The wrong train

By R. Lakshminarayan

Prologue

Every situation has some irony associated with it. The irony is either amusing or tragic. Since I travel by train a lot, I believe my responsibility to describe in detail the aspects of travel and the social ethos associated with it, is essential. As they say, ordinary situations create extraordinary circumstances. Again, I wonder whom are people referring to when they use “they”. I liberally assume that “they” refers to a group of cranky village philosophers sitting under a peepul tree delivering random statements with no particular significance. The best thing to do is not to mess with them as they may be wannabe motivational gurus desperate for recognition. My grandmother tells me that it may be their first step towards “shankaracharyadom” of some “new” ancient mutt which will be discovered later by carbon dating and the new TV serial on NBC. However, I should move on with my story about the passenger train “Gondwana express”.

Chapter 1: People

Getting inside a train is an easily forgettable experience. Because, by the time you reach your seat, devious railway agents may already have reserved that seat for three other gentlemen, who on confrontation show pale sweaty faces filled with remorse and exasperation. They realize very soon that until the TT arrives their travelling seat and bed would be the famed Indian railways toilet. After settling on my seat, I invariably look out for the most dangerous traveler – a travelling middle aged lady. The travelling lady usually occupies a lot of space, and it should be noted that I’m not simply trying to pour scorn on obese ladies. It is just that, irrespective of their size, volume, weight, area, and head weight, these ladies carry a great deal of baggage. They probably carry some of their housing bricks with them, just to avoid homesickness.

In fact, given a chance, the lady would hire a carpenter to construct an open wardrobe in the train and shed tears of joy watching her 150 pieces (!!!) of clothing dance with joy in the peaceful wind blowing through the train windows, while other harried passengers would haplessly dash for a place in the already overcrowded bogey, leaving the unluckiest ones to cling on to the ceiling fan like primates.

She would then pull out a mammoth sized lunch carrier from her mountain sized handbag and wait for the train to start. As soon as the train starts to move, she would execute her plan with skillful precision. Out of nowhere, the “she- Houdini” would produce 5 jars of pickles and hand it over to the nearby passengers who hold them with intense curiosity, peeking at the lifelessly floating pieces of vegetables in the sea of oil. Shortly afterwards, she would pass on some of the food to her daughter- in - law who would invariably seat herself at the end of some other coach. Assuming that she is bound by law to not get up from her seat, the travelling lady would play a game of “pass the parcel” with the passengers. By the time the container reaches her daughter – in - law, most of the food is already in the stomachs of vengeance seeking passengers (some of whom are genuinely hungry).

The train is however, not a platform for a one man/woman show. There are other interesting people who unknowingly make their presence obvious. There is always one old man removing his dentures before going to sleep. There is another fellow who would squat like a heron while his friend would lie down like Lord Venkateshwara in his heavenly abode “Vaikuntham”.

Then, there is a first time mother, holding a seemingly claustrophobic baby and adjacent to her seat an experienced mother instructs her confidently on bringing up children the right way, while her 15 year old son is busy gazing at the nonchalant European girl sitting in some other compartment and secretly picturing his own fantasy version of a transcontinental “Romeo and Juliet” with her. There are also some passengers who catch up on their extended afternoon siestas that generally last for days and nights.

Chapter 2: The Setting

This time my compartment had all these characters from the above described social ensemble. The incident I shall narrate involves three compartments in the bogey. In my compartment an old man, two afternoon siesta fellows and two newly met individuals were having a dull time. The two newly met individuals engaged themselves in a dry conversation and alternately assumed the heron and Lord Venkateshwara position, while I sat on the top berth with a magazine as the train chugged through stations. The old man was very particular that his dentures were safe and to ensure its safety he didn’t allow his to eyes wander. It is critical to note here that the two sleeping people made no significant contribution to this setting but I should include them for the sake of completeness and humanity.

The adjacent compartment consisted of the seemingly claustrophobic baby, its mother, the over confident experienced mother and the fantasy driven teenager, all of whom were deeply involved in their social engagements as described in the previous chapter.

The next compartment had the danger woman – the travelling middle aged lady, the European beauty and three disgruntled men.

Chapter 3: The Night

In my compartment the two newly met individuals talked for a long time, exchanging ideas, smiling at each other, posing arguments and twisting their moustaches. They were discussing the outcome of a cricket match between Muscat and Egypt. After a lot of head scratching and moustache twisting, they came to the conclusion that the argument had no significance as Muscat and Egypt probably don’t even have a cricket team (even if they had one, nobody cared as such). The short balding man wore a blue shirt while the other guy sported a French beard and wore horn rimmed glasses. For the sake of simplicity I shall refer to them as “Baldy” and “Frenchie”.

Baldy was a bit younger than frenchie, but frenchie was younger than the old man. As the night descended over the train, the old man made preparations for sleep. The lights were off and everyone assumed sleeping positions as darkness infiltrated the compartment through the windows. After a few moments I heard some strange noises and in moments someone turned on the lights. The old man was up on his feet and Frenchie and Baldy were looking at each other with anger and bewilderment. “Awwyooeh vooeuyyuu? Whaayaay doyeee?” said the old man. It took us time to understand that the incoherency in the old man’s speech was due to the absence of his dentures. After putting them on, he reiterated his words “What is this? What are you doing”? Immediately, both Baldy and Frenchie stood up and shouted “This man is a thief”.

Chapter 4: Confessions

After this development the characters in the train exhibited an unprecedented transformation in their behavior and eagerly took turns to interrogate Baldy and Frenchie separately. The travelling lady was visibly terrified that someone might steal her sandals, which would seem out of context here, but the thought process that goes inside the mind of a travelling woman is so complex that even experienced researchers have often found themselves at sea while analyzing this dangerous traveler. With utmost caution she put her sandals in her purse while people walked all over her luggage frantically, just to catch a glimpse of a thief. The real problem is that thieves usually do not look notorious nor do they have fungus infested faces expressing cruelty. They may even resemble your friendly neighbor- hood spider-man. In fact the spider-man outfit helps these burglars to hide their identities. The important issue at hand was that the thieves were deceptive and, after a lot of thought the old man ordered Baldy and Frenchie to give a brief account of the incident.

Frenchie was conspicuously calm and elegant during his disclosure. “I was reaching for my bag when this gentleman made a dash for my left back-pocket in which I had my black leather wallet.” Suddenly Baldy rose from his seat and exclaimed “Aha, your wallet is in your right back-pocket and your wallet is not black, but brown in color, you liar”. Frenchie gave him a wry smile and said “Oh yes sir, you must be correct; after all I couldn’t keep an eye on it all the time. However, it seems that you were responsible enough to look after it, for me, thank you.” With this he crossed his arms and looked at the confused audience flashing a victorious grin. By this time Baldy had realized that Frenchie had bamboozled him, triggering the sudden outburst of truth from him, which would eventually precipitate his downfall. Baldy nervously explained events which could never possible occur in a train and stuttered so many times that the crowd unanimously felt that Frenchie was a better speaker and had the potential to turn into a politician some day. It was evident that Baldy had technically hammered nails on his own coffin because everyone was convinced that Baldy had made a dash for Frenchie’s wallet. They chained baldy to the upper berth ladder and one exceptionally excited man rushed to the train guards. Soon, the gathering dispersed and people started losing interest in the thief. Slowly Frenchie approached Baldy and whispered to him with supreme confidence “I’m sorry mate, two thieves cannot loot the same train, it just shows that you are an amateur. If you were my apprentice I could have taught you backup measures in case you get caught. You see, the key to burglary is tact, and as you can see I’m a master of this art”.

Moments later, the railway policeman tapped on Frenchie’s shoulder and as Frenchie turned around; his expression underwent a sea of change. Frenchie’s shock revealed rivers of sweat on his face, as soon as he saw the policeman.

Chapter 5: The Culprit

“Mr. Patel, isn’t it? You were the one who stole my gold watch last week from this very train. We were having a wonderful conversation after which, you snatched my watch at night and vanished. That day I was off duty and probably you caught me off guard as well. But, I cannot believe that you would commit the classical mistake of boarding the same train the second time” said the policeman as Frenchie hung his face in shame and disgust. As everyone watched in silence, the policeman released Baldy and frisked Frenchie away to the police compartment. Baldy heaved a sigh of relief and wore a defiant smile accentuating his ultimate victory over Frenchie.

Two hours later we found out that Baldy had just disappeared and the travelling lady’s box of jewels was missing. It is very surprising why no one could point out to the policeman that even Baldy might be a thief. However, the only thing that ran in my mind was the one line Baldy would love to tell Frenchie if they ever met in future- “I may have touched the wrong wallet, but you boarded the wrong train.”

Conscience at the crossroads

By R. Lakshminarayan

Chapter 1: Confession

I am not a thief. I try to earn a living for my family. My life has a meaning and I always wanted to achieve something better. Destiny painted me gray because it left me with no money. One harsh twist of fate left me penniless and I had to indulge myself in a painful activity which tested my conscience.

I pick pockets. I have a wife and a son and they still believe that I work in an insurance company. This is not the story of my expeditions and techniques, but this is the story that crushed the purpose of my existence.

Chapter 2: Beginnings

My father was the most respectable man in the neighborhood. He was hailed as an honest, principled peon in the government hospital situated in the heart of Chirag Delhi (an urban township in 1985). I was brought up near the slum- like government quarters allotted for unskilled employees. My father never denied me anything. He took pains to send me to a good school so that I could equip myself with proper knowledge which, he could never receive. All my materialistic demands were met, as my father would buy me expensive clothes and continued to adorn his ragged, torn dhoti wherever he went. My educational capabilities were below par but my father encouraged me to do better. If I scored very poor marks in a term, my father would go to the janitor’s room in the hospital and shed tears, but he would never show disappointment on his cheerful and gentle face. After many failures and relegations, I reached high school and since higher education was more expensive my father barely managed to pay my fees at school. At this crucial juncture my mother contracted pulmonary tuberculosis and after a few months she passed away in pain and suffering. My father’s dejection was uncontrollable after her demise and her sweet memories accentuated the agonizing void in our lives. Shortly my father suffered from bouts of pneumonia and doctors linked his failing health to the depression caused by my mother’s death. Days skimmed past our deprived lives making each day more difficult and nostalgic.

On the fateful night of August 15th the rain gods poured fresh water on the parched landscape, filling the roots of magnanimous old trees with precious crystal clear water, forcing the birds to abandon their quest to conquer the sky and allowing earthworms to jiggle through perforations, digging their trenchant heads through the tender soil like spiral wires. I arrived at my home in the dark, drenched and tired. My eyes fell on a new cycle placed magnificently on the entrance gleaming from the moon light that shone on its water soaked body. My dad had bought me my first cycle, spending his lifetime savings just to see a large gleaming smile on my face. When I rushed inside the house beaming with joy, I saw my father lying on the ground, soaked in rainwater which was streaming down his nostrils. His pulse was ticking but his body was as cold as a block of ice. He had braved the rain to buy me a birthday present. As I rushed him to the hospital his miserly heart gave up hope and his stubborn lungs refused to admit fresh air in its domain. My father’s last gesture hurt my sanity and this inexplicable grief ripped my heart apart. He was my life, he was my hero and he was my God. That day destroyed all elements of faith in me and since then I have trudged a path of deceit and dishonesty with an impassive heart and a trounced soul.

Chapter 2: Habits

My aunt brought me up after my father’s demise and I spent my youth by taking up menial jobs like selling papers and delivering eggs in the locality. The income I earned from these makeshift jobs would hardly fetch me a square meal. There were days when I would ask myself about the effort my father made to educate me and my utilization of such opportunities. Such questions would increase my desperation and deepened my grief. If I couldn’t study even after working hard in school, why was God sacrificing my happiness at crucial junctures in my life? Why did he take my father away? Why was I the only one to face the burden of incapability along with the loss of dear ones? Why did God deliver pain to my father in return for his honesty? Maybe, these questions have no answers.

My elder cousin was extremely obtuse and insufferable, yet he earned a lot of money. He claimed that he was an insurance agent but I always felt something ominous about his way of life. To unravel this mystery, I kept a close watch on my cousin for a week and followed him like a shadow. He lavishly spent money on filthy entertainment and extravagant food. The only thing he brought home was the salary of an insurance agent. Where exactly was he generating such a huge income? A week later, when I followed him to a bus I discovered his secret. He was the best pickpocket I had ever seen. In fact, his swift catch was so mind-blowing that one couldn’t guess what he was doing. This revelation meant instant wealth at the expense of others, but then fate had been cruel to me and principles had evaporated from my psyche leaving it high and dry. If destiny wanted me to redeem myself and feed myself at the expense of others I was not a parasite but, a social scavenger, one could borrow some hope from people by sharing his poverty. It did seem logical to me that if something is there to be picked, why one should hesitate to grab the opportunity. My starvation gleefully approved my thoughts. My downtrodden life groped for emancipation.

Through observation I mastered this malevolent art and in no time I developed a knack of picking wallets wherever I went. It came naturally to me and I perceived my victims as a bunch of clothes bearing wallets waiting to be picked. The element of risk seldom affected me as I assumed an innocuous semblance warding off any traces of suspicion. My initial conquests were unrewarding and a tinge of remorse downplayed my confidence but the instant returns helped me trounce my scruples. As riches poured in I moved in a modest rented house and as a token of appreciation for my aunt, I sent her gifts every month. This also served as my redemption. The loot sustained my parsimonious expenditure and helped me save some money for the future. Although it may seem that picking pockets would bestow marginal returns, smart pickups and clever prey selection served me well. Soon enough I was married into a poor, unsuspecting family and in no time I had a son and in the true sense, a complete family.

My cousin may have realized that I was using the same decoy (an insurance agent) but to protect his cover, he never asked me about the transition. And I enjoyed success until someone invented the credit card.

Chapter 3: Adaptation

To sustain an occupation, one needs to move with time and change with time. He has to improvise and invent methodologies to survive. After the invention of credit cards and debit cards and various other encrypted cards, my job became more difficult. My riches vanished, largely due to my lavish spending and I was barely able to provide for my family. My hunting grounds were busses and markets where electronic systems were still unconceivable. Even in such places many people carried empty wallets. Even if they had some money on them it was too scarce to even pay for a single meal. Instead of two or three wallets a week, I had to pick around 20-25 wallets in a week and selected random locations in order to avoid investigators, who may discover some sort of a pattern if I operated without caution.

Chapter 4: The final act

As the sun dipped to the horizon blurring its shape at the edges, birds dived through the hanging bliss of orange light decorating the outline of the sky. Every beautiful sight reminded me about the irony in my own life. It prompted my mind to harvest the crop of prudence, and yet my greedy senses groped for redundant pleasures. The bus roared to a stop near the busy fish market and new boarders ascended with a renewed hope of meeting their loved ones at the fag end of the day. It had been a particularly satisfying day for me, picking 23 pockets and collecting enough money to settle my account with the neighborhood grocer. I had decided to resign for the day when I spotted a natural prey.

This man was sitting just in front of me and his wallet was gleefully peeking out of the back-pocket of his pant. I removed the wallet in a flash when the bus jumped on a speed breaker, and held it firmly in my hand. As I got off at the next stop, I recovered its contents and threw the wallet off the bridge into the depths of the river Yamuna. Pleased with my latest catch, I reached for my back-pocket to produce my wallet. I was in for a shock. My wallet was gone! It took me some time to realize that my alacrity in stealing the alluring wallet had cost me my own wallet. As I turned my dejected face to see the bus dash past the bridge, I noticed a man running towards me. He was the fellow whose wallet I had picked. As I turned my face to avoid him, he waved, gesturing me to stop. He finally stopped in front of me and said “Hey mister, you dropped your wallet on the bus. It must have fallen from your pocket while you were getting off”. I was standing still as a stone from the fear of getting caught and doubted his intentions but he smiled and continued “Today is my son’s birthday. I was going to the market to buy him a cycle. I had to work overtime and withdraw a part of my life’s savings to pay for it”.”He will be so happy to see it”. “Anyway please take your wallet, and please don’t thank me, God is great and he always helps people in trouble”. Uttering these words he handed me the wallet and ran behind another bus to catch it. Before I had any time to react, the bus sped away on the road as if nothing in the world could stop it. All the contents in my wallet were intact. I was still clutching the crumpled notes stolen from the man’s wallet. The image of my father flashed in front of me. I staggered down the road with a blank face and a trampled soul. The money in my hand was representative of my sins.

My father would have hated me today…

R. Lakshminarayan

Identity

Identity crisis

By R. Lakshminarayan

Prologue

My name is R. Lakshminarayan. R doesn’t “stand” for anything; it is the abbreviation of my father’s good name. I forbid any kindergarten kid to use my name as a reference to learn the alphabetical sequence (as in “A for apple, B for bat… R for R.Lakshminarayan). For starters, the name is derived from the symbiosis of lord Vishnu and his wife goddess Lakshmi. For the past 20 years, the name has been broken up, mutilated (sometimes by me too), and used as a reference to a particular billionaire. This is a story of my name and my existence.

The name

I was registered in my school as R. Lakshmi Narayan. Most of you may not have noticed the “gap” between Lakshmi and Narayan. But in kindergarten, the gap made all the difference. I was referred as Laxmi, Lacchmi, Laccho, Laccho darling, Chameli ??!!(I wonder where that came from). As a child I did not like being referred as a female, not that I am a male- chauvinist, but I was sure about my gender.

To counter all these attacks on my gender “security” I decided to keep names for my fellow mates. As it turned out they were offended and kid’s parents focused their PTA meeting time to discuss my misbehavior.

Teacher: Mrs. Singh, your son is failing in a few subjects. This is really bad for his…

Mrs. Singh: (interrupting) Madam, We (“we” refers to herself and her husband, who is, by the way, busy looking at embodiments of the opposite sex and gaping with awe) heard that some fellow named “Chameli ka bageecha” refers to my son Jagannath as “Jaggi”. This is outrageous! Please tell his parents that we cannot tolerate such misbehavior on his part. This is outrageous… blah blah… blah blah… na… haan… huun haan.(husband still gaping with awe at other objects of his affection)

Teacher: (With a grave expression) this is serious Mrs. Singh. I will talk to his parents. Your son is such a bright kid.

End of discussion. The child is not reprimanded for his poor grades and also earns the teachers sympathy. When my turn comes, I get reprimanded for both.

Also, Mrs. Singh earns the right to call me names (she was innovative enough to add bageecha and turn me into a garden) and yet a simple and efficient modification to her son’s name earns me her wrath. Sooner or later she is going to call her son “Jaggi” instead of Jagannath. Reason? ->No one has time for long names. Chinese and Japanese realized this without delay. If you notice, no Chinese name would span over 3 characters. They simply don’t have time. They would Yin, Yan and do an occasional Chan before the world comes to an end.

Later, I devised a new escape route by deciding to divert everybody’s attention to the second half of my “broken” name. It just led to a new series of names. Now, I was Nari, Nidri, Nariyal (English translation- coconut). No, my head doesn’t look like a coconut; neither do I have three eyes covered shabbily with husk.

Fortunately, one particular derivative of my name (“Nada”) was less offending and I decided to adopt it. Thank you buggers for coining such a wonderfully convenient name. I am Nada... and I shall have my revenge

The Masterpiece

The final test of loyalty

Chapter 1: the day of placement

One couldn’t ask for a better day to retrospect. Sitting on the grass, waiting for the night to cover me with its shadow of peace, I felt a deep force running through me, the feeling of accomplishment. Placements had just started in our college and I had been quite lucky to land up with a sweet job at the start itself. It was as if my college life was finally getting over. During such moments in life people look out for other people in trouble, which I believe is a sadistic impulse one gets. The touch of fur and hair would remind me of a long haired guy in college who would throw himself on me without provocation, but, unlike his brute touch it was extremely soft and momentary. With a swift turn of the head I could see him. His majesty had to be acknowledged. Silvery white hair, brooding jaws and two eyes which displayed grace were lost on me in an instant. The hair on his body was like grass on the meadow waiting for the wind to work itself through it, the wind, like a mermaid wading through the blue ocean with sheer joy. His domestication and age were apparent from his grace and sublime submission to the work of time. It was strange that a dog from the elegant and sophisticated breed of Pomeranians could be found wandering near a boy’s hostel.

Chapter 2: acquaintance

“Where is his rightful owner?” “What is this pet dog doing here?” “What about the hostel hygiene?” the student mess in-charge was in a foul mood and a fleeting look at the creature basking under the afternoon sun certainly aggravated his irritation. The authorities had handed out several memos to the members of the hostel committee and the content demanded specific budget cuts in the food supplies which were unreasonable at this point of time, since the cost of vegetables were scaling record heights. Some of the hostel mates were quick to notify him about the dog’s history and rendered a calculated narrative which could explain why the creature was enjoying its afternoon siesta out on the hostel lawn bench. The dog had been abandoned by the owner for some reason and ironically, he found some solace in the noisy environment of the hostel. The mess in-charge was able to direct his anger at something else and the dog was perhaps, able to brood over a lost bone. Evidently, his claws had worn out and his latency was quite a concern for many dog lovers in the hostel but there was nothing much they could do about it. His prior domestication and inoculation from the wild had made his body a slave to medicinal shots. Without veterinary facilities the dog was considered as a living host of diseases and some inmates kept a safe distance from him. Some youngsters pitied the mongrel and spared some food occasionally. “We should call him “Stalin”” remarked Basu. Basu was a music maniac and loved to flaunt words in his vocabulary and as any ardent follower of communism; he carried a volume of speeches delivered by Marx in Russia with him even to the rest-room. His belligerent response to everyone’s disgust was a simple statement delivered with conviction, “If Archimedes could frame a theorem in his bathtub, I am just seconds away from self discovery and enlightenment”. Despite Basu’s idiosyncrasies, his discussions were emphatic and engaging, forcing many inmates to believe that he was some kind of a ‘misplaced’ philosopher. However, everyone seemed to like the title he blessed the dog with and Stalin was now ‘unofficially’ the new resident of our hostel lawn.

Slowly, everyone got used to the presence of Stalin and any reference to him helped us distract ourselves from the usual arduous routine in the hostel.

Chapter 3: The incident

The sophistication involved in a dog’s life can be slowly understood by studying their general behavior. Stray dogs divide themselves into groups and clusters where each group understands their territorial limitations. The territories are usually divided according to the benefits in an area and some compromise is reached, which not only allows them to live in a chartered manner but also helps them to claim food in their zones. Any intruder in their zone is unwelcome barring human beings who are apparently their “perpetual masters”. It took only a week before Stalin had to face the native dogs and the incident remains etched in my mind.

It was a cold winter night, and all the hostel inmates were busy with assignments and reports they had to submit the following week. A packed hostel in the night is reminiscent of a busy office on the streets of Manhattan before the close of the stock exchange. The only difference lies in the nature of work and the type of noises that erupt infrequently. The night draped a blanket of darkness over the pavements and roads leading to the hostel. Stalin crouched on a bench in the lawn lazily drawing his eyes to close. Then out of instinct he opened his eyes to see a dozen glittering eyes advancing towards him. The stray dogs of this zone had decided to attack him and this had to be done to assert their authority and rights in the zone. Stalin stood his ground. He had none of the tenacity his opponents possessed and was clearly outnumbered. He had almost decided that it had to be his final stand before death when Basu and I walked out of the gate in the hostel. Basu was the first one to notice the standoff and in an effort to save Stalin, he picked up a rock and threw tentatively at one of the attackers. Following suit, I aimed at two other attackers and visibly stunned the stray animals ran for their lives. Satisfied with our effort we stepped on an old haggard motorbike and drove to the night canteen which was 4 Km from the campus.

We finally reached the gas station to refuel and searched our pockets for money. “Hey, somebody picked my wallet” remarked Basu. “How the hell can you be so careless?” my reprimand did not make any significant impact as our vehicle was comprehensively dry and we were stranded at the petrol pump without any cash at our disposal. “Eh, this is gonna be our longest night together, comrade” joked Basu. I was not in the mood for jokes as I had to forward an assignment next morning and the worst part was that I had no clue about the topic. “Guess what, Stalin followed us to the station” remarked Basu. As the exasperated animal came closer we were in for a special surprise. Stalin had picked up Basu’s wallet from the road, where he had carelessly dropped it, and ran all the way to pull us out of the mess.

Chapter 4: The Final Test

Keeping track of seasons and describing them with passion and panache is a hobby well suited for poets and great writers. However, such changes rarely make an impact on a superficial community which yearns for materialistic benefits just by joining pieces of metals and plastics to conjure a device used by a million lazy people to simplify their lives. The only thing which mattered to us was the mess timetable and whatever they had to offer during the recess.

In the evening, hostel inmates loved to squat on the lawn, making groups and explicitly narrating their chronicles of successes and failures which were inevitably spiced up with infectious laughter rendered by the audience. The clock of life had changed Basu, who by now had developed certain capitalistic inclinations after reading about the ideological shifts developing in socialistic nations. It was still hard to say whether he was an ardent follower of Marx or a Friedman enthusiast, but it did not matter much as nobody ever took his political views seriously. Stalin was an apathetic member of the confluence and he had developed no special interest in Basu’s theories and arguments.

Many people enjoyed their evening walk and some people walked their dogs in the college campus which included the hostel premises. Hostel lawns also served as grazing grounds for numerous cows and buffaloes and soon their open defecation in specific areas caused uproar amongst students who demanded the disposal of cow dung from the hostel. However, the authority thought it was best not to entertain such complaints as students may start demanding more luxuries. In fact, some wardens even publicly spoke in favor of the defecation, specifically relating their childhood accounts of playing with cow dung and slapping cakes on their walls, which were received with suppressed expressions of disgust and dissent. Fortunately, cows realized soon enough that their nature’s call was the topic of a public debate and wisely refrained from public excretion much to students’ delight. This kind gesture earned them the right to roam freely near the hostel premises and agitations were unanimously withdrawn by inmates.

Dusk was fast settling in when somehow, an evening dog walker unintentionally irked a bull and subsequently, the bull started charging at him with blood shot eyes and murderous intent. The dog walker went white with fear as blood drained from his face. The poodle accompanying him concealed itself behind the fellow’s legs and slightly raised his cowering eyes which betrayed a stifling feeling of helplessness. In a flash, something sprang up on the bull’s ear biting into the soft and hairy hide with aggression and skill. The bull was evidently surprised by Stalin’s move and temporarily lost control over its objective. The bull ran in various directions before deciding to shrug Stalin off its ear. The bull rammed him on the ground with a force apparently equal to ten times his body weight. Stalin’s bones would have been pulverized by the impact but he still held his jaws tightly on the bull’s ear. The bull rammed Stalin on the trunk of a nearby tree and unable to withstand further pummeling he broke free. The bull was still in frenzy as the shock of being attacked had almost driven him crazy. While we rushed to Stalin for help the bull swiftly disappeared into the thickets. Stalin wasn’t breathing. The dog walker wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead and stood awkwardly, struggling to maintain some form of composure. “Yeah, what a waste. He was no good anyway. He was more like a roaming box of fleas. I had to abandon this beast” retorted the dog walker. This ungrateful fellow was the erstwhile owner of Stalin. The whole gathering raised their heads in his direction and sensing resentment he hurried down the road without looking back. Everyone was silent. Stalin was lying tangled on the tall grass near the tree and yet, he looked calm. “Maybe this is what they call honor; saving people who no longer need you” said Basu silently. For the first time everyone agreed with him. Stalin had cleared the test; the final test of loyalty.

R. Lakshminarayan

“Dedication and loyalty are virtues of the great”

The Case Of A Wooden Stick

For Ami...

Prologue
Freedom is a right and it cannot be manipulated. Freedom is an expression, it is a religion. Even if one person finds this piece relevant to his life, my purpose is solved.
All my stories start with my homecoming, so here I go again.
I came home after placements, satisfied with my selection. My parents were happy to see me but soon I discovered that their elation was not directly related to my arrival. We were renovating our house and quite conveniently my brother was working hard and earning his daily bread in a land far, far away. The situation demanded a person to look after the house and supervise the whole process. After a painful process of elimination my parents decided that I was marginally more trustworthy than our domestic help which ultimately led to a unanimous conclusion that I must sit at home. As usual, I tried to carve out my escape route by telling my parents about the importance of my independence and the doctrine of “hanging out with friends”. My mother, I must state, is a great negotiator and my father always nods his head in approval (only when mom is not around...). She extolled her words with delirium and spun such a fine web of deceit that, in between her words of wisdom, I almost made up my mind to dedicate my whole life to human service by offering to look after renovations initiated by anyone and everyone.
Quite obviously, I succumbed to the fine arguments my mother had to offer.
The work started in two days and a dozen laborers stormed the house like backyard gladiators. The harmonic rhythm emanating from the hammers was quintessentially deliberate and the house danced to its tunes with harmony but later my head danced in agony. The work had been going on steadily and was now nearing a stage where its completion was inevitable. Suddenly my mom wanted to add a new thing. She now wanted a room outside the verandah. Essentially the work was piling up. My vacations were going to be ruined!
One day, the “kattae” was lost. (Kattae- a wooden block in Tamil)
The history of Kattae
When security arrangements would be made at my house, my grandparents would be particularly concerned with the verandah. In their opinion it was an invitation for thieves to practice their profession freely. The outcome of this issue demanded a protocol where all decisions should support a calculated and an efficient effort to seal it off. The plan had been to put an iron shed over the verandah, covering it fully and to reinforce it; a welded support had been put in place connecting it to the wall. After this we had put two locks on a swinging door. Finally, we had deployed a heavy wooden door secured with three locks. My father had been quite satisfied with this arrangement as even international borders couldn’t have been so impervious.
The highest authority in our house, my grandfather, had inspected the arrangement and after a careful assessment he had thundered “We need more security. Always make sure that the thief finds an extra obstacle when he tries to enter”. And so he had suggested that a wooden support be placed horizontally on the door acting like a secondary unmovable reinforcement, such that we could place the block whenever we wanted to seal it and to open the door we just had to remove it from its resting place, which was embedded at the extremes, one near the knob and the other close to the door hinges.

The block weighed 2 kilos and had been carved out from solid wood. If I had had to define my perplexity at that moment I would have bluntly said, “If I were a thief, I wouldn’t dare to even look at this house”. When such an arrangement had been sanctioned by my father with complete belief in this philosophy, it had become my divine duty to place the block on the block-rests before going to sleep. In fact, any complacency on my part in this matter had been looked upon with utmost seriousness. If I had forgotten to place the block on the rests, statements like “The thief must have seen that the block wasn’t in place” and”The block is the final hope for our family” and the classic “You don’t care much about your father’s house… How will u take care of your own house?” had been delivered without any delay or apprehension.
My mother had not particularly been interested in the philosophy and purpose behind the existence of this block but out of respect for my dad’s wishes she had chosen to advocate a routine where the block would get prime importance.
The relevance of such a detour from the actual story would be clear very soon.

Revisiting the story from where we had left…
When my ma discovered that the kattae was gone, she became extremely anxious as she knew that my dad would be disturbed. She searched for the block in each room and after failing to find the block she exclaimed “Deyy Narayana, where is the kattae?” in between her attempts to retrieve it. And I simply nodded my head to indicate my helplessness in the matter. “Appa will be anxious””Ask the laborers tomorrow”. After her brief search my ma hit the sack.
My dad entered the scene from the basement after completing the day’s work on his thesis. Instantly, a realization clouded his mind and he rushed into frenzy. “Oh my god! Where is the kattae? Narayana… ask the workers about it.””Where is it?””Don’t forget, ok?” “Where could it be…?”
After repeating these words with much concern he lost interest temporarily and went off to sleep.
The next day, my father questioned the workers about the kattae. They refused to associate themselves with its existence. My dad’s concern deepened. My mother was concerned that my dad was concerned. I was speculating the outcome of this situation. Soon, my dad decided that without the block in place we shouldn’t go for any further construction. “Without the block, it is akin to sleeping with our doors open”. My ma tried to reason with him “But what about other locks and doors?” “What about the shed?” “We are still safe”.
However, my dad was adamant “No, u don’t know, the block is gone and now the thief will walk the ramp in our house.” I was left wondering about this proverbial thief who would do anything to loot our house despite such strict security arrangements.
After this, there were no questions (and no answers either!). The work stopped. Finally, it was time for my return to Nagpur. Before I left for Nagpur, I told my mom that I had a pleasant surprise for her in the verandah and that she should look at it after I leave. There she found the old block, placed majestically on the door!
Yes. I had hidden the block and yes, it had served my purpose.
R. Lakshmi Narayan
Edited by: Ami Dhar
Writers Note:
This edict is fictitious and any conclusions drawn from it have to be objective. I love my family and idolize all my elders. The story is from a very satirical point of view and any speculation leading to denigration shall not be entertained.

TRAINING!!

Chapter 1:
The Journey

My end semester examinations were finally over and yet again reminded me that I have a lot left to study in my quest for knowledge. Fear, as usual, was stalking me and I responded quite like any other sane person under stress. To put it clearly I was simply petrified at the prospect of failing one of the tests.

The situation reminded me of Sir P.G. Wodehouse who very articulately defined misery in one of his works. ‘Misery loves company’ he said. This statement could be used as a reference here as my companions were also in a pensive mood and the joy of returning to our metaphorical ‘barracks’ (home) wasn’t there to be seen.

Chapter 2:
Home sweet home

Homecoming for an engineer can be seen as a crude parallel to the homecoming of a brave soldier. Since we fight valiantly and desperately, to conquer all our exams at the nick of time, we deserve at least a small reconciliatory title to glorify our struggle. Hence, I decided to use the title ‘soldier’, while referring to our community. This should sufficiently justify the connections I am using throughout the text.
Getting back to the story, I would spare no effort to describe the homecoming routine, which is periodically practiced by my parents as a token of affection for my brother and me.
First, my parents would ask me questions about the journey and I would give them typical responses. To elucidate upon this, let me present one particular questionnaire where I have given my actual responses and then the responses, which could have been delivered by a very notoriously disturbed man

Mom: Was the ticket collector kind enough?
Me: Yes ma.
Insane response: How does it matter? Surely he is not going to keep me on his lap and give me a candy.

Dad: Where did u eat?
Me: In the train, in the pantry, dad
Insane response: In the train, And not in the toilet for gods sake!

Mom: How much did u eat?
Me: It was sufficient ma.
Insane response: I wish my stomach were a weighing machine. I would have given u a time based profile of my weight change and you could have gone forward and submitted it to WHO elaborating on the issue of malnutrition in India.

Dad: Did u get down during an unscheduled stop?
Me: No, dad.
Insane response: Yes, I got down and pushed the train from Agra to Delhi just because it had run out of steam. I hope you are satisfied with this excuse.


Next, my parents would comment on my depleted health with utmost seriousness. My mom would make a very melodramatic face, accentuating her concern for my health.
‘Son, you have become too thin’ she would say. For centuries men have tried and tested all kinds of body profiles to elude this comment but alas, their valiant efforts have always failed. I bet that even ‘He- man’ returning from his successful war against ‘Skeletor’ would lose all his enthusiasm after hearing such a comment from his mother.

As I sat down to undo my shoelaces, my mind raced forward through time extrapolating the future in front of my eyes. I was in paradise, leisurely enjoying my much-awaited vacation. Suddenly, there was an uncharacteristic feeling in my stomach, and instinct forced me to believe that my dreams are going to hit a dead end.

Chapter 3:
Trust your instinct

Normally, an engineering graduate has to undergo some form of an industrial training in their field of interest. However, it is optional for students in our college and is not a part of the curriculum. My mother was very keen that I use my time “effectively” & “efficiently”, which meant that I had to undergo a month full of intense training. Eager to encourage my lethargic designs, I gave my mother a complete history of people enrolling enthusiastically for training and then returning back within three days, just because companies don’t appreciate the importance of such practices.

However, my mother, like an expert negotiator eventually convinced me that, training like a true engineer would set an example for others and this way I would be doing a great service to the nation. Her words were so convincing that I felt a patriotic surge within me compelling me to blindly believe in whatever she had so shrewdly proclaimed. In fact, I was so emotionally touched by her words that I was about to utter ‘inquilab zindabad’ but quickly realized that we were about to celebrate India’s 56th independence in a few days and such words of rebellion are definitely out of place.

Chapter 4:
The hand of god

God, on the other hand had other plans for me. Mysteriously enough he fractured my right hand (it is always easy to blame god for our mistakes!!) when I was playing football and I had to undergo some surgery. After the surgery, it would not be possible for me to use my hand and in the broader sense it meant that I could not go for training.

Rightfully, my mother asked me to visit the human resource manager of the company and express my gratitude towards him for granting me an opportunity to train in the company. Also, I had to explain my situation to him and request for an extension in the training period.






Chapter 5:
It all starts now

The next day I reached my destination 15 minutes late, expecting the manager to blast me for not being punctual. Surprise Surprise!! The manager hadn’t reached yet.
Congratulating myself on my moral victory I sat down at the reception, contemplating a situation where I could blast the manager on similar lines, and teach him a lesson or two in punctuality.
The manager did not turn up even after a while which forced me to build up two theories

1. He probably read my mind and decided to evade my imperious designs, which were nothing but a mere specter of imagination emanating from the sadistic dimension of my mind.Or
2. He may actually be sitting nearby and testing my patience level.

The second theory seemed relatively sound and I decided to adopt it, after spending a lot of time on rigorous introspection. My speculations are often wrong, but, if it were right this time I should be able to prove myself as a prospective employee to the company.
Wait!
Was the manager dressed up as the receptionist or the guard?
My thoughts drifted in this fashion because this particular receptionist was constantly minding the time as if he were a timekeeper for Olympic races. Why was he so time conscious? He might have misconstrued the term ‘watch’, a term that is quite commonly used to describe small timepieces, and might have taken the term quite literally. In fact, he kept ‘watching’ it, as if it were his sacred duty to obey the command. I felt so sorry for the poor fellow that I decided to use the term ‘clock’ every time I have to refer to any form of a timepiece.

Alternatively, I was anticipating an event whence the manager would jump out of the guard uniform and surprise me with a “Hey, u passed the test” remark, but sadly enough it didn’t happen.
Soon, I gave up all these fancy hopes and started observing my surroundings with a more logically oriented frame of mind.








Chapter 6:
The Receptionist and the height of logic!!
The receptionist waited patiently for the manager to arrive but failed to conceal signs of discomfort, which I believe, were strongly linked to my presence.

Although I couldn’t pinpoint the nature of his discontent, I decided to frame a thumb rule hoping to characterize his behaviour sufficiently.
After painfully focusing my thoughts and using the great powers of logic I finally framed a thumb ruleà Receptionists are always uneasy and strange!If Socrates were present at that place he would have, readily placed my head on the guillotine.He would have banged his head on the wall and proclaimed "You miserable fool!! The receptionist might just be putting the nature's call on hold, for your sake!!” “And you have, so ungratefully categorized him as a freak!” Anyhow, I stuck to my thumb rule and later developed another thumb rule à Discomfort is contagious.
Chapter 7:
Discomfort is contagious!

I was getting restless. 55 minutes had passed since my arrival.But assuming that training included the waiting part I chose to control my anxiety for some more time.
After an hour he finally came. I stood up emphatically and gracefully but the manager winced on seeing me, as if an old enemy had returned to haunt him.He gave me an unenterprising look and asked me to wait for some more time. After this he briskly walked off to a domain, which was inaccessible to common mortals like me.For the next two hours he met me at regular intervals and asked me to change my position with respect to the reception and wait for some more time. I complied, assuming that he was going to send an artist to make a painful portrait of me. Such a prospect did not particularly raise my spirits but somehow I started estimating the value of such a portrait.Chapter 8:
Two fat ladies = 88
All of a sudden I was in the company of two ladies. They were essentially quite healthy and had a lot to talk about. They had just arrived and the manager chose to meet the ladies before addressing me!! I have heard of chivalry but this was unacceptable. Finally, he decided to meet me and I departed after executing my objective. When I stepped out, I realized that it took me 5 hours to say something that did not even require 5 minutes of the manager’s time.
EPILOGUE

Over 1000 engineering colleges exist in India, and every year it produces more than 2 lac engineers. However, production and engineering units in India have not even reached a development stage. For example, there is not a single microchip-manufacturing unit in the country; more than half of our defense projects have failed largely due to poor infrastructure and insufficient exposure and many more. This means that India is still not self-sufficient and in fact its GDP is bound to suffer in the future. Luckily enough, agriculture has contributed efficiently to the domestic product and we can still be counted among the developing nations in the world. But, the real question is quite obvious. Is India equipped to face the complexities of the technological era?

Industrial experience should essentially contribute towards increasing an engineer’s adaptability in critical situations. Although training is essential in many technical institutes, nobody understands its importance.
Industries should be extremely professional in their approach towards trainees and must essentially consider them as prospective employees. This way, they can indirectly generate a technically compatible human resource to suit their requirements. They can also have some sort of a screening process to evaluate the aptitude of a trainee.

Such a step may also encourage engineers to set up highly efficient production units.

It is imperative that professionalism is the call of the hour. Are we responding?




.

To be or not to be: A true engineer

TO BE OR NOT TO BE : A TRUE ENGINEER


Engineers are supposed to be the creators, inventors & designers of new and unthinkable wonders. An engineer is held with so much awe and admiration that the ones aspiring to “change the world “ are now thinking that only engineers can do it(at least I had something of that sort in my mind when I joined VNIT). If a plausible, near accurate picture had to be painted to describe the race for grabbing a good engineering seat, the image would resemble an active fish market in the streets of Kolkata.

But is it really worth all the trouble?

This question rang a sonorous bell in my mind when I faced a predicament, which initially seemed trivial, but eventually dragged me into the deep cavern of self doubt.
The incident marked my endeavor to unravel the secret of abstract knowledge. (Or something like that)

After appearing for my second semester examination in the college my holidays at home were harmonious and luxurious till I turned on the television.

The Idiot box was clearly in a state of disarray, for, the display resembled a paper run over by millions of ants. Obviously it was not a show in discovery channel because the sound coming from the set was disturbing and by any stretch of imagination or recognition I couldn’t dare to compare the screeching sounds with the sounds produced by the speech of a human, harried by a sickly throat problem, trying to explain what the million ants were up to. Even if the ants wanted to, they couldn’t produce such noise. To make sure that the ants were not capable of doing so, I switched over to the next channel and then the next and I had not rested until I had checked all the channels. All the channels had ants running all over the screen. Using my primitive knowledge in the area of television electronics I wisely surmised that even if ants did manage to enter the interiors of a TV, they would die an instant death. After making sure that the signal from the operator was not corrupted I diagnosed the problem successfully. There was a problem with the television!!!

Amazed with the fact that I was able to diagnose the problem accurately using my engineering and observational skills I geared up for tackling it professionally.
I went to my elder brother and presented the predicament in a genuine fashion. The fact that he was an electronics engineer came to my mind during my investigation and finding an opportunity to avail his invaluable professional services I went to him asking for the solution.
Clearly disturbed from the state of delirium he frowned at me acknowledging the disturbance. The description of the events that followed should be carefully noted as they describe the deliberate gestures and movements, carefully practiced and perfected, by an engineer before staging a deception.

He got up nonchalantly, wore his glasses, blinked like a damsel in distress and gave a look filled with an immiscible and antonymic mix of utter brilliance and sheer ignorance. Then he cleared his throat as if to deliver a statement which could force the world into accepting world peace. But nothing of that sort happened and he muttered helplessly, yet airily”I’m aware of the principles involved in its working and construction but I don’t know how the TV works “.

I was slightly taken aback but, needless to say, I felt enormously enlightened after hearing an excuse which could be used liberally when faced with a similar situation because even if anyone tried to highlight our incompetence we could always blame the ‘nasty old system’.

However, the task remained unaccomplished. Who should do it? No, not the electrician, a man with limited knowledge of the complex systems, he may repair the set but my quest for knowledge would be obstructed. An electrician works only according to set procedures taught to him mechanically by ITI (industrial training institute). To showcase the superiority of an engineer over a mere technician, I had to take the thing in my own hands (a screwdriver that is). Armed with the screwdriver in one hand and the power of inquisitiveness in the other, I walked like a gladiator ready to salvage some pride for my clan(engineers), after all it was only a mere television.

After opening the cabinet, I could only stare at the inconceivable collection of slabs with colorful small elements struck to them. As I searched for an hour to find at least some element of familiarity in this chaotic assembly of strange boards and elements, my patience was running away. Finally, my eye caught a board where I could recognize three elements placed on it. Even though I was skeptical about their condition (good or bad) I had no choice, other parts of the board were alien to me. I was like a man searching for treasure somewhere else just because the place where it lay buried had no light.

The elements were the most elementary elements of an electrical circuit- the capacitor, the resistor and the inductor. I just had to replace one of them.
The elimination process I adopted was painstakingly primitive, but nevertheless fundamental tools have carved a way for man’s success. The elimination process was one of those sequences we adopted before starting a game of hide and seek – “inky, pinky ponky, father had a donkey,…………….”. After two rounds of elimination the target was spotted. The resistor had to be replaced.
After soldering the new resistor (which I purchased from the market) in place of the original resistor I closed the cabinet and turned on the television. The picture was crystal clear.

(Rajnikant was performing his famous anti-gravity stunts. Hardly believable stunts I accept, but it satisfies me that at least someone can break the unquestionable and slavery inducing laws of physics, which dragged us through sleepless nights)

I was overjoyed to see that my totally outrageous fluke had struck gold. I then started to ponder over the secret behind the innocuous looking sequence of elimination, it now dawned upon me, that this was not a simple elimination algorithm but, a far more complex transcendental function based on complex laws of probability and permutations, which nobody had, till today, discovered. I was perhaps the first one to make this breakthrough.
I could see the red carpets unfurled before me, The Bharat Ratna badge pinned onto my shirt, my parents unable to control their tears of joy, the physics Nobel was being presented to me, for I had discovered the function which could solve disturbances in electronic circuits. The crowd was cheering me noisily, more noise, but the sound was much hashed, very corrupted. Wait! It wasn’t the type of noise a crowd could generate; it was …… coming from the TV!!

The sound was worse than before, obviously the resistor wasn’t bad. So I had been wrong about the stupid elimination sequence after all, to hell with inky pinky ponky. All my thoughts about the ceremony painfully vanished from my mind. Then with much deliberation I replaced the capacitor.

I sat down with my eyes closed and fingers crossed, and then turned on the TV. I waited with drawn breath. The noise had vanished and instead I could hear the voice of a human Delighted and ready to reconsider the elimination sequence from the human angle, that is, attributing the mistake to me and not the function, I opened my eyes to see ants running over the screen again. Now, the display was cocked! But the sound was perfect!

First, when I replaced the resistor with a new one the picture was perfect but the sound was repulsive, now when I replace the capacitor with a new one, the picture turns bad but the sound system works perfectly. Then definitely, if I replaced the inductor, everything would be normal. Using this common sense, I replaced the inductor with a new one.
Now, surprisingly both went bad. The picture was bad and the sound was intolerably hashed and corrupted.

After employing a series of permutations to replace each component, and getting equally ghastly and varied results I finally decided to end this cat and mouse game by calling in the real professional- the electrician.

He walked in with an air of nonchalance, as if he were performing a routine job. He saw all the elements strewn around and then without saying a word he opened the cabinet and resoldered the old components. Then he switched it on. The picture was still bad and the sound worse than before. Before I could say a word, he tapped the TV on its head lightly. The TV flickered for a second and then gave a clear image along with proper sound.
I could do nothing but gape at the TV for the next few minutes. He said that the problem was so minor that he would not embarrass himself by asking for fees…………….!!

How much do we know ‘practically’?

The same question applies to every stream in engineering. Before I end, I should turn my attention to my own stream – Meta (Metallurgy and Material Science Engineering).

When my friend’s grandpa asked him about his stream he was dumbstruck. Why? He himself had never thought about it. To hide his face he muttered a series of ‘errs’ and ‘umps’, kept beating around the bush, flaunted words like nanotechnology and smart materials and finally told his grandpa that he was too old and senile to understand all these technical things.
His grandfather nodded his head cynically and replied aptly “Son, you are right. I didn’t understand a bit of what you said. Perhaps that’s what engineering is about, understanding nothing.”

It has been observed that young minds join engineering colleges expecting a job to land on their laps as soon as they reach their final year in college. Many are also aware that a company seldom asks you questions from engineering curricula in their written exams or interviews (I am targeting IT giants), so any person having mediocre knowledge in computer programming can end up in an IT company. Why then, should we take the pains to study for engineering? Do we earnestly study the subject? Are we interested in it?

The story has no moral but it certainly raises the question we all fear to acknowledge.
The ultimate question.

Are we true engineers?

By
Narayanan






















Disclaimer

The skit has no bearing with any real life incident. The characters are doubtlessly fictional in nature too. The stories mentioned in this skit are meant to be treated as truly fictional. Any other claims made by readers should not be aired without proof, ignoring which; the offender is liable to prosecution. (Ha-ha. A nice way to ensure copyrights isn’t it?)

By
Narayanan


A Dedication
This is dedicated to my grandpa, my brother and people who struggled hard to become true scientists in their own fields. Also I present this skit as a birthday gift to my grandpa Dr. Appadurai.
This skit was also greatly inspired by our great President Dr. Abdul Kalam, who has contributed heavily to the society using his scientific prowess.


I also thank my mom and dad and for raising me in an objective environment.
And I would specially like to mention my granny here because she tirelessly encourages me to learn good English. And without my family this would not have been possible

By
Narayanan