Lost and Found

As I got in the cab and told the driver where to go, I was surprised when he asked me whether I knew the way to my destination. The whole idea of taking a cab is to leave all the stress of driving and figuring out the best route to the driver. How does a cabbie not know his way around? Maybe he was testing me to see if I was new in town. Was he planning to run up a huge tab by taking me all around the place? Anyway, I was not familiar with the area I was visiting. When I said as much, the driver started calling his dispatcher for directions. I guess he really did not know the route.

Finding your way around in India armed just with the destination address is often an adventure. Street signs are conspicuous by their absence and the few that you find have notices stuck all over them. The houses have numbered and re-numbered a few times so the present one or the one you have may not stand out among all the different ones. In fact, many houses have 'Old No' and 'New No' signs. But all this is only good when you have arrived at the actual street. Normally, I depended on the taxi driver to take me at least to the locale. This driver, I assumed, was new to the city. I was sure that he would get us lost. I sat back and decided to enjoy the show so to speak.

In the US, I have got used to street signs that are prominent and the houses that are numbered in sequence from one end of the street to the other with odd numbers on one side and even numbers on the other. You do not have to contend with old and new numbers. In general, it is pretty easy to find your way around. If you got lost, you could stop at a gas station to ask for directions. But then, there are also places like the Los Angeles freeway system which is really intimidating to the uninitiated. With stacked three-level interchanges and winding ramps, it is a veritable concrete maze and can be a nightmare to navigate even for experienced drivers, let alone newcomers. I distinctly remember the time when the middle lane (yes, the middle lane) of the highway I was on suddenly deposited me in the thick of LA's Chinatown.

These days, GPS based navigation systems help us largely avoid getting lost. Back in the days (it seems I am reminiscing a lot nowadays - no doubt, a sign of aging!), one had to rely on maps. Reading maps - now, there's a skill that may be lost forever. I have sometimes seen people driving with a map folded to fit over the steering wheel and trying to figure out their way. A bit scary, that.

With a GPS, it seems impossible to lose one's way. But the thing is, you can be lost and never know it since the navigator constantly recomputes your route. The voice from the box keeps telling you, 'When legally possible, make a u-turn' and makes sure that you are still headed to the destination, never mind that you have already gone a mile past that left turn you were supposed to make. On the other hand, if it pounced on you with, 'You missed that turn, you moron. Are you even paying attention?', you would realize your mistake quickly. I think it is something to consider for the makers of these devices. They should mix it up with the way the instructions are delivered. Otherwise, the dulcet voice giving you directions in a monotonous fashion may end up putting you to sleep. Then you will surely be far worse than being lost. I wonder if the device will still tell you to make a u-turn then.

I am sure all of us have stories of occasions when we got lost on the road. But I once managed to sort of lose my way when travelling by train. It was several years ago when a friend and I were going by train from New Brunswick to Philadelphia, changing at Trenton. I was then to proceed to Washington DC. A mutual friend had dropped us off at the New Brunswick station. We had bought our tickets and boarded the train that just arrived. We were intently discussing something and were puzzled when the train conductor asked us where we were bound after checking our tickets.

'Gentlemen, this train ain't going to Trenton. It's going to Newark', he informed us in a grave tone, when we said, 'Trenton'. We were dumbfounded. How could we be on the wrong train? 'Tell you what', he continued, 'Get off at the next station, cross over to the other side and take the train going the other way'. We had been so lost in conversation that we got into the train going the wrong way! So we ended up getting off, as suggested, at the next station which was Metuchen, NJ. We diligently crossed to the opposite platform and waited for the train. A simple enough task to hop on the next one, you'd think. Well, not quite, as it turned out.

I am sure Metuchen is an admirable place, but while many trains passed Metuchen, only a few stopped there. At least, that was the case that day. We discovered that we had a rather long wait for the next one which meant that we would miss our connections. So we walked out  to see if we could take a taxi instead to a station where more trains stopped. We were pleasantly surprised to find that Metuchen station had quite a large population of taxis. There must have been over fifty of them waiting outside on that lazy Sunday afternoon. I thought maybe it was common for people to find themselves stranded in Metuchen.

Once we got into the taxi, we debated where we should go. We could go back to New Brunswick, but we felt going to Newark would enable us to catch an express. Unfortunately, we realized that we did not have enough cash to pay the fare to go that far. Neither of us had a credit card - I was a visitor and he a newly arrived graduate student. Besides, back then, I am not sure the cab driver could have processed a credit card even if we had one. I had some traveller's checks and had to ask the driver if he would take them. After a brief stunned pause, he interjected, 'Say what now?', with which he somehow managed to convey a mix of an incredulous 'You got to be kidding me' and a worried, 'Am I going to be stiffed by these two?'. It was definitely a first in his experience, I could tell. I have no doubt  that he regaled his bar companions that night with this story. Perhaps even now, he is relating it to his grandchildren, saying, 'You know kids, as a cab driver, you get to see a lot of stuff, but let me tell you...' or something like that.

So we had to settle on going back to New Brunswick. From there, we caught the next train that came by and missed our connection as expected. I had a sneaking suspicion that we could have caught the same train at Metuchen itself, but it would have been too embarrassing to take the cab back to Metuchen!

The sustained loud horn of a bus brought me back to the present with a jolt. My driver had finally stopped the car to ask for directions incurring the wrath of the bus driver behind us. I now saw that I had misjudged the guy. It seemed that he had actually managed to reach close to our destination, but finding the actual street address was proving to be elusive. The good thing was that there was no dearth of people to ask. Getting useful information from them was another matter. One helpful person asked, "Are you sure it is Raman Street and not Rajan Street?". "Yeah, I am not even sure of the street", I muttered under my breath to myself. Another worthy offered to hop into the cab and show us the way but could we please drop him off along the way?

We then asked a vendor who was pushing a cart full of tender coconuts. He shook his head and said,  'Raman Street? I don't think that's anywhere nearby'. He shouted across the street to various people, "Hey, do you know where Raman Street is?" all the while also asking us if we wanted coconut water, with a coconut in one hand and a menacing cleaver in the other, intent on making a sale. After a few minutes of this mid-street drama, with more players joining the cast, and some serious debate on which was the best way to get to Raman Street, someone who actually knew how to get there came around and we were eventually on our way.

The Irrational Card

"To get your gas cylinder, you'll need a ration card", said Raj. Chandar was perplexed. The last time he checked they didn't sell gas cylinders at the ration shop. He had recently moved to Bombay with his wife and kid and needed to transfer the gas connection from Madras. Technically, he had surrendered the connection and would get a cylinder allotted on that basis. Gas connections were not easy to get but having a 'surrender voucher' was all it should take. So the mention of a ration card threw him for a loop.

"In Bombay", continued Raj, "They do things differently. You have to have a ration card to establish proof of residence". "OK, so I'll apply for one", Chandar said. Raj, with a look bordering on pity, said, "Oh, no, Chandar. It is not that simple. You are renting your flat. Your landlord must be willing to give you a 'no objection certificate'. Good luck getting that. And if you get it, it will still take a couple of months and a lot of persuasion at the rationing office, if you know what I mean, to get a ration card. Even then, you will likely get a temporary card". Most people endorsed this view. One even said that it required the perseverance of Bhagiratha (the legendary king, who through intense penance, had brought river Ganga down to the earth from heavens).

Thus discouraged, a moody Chandar went back home to his family. Their child was only about nine months old and often needed a bottle in the middle of the night. Heating up milk on a kerosene stove took time and made for some trying time as the baby would start crying. As a result, he and his wife were always a little sleep deprived and tended to be cranky. As he dreaded, the first words out of Aarathi's mouth were about the status of the gas connection. He had to break the news to her gently. She did not take it well. "Why don't you go down to the gas agency and try explaining to them?", she asked. Chandar told her what Raj had said. She seemed unconvinced, but said nothing more.

Chandar did some research and found out it was indeed quite difficult to get a ration card for the first time, but slightly easier if you had a previous card. He learned also that his wife's name was still on her family's ration card back in Madras. He arranged for her name to be deleted from that card and a 'Deletion Certificate' sent over to him by express mail. When he saw the certificate, however, his heart sank. Despite the officious sounding name, it was hand-written (in English, luckily) on a quarter sheet that had been torn off a full-sized sheet. The only official looking thing on it was the rubber stamp, but that was in Tamil. It looked fake, but such an amateurish fake that it would be taken as genuine, he reasoned and hoped.

He was now ready to tackle the ration card. When he mentioned this to Raj, the all-knowing Raj advised him to engage one of the touts that usually hang around outside the rationing office to get the card. "It will cost you some money, but it saves you a lot of hassle. Don't even bother going in. You just can't deal with the office staff. The tout will grease the works and get you the card. But don't pay more than Rs. 75". However, another coworker told Chandar that he should just go and talk to the ARO or the Assistant Rationing Officer directly. "Go and speak to him in English. Sometimes that works as he may feel flattered", he said. Raj of course scoffed at the suggestion. "In fact", he warned, "Speaking in English may just put him off" and strongly recommended the tout.

Chandar took the next day off and went to the rationing office. As he got off the auto rickshaw, he was shocked to see a huge crowd. But he was relieved to note that it was actually a political rally that was passing by. Elections were round the corner after the recent assassination of Indira Gandhi. The Congress party was clearly intent on capitalizing on the tragedy with posters proclaiming, 'Boond boond se desh ki raksha'.

The rationing office was an old one-storey building that stood out among the many newer ones around it. As mentioned by Raj, there was a milling crowd outside with a lot of people talking to the so-called touts. Chandar hesitated a little but decided to go inside and try the regular channels. He pushed through the crowd brushing aside the many offers to get him a card the same day and entered the compound. He was surprised to find a kind of urban oasis inside with many trees. The air was cool and the atmosphere peaceful, quite a contrast to the crowd and chaos outside. It was apparently a slow day at the rationing office. The building had tiled roofing and there was a series of windows along a long veranda. He approached the one that had the sign, "Hemant Chavan, ARO". The sign was in Marathi as were all the signs there. Would the staff entertain English here, he wondered. He approached the window with trepidation.

"Hi. I want to apply for a ration card", he said the ARO. To his relief, the ARO replied in English and asked him a few questions. After listening to Chandar's story, he asked if he had a ration card in his name anywhere or if his name was on someone's card. Chandar replied in the negative to both. "Please write a letter certifying to that and bring it to me", he said finally. Chandar quickly did as he was told. The ARO took the letter and the deletion certificate. He wrote something on the margin and then handed them back to him along with an application form. He asked Chandar to fill up the form and take it to Counter 5.

Chandar was elated as getting the form, surely, was a major breakthrough. But the form was in Marathi. While he could read the script, thanks to having learned Sanskrit, and could survive in Bombay with his broken Hindi, Marathi was a different story. As he was looking the form over from side to side trying to figure out words like  'aayu' and 'mulga', he saw the clerk at Counter 5 beckon to him. He had guessed Chandar's plight and to his surprise, offered to fill out the form for him. Chandar was relieved and gave the answers to the questions in Hindi. The clerk smiled as he took down the address. "My cousin too lives in the same building", he said to Chandar. That seemed to seal the deal. Chandar could come back in a week and pick up the card subject to verification. As he took the receipt and walked out, Chandar could not believe what had happened. Perhaps these government workers do not deserve the bad reputation they have, he thought.

He decided to go the gas agency and try his luck there too. Even though he did not have the ration card, the receipt might do the trick. At the gas agency, the moment he produced the Surrender Voucher from Madras, the sales clerk flipped it over and asked, "What's your address?" and wrote it down. He was then asked to to pay the deposit and just like that, he got his new gas connection! This was unbelievable. There was absolutely no demand for the ration card. The clerk then proceeded to ask Chandar if he wanted to apply for a second cylinder and Chandar had to grip the desk to keep from falling. Of course he wanted to apply and he did.

After all the formalities were through, Chandar asked when the gas cylinder would be delivered. The clerk told him that the delivery staff were on strike and he could not say. "Ah, my luck has at last run out", thought Chandar, but luck as still on his side. The clerk then added, "If you like, you can just go to the warehouse and pick it up yourself".

Thus it was that Chandar arrived home by an auto rickshaw with the gas cylinder. He was eager to surprise Aarathi and managed to carry the cylinder by himself up four flights of stairs (the auto driver refused to help). This was real hard work. He had to pause at every landing to catch his breath. He felt a wave of sympathy for the striking delivery boys and made a note to himself to tip them well the next time they delivered.

At last, he reached his door and let out a weary but triumphant sigh. He felt quite the same way a caveman might have felt when dragging home a kill. Aarathi squealed with delight on seeing the red cylinder and asked him how he had managed to get it. When he explained all that had happened, she said, "So you're telling me that you could have done this two weeks ago. And all this time I have been struggling", deflating his smug satisfaction in an instant. It was not quite the hero's welcome he had hoped for. But she added softly, "Well, you carried that thing all the way up here. Why don't you rest up? I'll make you a nice cup of chai  on the gas stove".

The next day at work, Raj all but fainted when he heard the story. And Chandar became a legend of sorts for obtaining the ration card without resorting to touts.

Just In Time

"Never put off till tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow.” – Mark Twain

When I started this blog, I had intended to write about one post per month. More than that would tax my puny creativity and less might mean people would lose interest. After two and a half years, I can say that I have more or less kept to this plan. But every now and then a month slips by without a post. Since I do not have a real deadline, I seem to be giving in to laziness. So I thought that I would try and make the best of it by writing about doing things in time.

We are loathe to do anything before it is necessary to do it. I am reminded of my college days when, if an assignment was due at 8 in the morning, we would do it the night before. But if it was due at 5 in the evening, we would do it during the breaks on the same day. I remember one occasion when the professor announced a paper that was due at the end of the term some 12 weeks away. One master planner among us wanted to know if it was due at 8 am or 5 pm! You knew when he was going to write the paper.

Jokes apart, I feel that this is actually a pretty smart way to plan and spend your time. Do what you must when you must, no earlier than that. By all means do things in advance, if you like; only make sure you are not obsessed with deadlines. Besides, being early is not always a good thing. The early bird may get the worm, but that means that the worm that decides to sleep in survives! Arriving early to a meeting only makes you wait for others to show up. In this sense, 'Punctuality is the thief of time', as Oscar Wilde put it. Why do something before it is necessary to do it?  I mean, why rush to a red light only to stop? Let us do things just in time.

Just-in-Time or JIT is a principle that has been successfully employed by manufacturing companies to improve overall productivity and quality and reduce costs for several decades now. We all remember how the Japanese car  makers took over the US market using JIT manufacturing. The essence of this approach is to order just the amount of parts or materials needed exactly when needed. Holding on to parts not needed is a huge cost and is to be avoided. Inventory is evil.I am simplifying of course, but you get the idea.

This principle also spurs the aggressive marketing campaigns that paradoxically urge us to buy more. Any finished product must be shipped out to consumers without delay for holding on to it is way costlier than just holding the raw materials. So we are exhorted to buy large quantities of everything so that we can ‘save’ money. Yes, if you spend more money, amazingly, you are saving more. It is true that if you bought a 2-litre bottle of shampoo you are paying less per litre than if you bought a 200-ml bottle. But do you really need that much? Do you want to spend that much? Do you have the space to store all that? And what are you going to do when the company comes out with an improved version that you very much want?

One thing is certain - we save money for the company by pulling their goods out of factories into our homes and garages. The manufacturer does everything to reduce stocks (since it translates into cost) while keeping the factories humming. Meanwhile, the consumer unwittingly carries huge stockpile of things essential and not so essential. People fill their homes and even their garages with all sorts of things they buy in bulk because, you know, it's cheaper that way. And it is even likely that he is financing that through credit card debt. I am sure you appreciate the irony here!

Shouldn't we be buying things just in time, when we need them? I think we should all take a leaf out of the company's book and practice JIT too. That way we can employ our resources more efficiently and make our money productive as it will not be tied up in inventory. We can try out different products by buying in small quantities, we can save space, etc. I am sure you can add more to the pros of this approach. And I do not see any cons.

I believe this will have really far-reaching consequences if applied on a large scale, going back in the supply chain all the way to Mother Earth herself. Keep the tree intact instead of storing it in the form of paper, for example. We can give Mother Earth time to renew her stock! I know, I know – it is all too radical and Utopian. Besides, won’t the economy tank if consumer spending decreases? Well, I am no economist (and with that disclaimer, I can say almost anything about the economy now). Perhaps in the short run there will be an impact, but I think it will lead us towards a more sustainable way of living in the long run.  

There, I got this done just in time for the weekend! Please read this now so you can go about getting your weekend chores completed in time too.

Sounds of Silence

Silence is a rare thing to come by if you live in a bustling city. When you do find a quiet moment, it is unlikely to last. However, it can be argued that there are times, deep in the night, when the city does go to sleep. Is the urban silence experienced then any different from the silence of the countryside? I would say 'no' if silence is the total absence of sound. We do not get to experience this, though, for even in the quietest moments, there are always some ambient noises. But these very sounds can serve to accentuate the quietude.

I remember sitting by the river bank in my village many years ago on a restful evening. The water was flowing gently with just a suggestion of bubbling sound. I could hear the soft breeze rustling through the branches of the tall trees that flanked the bathing ghat. The usually garrulous birds that flock to the trees had retired for the day. Here, there was no jarring traffic noise. Occasionally, the distant laughter of children broke through the silence but it did not intrude in my reverie. The sound of the temple bell announced the evening puja, but from afar this was actually soothing.  All in all, I experienced a sense of great calm and peace.

Now picture yourself sitting in a third floor apartment on a busy city street. It is night time. The ceiling fan's blades are whirring and making a sort of soothing sound. But the traffic down on the street, a constant white noise during the day, is now more irregular and seems to happen in bursts with an unpredictable rhythm. Music from the neighbouring flat filters in through the walls every now and then. Suddenly, the wailing of a rushing ambulance rents the air startling you. Certainly not peaceful or serene as the scene described before.

Unlike the sounds of nature which seem to promote a sort of harmony for the most part, the noises of the city tend to be harsh and disturbing or just tolerable. The constant hum of a computer or a fan seems qualitatively different from the gurgling of a gentle stream. The drone of a weed whacker is hardly soothing. The sound of  waves on the beach is much sought after but not that of a stream of automobiles. Birds in great numbers we can take, not a cacophonous crowd.

In my suburban home, things are relatively quiet. But modern living is full of various artificial sounds. The electric toothbrush, shaver and the like accompany my daily routine in the morning. The fan, the kitchen appliances, etc. make their presence felt throughout the day. Even when these are silent, the neighbour's little dog can drive one up a wall with its incessant yapping. People move to the suburbs to escape the noise and pollution of the city but do not seem to mind much the racket from lawnmowers, leaf blowers and such and the smoke from the barbecue grills. Sometimes on a nice day I walk out to my backyard only to be greeted by the smoke from someone's grill. Sigh.

Silence has to be demanded in some situations and paradoxically, this requires shouting! 'Order, order!' shouts the judge in a courtroom, pounding the gavel. The librarian shushes those whose whispering rises above permissible levels. Teachers make loud pleas for quiet in classrooms. If you have seen the Harry Potter movies, you will remember this epic cry for silence from the normally soft-spoken Dumbledore.

I sometimes wonder why it is necessary to maintain silence in a library. Why can't a library be like the waiting lounge of a railway station? People seem perfectly capable of reading in a station, on the train or just about any place. They are even reading while running on a treadmill. Many are listening to music at the same time using headphones so the noise outside becomes immaterial. And with more and more preferring the internet to the library for reference, libraries may have to change their silence policy to attract patrons. But I must admit that it will be sad to lose this sanctuary where we can count on peace and quiet whether or not one is interested in reading.

Seeking silence outside is one thing. Maintaining silence is another. We can give someone 'the silent treatment'- this is of course a well-known manipulative tactic. Not speaking out in some situations is tantamount to condoning injustice. As someone famously said, "All tyranny needs to gain a foothold is for people of good conscience to remain silent". While this may be true, there are times when silence can be eloquent.

The active practice of silence is considered a virtue and is often connected with spirituality. Some spiritual seekers even undertake a vow of silence. When we are silent, the mind does not necessarily shut down. But this gives us an opportunity to observe the mind which in turn can help in weeding out some unhealthy clutter from it and improve ourselves.

I think silence signifies potential. It creates anticipation and suspense. In music, quiet moments serve to enhance the beauty of the melody. On stage or in cinema, we can use pregnant pauses to heighten the drama. Apart from these, we all need quiet periods in our days when we can rejuvenate our minds. In general, when surrounded by silence, we feel restful and relaxed. Thus whether we are spiritually inclined or not, it would seem that silence is indeed golden.

Image Courtesy: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Faras_Saint_Anne_(detail).jpg

Knots And Laces

I learned something recently that surprised me. All right, I will go ahead and admit that I was shocked. I found out that I have been tying my shoelaces wrong all these years. I have had a problem with the laces coming undone frequently. I had attributed this to the quality of the laces, the material used and so on. Until now. The other day I was frustrated enough to look up the issue and potential solutions online.

I did not realize that this is quite a thing. Apparently it is a widespread problem that dogs many people and that is because they are all tying their laces wrong. Undoubtedly, Professor Shoelace (no, I am not making that up) is the absolute expert on shoelaces and he has much to say on the matter here. You will learn all you ever wanted to know about shoelaces and all you never wanted to. For instance, you may realize that you are making a granny knot (which is what I have been doing) instead of a balanced knot. Even sailors could learn a thing or two about various types of knots from him. Anyway, it was quite humbling to find out that I had been wrong all this time.

I did not start wearing shoes until I had to in college. All through school, my feet enjoyed the ventilation afforded by sandals and slippers, which at the same time protected the feet from the hot ground in summer. Being made of plastic or rubber, they allowed us to wade through puddles when it rained without their getting ruined. We used to play wearing them, but if that was inconvenient, we went barefoot. I remember the reddish sand in the playground used to coat our feet whenever we played cricket. Whether our feet were covered or not, no laces were obviously needed to secure shoes to them.

That freedom ended when I started my engineering studies. We needed to wear shoes for the workshop class where they were a safety requirement. What a pain that was. If you never wore shoes and suddenly started wearing them, your feet rebel. Adding to that, we had to spend the day standing and working. The first few days, my feet hurt like the devil. People who start wearing shoes at a tender age have feet that have adapted to fit the narrow confines of shoes and even look as though the shoes are simply designed around them. My feet had been allowed to grow as they pleased and confining them to shoes took some breaking in. Instead of breaking in a pair of new shoes, I ended up breaking my feet in.

As for the laces, no one taught me how to tie them. I figured it out pretty quickly. After all, by that point in my life, I had learned a useful skill or two. I got used to shoes too in a few weeks, but even now I take my time buying a new pair making absolutely sure that they are comfortable. I have to be able to curl my toes while wearing them and they should be wide enough to keep my feet from being squished. I am often told that I take too long to select a pair of shoes. Perhaps that is true, but I can definitely say that it is worth spending some time on it.

Talking of knots, I have to mention the necktie. This is surely a tyrannical imposition on the working man. The tie is probably the only piece of male attire that is more about looks than comfort. Men are usually quite willing to sacrifice fashion for practicality, but somehow the necktie survives. Not only is it a painful thing to wear, it also requires mastering the knot. There seem to be a million ways to knot the tie. The type of knot has to match the tie. Whether the tie is broad or narrow, made of silk or wool, etc. etc. - all these are apparently important factors in choosing the knot. Someone has even written a book about the whole thing. Me, I learnt just one knot (the 'four-in-hand', I believe it's called) and decided that that would serve. And it has (well, maybe with mixed results).

Unlike the shoelaces, the tie is quite visible and thus it is important to learn how to make the perfect knot (well, at least a decent looking one). The process appears deceptively simple but it takes quite a bit of practice to get it right. Till you get the hang of it, the knot may be too small or too big. Or the inner end sticks out below the outer. Sometimes, instead of looking like a well-crafted samosa, it looks like a random piece of clay. The most annoying thing was that often the shirt collars were not sized properly making it difficult to achieve that well-groomed look. As we are usually rushed in the morning getting ready - I am sure Jeeves would have disapproved if this - it was quite common to have the tie pre-knotted and ready to wear like a necklace day after day.

For a brief time in my career, I had to wear a tie to work. I am sure the tie adds to the overall appearance in a positive way. It may even provide some protection from the cold in temperate and colder countries. But in tropical Mumbai, it was sheer torture to wear a tie. If you want to teach yourself forbearance, don a tie (with shirt and pants of course!), and take a ride in a taxi (make sure it is not air-conditioned) in Mumbai in late May just before the monsoon breaks. The air is still. The temperature is usually around 37 degrees Celsius or more. The humidity is well north of 90%. In fact, it is so humid that you can cut the moisture in the air with your hand. Your whole body is covered with perspiration. Under these conditions, whenever the taxi stops for a signal, the least exertion will cause you to sweat even more. You may feel like cursing the tie and ripping it off, but you should desist. Stay absolutely still. In fact, you should even stop thinking if you do not wish to aggravate the situation. The smallest activity, even thinking, will make it worse. If this experience does not teach you patience, I do not know what will.

Pragmatism has asserted itself over the years and we no longer have such strict dress codes for work. 'Business Casual' is the requirement in most establishments. Shoes are still a must but we have plenty of comfortable options in shoes. In fact, I would say that a shoe that fits well is a joy to wear. We just have to make sure that the laces are tied properly.

The Fountain of Ideas

The other day, I attended a seminar where a pen was handed out with the compliments of the company hosting the seminar to each participant. Somewhat large, it felt heavy in my hand. Unlike the usual pens that you find at conferences, this looked well-made and I thought, made to last. I opened it with some eagerness but was disappointed to see that it had a cheap ball-point tip. I could not believe that someone would spend so much on making a sturdy housing and put in a cheap refill. Worse, there was no way to replace the refill once the ink ran out. It seemed such a waste.

I remember first learning to use a pen when I was in high school. This was a big deal then. It was yet another milestone in our march into adulthood. The fountain pen is a fairly sophisticated instrument. Handling one required some training and practice. There was also the added responsibility of keeping the ink barrel filled and the pen clean to keep the ink flowing well. Every now and then, you had to take it apart and wash the parts. The pens we used did not come with a self-filling mechanism. You had to fill it directly from the pot or use a dropper with a steady hand.

The transition from pencil to pen was not very easy. You exert considerable pressure with the pencil but with fountain pens, you need a more delicate touch. Too little pressure leaves gaps in the lines while too much will poke a hole in the paper. The quality of the paper too becomes important. Once you master the writing with the fountain pen, the effortless ease with which the nib glides along the paper is a delight. The pen adapts to the writer and over time, there is a synergy built between the two. The grip, the angle and the wear on the nib are all unique to the user. It is difficult to write with a pen that someone else has used for a long time. It feels odd like you are wearing someone else's shoes. For the same reason, I used to hesitate to lend my pen to someone else.

The fountain pen is not without its negatives. There is a constant need to worry about how much ink is left. During examinations in school and college, we always carried a back up pen. The ink can get stale over time and create a stink. There is also the possibility of leaks resulting in soiled clothes. Often, people used to give their pens a couple vigorous shakes if the ink failed to flow from the barrel. One could see a trail of ink on the floor of classrooms. You had to be alert to this or else you could get sprayed. Even in regular usage, you acquired ink-stained fingertips but these were worn with pride as a mark of a good student or scholar.

Ballpoint pens eliminate many of the cumbersome aspects of fountain pens. The first ballpoint pens to arrive, however, were a poor substitute to fountain pens. I did not enjoy writing with these pens. They required a lot of pressure to work and made me miss the smooth experience of the fountain pen. They used to tax my wrist and fingers. Of course, this has changed with the arrival of pens with all sorts of new tips. I must admit these are great as they provide for the same effortless, smooth writing but avoid issues of leakage and the need to refill frequently.

The computer keyboard has now displaced both the pen and the typewriter. I need not go into the obvious advantages of word processing. But is the experience any different for a writer when using the computer? The pen is like an extension of the person while the keyboard is obviously detached. To use an analogy, if writing is ballet, typing is tap dancing. Handwriting may even reflect the personality of the writer according to graphologists. Ultimately, I suppose it is a question of personal preference.

I find that the keyboard is too fast as it were, when I am trying to form ideas and get them out. It is almost as if the keyboard is impatient for the next tap. The flashing cursor on the screen mocks my stunted flow. The pen on the other hand seems willing to wait for my mind. Also, with a pen, I use cursive which makes me feel more connected to what I write. The letters in each word look they are a family. Typing throws the letters at a rapid pace on to the screen which is great when I have the material ready. Even if I do not, I can avoid littering the floor with crumpled sheets of paper. All I have to do is clear the screen to throw away an unsatisfactory draft. But sometimes, I am reluctant to do that and end up hacking away at it instead of discarding it. I am not likely to do that with a paper draft.

I used to think that the art of penmanship will be a lost skill in the near future. The only thing for which you need a pen these days is to sign documents. Even there, electronic signatures are taking over. But there are times when I have to write things down. I make notes when listening to a lecture, for example. While it is possible to do this with a laptop or tablet, I prefer the paper and pen for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I never acquired the professional skill of typing. I have come a long way from the days of  'hunt and peck' (or the 'ostrich method' as I like to call it), but I still need to look at the keyboard every now and then which is a little distracting. The other thing is that I often go back and make notes on the margin or draw connecting lines between things. Sometimes you need to draw a quick picture or chart; or just doodle to avoid nodding off. A pen and paper cannot be beat in such situations. Or can they?

Things may have actually come a full circle with the advent of phones and tablets with touch sensitive screens. The electronic keyboards they offer are great but they can be awkward to use on small devices. This has spawned writing styluses that may be the digital avatars of fountain pens. They actually provide a nice alternative to paper and pen and allow for freehand drawings and doodles. I am going to give them a try (as always, a late adopter!).

Now, if only I can get a pen that is a fountain of ideas.

Pen Picture Courtesy: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fountain-pen-nib.jpg

A Vegetarian Hunt

'How about a salmon sandwich?', asked the stewardess. She had  just informed me apologetically that owing to some glitch, my choice of vegetarian meal was not loaded on the flight. Unfortunately, I had to decline her offer. I told her I did not eat fish either and resigned myself to eating what little was vegetarian on the plate.

When people find out that I do not eat meat, they often ask, 'How about fish?' or 'Not even chicken?', as if fish and chicken are not meat. Then there was this person who wanted to know if I was 'fiercely vegetarian' and I had to correct him saying, 'No, just vegetarian'. Others wonder how I get my proteins. I tell them that I wonder about that too. I am as health conscious as the next person, but good eats are what I primarily care about and there is no end to the list of delicious vegetarian dishes. Of course, for generations unknown, my family and countless others like mine have managed to keep themselves healthy on a vegetarian diet. People sometimes fail to understand this and assume that I must be subsisting entirely on salads or boiled vegetables. Or tofu, that magical substance which apparently can be transformed into virtually anything since it tastes like nothing.

Speaking of tofu, a friend once took me to a restaurant which, he claimed, was a vegetarian's delight. It was not even remotely delightful to me. The place served all kinds of mock meat made of tofu. Unfortunately, mock meat leaves me cold just as real meat does. But I can see how it will appeal to those who are actually giving up meat. The point, and this is an important point, is that I have not 'given up' eating meat. I simply have never eaten meat. I do not miss its taste, texture or flavour and am not seeking an alternative to it.

Nowadays vegetarian or even vegan diet is quite popular and in most big cities in America, one can readily find restaurants that offer plenty of vegetarian choices. But twenty or thirty years ago (and probably even today, in smaller towns), this was not the case. I once lived in a suburb where within a radius of a few miles, I think there was just one vegetarian dish among all the restaurants if you did not count salads or pizza. This dish was called, quite appropriately, 'Buddha's Delight'. I also remember a Thai eatery where there was not a single item without meat on their extensive 6-page menu. When I asked the waiter about it, he brought me a hand-written menu with five dishes on it!

Eating out can still be challenging for a vegetarian. Names can be deceiving. It is important to ask the waiter what's in a dish before ordering. For instance, I understand that 'duck sauce' does not contain any duck, but 'oyster sauce' is a different story. Nevertheless, I take no chances with either! The rice served in Mexican restaurants is often made with chicken broth, something I would not have discovered if I had not asked.  And I have heard the story of someone who assumed that hamburgers were made with ham and cheeseburgers with cheese and decided the latter were vegetarian!

While we vegetarians face such problems, there is another side to this too. I think it is a little bit of a problem for co-workers when we decide to go out for lunch occasionally. They always make an effort to accommodate my dietary preference. I usually tell them that I can always find something in most places and not to worry about me. Sometimes, it turns out to be not so easy.

There was this time when a friend and I found ourselves at a restaurant where we were struggling to find anything vegetarian, though my friend had assured me that he had eaten there before. It turned out that they had vegetarian dishes on the fare only occasionally, say, once a week. The man eating at an adjacent table upon seeing our plight, tried to help out by critically examining the menu, and talking to the waiter, but there was nothing to be done. In the end, rather than going to another place, we just ordered fruit salads. We got to talking with our new friend and learned that he had visited India as a sailor. He had once been to Bombay where he said he even won some money at the races. By the time we finished our salads, he had left but we found out that he had paid our bill too. I suppose he somehow felt guilty that his country had let its guests down and decided to make some amends. Let us say that it was karma - his winning at the races in Bombay and paying for our meal in the US!

The staff at the restaurants are sometimes hard put to accommodate our choices. I once worked in a very small town near Buffalo. The only places to eat lunch there were a diner and a couple of fast food restaurants. A bunch of us newcomers descended on the Burger King or McDonald's there (I can't remember which) for lunch on our first day. Many of us were vegetarians and wanted to order a burger with all the fixings, but without the meat! This made for some confusion there as the order clerk was puzzled at first. At first, he could not believe that we had asked for a burger without meat. He was sure we had meant to say pickle or cheese or something like that. When he finally realized that we really did not want any meat, this seemingly raised a different problem. By now the line behind us had started to grow and people were becoming impatient of the wait. After some hemming and hawing, he called the manager.

The manager came out. After the clerk told him about our order, he looked serious. We thought perhaps that they could not make the burger without meat. Integrity of the product and all that, you know. But that was not it. Instead, the manager told us somewhat apologetically that he would have to charge us the same price as the regular burger. You see, the real issue was that the cash register was not programmed for our option and they could not figure out how to override it. We were hungry and told him we did not mind.

To his credit, the manager had the register re-programmed and added the 'no meat' option after a couple of days of this!

Alarming Times

If you expected this to be about the dangerous times we live in, you can banish the thought. Having managed to keep the blog going for almost two years, I think I can count on some of you as long time readers. And as long time readers, you know very well that I do not dwell on such mundane topics in this blog. I leave them to news reporters and journalists. I will stick to the more serious things in our lives such as coffee and shaving, and in this instance, I want to talk about the alarm clock. And other clocks.

First, a word about calling it an alarm clock. It is strange that we wind it up to go off at a particular time but when it does, say that the 'alarm' went off. It would be alarming if it failed to go off, not the other way around. On the other hand, I can justify the name perfectly from the clock's point of view. I mean, here it is ticking away in quiet contentment and all of a sudden a part of its body goes off like a banshee. If I were the clock, I would certainly be alarmed. Luckily, all it requires is a gentle, comforting pat on the head (which all of us are happy to provide), and the ringing stops.

Alarm clocks have become indispensable in our lives. Many need it daily to wake up in time. The idea of training myself to get up to the sound of an alarm does not appeal to me. I have generally had the ability to wake up at some specific hour on a regular basis. I guess life's routines manage to train me easily, although occasionally I oversleep and have to rush. I do use the alarm whenever I need to get up earlier than usual. But paradoxically then, my mental alarm goes into overdrive and I end up waking up every now and then and checking the time as I do not want to be startled by the sound of the alarm! Eventually, I may drift off into the dreamless and may even sleep through the alarm rendering the whole thing useless.

This morning, when I first opened my eyes and looked at the clock it showed 6:30, but when I looked at my phone it said 7:30. I realized with some dismay that daylight savings time had begun but every cell in my body sided with the clock. Some of you may recall how I feel about daylight savings time (I never understood why this is plural). In fact, the very first entry on this blog was triggered by this anachronistic practice.

The alarm clock has evolved over time. The traditional ringing kind has given way to many electric and digital versions. Do you remember the electro-mechanical type which had a physical display that flipped over every minute? I have a particular dislike for such displays. I was once stuck at Frankurt airport for several hours back when the arrival-departure board used one. As planes departed and arrived which was every other minute, the display had to change and be sorted by time too. The infernal noise of panels flipping constantly nearly made me flip. But I digress.

The entry of the clock-radio made it possible to wake up to your favourite radio station or a buzzer sound. I now have a clock radio that has additional sounds you can wake up to or just play for soothing effect - the ocean, a babbling brook, or the wind, though the thing can be a little tricky with umpteen buttons. I have occasionally set the alarm by pressing one of the wrong buttons while trying to move it around and ended up being woken up early in the AM. Shutting the thing off, when you are startled out of your wits suddenly, and are all thumbs, is not always the easiest thing to do. It takes some frantic button-pushing. By then, you might actually be fully awake. But all is not lost because you can possibly play one of the soothing sounds (say the ocean) and get back to sleep. If you manage to find the correct button, that is.

The digital clocks with their LED displays have eliminated the need to turn on a light to see the time, but they can also be too bright and disturb your sleep. I have to turn them toward the wall or place a large book or something in front to shield the light. The LCD type does not have this problem, but then you do need a light (or backlight) to read the display. Even then, to sleepy eyes, the 7-segment display can be unclear. On the positive side, digital clocks do not make a ticking noise which can be especially trying when you have trouble sleeping. The longer you are awake, the more irritating the tick-tock, and the more anxious you become. Then it is even more difficult to sleep, which makes for a vicious cycle.

Before the advent of digital clocks, you had to look at a clock's hands and determine the time. Learning to tell time was one of the skills we acquired early on. And the old wall clocks with Roman numerals made you work just a little bit more. I must say that this skill has indeed proved useful, for I find it easier see a clock with two hands and ascertain the approximate time very quickly than by looking a a small digital watch or phone. The latter needs fishing for my glasses and what not.

Wall-clocks that announced the hours and half-hours by chiming were a constant in most houses when I was growing up. Though the regular chiming can be disturbing in the still of the night, it takes cuckoo-clocks to be really infuriating. How one can put up with the constant racket is beyond me. At least, I can say that they were honest in naming them 'cuckoo'. Speaking of names, how about grandfather clocks? Where did this name originate? And, how come there is no 'father clock'?

Well, that's all the time I have to devote to time today. I always tend to ruminate over time when we are getting ready to change to daylight savings time. If you feel I have wasted your time with this blog post, let me repeat what John Lennon said: Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted. That is, assuming, you enjoyed reading this!

In The Moment

It was just past sunset, the time when a hush seems to descend on the world. Like nesting birds, people had returned to the sanctuary of their homes ready for repose. The normally busy intersection now had little traffic. I was waiting for the signal to change which had turned red to allow the lone jogger to cross the road. The broad avenue I was on had a divider in the middle and was lined with trees along the median so you could not see the traffic on the other side. In addition, the road cut through a hill and on either side, you just saw the slope of the hill. You felt you were on some country road even though you were just moments away from houses and busy shops. When the signal turned green, I charged ahead accelerating smoothly along the beautiful road. With no one ahead of me, it was as if I had the whole road to myself. In the fading light and cooling air, with the windows down, as I sped up, I felt a satisfying thrill and broke into a wide smile.

As I look back on this, I wonder what was really special about it. Now and then, some ordinary experiences stand out in our memory. There are others that seem to provide for repeated thrills. For example, every time I am on a plane trip, I find the take-off exhilarating. If you fly frequently, you would think that the thrill would wear off. But I always look forward to it, savouring the calm as the plane waits for its turn to use the runway, and the rapid run up to take-off that follows. I am captivated by the thrust of the massive engines as they accelerate the plane from the top of the runway, giving it the necessary momentum and lift to fly. And as the speed increases and the noise intensifies into a roar, with the scenery a blur, I wait excitedly for the moment when nose lifts up and the next when, wonder of wonders, the whole plane is clearing the nearby buildings in its ascent. Up in the air, you barely feel the movement, but on the ground it is altogether different.

It is really not necessary to be moving physically to enjoy the thrill of rapid descent or dizzying motion. I remember the many times when I used to wait for the local train in Bombay. There is a tremendous feeling you get when you stand on the platform and an express train thunders along the tracks passing you by at full speed. The sudden rush of wind and the overwhelming noise of the train would envelop me and give me goosebumps. For the next few seconds, the platform, the other people, and the shops - all would disappear and I would lose myself in the scene as the train sped past me in a blur with the distinct fading sound of the whistle. Even now, I can close my eyes, imagine myself on the platform, and recall the experience.

We can be fooled to believe we are moving while remaining stationary. A simulation of motion is enough to create the sensation of actual motion. When we watch a movie on an IMAX screen, it is as though we are ourselves on the scene. I once saw a film about fighter jets which included actual footage recorded from the cockpit of the famed Blue Angels of the US Navy. I felt as if I was actually sitting in the cockpit feeling quite a thrilling sensation of flying. I marvelled  at the skill of the pilot as he executed steep climbs, sudden dives and 360 degree turns and simultaneously at the ability of my mind to share the experience so vividly. If it gets too real and scary, one can always close one's eyes and make everything stop. It is like a dream that you enter and exit at will.

I believe that the thrill and joy in the above have less to do with relative motion - real or simulated - than with our own mood. The mind is a wonderful thing. At certain moments, it lets go of all regrets about the past and anxiety over the future and totally dissolves in the present, enjoying spontaneous joy. Sometimes an external event manages to trigger this. A roller-coaster ride subjects us to twists and turns and multiple g-forces obliterating all other things from our mind momentarily. At other times, as in the case of the IMAX film, we willingly set aside those worries and open ourselves up. Can we achieve this even without such external stimuli, in ordinary moments? I want to say, 'Yes'. I think we can, if we are alive to the environment fully. We can then find joy in everyday experiences. Perhaps this is what is meant by 'living in the moment'.

The other day I was in the park enjoying a relaxing walk when I saw this beautiful golden retriever sprinting across the length of the park, back and forth at full gallop. As he passed me, I caught the expression of absolute joy in his eyes that was so infectious that instantaneously I too was transported. Suddenly, the grass turned a most verdant shade, the breeze had this healing cool touch and the sunlight planted a golden kiss on everything it touched. It was a rapturous moment. I stood there for a few minutes watching the dog and sharing in his happiness. I wondered which was the greater gift - the ability to share in another's joy or the ability to spread joy.