Nagarjuna Sagar tales – Two

Miracle on Platform 9 - Someshwara’s gesture

There is something about Central station – the red colour Gothic structure is the face of Chennai in weather bulletins and at once synonymous to the Tamil capital. It is pleasing structure, extending latitude and a white conical apex that holds a clock. It sure gives the city a personality. I have been taking trains from Central since 1989 when this city became my home. Those days the Central station felt large and imposing but now too much crowd, noise, and perennial stench no longer feels special. But reaching Chennai Central from a long journey always lifts the spirit for Besant nagar is just an hour from here.

            I got off the Chennai Park MRTS station and after all those elevated station, this is the first station on the line that’s on the terra firma. So you climb up a lot of stairs and reach the middle of a flyover; and come face-to-face with the Gothic design of the Central station. It can be seen from a mile away. The buses, autos, and swarm of people converge at the station like bees. Traffic and people create their din, there is always this rush and maniacal energy to the place.

            I entered the station by 3:30 for a 4:45 train. It was a rainy day and that makes for puddles and adds a dash of colour with opened umbrellas, grey skies, and greeneries of trees. The tarmac is wet from slush. The reservation charts is the first thing a visitor would come across as he climbs up the two steps into the Central's tarmac from the asphalt road. I was reasonably confident: my waiting list status was 9 at 2:00 pm and that was before the charts were finalized. I was smug, so certain of a RAC that would fetch me a seat in the least. Nalgonda is over 500 km and 10 hours of rail travel and under night skies, a berth is an absolute must

            My nerves were bit jumpy, remember my last post on almost going ticket-less in the suburban train. I asked couple of people for the reservation chart. One man took me to the wrong direction before another person set me right. It was a cloudy afternoon and the rains had stopped for the moment. This is the time when the greens of the trees become conspicuous to the eyes as though they have been cleaned of all the grime. I had brought the printout of my ticket and I just couldn’t read a thing – the printout was so light and in the poor fading light not a syllable rang in the mind. It was criminally foolish on my part to leave the spectacles back home - my reason was those were not needed for a meditation retreat. I saw my train, Hyderabad Express on the chart, it ran to just three pages laid out one after the other vertically. I tried spotting my name but with increasing panic nothing remotely bore a match. I asked a youngster for assistance,” My eyes are not able to read a thing. Can you please see if this number is anywhere in those charts?” He ran a very quick eye and shaking his head walked away.

            I walked to the platform. I saw my train on platform 9. It brought back memories of my almost every fortnight travel in 1989 when my father was dying in Madras and I had my final year at college. I would mostly take this train and so it has been years of drought! The unreserved compartments are at both ends of the train. I took in one look at a general compartment and my face fell: the floors were slush and it was jam packed. Any train on weekends is booked two months in advance; working crowd eager to go back to their parents or wives and make the most of a two day break. I saw even the berth bursting at the seams in the unreserved compartment. I immediately decided: this is no way to travel for 11 hours.

            I walked towards the middle of the train (you see, I don't give up so easily!); this is a huge train with around 22 carriages. The platform was sparsely populated for there were more than 40 minutes for the train to depart. I parked my ass on a bench on the platform somewhere in the middle of the train. I called Kesavan from my mobile,” Do me a quick favour?  This is my PNR number and can you run a check on the internet?” He came back almost immediate,” Sathya, your ticket is not confirmed. This is the final reservation charts and your ticket still shows WL 9.” There was young man who was witness of my distress. He was short, looked mid twenties, with a thin mustache, dark rimmed spectacles over jeans and a stripped T-shirt. It is a typical Telugu face – you notice in the languid manner they speak. I asked him,” Can you help me? I did not bring my specs and couldn’t make much of the reservation charts. Here is my cellphone, will you SMS my PNR for the last update?” My eyes were so bad that even keying in a SMS message on my mobile would have been a hard toil. He agreed immediately and confirmed what Kesavan said,” No.”

            Now I had a double confirmation. I got up and thought of going by bus. I told the young man,” In that case I’ll go home.”

            The stranger said,” Weekends are always packed.”

            I told him about a meditation at Nagarjuna Sagar and he said,” Sir, you cannot travel with this ticket printout. Go and get a general ticket. I have a berth in S4 and we can share.”

            I could not believe my luck. I said,” Thanks. I’ll rush and buy a new ticket.”

I raced in the slush concrete floor towards the exit. The current booking counters are in the adjacent Moore Market building where the suburbans are parked. In a station people go in random direction – some rush towards platforms while there are those in a hurry to get out. Then the hawkers and porters. I walked at a fast clip and negotiate the water logged roads and the office crowd hurrying to catch their suburban.Railway stations at the best of times resemble ants colony, everyone racing and in every direction.

            I found the counter; these buildings are huge and the roof is like 15 meters over the head. I stood in a queue behind a dozen people. I still had 30 minutes in which to get the new ticket and go scurrying back to platform number 9 where this train stood. Put all the elements and they consume time; I’ll cut in barely.I got a fresh ticket almost hollering at the counter to issue the ticket as quick! The booking clerk did not take offense for he tuned in to my sense of urgency. Then back to slushy roads, past the hotels, cloak rooms, and lots of baskets strewn around on an consignment. Trust Chennai's main station to be a beehive of activity round the clock, and this was close to peak time.

            I saw the train’s TTE on platform 9. He was peering into his reservation chart. I accosted him,” Sir, my waitlisted ticket did not make it. Now I have a general ticket and I am going a share a berth in the reserved compartment. Is that ok?” This is sheer playing it ultra cautious of an inexperienced traveler. True to told, my last train journey was over two years back. The man in the black coat said,” Be prepared to pay the penalty. It will come to around Rs.350.”

            I said,” Thanks,” and moved away for it showed less than five minutes to departure. Armed with this knowledge, I felt the pinch would not hurt me. It is always better to know the punishment beforehand than any surprises later on. I found the S-4 coach and my benefactor. But for this kindness, I would have been on the way back home.

            He was surprised to see me. I showed him my new ticket and parked by duffel bag beneath the long bench. My sister called. I walked towards the toilet so that I could not be heard by others. I said,” Thanks to a stranger’s magnanimity I get to travel. The ticket was not confirmed.” The train started to move and I was growing in confidence. The trip is ON.

            I asked the stranger’s name by introducing myself. He said,” I am Someshwara Rao and I travel frequently by this train. You see, I work in Madurai and almost every month I make a trip to Hyderabad to be with my parents.”

            I asked,” Why were you so kind to me?”

He said,” Maybe someone will be kind to me when I am in need.” The train gathered speed and I realized that this gesture could be the biggest one I received from a rank stranger. The omens never looked more bright.” I instinctively knew that this was a minor miracle; thanked my stars and maybe my personality had something to do with it. I was just plain lucky to find a person to accommodate me in a reserved compartment on a Friday evening train. BTW it pays to speak in decent English in a public place probably!

Nagarjuna Sagar tales – One

At Kasturibai nagar station:

It really showed. What? My retiring and recluse lifestyle

I lead a very sedentary life. Not for me the habit of venturing out of my apartment. I prefer the PC or the guitar or sit quietly cross-legged for an hour of meditation. I am no different from a chicken in a coop, except a contented chicken and no fear of the butcher’s axe.

            There is a small tale here. I left home at 2:00 pm on a cloudy rainy day to the Central station on 19^th July. You see, Nagarjuna Sagar bound.  The train departs at 4:45 and I was weighed down by uncertainty of a waitlisted ticket. A part of the mind said: if there is no seat I’ll come back home.

            I slung a black duffel bag on the shoulder, and switched off the power lines inside. Otherwise some jerk would ring the calling bell and burn it. This house gets more than its share of salesman meddlesome and importunate peddlers.

            I was waiting in the bus stop and it began to rain. I was concerned about the dry clothes in the bag getting rinsed. I hailed an auto and off we set off. He said,” Rs.70.” for a 3 km distance that costs Rs. 4 in a bus. I thought sixty would be right and Rs.70 is rain inflated. It looked fair to me.

            The auto stopped me at Kasturibai nagar station. I told the driver,” Can you go further into the front end of the station?” That boy of a driver proved morose and stubborn. He stopped and demanded the money. The drizzle outside was getting stronger and I was in no mind to argue. So got out and ran to the safety of those huge roofs.

            I looked around for the ticket counter. MRTS stations are elevated ones, they are hardly patronized and at any point in time it looks deserted as a cemetery. Many a stray dog have made the station their den and today’s rains meant puddles too. These stations look all sturdy and metallic and escalators. I searched for the ticket counter in frantic, I heard a train halt overhead. The next train would be 20 minutes later and so another wait.

            Outside the gale winds and rains were gathering in ferocity. I spotted two college boys and asked,” Where’s the ticket counter?” One boy answered,” It is on the other side.”

            I clarified,” Which means there is no access from here?”      

            The teenager smiled,” You have to go step outside in the rain. Go outside and reach the front end of the station.”

            It looked an impossibility with the bag on the shoulder. I certainly was in no mood for the clothes to catch the rain and go wet. The thought of carrying a bag of wet clothes is sickening, they start to stink too. So I thought,” Let me take the train without a ticket. Worst come worst, there’ll be a fine of Rs.500.”

            My mind debated the fairness of it all. Going to Vipassana meditation and travelling ticketless suddenly felt guilt.

            I climbed the stairs and reached the platform on the first floor. My mind was in a flutter: there is an a thousand-to- one odd of ticket checking. On any other occasion I would have seen the entire thing as an adventure but not today. I was taking a long distance train and being caught would ruin the balance of the mind for a while

            I went to the platform and found myself at the rear end of the platform. The dolt of an auto fellow and his treachery made sense to me now. I walked to the front end of the platform; these stations have a cylindrically long and curved roof and so one is not exposed to the elements especially on a rainy day like now. Now the entire thing looked familiar as I saw a staircase going down. And I knew the ticket counter could be accessed by going down. I rushed towards the elevator and went down to the ground floor – I ran to buy the tickets and hastened back to it. I had a ticket in hand and all the confusions in the mind were doused.

            As for me I thought: how even a trivial thing can derail the mind and get it racing to a panic. Another part of the mind said: this is the cost of a life-in-a-coop I briefly skirted in the beginning. Now with a mind a lot relieved I got my breath. I even thought my waitlisted ticket would fare better! 

Post Script: I forgot to mention an important fact. This ticket is for travel from Kasturibai Nagar to Chennai Park station. The ticket cost Rs.5! 

Doctor Extraordinaire

The tale I am going to narrate goes back to middle of May, say a little under three months.  I had given my mss-2 to a friend and those needed to be collected back. We decided to meet at a FOSWL (Friends of the Same Wavelength) meeting of which he is the convener. I rarely attend FOSWL monthly gatherings but my mission was the safe return of mss-2 to the desk. These meetings are held on Kumararani school in Adyar on breezy Sunday evenings in a neighbourhood rich on trees.

           The May month’s talk was on Homeopathy by a practitioner Mrs. Uma. These meetings last just over an hour and a subject expert is invited to talk. Mrs. Uma is tall lady recently retired from Atomic Power Plant as an Instrumentation Head. A fair complexioned, lean, spectacled face, loosely pleated long hair, and dressed in a flowing sari as she started her PPT on Homeopathy. I heard her with respect, this was her passionate hobby and it was some story of plants, shrubs, animals, or minerals are used as a cure. I learnt that the Germans were advanced in the field and then the talk went technical on potency, dilution, one part per million etc. I collected my mss-2 from Krishnan and rushed back. 

              I wrote to Krishnan a week later. I sent a mail: Sir, does homeopathy have anything for gastric ulcers and arthritis? Could you please check with Mrs. Uma? He forwarded that mail to her and she wrote: Mr. Sathyanarayana, please fill up this questionnaire. 

           That questionnaire ran to over four pages and over 25 questions. It probed my eating habits, stools, every illness right from a common cold and headaches to cancer and heart troubles, eating habits, reaction to different tastes, how I drink water and liquids whether cold or hot etc. I took over an hour to fill this and sent to the lady. 

          I get a reply where she had marked clarifications: Can you elaborate on your how frequently you sweat? Or do you prefer summer months to winter? How does the knees feel each time you walk? Is the first few steps more difficult or is the pain a lingering one. It went on and on. Now I knew, this lady was for real and her concerns of a highly competent doctor. 

           I met her towards the end of May, 2013 and we spoke for an hour. Mrs. Uma lives with her husband in Kalakshetra Colony. It is very secluded part of Besant nagar in the neighbourhood of the internationally recognize dance school of the Late Rukmini Arundale. It was duplex house and the drawing room looked elegant. They were naturally wealthy I could see at a glance from the curtains and lay of the room. 

         Mrs. Uma took me to the balcony. There were two wire chairs and we sat facing each other. I looked the tranquility of the place, so silent and so many trees. There were even a couple of peacocks strutting on the street as I took in from the balcony grills. She traced every illness I ever had: do you like sweets? Or like to drink hot or cold? Or what caused the tuberculosis? Leukoderma at 13? Or the nature of pain in the knees? When I talked about frequent stools and very loose in character; I felt I must come clean. I talked about my depressions in my twenties. Mrs. Uma reacted like a dream: Your worst is over. You have handled your situation very well. Vipassana and other tools have helped. It felt a real confidence. She was so cued on from the questionnaire and must have spent hours on my case. She did not charge a penny! This definitely was an act of Grace. She said: I have been trying to cue on your organ and it reads LIVER to me. When I mentioned about my jaundice at 7 and father’s death from liver cancer, it felt her hypothesis was confirmed. Said she: I will prepare the medicine and let you know. You can collect it then. I thanked profusely and addressed her as "akka" as she walked me on the way out. 

          A month later I get another mail on my gmail. Mrs. Uma writes: the medicines have come and you can collect it. They were leaving for America in the early hours and what a mind to assist. The husband-wife (both retired from the Atomic Energy Department) are NRIs and they spend 8 months to a year in America for statutory conditions to hold their American citizenship. The medicines were in very small packets like how vibhuti is packaged in temples; tiny globules like mustard seeds we use in the kitchen. Mrs. Uma explained: Dissolve two globules in a glass of drinking water. Take these for 4 weeks and another tablet for every alternate week – again very small and I was to chew them before going to bed. 

      God, the medicines worked. I have never felt healthier in decades. I found an immediate improvement in my stools, my gastric thing no longer craved or reached for Marie biscuits. I felt so strong that I resumed the walks to the Eliot’s Beach. 

         When I met her and wanted to compensate for her time: she must have spent over four hours on my questionnaire and consultation. Mrs. Uma said,” God has been kind to us. For me, Homeopathy is my service to society. I just have an interest in making others healthy.” 

          From the improvement in my health and her painstaking diagnosis for hours, I think of her as nature’s blessing. Homeopathy works and works brilliantly in the hands of a genius practitioner.  

Meera

Meera: It’s been 2 years now when Meera first entered the kitchen and ever since she has taken charge and given satisfaction.
            I still remember those times in 2007 when I was in sore need of a cook. With my relations irretrievably estranged with mother; mother went to Bombay to stay with my now estranged sister in Santacruz for 6 months. That turned out to be most peaceful period of my life and I resolved never again to share diggings with that malignant force, no matter the costs.
            I had this crazy job of penning creative stories for WWM and those did not require me to venture out of the house. Hotel food just doesn’t agree with the stomach or the Annapurna dabha meals. I am a fairly good cook myself but then the mind revolts; there is a feeling of revulsion. Cooking for oneself is a curse like no other and this accentuates loneliness like hell. It deflates your psyche and it is for this reason that I don’t cook food or go to a movie alone. I needed a cook and in a hurry too.
            I went to the only Brahmin store near Besantnagar bus terminus and put in a word: can you suggest a cook for an Iyer Brahmin? The owner of the shop - they sell all these pickles, vadams and pudis that only this community would use - a short, plumb, middle-aged lady with thick spectacles immediately said: this is Meera’s number and you can contact here.
            Meera came to the flat enquiring about the job offer. I liked the look of her; a tall and stately demeanour, a ringing sonorous voice, parted hair at the forehead and pleated at the back, a jasmine string bunch on top of the head, and vermillion on the forehead. In short, a typical Brahmin look!!

            She came to the point straightway, “ Vidya Stores indicated that you were looking for a cook.” .

            I asked, “Will you just cook or also wash utensils?”

            She winced looking flabbergasted. Meera said, “I can help arrange one. I only cook and that’s it.”

            Then we came to the terms as she said, “I have never cooked at a place for just one person. I really don’t know how to quote. I cook for a couple in the neighbourhood and they pay me Rs.3, 000.”

            I concluded the deal to her satisfaction, “How about Rs.2000? I shall help you by keeping the rice and dhal so you don’t have to spend a longer time here.”  Actually hiring a cook or renting a place in Chennai is difficult for bachelors and so I had to reassure Meera that you don’t spend a minute more than necessary.
            Thus started her employment with me and I can unequivocally state that she has given full value. I cannot survive without Tambrahm food and I treat her as an ally than have any illusions of being the boss. When I have to instruct her, I would call her by her name and when I wanted a favour, I would say, “Akka”!!!

            It is next to impossible to source a Tambrahm cook and I knew that it was my good karma that landed Meera to my place. Getting a maid, a tailor, barber, good neighbours are products of one’s karma, most definitely.
            Meera would come by 8:00 in the morning and she would get into her job straightway –a no-nonsense and no gossip at all. It entailed of me to get the pressure cooker ready and also place the day’s vegetables on the black granite slab in the kitchen. Meera would get on with the chores and her job did not take more than 30 minutes. It’s usually a sambar or rasam, one curry, and 4 chappatis.
            Slowly we got used to each other and we developed respect. It is easy to be admire a person so regular; just work and go.
            These were no ordinary days in my life. There were the turbulent days when my romance with PW collapsed and poor Meera had to hear all those tales. Remember I am a recluse as imaginable and being stuck at home gave no opportunity to meet new kinds. Then there truant ways of mother and how she conspires to still dig my grave. The treachery of my sisters can fill pages but they get a patient hearing with Meera. Once Meera said, “Sathya, after listening to your Pushpa tales for months, I think I can write a script for a TV serial.”  

I had disposed off all the things the Sindhi had gifted me to Meera including a Ganesha idol, some trinkets and even a full hand T-shirt that I she wore at Kodaikanal  saying: Akka, if your son does not mind this, “ knowing nobody wears used clothes.
            Slowly she too opened up and when I enquired about her husband, she simply said, “He just ran away and I have not known his fate in a decade.” She single-handedly nurtured a son to a position of respect. Being poor, she enrolled him in Vedic studies and today at 17 years, the stripling is a “ganapatigal”; a title given to one who has mastered the Veda parayanam.

She works in 3 houses and that can at best give her an income of 9 K and the son has now started earning and that family is seeing some prosperity after a long trail in the tunnel. Meera in addition takes care of her mother, an example I keep quoting to my sisters for their dereliction of duty towards mother: shame, you don’t even have the morals of a cook. Go, hang in shame.
            As an employer, I am generous. If there is an extra milk sachet, I offer it most willingly. Nor am I stingy with vegetables. If there is an excess or I am not in a mood to eat that day, I tell her to wrap it for home. I always praise her work for she fills a role that I am extremely grateful for. This food is agreeable and that is sufficient enough to earn my gratitude and respect.
            Meera keeps telling me, “Sathya, I have many offers near my house in Karpagam Gardens but my conscience does not allow me to leave this place and leave you in wilderness. You are a gentleman and I have not come across many who does not look at a woman with lustful eyes.”
            I laugh it off, “There can be a passion and love with only one person and I don’t see every woman with passion rimmed eyes.”
            Of late, she keeps saying, “Sathya, you are a noble man and I keep telling my mother and son about your tales.” She insisted so much that I see her mother that I visited her home in Kalpagam Gardens (about 2 kms from my place) on Ganesh Chaturthi day and her mother gave me the best kozhakattai (modaks).

            That really made my day. Getting compliments from people who see you day in and day out is something to be cherished. And that too from a person whose courage and sense of duty, I respect immensely.

            I play my rock music loud and she says: I have been listening to these same old songs. But I love them, I want to bring my son so that he can likewise cultivate a similar taste for music.

            Meera, to me, defines a cultured woman; sense of duty, ability to fight life’s odds (for a single woman to fend for herself with a toddler by cooking in various house is not easy). She narrated tales of how creepy some men could get especially against a vulnerable and defenceless woman. She warded them all and not compromise her dignity at all.

Meera is cheerful personality, blessed with a smiling face, smooth tongue and soft words. She is a world-class listener. She now looks forward to her son’s marriage. In the last year, the family has bought a colour television, the lad a motorcycle, and she is making tepid inquiries for a house.

May you ever be happy, my dear Meera akka, no one deserves it more.

Verdict: Sattwic

Lesson to be learnt: To face life’s challenges with dignity, never say die attitude. 

Oops Subbu

Oops Subbu Iyer: Oops (Object Oriented Programming) was the first company I joined after my return from Bahrain and a hopelessly compromised one. From over 50 K salary there, I worked for a fifth of it here. I only saw the job as a makeshift and never let go of any opportunity to seek fortunes elsewhere.

Subbu Iyer looked hopelessly young; though he was 30 he looked a decade younger. A tall, lanky physique, and a man who made his mark in USA. He would sport a long beard like a Swamiji and a ponytail a month and the next would be clean-shaven minus that beard and a short haircut. He looked handsome too; fair Brahmin complexion, glittering eyes and a taut face. Anything to do with a computer the man was a genius. He had a technical collaboration with IIT, Madras on video-conferencing products to operate at low speed bandwidths for multi-conferencing. He was so good in programming that he would hold a class to the technicians at IIT. That gave him a larger than life profile and an ardent fan following. He could walk into the Dean’s cabin and haul him up; such was his expertise and also forceful personality.  

Subbu could be alternately friendly or too officious almost like a switch of a bulb. Though you could place your arm on his shoulder or argue on any subject under the skin, you will never know when he would turn cold and start to issue instructions. Within a month I had figured out that he was intensely distrustful fellow and his façade of friendliness were passing clouds.

My interest in Subbu was primarily because he resided in Besantnagar and I would ogle for a lift back home in his Ford Ikon. Once I asked,” Subbu, how many people stay with you in the house?” a roundabout way for querying on his marital status. Prompt came the reply,” Three. I, Me, and Myself”. He was just as lonely as me!!! His mother was dead after estrangement with the dad and brother. He never kept in contact with them holding some deep-held grouse.  

Subbu had friends in various professions; on one of the popular anchor’s suggestion he even hosted a programme on Star Vijay channel. What I remember with warmth even today were our sessions on a lunch table on the terrace under an asbestos sheet for protection against the elements. Rajendran was another long time friend of Subbu and he came to work more as a friend than an employee. He worked without compensation and that meant that he could not be bossed around. Then there was Ravikant and another longtime companion. At lunch all the four of us would gather under the asbestos sheet and I had the time of my life as we bantered no-holds barred. It was during this time the “Madhulika” story erupted and what a fun we had dissecting it as the story unfolded.  

Subbu’s technical expertise in the product we were developing was perhaps second to none in the world. He had that look of a master who could solve any issue with a mere tapping of computer keys. But when it came to woman he was weak. Rumour had it that he had a long affair in USA and she was married elsewhere. That passion still lingered each time she visited the country. In addition there was an attractive woman in office and he seemed to have explored her in the office. Subbu talked about scriptures and philosophies but they had not impacted him. A true genius but as a human being he still has a long way.

Verdict: Rajas

Lesson to be learnt: These people are extremely whimsical but they have their own utility. Be friendly but from a distance.   

Adline Ravikant

Adline Ravikant:  I worked with Ravikant for a story time in 2002 and each of his antics is still etched on the mind. He is a walking disaster and a very definition of a jerk. Owner of a small regional agency that released dealer panel advertisements for major brands or those erratic appointment advertisements, Ravikant is rich beyond his competence. Adline Advertising is one of the oldest agencies in the city and started by his father. That could not compete with even later entrants like R K Swamy or even Fountainhead can be wholly ascribed to the sons’ ineptness.

Ravikant was stocky built, fair Brahmin complexion, standing little over 6 feet, sturdy, and a pronounced nose. His mouth was his biggest handicap; prone to shout over trivials and hyperactive as to be ridiculous. He was so distrustful of his employees that he would ask them to call from the client’s landline to verify whether they had in fact gone there. Ravikant’s failing was that he was so petty that he tried to squeeze every advantage but always losing the bigger picture.

A man obsessed with pennies can never get the pounds.  

Ravikant was a practicing Brahmin and which meant that he did his monthly “tharpanams” and on those days he would be pompously late. I can recall one incident when he drove us – Peter, another executive and me- in his Esteem for a client meeting. As a time-filler, he said,” I know the Mahesh of Royapettah Chit Fund and how he swindled crores of rupees from gullible public. He declared bankruptcy and yet moves around in his Mercedes and still residing in his posh bungalow in Chamiers Road”. Peter would whisper into my ear,” He is envious and if he had a similar opportunity would even be a bigger crook. All these Brahmin bastards are such criminals”. Bang-on for the observation of Ravikant and on the community, I have not yet given up hope.  

I had to accompany him on a train to Mumbai for a client meeting and I made no pretense of any servitude by seating at least 4 cabins away. On return, we were took a midnight Air India flight – those are the cheapest, by the way – and here too I sat on the other end of the craft and on disembarking ran as fast to the auto stand as possible and avoid his attention. Ravikant generates that kind of cussedness with this miserly ways. Even on the midnight haul, he ordered for a dinner when almost everyone was content with a Frooti.  

His hyperactivity meant he would be running here and there for no apparent reason or fiddling the car-belt when seated or ask for some inconsequential file. The moment he comes to the cabin like a whirlwind, the very air would get animated. Ravikant to his credit slugged very hard into the nights but just did not seem to grab the business opportunities. Adline was empanelled to public sector companies – Indian Railway, or ONGC, or LIC- and those businesses came with a lot of greasing and lobby. For once he was perspicuous,” I go to an official’s home and from the look of it know whether he is corruptible or not. Even from the furniture or flooring or even curtains, the corrupt man leaves his mark”.  

The unfortunate thing about this joker was that even the family too had given up on him; never took us seriously as he rattled away. His younger brother Mr.Chandramouli looked after the Mumbai branch and unlike the Chaplainesque brother was savvy in his dealings; his censures were one-liners and even Ravikant had to listen. I chanced upon him after 7 years at Thiruvanmiyur temple and we were so close that for any evasive action. I offered my hand and said,” Hello, do you remember me?” Ravikant said without warmth,” Who can forget you?” I ruminated as to what he could have become had he only been a little normal.

Verdict: Tamas

Lesson to be learnt: Keep peace with such characters even when there is a tendency to ridicule.  

Anitha Laxman

Anitha: I used to a see a tall, healthy woman walk in Theosophical Society gardens in 1998. I had a huge circle of friends and we talked in a bunch giving free reins to our mouths. I would spot this woman in tracks cross in the opposite directions; we were close to finishing our walk and this lady just about to begin hers.

I worked for a small web development company and our main client was Citibank. Being the front-end of the account, I would frequently visit the plush offices of Citi on Shakti Tower. Those buggers at the bank would make me wait for hours on appointments. Waiting interminably in the sofas were so dispiriting and I saw this ‘TS” walker running around the premis es. We possibly must have locked eyes but I have no energy for fresh people.

I was a regular to the weekend lectures of Swami Paramarthananda and I would once again run into this figure. Still no acknowledgement or introduction! The woman was tall at over 5’ 8”, fair, hair like a cascade to shoulder length, pointed nose, and an almost typical Indian look. She was more than pedestrian in looks and if you watched the same face every day – like I did in TS- then that face began to grow on you.  

I introduced myself the first time at Vidyamandir; the lecture had gotten over and the people rushed out of a iron gate. I almost ran to arrest her stride and made a direct plea,” I have seen you in TS and Citibank. I believe you have referral system and I would be extremely grateful if you can get the contact details of people in HR”. She was gracious while introducing herself,” I am Anitha and I am a product manager at Citi. This is my visiting card and send your resume to this mail id. I’ll see what I can do”.   

After this short intro, each time we bumped into at TS, or at Citibank waiting ward or at Vidyamandir, we exchanged a brief hello or a stifled smile or just nodded to acknowledge cognition. We did not recognize each other for the first 6 months and now we spoke at every opportunity. Her mails were exhaustive and slowly she getting into my system.

Anitha was younger to me by 5 years, a BITS Pilani graduate and an MBA from IIM, Ahmedabad. She drove Esteem (in 1999!!!) and resided in palatial bungalow on Vth Avenue (I stay in VIIth!!!) and I was falling in love. She once narrated as to how she and her mother struggled – she was a lone child – after her father sudden demise. She studied on scholarships and I felt deeply affected. Now she was in a job that took her to Europe and Far East almost every month. Anitha was also a trained Hindustani singer and all these added up to an angel image in my mind. But I checked any further impulse: the gulf between us was unbridgeable. She is a high-powered executive shuffling between airports while I was a lowly job seeker.  

But I was sad; she was the first person I really wished to marry, an option I denied after the heart surgery and job losses. I mourned my own incompetence and wretched fortune. Each time I looked at Anitha a wave of envy would stab me; hers was exactly the kind of career I would have wished on myself.  

Anitha settled in USA and there has been no contact in years. Though they were whispers of her wild orgies at Fisherman Cove and those did not add to the “divine” image in my head. But I doubt the veracity of those; any person who heard Swamiji’s lectures, or walked in TS must be intrinsically decent.

Verdict: Rajas

Lesson to be learnt: If those whispers are true then I must learn not to generalize. I made a similar error with PW where Ph.D and social scientist just did not add up.     

Krishna Kant

Krishna Kant: If Durai Babu was the branch manager of Hakkudu Percept, Krishna Kant was thrust on me and an unwelcome intruder. Percept won the Airtel account for pre-paid cards and the account was huge in terms of billings and a pan-Indian operations. Suddenly Percept with presence in just Delhi and Mumbai were forced to open branches in Bangalore, Madras, Bhopal, Kochi, and just about almost everywhere. I was appointed to do the Madras chores while Krishna Kant was entrusted to manage Kochi; he was working in an agency in Bangalore prior to this and maybe, this gave him an opportunity to go homeward.

Krishna Kant is tall and Dravidian in complexion, his mustache could be seen from miles so thick and so dark, the face was rather square and he had a build of a buffalo. He spoke with the speed of a sub-urban train; reaching peak very quickly and ready to apply abrupt brakes. That staccato speech can be testy to the ears. KK was born-again Mallu and he knew how to promote himself even without subtlety.

Airtel was to have opened their Kochi branch but that did not happen and by which time, Percept had gone ahead and chosen their man. This meant that there was no work for him and he was bundled to Madras to lend a helping hand to me. I was gracious to take him through all the strategy documents and taking him to client meetings never suspecting anything sinister. This man soon got up-to-speed on my activities and then completely took over. He would rush to brief creative even before I could gather my thoughts and even talk to the clients on clarifications. Even the client was genuinely perplexed as to who was the contact person.

It soon transpired that the Kochi branch was not happening for the next 12 months and two senior persons in Madras were too heavy an expense. The way KK manipulated to ensure that he stayed at my cost was politics of a kind I had never experienced; he started relay my every minor shortcoming to our boss in Mumbai even it was so frivolous. Once I had gone to a bar with a friend and I recounted the tale to the folks at office the next day,” I had a nice time at Heritage yesterday and when it wounded it was past midnight. Both of us walked kicking a plastic soda bottle for amusement.” KK twisted this prattle to the boss in Mumbai,” Sathya is dangerous anti-social breaking glasses on the road fare in midnight after a drink”. Such gross distortions and absurdities soon began to pile up and when it was decided to axe one of us, he was the one who survived. I was so flustered by his antics that I wished to engage goons and breaking a few of his bones. I have never felt an intense hatred to anyone before.  

I was made an dummy and powerless “Account Planner” and KK was in-charge of the day-to-day operations of Airtel account; that way he was a lot safer from the firing squad. Unlike how generous I was prior in sharing about the daily tasks and activities, he never bothered when it was his turn at the helm as I drifted to idleness and futility. KK headed the Percept operations in Chennai for many years to affording a Maruti Vesta; there was a lot to talk as how he pocketed commissions from printers and adding more to the monthly pay-cheque.

KK to me was a typical politician; he knew how to squat in someone’s territory and grab that successfully. He spoke as like hustler but his actions were directed in enlarging his importance. I have never detested a Mallu before but after this chastened experience, I am a lot more circumspect of my Kerala neighbours.

     

Verdict: Rajas

Lesson to be learnt: With these kinds, save your ass. Don’t talk at length and keep a safe distance. Each time you shake hands with people like KK, count whether they are in place after each occasion. 

Devarajan Babu

Devarajan Durai Babu: Again a 2000 acquaintance as I took employment with Percept Advertising. Babu was the branch manager of Hakkudu Percept and well ensconced; he became a one-man operation for them in Madras and within a year had expanded the business and the team to over 10 people; Durai Babu had that kind of competence and way with clients!!

He was in his early 40s and just back from Tirupathi after a head tonsure; his mother was ill and on her recovery shaved off the hair in gratitude. Despite the bald plate that was just started to bristle, he looked handsome; a Dravidian complexion, tall at 6 feet, lean face but puffed up sufficiently for that look of solidity. He dresses in formal full-hand shirts and when he spoke you at once realize that he is thoroughbred in corporate. He spoke with a smooth rhythm and added more sniggles along the way and was essentially a friendly person. He was never got personal in his dealings and still adept in keeping a distance; a fine art if one has to survive in this jungle.

As a manager, he was astounding and one of the best. He was like a benevolent monitor to his boys at school; he rarely pulled them up and when he did, it was a near slaughter. So the team members joked and laughed with him and they had complete freedom; if you were in need of a calculator and found that he had on his shirt pocket, you would intuitively reach out to it. I still recollect the time when we stood under the hot Chennai sky outside a restaurant for nearly an hour as he hosted a lunch in welcome a newly joined “Creative Director” as the office-boy had not reached the venue.

At Hakkudu Percept everyone had a bike and office boys would borrow the keys from the owners and go about their office chores. Such was the comraderie! Durai Babu would collect used envelopes from the numerous junk mails he received and reuse them as an eco-friendly measure.  

Durai Babu had been an advertising man throughout and he was competent to the extreme. To see him haggle rates with film producers was a treat; he could almost itemize the various components and assign a cost to them. So all the TVCs produced under his tutelage were the most cost-effective. There was a lot of savoir faire and elegance about the man; almost a languid grace as when went about the job. If you are trainee, you cannot learn better elsewhere than under him.

Durai Babu never talked much about his family or even where he resided. He had 4 children from 2 marriages. I have heard whispers that he met a Christian girl while working in MAA Bozell and the tied the knot the second time for an upheaval in the house. But things have smoothened out and he has still kept the first marriage alive and kicking.   

Slowly as he grew in stature in the Madras advertising circles, he started to lecture at various forums. I quite admired the way he mentored raw account executives and they were quite simply the best trained in the city.  

Percept, our company who he was to supervise from a distance, proved slothful. They never bothered to send our salaries or even pay for operating costs and it tested all our patience to no end. Durai Babu wrote a considered note to the CEO,” I was there to help your new recruits but I cannot allow Percept to draw more water than I can afford”. This terse note swung things into action and since then there were more receptive to our pleas. Babu’s English is extraordinary and has that class and even knew the meaning of “soliloquy”. A smart and classy man who knew the ropes of his trade and how to lay on the butter thick!!!!

Verdict: Rajas

Lesson to be learnt: Befriend such characters and learn from them; so miles ahead in smartness they provide an opportunity to tackle this mad society. But beware, don’t get personal!!!!