, daughter of Banasura's minister all rolled into one. After an afternoon of games and dancing in the garden, Usha falls asleep on Chitralekha's lap. In her dream, she sees a stunning young man. She wakes up disconcerted. She must marry that man. She confides in Chitralekha who proceeds to draw portraits of all the eligible bachelor princes in the neighboring kingdoms. Usha rejects everyone till Anirudha is drawn. Anirudha, Krishna's grandson, the man of Usha's dreams. Chitralekha then magically brings Aniruddha to Usha. 

Thiruvanathapuram's Chitralekha this morning walking up the steep slope was dressed in a polka dot salwar with the dupatta staying on her shoulders and not doubling as a modesty head scarf.

At the bottom of the slope runs Jai gym and fitness center. The few health conscious middle-aged gentlemen inside were indeed running on the spot or jumping up and down. The instructor, with a scruffy beard and long hair, was making up for his lack of attention to mathematics in kindergarten by counting repeatedly up to 50. 

Half way up the slope stands 'Muscle & Fitness' gym. It was closed this morning. Perhaps it is the same management and this one is meant for people who can make it at least half way up the road.

After the climb, the road drops gently for the next quarter mile. On either side rise palatial mansions. A spectacular, blue and white painted, three storeyed bungalow of a chartered engineer. A house named Kailasam which has a replica of a Buddhist stupa gate complete with sculptors of Shiva-Parvati and Nandi. Water from the terrace of this house was draining like the hidden Ganga falling from Shiva's hair. 

A handful of houses had locked gates. 

In their uninhabited condition, dry leaves, twigs, collapsed branches reign all over the yards. 

Abandoned nests of giant jurassic birds might have looked like this. 

Life-cycle of mosses stained onto the once shiny facades. 

The affluent parents who built these homes have either died or have gone to be with their children in Bangalore, Dubai or Dallas. 

The kids have flown away for good. 

Transplanting old parents to an unfamiliar city with an indigestible culture. 

Perhaps an unwitting revenge for the arranged marriage imposition. 

My old tuition teacher's husband was sitting on the verandah of their home. I had no intention of meeting her in my unkempt, unshaved condition. She had always been an elegant, refined lady. Coming to think of it, that anglo-Indian identity I have ascribed to her might be a trick of my memory, based on her impeccable English and sleeveless blouses.

On an outdoor, concrete badminton-cum-basketball court, few middle aged men were losing weight by playing and talking. The arguing was burning just as many calories. Across from this court, a fitness center for 'ladies only'. 

An impressive 12-storeyed 3 block apartment complex with the rather strange name of "Sivaji Sapphire" stands where a few dilapedated houses in inordinately large compounds full of trees used to stand during my tuition days. I don't know if the Sivaji in the name signals to investment from Maharashtra. 

Outside the few baked clay tile roofed old homes that have survived the assault of concrete, numerous motorcycles are parked together. Shared renting by bachelors possibly. Or a sign of the new tradition of all-day drinking parties that accompany 'hartals'. I am told that this city public craves for at least one day every month of forced shop/school/office closure and road blockades so that they can drink at home. "Ee masam hartal onnum illedei?" (Are there no protest strikes this month?) is a popular way elders egg on the hot-blooded student political activists.

Inside a yett, lounges a big white dog. Outside, a cat piously meows.

While walking back, the fitness regimen was still in progress at Jai gym. "47, 48, 49, 50! Once More! 1, 2, 3..."

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Noticing the '108 Upanishad' book yesterday, Hari uncle said, "I haven't read all of them but I have read a summary of Brahadarankya Upanishad. Most of our modern day superstitions come from that one." 

After the morning walk and floor mopping, I spent quite a while rifling through that Upanishad in search of original superstitions. I found a few seminal ones. It was heartening to see this so-called "Hindu" text specifically asking husband and wife to eat rice mixed with meat of bull and ox if they desired a soft-spoken, scholarly son who would live a hundred years. So those who claim Hindus don't eat cows are technically correct. Hindu beef must come from bulls and oxen. There are other special diets prescribed for other kinds of sons and daughters. I will summarise them tomorrow. Good to know that couples could desire learned daughters. It proves women could aspire for scholarship and hence were educated. 

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On weekend afternoons, when I pretend to read while really drifting off to sleep, the kids in the neighborhood will be playing right outside the window. Mostly it is badminton across the neighbor's gate as net with imaginary lines defining the court length. Loud accusations of cheating and lying are traded every couple of minutes. Ardent pleas towards the honesty and sense of noblility of each other are reiterated. "Enthonnedei ithu? Nee ingane kallam parayaruth! Sathyam nee nokku!" (What is this? You shouldn't lie like this! Seek the truth). The truth dies repeatedly banging its birdie head on the metal gate or plunging beyond the invisible boundaries in the soil. If the founder of Satyam computer had gone through this training in truthfulness with his neighborhood kids, that company might have lived upto its name without cooking its account books.

Sometimes there is 'singles' cricket. Nothing to do with marital pairing. In this version, like in real life, an individual is alone: to score, to bowl, to be bowled over. The batting order is decided by one player using his fingers to denote a number behind another player's back. The one with the back turned, without any knowledge of what the number is being fingered, shouts the name of the player who will enjoy the use of the bat, in that position. I wish political parties decided their leadership this way. Hassle-free, unbiased, quick!

The good old police and robber chase game has evolved to include more in the cast of characters. There is a security guard included now. He is initially with the police but can switch sides any time. 

I wonder how the kids in laidback Thiruvananthapuram have heard about Blackwater's operations in Iraq.