The Night bus

I cannot say that I like travelling long distances by bus. But sometimes when I am on an international flight spending hours sitting, I tend to recall the bus journeys I have made years back almost fondly. That perhaps says more about the airline seats but buses were (and I think still are) convenient when we had to travel at short notice or when train connections were not readily available. I do not take the bus when travelling in India these days and my experience goes back a lot of years but I can still remember many such road trips of the past. The long distance express buses were fairly comfortable (though they were not, as the operators liked to call them, 'luxury' coaches) and relatively fast.

Bus journeys by day used to be very trying - the traffic, the dust and the heat made them really unbearable. Air-conditioning no doubt makes the situation better now but the traffic has probably increased many fold to compensate for that. Night trips avoid the traffic and the heat so at least on two counts they are significantly more comfortable. Of course, such clinical analysis does not quite get to the heart of the whole experience which depended heavily on the route travelled, the condition of the roads, and many other factors.

Among the many road trips that I have made by bus, the memory of one I took from Bangalore to Tirunelveli decades back has somehow stayed with me. I was in college then and it was a sudden decision on my part to go home for Deepavali that year on a cloudy November evening. The trip would take some eleven hours. With recent rains, the ground was a little wet so there was very little dust. The air was quite pleasant.

As I boarded the bus, I bought some roasted peanuts, a perfect snack for the cool conditions. The peanuts were still warm and were wrapped in paper rolled to form a long conical shape. The only flaw in the whole scheme would be the inevitable rotten peanut inside. Once you bite into one, the only way to get the taste out of your mouth is to immediately eat a good one, as you surely have experienced. So I always make it a point to save a good one to eat last.

The bus rolled out of the bus stand as I was finishing the snack. I unrolled the paper cone for you never knew where that piece of paper had come from. Every piece of paper was recycled then. I discovered that this one was from a school notebook with arithmetic problems worked out in a neat hand. I settled into my seat and looked around. The seat next to mine was occupied by a burly man with a thick moustache and hair shining with lots of oil. I sighed to myself realizing that much of that oil was going to find its way to the seat. I hoped that he would not choose my shoulder to nod off during the journey and mentally prepared to defend my territory.

In my previous trips, where I was familiar with the route I knew where the bus would stop for meals. Usually, it was a some small town restaurant where the bus crew ate for free in return for bringing in a bus load of paying customers. I expected that it would be the same on this trip and I was not wrong. After a couple of hours, in the middle of apparently nowhere, the bus stopped in front of what looked like a house but bore the sign 'Rama Cafe' or some such name. Inside were separate rooms with marble-topped tables and chairs laid out in a line. This was no fancy eatery but very business like. You just found a vacant seat and sat down to eat.

The food was served on banana leaves. There was no menu. You had to settle for whatever they were serving. The waiters simply brought different dishes out and you decided what you wanted from those. You can call it the WYSIWYG menu if you like. I wondered how they kept track of who ate what and was pleasantly surprised to find out that it was basically an honour system. You just told the person at the counter what you ate and paid the bill. The best part of the thing of course was the food itself which was exceptional - fresh, hot and delicious.

After this unexpected treat, we were back on the road again and it looked like the best part of the trip was over. The bus was equipped with a music system but most passengers wanted to catch some sleep and told the driver to shut it off when he tried to play some film songs. The lights were then turned off leaving just the glow of the blue night lamps. There is something about road trips in the night that is calming. The drone of the engine was somewhat hypnotic. The light traffic made for steady driving and less honking. The road was in decent shape and the ride comfortable. By and by most of the passenger were nodding off.

Nodding heads are apt to land on  neighbours' shoulders and that's just a law of nature. I soon found myself at the receiving end of this law, fending off the attack constantly. As the head alternated between my side and the other side, I had time to look outside. It was pitch dark but the sky provided an amazing view with bright stars that are practically invisible in a city sky. Eventually I too managed fall asleep only to wake and now and then with my neighbour's head on my shoulder. This routine played out a few times as the night went on.

The bus passed through many a sleepy town with streets that were mostly empty. Between the towns, you could smell the paddy fields in the cool night air. The occasional stops provided an opportunity to stretch one's legs. The bus stands were mostly deserted. The journey went on in this fashion and I finally reached my destination around 5:30 am. Although I was fatigued and stiff, I could not say that the journey was unpleasant. It was still dark but the bus stand was a bustle of activity. I rubbed my eyes and got off, threw the bag over my shoulder and looked for an auto rickshaw that would take me to my home but not before grabbing a cup of steaming coffee from one of the shops that was already open for business.

Buses have come a long way since then. They now look sleek on the outside and may even deserve the adjective 'luxurious' on the inside. You can find sleeper buses for a night journey and it must surely be much more comfortable to travel now. While I suppose it is still possible to encounter some oily heads, I am almost certain that restaurants like the one I ate at are extinct now. Even then I kind of knew that such places were a dying breed. So the feelings of nostalgia when I think back to that time are doubly poignant. Maybe I will try a bus trip next time just for old times' sake.

The Elephant In The Head

A long time ago, in a remote corner of the world...

Dima approached the shaman's house and knocked on the door with some trepidation wondering what the shaman would do. Would he give him some drug and put him in a trance? Or would he perform a ritual cleanse? He wished he did not have to do this but Rini, his wife had put her foot down. Either he went to the shaman and got cured or she would leave him. After all it was all his own doing. He could not really blame her.

The house was somewhat isolated almost at the edge of the forest. The shaman opened the door himself. He was a tall man with a flowing mane and piercing eyes. "You must be Dima. Come, I have been expecting you", he greeted Dima who was taken aback. 'Wow, he is good', he thought but he did not know that his wife had met the shaman previously and told him Dima was coming.

"Here, have some tea", he offered. "It's just chamomile, relax", he added sensing Dima's apprehension. As Dima took the cup and had a sip, the shaman asked, "Tell me why you are here". "I am addicted to drinking and I want to stop", replied Dima. "Do you really want to stop drinking? Give up alcohol completely?", asked the shaman and Dima hesitated and said rambling, "Yes, I mean... if I can have a drink now and then, maybe..but I don't want to get drunk. I can't seem to help it...".

Dima's alcoholism had gotten so bad lately that he often passed out at what passed for a pub in that remote place situated in the middle of nowhere. His drinking buddies would usually take him to his house and leave him on the door step. He would wake up hours later only to face Rini's wrath. On one occasion, he actually fell into a ditch while walking home and slept right there. The local kids had painted his face while he was passed out. It was mortifying and that's when he resolved to seek help.

It was generally the custom in his little town to approach the shaman for help in many matters. The latter was an expert in driving evil spirits away and curing all kinds of ailments both physical and mental. He had a huge cache of herbs and other substances and dispensed them with a deft touch. His curative powers were well known in the region. So Rini had made Dima seek his help in ridding him of the evil habit.

After some more questioning, the shaman seemed to smile mockingly as he declared, "You are tricky. You really don't want to quit, it seems...I don't know if I can help you...well maybe, I can", he continued and thought for a while. After a couple of minutes, his face brightened and he said, "I have got it. But I must first have your assurance that you will follow my advice without fail". Dima nodded tentatively and wanted to say something, but the shaman cut him off.

With a mischievous look, he said, "You may be surprised to hear this, but I think it is alright for you to drink on one condition". Dima was indeed astonished. The shaman continued, "You can have a drink provided you are not thinking of an elephant". Dima was now confused. 'This man seems cuckoo and he's going to cure me?', he thought to himself. "What do you mean elephant? And why should I not think of it?", he asked.

It must be noted here that Dima lived in a part of the world where there were no elephants. He had no idea what an elephant was and so you can appreciate his confusion. The shaman replied, "I did not say you shouldn't think of an elephant. Just that if you are thinking of one, you absolutely must not drink". Dima mulled these words carefully and felt that this was a simple enough thing to follow. It was not likely that he would be thinking of elephants, he concluded. So he thanked the shaman and told him that he would follow the prescription diligently. As he was leaving, the shaman spoke again, "Remember, no drinks if you are thinking of elephants". He had a way of speaking that exuded some mysterious compelling power and made a real impact on the listener.

So Dima went his way and was quite pleased with the results. Such a simple prescription! He stopped at the pub on his way back and ordered himself a stiff drink. As he raised the cup to his mouth, he smiled as he said to himself, 'Elephant!' and then suddenly realized that he was indeed thinking of elephants. In fact, he found that he could not stop thinking about them because he kept wondering what they were. After a whole day's struggle, he regretted that he had not asked the shaman what elephants were. 'Once I learn what they are I shall put them out of my mind', he thought and went straight back to the shaman.

The shaman told him all he knew about elephants. And he seemed to know them well. Dima got totally fascinated. "Have you seen one?", he asked and the shaman replied that he had. When he was young, he said he had travelled with his father to a distant city in the north where he had seen some elephants perform in a circus. Dima peppered him with questions and learnt all he could about elephants. He was quite excited as he walked back home. Unfortunately, now that he knew so much about them, he could not get elephants out of his mind! Worse, drinking and elephants had become inextricably entangled in his mind and he could not look at a drink without an elephant popping into his head. After a couple of weeks of intense struggle and suffering, he had indeed quit drinking.

Rini was very pleased with the result even though Dima went on a bit about elephants constantly. They say the elephant never forgets. In Dima's case, the elephant turned out to be unforgettable too. If only he could knock back a few drinks, he was certain  he could manage to forget the elephant. The delicious irony of the situation made him sigh wistfully. He now drank copious amounts of herbal tea. Chamomile, anyone?

Some Assembly Required

If you are a parent, you probably have at some time faced these dreaded words. You just bought the much coveted bicycle for your child. Now all that stands between the said child and bliss is your ability to assemble the bicycle. And then, you read, 'Some assembly required'. While 'some assembly' sounds innocuous, it is actually 'some assembly' (emphasis mine). It usually requires unspecified dexterity with tools or three hands or something else. It is never simple. This may be the moment your child realizes that after all daddy does not know everything. It takes all your ingenuity and skill to get that bicycle put together but you are still left with a lingering worry that the thing may come apart any time landing your child in a ditch.

Of course it is not just children's toys. There is a whole lot of furniture that is available for those of us who believe we are handy enough with tools to put them together or want to save some money by opting for the ready-to-assemble stuff. I have had my share of adventure with these over the years and I am sure many of you can relate to it.

The great looking entertainment centre that you decided to buy is delivered to you in flat packs. The delivery men make them look like they are filled with foam the way they carry them. But trying to move them from the garage (they cannot deliver the boxes inside owing to some insurance limitation) into the house proves to be a non-starter as the boxes are monumentally heavy. So you decide to open them in the garage and carry parts into the family room where the furniture will ultimately stand. This itself is quite a project.

You break into a sweat at the sight of the instructions that run to pages and the bag of screws, bolts, nuts, washers, wing nuts, in short, all kinds of thingummyjigs that are collectively termed 'hardware'. The instructions are often in the form of pictures. What's that? A picture is worth a thousand words, you say? Exactly. Way too many words and you don't have a clue as to what those are. Seriously, I mean you are not interpreting art here. You just want a few precise, well-chosen words telling you what to do. But the company in its infinite wisdom decided that pictures transcend the language barrier. In other words, they are too cheap to provide textual instructions because that would require that they be provided in different languages. The stick figure in the booklet that somehow resembles a dolphin and is supposed to represent you looks cheerful enough, though. So what can go wrong?

You allocate a weekend afternoon and gather up all the parts spread them out along with the hardware. You look at the ridiculous tools that came with the furniture - all that you need to assemble, the package says, usually just a couple of Allen keys, and you decide that you had better break out your own tools. You look for your tool set which probably has the wrong set of spanners (metric instead of US) or missing a few that you loaned to the neighbour who has since moved without returning them. With this rag-tag resources, you plunge into the mysteries of the entertainment centre which is strewn around flat on the ground as various parts.  You peer at the picture to make out if the line there represents the groove in the piece you are holding. Which is outside and which is inside seems hard to make out. What size screw is that, you agonize. While the parts are assigned a number each in the pictures, the actual piece has no such thing on it. So you have to make a guess and hope for the best.

Progress is agonizingly slow especially in the beginning as you hunt for the right part and figure out the right orientation for the pieces often having to turn them around without hitting a window (or maybe hitting it) or the light fixture or the TV. Lining up the pieces to match proves to be tricky in the room which you now wish were larger. Maybe you will need to move that sofa out of here to make room. Then there are the moments when you realize that you made a mistake some steps back and have to pull things apart and go back. The afternoon you allocated for the job is woefully inadequate and in fact you realize it could take a couple of weekends to finish it. You start wondering if you bit off more than you could chew. Just then your wife suggests that maybe you should call in a pro, rubbing salt on the wound. The place looks like a war zone trying everyone's patience and presents tripping hazards to all.

After hours of toil, a lot of sweating and a few broken nails and possibly a crushed finger, at last you finish the piece. A few parts are still left but somehow they never seemed to come up in the instructions. The doors and drawers are serviceable though they look just a little misaligned. But you are done. Finished. There is a sense of relief and even elation at the completion of the project. Now all that is left is to move the whole thing to the wall where it belongs. Of course this requires three or four persons and a lot of swearing and cursing. Inevitably, one of the walls in the house is scratched in the process. Ultimately, everything is in its place and the entertainment centre is ready to serve!

The instructions estimated three hours (ha!) to complete the assembly but it took you the better part of a whole weekend and a day. You have moved all the parts and pieces from the floor but you can hardly pick yourself up. Every bone and muscle in your body is aching. Bruised and cut everywhere, you feel like a wounded warrior. 'Never again', you tell yourself. You somehow manage to get on the couch and collapse there.

The rest of the family is happy now that the room is free once again and there is a handsome new addition to the furniture. Everyone congratulates you (never mind the complaining that went on for a whole week). The wife looks at the finished product admiringly and declares that from now on ready-to-assemble is the way to go. You merely sigh as there is no strength left in your body even to acknowledge. And you are too fatigued even to feel proud. But a couple of aspirins and a long nap restore your spirits and you start to feel that it was worth the blood, sweat and tears. On to the next project then!

Sportswatch

I am not one of those who follow sports avidly. I like to watch some - the Wimbledon finals, World Cup Soccer, the Superbowl, the basketball championship, and the like. Otherwise it is just some random game now and then.

Not every sport is exciting to watch. Take golf for example. You can only see bits and pieces of the action. If you are on site then it is even more frustrating as you simply cannot keep up with the overall standings or even the score of an individual player. On TV, you get to see some amazing aerial shots. The camera follows the arc of the ball for your convenience. Still, golf is hardly a spectator sport. It does not create enough tension and excitement. You are not likely to get to the edge of the seat seeing Tiger Woods attempt a putt from thirty-five feet. Even the commentary is subdued. But it has one merit. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, it is the ideal companion for a snooze. The green, the fairway, the sand traps and the lack of crowd noise all contribute to the soporific effect.

The Olympics just got done at Rio and this is obviously one time when I do watch a lot of sports on TV.  Unfortunately, this puts you at the mercy of the network which decides when to air and what to air. Being on the west coast always means a tape delay. In addition, the coverage focuses a lot on story-telling. I am not really keen on knowing all about the athletes' backgrounds, their parents or their ninety-year old grandma. I just want to see the actual performances. But the network spends a lot of time and effort preparing these back stories and you have little choice but to suffer through them. The coverage is naturally US centric. I wish they would try to shine the spotlight on others too now and then. Often, key events are shown late at night. And of course, everything is edited heavily to suit the breaks for commercials. Watching them online as they happen may be an option but you are likely to be at work then.

Despite all these shortcomings, much time in the past two weeks has been spent in front of the television watching the Olympics. It was annoying to wait while they went through all sorts of other sports before getting to the ones I like. Water polo and synchronized swimming leave me cold especially the latter where you mostly see two pairs of legs sticking up over the water. I do realize that this takes a lot of skill and effort, but I can't seem to get excited about it. Ditto for trampolining and other made up sports.

This year, swimming competitions produced a few close finishes and new world records. The dash and splash of the relays, the camera capturing the swimmers from above and below the water, and the roar of the crowd made for some good TV. The absolute excitement of the commentator his voice going higher and higher as each race went on at first felt way over the top but I actually ended up liking it.

To me, the Olympics are ultimately all about track and field. The sprints are electrifying and even in slow motion replay they look ridiculously fast. It was quite a thrill to see Usain Bolt dominate the sprints for the third time. The way the jumpers glide over the bar head first in high jump and feet first in pole vault is fascinating. I wonder if these techniques were inspired by the White Knight's ideas about jumping the gate in Through the Looking Glass. The relay races always provide some unexpected turns.

The 110 metre hurdles is my favourite event. There is a sort of poetic rhythm in this race. The starting gun goes off and the sprinters launch themselves from the blocks. They alternately sprint and fly (there is no other way to put it) as they jump over each hurdle. It is better than the 100 metres dash where the whole thing goes off like a blur. Here you kind of get a break each time a hurdle is cleared letting you savour the moment. When the camera follows along showing you the view from the side the effect is truly magical with the runners being almost synchronized. I can say that I feel quite athletic watching it practically jumping up from the couch.

At the other end of the spectrum is the marathon. The sheer endurance of the runners as they ran in high humidity this year was a testament to their physical and mental strength. This is where TV coverage is at its best with close ups and aerial shots. Surprisingly, it is not monotonous to watch this. It is quite absorbing to see the lead group slowly thinning and then completely pull apart over the last half hour. This year's winner  Kipchoge of Kenya who had been a picture of calm focus all along, reached the finish line with a broad smile on his face. What a fitting coda to the whole games!

*'I'll tell you how I came to think of it,' said the Knight. 'You see, I said to myself "The only difficulty is with the feet: the head is high enough already." Now, first I put my head on the top of the gate -- then the head's high enough -- then I stand on my head -- then the feet are high enough, you see -- then I'm over, you see.' (Through The Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll)

The Joy of Typing

As a writer (well, a bit of an exaggeration in my case, but not wholly inaccurate wouldn't you say?), I am sometimes at a certain disadvantage. I often wonder how much background I should provide in these little posts. Do I take my readers for granted and assume they know all about it and proceed? If they do not, they are bound to be mystified and perhaps even irritated. On the other hand, if I decide to provide a detailed background, and they already know a lot, they are going to be bored and are apt to point their mouse at the back arrow on the top of the page. For example, I think most of my readers will remember Job Typists. Then again the younger ones may not know what I am talking about. I suppose I had better strike a balance with a brief introduction.

I don't know about you but when I was young, the typewriter was typically not a household appliance (come to think of it, I cannot remember any appliance in the house when I was growing up). All correspondence was simply written by hand. But now and then, there was the need to prepare a professional document, whether it was a business letter, a resume or an affidavit - in other words, the need for a neatly typed document. In this situation, the job typist or freelance typist was the person we employed. While demand for typing services may have crashed with the PC revolution, many freelancers can be found online today working on transcription and other jobs. Before the PC, it was of course a different story. I guess ours is the generation that can look at everything in life and say how it was different before the PC.

Many of these documents were required at least in duplicate and since you would need a copy for yourself, you needed to make three copies in all. Photocopiers were not ubiquitous then. You could not run out to the corner store and get copies made. If you needed hundreds of copies, you could use the commercial process for duplicating documents, called Cyclostyle duplication. The typewriter was perfectly suited to make three copies with carbon paper inserted between sheets of plain paper.

Offices then used to employ many typists. Typically, there was a pool of typists on whom everyone (except executives who had their own assistants) depended to prepare reports, invoices, and a myriad other documents. The sound of the keys striking paper was everywhere on the office floor with bells going off every now and then. The noisy machines were later replaced by the stylish electric typewriters which had, how shall I put it, smoother rounded out clicks and sexier fonts. The more important letters had to be typed on these rather than on their aging ancestors. Ultimately, with cheap PCs and software, everyone now types his own documents. The only fly in the ointment I see is the printer which can time and again flummox even the brightest among us. The term 'Printer's devil' has acquired a different meaning - the printer is the devil now. But hey, no worries, the promise of a paperless office is just on the horizon, right? Sorry, I am digressing.

Having mastered the computer keyboard with the hunt and peck method, we may be tempted to think that a typewriter would be easy to use. But if you have ever used one, you would know that proper training is essential to master this instrument. Good typists and stenographers were in great demand at the work place and I suppose those that didn't make it there, found their way to the freelance marketplace. You would find signs advertising the services of typists all over the place but over time these have given way to signs for photocopying, desktop publishing, etc. Many of these typists for hire would be found in crowded market places in what can only be charitably called holes in the wall.

The first time I had the need for one was at college when I had to prepare my final year project report. As my partner and I needed to keep a copy each for ourselves, this had to be produced in triplicate. We got our report typed by a job typist and then got the copies bound into thin volumes complete with a dust jacket. But this did not entail much legwork since year after year students had patronized these businesses and the process was honed to near perfection.

My first real encounter with the job typist was a few years later when I had to prepare a semi-legal (or at least legal sounding) letter to a builder. It should have been a routine, humdrum affair but the person I engaged had other ideas. If you walked into a barber shop to get a shave and found an apprentice there wielding a brand new knife with a supremely keen edge, you could be forgiven for feeling nervous. My experience was kind of similar except that I had no idea of the typist's level of skills until after the job was completed. It turned out that he was still learning to type and to make things worse he was also learning English at the same time.

When I collected the typed letter (with two carbon copies), I was surprised to find many misspellings because I had given him a clear well written draft and I seldom made spelling errors. It was definitely not a case of mere typos. The word 'agreement' which was the main topic of the letter and hence repeated a number of times was typed as 'aggrement' every time. To make matters worse, when I pointed this out to the typist, he started arguing with me and maintained that that was the correct spelling of the word. In other words, he had not mistyped the words at all but had taken it upon himself to make corrections!

After a few exhausting minutes of heated argument, I finally got him to agree to make the changes. As I walked off, I could feel him shaking his head in disbelief at the back of my neck. No doubt he was incredulous that someone would deliberately ask for a word to be misspelled. Later when I returned to collect the revised document, I thought he looked a little sheepish and somewhat subdued. Most likely he had looked up the word in the dictionary and found out that he was actually wrong. It was kind of ironic that our disagreement should have been about the word 'agreement'. Every time I hear someone say the phrase, 'agree to disagree', I am reminded of my encounter with this job typist.

Free and Pre-Paid

One of the perks or, I should say, irks (I am probably coining a new noun here) of life today is the unending stream of junk mail we receive. I have mentioned this in one of my previous posts and if you are a regular reader you know where I stand with regards to such mail. I usually throw them in the trash or in a pile to be shredded in case it has name, address and other personal details. This means that I have to at least glance at the envelope before deciding where it goes.

Years ago, Publishers Clearing House used to send out mailers that made it appear that you have won a lottery. It would have the name printed with words like 'pay to' and big numbers with dollar signs attached to them. On closer examination, you found out that it was an invitation to participate in a sweepstakes and not an announcement of winning. I think they have moved online now entirely, but the first time you received such a mail you were bound to be fooled into thinking you had won. Instead of actually winning, you had the opportunity to have a 1-in-10 million chance of winning. What a let down!

Nowadays, the weeding process is swift and I rarely hesitate to see if I should actually open the envelope before tossing it. Occasionally something catches my eye and I open the mail. This does not usually change their fate, but one such envelope recently made me sit up. The fact that it has both 'Free' and Pre-paid' as adjectives to an offer was only part of the reason. The envelope in question was rather plain and beige-coloured, hardly flashy. It was properly addressed but I was not to be fooled that easily. At the left-hand bottom corner, it said, 'Free Pre-Paid Cremation! Details Inside'. How could one resist that?

'Live free or die' said someone. I would advise you to make the most of living free because dying seems to be quite expensive. For those who bury their dead, reserving a plot or a place in a cemetery will be quite important. The availability of plots may be limited in urban areas considering the demand for land. They can be quite expensive too. I am sure advance planning is critical if you have a specific location in mind. At the same time, I have to say that advertisements for plots - "Set on a grassy knoll overlooking a small lake", "Gorgeous trees", "Serene and peaceful with beautiful views" and so on leave me puzzled. I do not see how this is of importance to the departed souls.

The cost associated with burials has given the idea of cremation a boost. And that explains the marketing flyer in my mailbox. A free funeral is certainly valuable in saving money for the family. But how can something be free and pre-paid at the same time? I was intrigued. It is not that one expects logic from such offers. I have seen snack packages that ask you to enter a contest/lottery to win big prizes with the additional phrases 'No purchase necessary' and 'Details inside'. So something like this is par for the course. Still, I wondered how a company would go about trying to get people to buy cremation services. This one succeeded at least in making me open the letter,

The letter talked about why cremation is a better solution than burial - cheaper, less impact on environment, and portable - you can keep the dear departed in an urn on the mantle and take them with you if you move across the country. No need to visit the grave to remember them. And so on. This funeral company invited me to register to win a pre-paid cremation. In other words, 'Sign up and if we pick your name, we will cremate you for free'.

I have to say that they managed to strike the delicate balance required in the tone in the letter. But the accompanying form which invited me to register with them and WIN a pre-paid cremation was disturbing. There was check box with this (and I am not making this up):

"Yes! I want to learn more about pre-need cremation plans". 

I can hazard a guess as to what 'pre-need cremation' could be. Scary to say the least. The form also had a picture of a family holding hands in a circle and apparently dancing on the beach. I am not even going to guess what that means. I am going let you figure that one out.

All in all, I can definitely say that I got some entertainment out of the grave mailer. The entirely novel idea of pre-need cremation, even if it sounds macabre, gave me a good laugh. Laughter, as the saying goes, is the best medicine and we can use every bit of help to postpone pre-need or post-need cremations. I can also say that in this instance the laugh was delivered both free and pre-paid.

Water Wise

I cannot say that I entirely subscribe to the sentiments in the nursery rhyme, 'Rain, Rain Go Away'. There is a part of us that actually loves getting drenched. On a hot summer day, you can see children running through lawns squealing in delight as they get sprayed by the sprinklers. Others wade into public fountains. People throng the beaches. As children, I am sure many of us have enjoyed getting soaked by a cooling rain even braving the scolding from parents that followed. Hollywood paid tribute to the rain with Singin' in the Rain. You cannot even imagine Bollywood without the customary rain song and dance sequence.

Many cultures celebrate the arrival of rains after a hot summer. The arrival of the monsoon is greeted with song and dance. Poets have waxed eloquent about it. It is no wonder then that we too are moved to sing in the shower in the privacy of the bathroom. There is something very thrilling about standing under this simulated rain. Every day, in the midst of the morning rush to get ready for work, I do savour the shower. I guess it brings out the child in me. I often stop to thank the person who invented the little device. From the simple spray to one with many settings - from gentle to massage - the shower is truly refreshing.

I must confess to feeling a tinge of guilt every now and then when enjoying the shower. After all there are so many in the world who do not have access to running water or even a reliable source of it. Having lived through trying times of water shortage myself, I am very mindful of how I use water. The law here in California actually requires us to install pressure reducing regulators in the shower heads to conserve water. Many commercial establishments use auto-sensing faucets in the bathrooms to reduce consumption of water. Others, perhaps not willing to spend that kind of money, resort to spring-operated taps which force you to press down on the valve. I do not particularly like these as your hands may be dirty. Sometimes, the faucet is so tight that the water comes out only for a second or two before the spring recoils. Or it is very loose and the water keeps running even after you are done leaving you worried that it is never going to shut off. Or it splashes all over and causes a mess so that  if you are not careful, you will come out of the bathroom looking like you have had an accident, if you know what I mean.

Getting back to the shower, I did not always have access to one for the morning bath. In fact, running water was a luxury when I was growing up. Water would be available from a municipal water line for a limited number of hours a day and would have to be stored. Which meant that you had to use a bucket of water with a mug to bathe yourself. Not much to write home about much less to blog about. But fortunately many of the houses we lived in had wells. They actually offered an exciting way to bathe more than making up for the lack of a shower. Drawing buckets of water and then emptying them over the head is uniquely thrilling. It is sort of like the ice bucket challenge, but much safer and more enjoyable. The well water tended to be a tad warmer than stored water which always felt cold and not so pleasant. As Ogden Nash put it,

"I test my bath before I sit, 

And I'm always moved to wonderment 

That what chills the finger not a bit 

Is so frigid upon the fundament."

Visiting my hometown or village offered the opportunity for taking dips in the river which offered a different dimension to the experience. A bath in the river is a whole lot of fun. In a river, there is a lot of water around you and usually plenty of company from people and sometimes even animals (as long as the animals were downstream, you will not notice their presence!). There may also be fish nibbling at your feet. And you have to watch out for the flotsam and jetsam too. So, I can declare that wading into the river and immersing my body entirely in the flowing water made me feel close to nature. I wonder if the river would feel the same now when I am so used to the creature comforts that modern plumbing offers. I am probably more likely to notice the quality of the water, the pollution, etc,.

Kutralam Falls

Talking of nature, the waterfall is absolutely the ultimate shower. It is a combination of the shower and the bath at the well described above only many times amplified. I recall the thundering column of water that beat down upon my back at the famous Kutralam Falls which I visited many years ago. The water here comes down from a great height but the flow is slowed down by a crater midway making it safe for bathing. You would still be well advised to hold on to the railing when standing under the falls as you are being jostled by the milling crowd but the roaring water is guaranteed to render you oblivious to everything. Other thrills here include keeping your personal belongings safe from the many monkeys around.

Our scriptures prescribe the bath (snanam in sanskrit) as an essential daily ritual in itself. And no other ritual is possible without a bath first. Ritual or not, bathing in water that is flowing or pouring over your head (I don't care much for soaking in the bathtub) not only cleanses the body but invigorates the mind too. So I hope you enjoy every moment of this ritual as much as I do even if you are hurried in the morning. But let us be water wise and help conserve it too.

Image: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f5/Courtallam.jpg/320px-Courtallam.jpg