Ready to roll

So last night I packed my bags for the upcoming trip.  And while I was at it, I also packed the dear wife's bags too.  She leaves a few days after me to spend girl time with the daughter before I join them for New Year...

Chatting with a few friends at a holiday season party last weekend, the wife and I mentioned that we were on separate holidays for the next few weeks.  The lady we were chatting with looked at her partner and said, 'They are on separate holidays...maybe we should try that...'  Which then brought to my mind the concept of Optimum Spousal Exposure (OPS), an algorithm developed by a smart MBA friend of mine, a product of the Leading Institute of Management in Western India.  Several factors go into constructing this algorithm, one of the most important being the number of years a couple have been together.   The longer the couple have been together, OPS will be lower.  Exceptions may exist to this algorithm, however, extensive research has shown that proper application of the OPS factor has resulted in longer marriages.

So, in a few hours time I shall be taking off for Frankfurt.  Having been employed by German firms for a combined period exceeding fifteen years now,   Frankfurt has been my transit destination of choice, and, Lufthansa has the status of a national airline.  Flughafen Frankfurt is one of those perfectly functional places, the classic Teutonic no nonsense efficiency coming through every pore...  Once I did land up there on a day when there was a strike on.  Even the strike was conducted with remarkable efficiency.  Picket lines marching with clockwork precision and no unnecessary emotion and shouting as we would see in other parts of the world.

From Frankfurt another nine hours to Singara Chennai...

First order of business after joining the Musical Mylapore walk on Sunday morning is to have a haircut with a good scalp massage thrown in.  The scalp massage that comes gratis as part of a haircut in India.

Chennai is in the middle of the annual music season and I saw two days ago that it was Subramania Bharati's 131st birth anniversary.  Here is one of Bharatiyar's best love poems sung by the great GNB

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQKbjRwF8jM

Got to finish a few things at work, then strap on the electronic leash before heading out.  Sometimes wonder whether it is a leash or a security blanket.  Many moons ago, before electronic leashes came into existence, a boss of ours told us in grand style before heading out for a holiday, '...I will be on the beach for the next week...take your own decisions...don't phone...'  Well, we just did that.  When he came back he said, '...Why did nobody call to update me on what was happening ?'  Well. we just did what he asked us to do ... which is why I wonder whether the Blackberry (or the Android which is gaining in popularity in corporate circles) is a leash or a security blanket.

 

Madras, a summer of '62

When I moved to Madras, the fourteen storied LIC building on Mount Road was still the tallestbuilding in town. That sort of sets the pre-historic date of my entry into Madras.

Coming to Madras from Bombay was actually a bit of ‘comedown’. Friends and relatives had warned me that Madras was ‘an overgrown village’ and that everyone went to bed by 8pm.

On the last stretch of the train ride from Bombay, that is the stretch from Arkonam, my mother pointed out to me houses that looked like the one we were to stay in. Till then we had always stayed in a flat (or apartment in North American language) and I did not quite know how it would be to stay all by ourselves in a single house without a neighbor in the landing opposite. Seemed to be such a lonely way of living.

Looking back fifty years in time I am happy that my introduction to Madras was with life in the Theosophical Society (aka TS), in the house next to the Bhojanashala, and, that I went to school at the Besant Theosophical High School when it was at Damodar Gardens. That is with the benefit of fifty years of life behind me … In 1962, I mentally revolted against the idea of wearing a pyjama-kurta to school (felt that I was going there in my sleep clothes) and attending music class sounded so ‘wuss’.  .

 

The headquarters building of the Theosophical Society, Adyar, Madras (Chennai)

 

Anyway, overnight, one day in April 1962, we were transported from the hustle and bustle of a main road in Sion, Bombay where you slept through the night with the noise of the bus starting and stopping at the bus stop in front of your building; to the esoteric calm of the Theosophical Society where your neighbor would leave a gentle note the next morning if you were up late at night (by TS standards) listening to Binaca Geet Mala and the noise had disturbed his or her meditative peace.

Once I had got over the shock of going to school in my ‘sleep clothes’, Besant School started to sink in to me. In Bombay, I had studied under martinet missionaries who pushed for performance. At Besant School, we had classes (not using the word ‘studied’ intentionally) under the trees, and, once I got used to the surroundings, I started noticing the girls who were in my class. I was just beginning to take notice of girls at that age, and, even fifty years later, and, having travelled all around the world, and, having done some advanced studies on the matter, I can vouch that Madras girls are the best.

Teaching at Besant School in those days was something very different from the schools I had attended earlier. We had teachers around in those days who had trained under Maria Montessori and the whole philosophy of nurturing the child was predominant. Our Headmaster, Krishnaratnam, was super, and, I still remember the gentle and graceful way he would deal with ‘boy-girl’ issues in a co-ed school where teenage hormones were just beginning to assert themselves, in a day and age which was still conservative.

Growing up in the Theosophical Society of those days meant that we were also isolated somewhat from the water shortages, evidence of which we would see when we went to visit cousins who got up at 3am to fill water. The annual Theosophical Convention was the grand finale to the year. Besant School students ran the cafeteria, and, Headmaster Krishnaratnam would be there along with the teachers to ensure that visitors from all parts of the world got the superior customer service that MacDonalds could learn from. ‘Smiles are free’ was the customer service statement even before MacDonalds thought of it.

The Convention would end with the New Year’s bonfire on the beach conducted by the Youth Lodge, and, we would all come home at 2am, much to chagrin of our elders who thought that anyone up at 2am had to be up to something immoral.

Soon after I landed in Madras, my elder brother introduced me to riding a bicycle. After a few scrapes and bandages, I mastered the balance and the bicycle remained my main mode of transport till I left Madras in 1969.

On a recent visit to Madras I was driving on Besant Avenue at 8pm, in fairly heavy traffic. In the ‘60s, Besant Avenue would go under cover of darkness once the sun set, except for the occasional couple riding a motor bike or scooter to a lover’s tryst on Elliot’s Beach. Looking at the memorial on Elliots Beach two weeks ago, I remember my first look at that memorial in 1963 or so. There was just a single lane dirt road running from Besant Avenue, past where Rajaji Bhavan stands today, with casuarina groves on either side. There were a few shacks on the beach where ‘foreigners’ would come on weekends to enjoy the beach … other than that, nothing, zippo, nothing … and look at it today … I remember standing, in 1963, where Besant Avenue ends and feeling somewhat scared to cycle the lonely stretch to the memorial …

Passing out (graduating, in North American language) of Besant School and entering Vivekananda College in Mylapore opened up a new world. Driving on the new (VK Bridge) crossing the Adyar river I always wonder when the old bridge will be finally taken down. When it does, a part of me will fade away … I have crossed that old bridge on my bike, a million times, going to college, meeting friends and just generally growing up. I remember the day in 1964 when a cyclone hit and parts of the pedestrian bridge at the mouth of the Adyar estuary got washed away.

 

The broken bridge at the estuary of the Adyar river

 

Vivekananda College opened many doors, and, by the way, I also got a degree at the end of four years. By the time I finished I had full knowledge of the different Student Special routes and which beauty queen got on at which stop and where she got off. I also had a good circle of friends who would ensure that they responded ‘Yes, sir’ when my roll number (1119) was called for attendance. With prior arrangement, you could enjoy watching Cho’s ‘Then Nilavu’ at Kamadhenu while being at the same time marked present for a class on Indian Economic Problems (IEP), which, in any case, have still not been resolved.  So, there is no feeling of guilt at not attending the class.

As a member of Viveka’s quiz and debating societies there was the added advantage of being able to officially being marked present as one debated such ponderous topics as ‘Is God Dead?’ at IIT’s Mardi Gras festival (never knew what Mardi Gras was in those days). Remember the opening statement of one of the debaters at the said debate, “The question of God being dead does not arise as God was never alive…” Much applause from the Stella girls sitting in the front, but, no prize as the judges did not like that irreverent remark. That sort of summed up Madras’ attitude to life …

The best quiz programmes in those days were on All India Radio. Several IAS officers, would conduct these quiz programmes, and, the names Diraviyam and K.V. Ramanathan come to mind. Recently I saw that a niece of mine won several thousand rupees at some quiz programme with a paid trip to Delhi for the finals. In those, if we produced the bus tickets we got reimbursed the fare. Since I biked to the AIR studios even that was not available to me. The prize was a handshake and perhaps a book of Swami Vivekananda’s speeches. Nonetheless, the quiz programmes were fun, and, some of us friends from those days still remember the effort that quiz masters would put in to preparing the questions in those pre-internet days.

The air conditioned theatres had just started opening on Mount Road, and, I think Shanti was the first one. I took a nostalgic taxi drive, recently, down Mount Road with my wife and daughter and showed my daughter, Buharis where I had proposed to my wife. When my daughter asked me why did you bring her to this dodgy place I shared with her the strategy. Since I would need time to sell myself to my wife, then girl friend, I wanted a place where I would not be disturbed by some uncle or aunt landing up. That excluded Shanti Vihar, Woodlands Drive in and other such places. Buharis, with its predominant non vegetarian fare, would not attract aunts and uncles. So, Buharis was where I proposed to my wife amidst chicken biryani and mutton cutlets being served. For the record, she accepted.

Talking of Woodlands Drive In, that is the one institution I still miss. Every morning you would see hordes of Sales Representatives descend on the Drive In, on their mobikes to have their coffee and tiffin, compare notes on the medical fraternity of Madras and then set off on their rounds. And in the evenings, the girls from Stella would come … and the dudes who would circle them with their motor bike mufflers off … what a racket they created …

I could go on about this city, which for me was a sort of extended ‘Summer of ‘42’ … Coming in from plush and well maintained airports like Changi three weeks ago, I stopped for a minute in my tracks at the lack of maintenance at the Chennai airport … The ancient Ambassador that drove me from the airport home must have been put together around the time I was in college, in the ‘60s … But, when the taxi driver asked me, perhaps to test my knowledge of the city, whether he should turn at Aavin circle to go to Besant Nagar, I said ‘yes’ and in that moment I realized that though I live in Toronto, Canada, Madras is still home ….  (I wrote this in 2012...there is a new airport now, I understand)

 

Aavin circle, these days

 

The excitement continues

We are now up to daily telephone calls to India.  Yesterday a group of classmates from ye olde Leading Institute of Management in Western India connected and I have a side trip arranged to Bengaluru.  Since the domestic air fares seem so frightfully expensive (the automatic dollar converter keeps clicking away in my mind) I shall be travelling by train from Chennai to Bengaluru and back after many, many moons.  Reading all these stories of vermin and insects on the trains (other than of the human kind), I gingerly asked my friend, 'How clean are the trains ?'  He replied back, equally gingerly, 'Very clean', and, then hastily added, '...by Indian standards.'  What these standards are I will figure out soon.

My train to Bengaluru leaves at 6.00am...I remember a time in the 60s when going to Madras Central was quite an expedition.  Anyway, I am hoping that loving niece will drop me off.  Actually, I am quite looking forward to going into Madras Central, which I have not been inside, for nearly thirty years now.  I remember the romantic 'date' I had with bharya priyaa at the 'Non Vegetarian Refreshment Room' in Madras Central, when she was travelling once from Tirunelveli to Bombay, circa 1970.  We used to frequent these non-vegetarian eateries to avoid family members who might see us if we went to a vegetarian eatery.  Being both vegetarians, all we could have was a cup of tea.  Needless to add, at that stage in our romance, the food did not matter. 

And all those visits to receive and see off uncles, aunts, cousins et al...If anyone was coming by the Howrah Mail which came at 4.45am, we would ask them to wait at the station till we reached, because there was no way on earth we could make the trip from Adyar to be there before the train arrived. 

And the sheer joy of listening to a good Dravidian railway announcer settling scores of years of injustice wreaked by the Aryan hordes by massacring the Hindi pronounciation and grammar as he/she proclaimed the arrival of the Grand Trunk express from Dilli.  Mercifully, the anti Hindi agitation of 1965, put a brief stop to these acts of linguistic terror.  Nowadays, I think there are sufficient number of North Indian announcers who can speak and pronouce Hindi the way it is supposed.

Here is a YouTube link of a recent flash mob at Chennai Central...things have changed in thirty years...love that music...not exactly the genre of music one would hear at the Music Academy during the season...nevertheless fun alright

Facebooking around yesterday I saw this 'walk' advertised for December 15, of Musical Mylapore.  These walks have been started, a la London, of historical places in the city.  The Madras music season will be on and a walk of Musical Mylapore fits in ideally.  After booking myself on that walk, I realized that I would be landing in Chennai only a few hours earlier.  So, if you see a jet lagged moi crawling around North Mada and South Mada Street at 6am that Sunday, you know my commitment to music...

So, it all goes on...the gifts have been bought...the passport and OCI card checked...and this weekend the suitcases will be brought down and packed. 

Oh, I understand beti priya will also be in the motherland at that time.  However, we shall not be meeting up.  I threatened to land up at the wedding she is attending and she hasn't given me the address, yet.



 

dhano dhanya pushpe bora

This morning when I got into my car to drive to work, I saw that a bottle of water that I had left overnight in the car had frozen to ice.  Make no mistake, I love Canada, and, live here by choice…however, I was all the same happy that in exactly two weeks’ time the only place I will be able to find ice is in the kitchen, in the refrigerator…

I shall be in Singara Chennai or what I still prefer to call Madras, Nalla Madras … and then, amchi Mumbai before starting the New Year in London (which thanks, to Geetu is becoming an annual family tradition)

The once a year trip to India (and London) falls somewhere in between an annual pilgrimage and a lovers’ tryst…

From the time I can remember, which goes back in this case, to age seven, a trip to India was always something that caused tremendous excitement.  The mind would start churning up images galore, of friends and food and fun.  There was this fantasy that life would suddenly become less objective driven.  Even if by force of habit I still got up at 4am, I could go for a walk on Elliots’ Beach, instead of drive to work. 

(At the same time, I must give thanks that I have a job to drive to…even if it is in the snow)

In the days Ramesh Balsekar was alive, my day while in Mumbai, would start with idlis and chutney at Ram Nayak’s in Kings Circle and the satsang at Ramesh’s house.  And as I travelled back home after the satsang, a stop at the Motilal Banarasidas bookstore near Mahalakshmi, browsing through Sanskrit and old Hindi texts…and all the while, the closing bhajan of the satsang,

 saguna mhanu, ke  nirguna re

Tu ahe govindu re …

Does it matter that some think you are with form and some think that you have no form ? For me, you are just Govindu (God)…

By chance I just checked YouTube and find that there is actually a clip of this song being sung...thanks to Balsekar I realise that my finding the song when I am writing this is no coincidence...there are no miracles, no coincidences...things happen, there is no doer...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WcTk8T8wI4

And, Ramesh Balsekar’s last admonition to me, ‘…if you already have the answers why do you ask me the question ? … come back when you don’t have answers and we can talk …’

And, friends…people I knew as a teenager, all now grown to Golden Age status.  It is wonderful to see how the absence of years bring you to understand people who you had problems with.  I recall the days I worked in Mumbai, when there was a government ruling against having HR positions filled by ‘non locals.’  Not being born of Marathi speaking parents, that  ruling applied to me.  There was a particular Union leader who used to be difficult with me just for this reason.  On a visit two years ago, I saw him at the Dadar-Pune taxi stand.  We recognized each other, and, after half a second of hesitancy, rushed to talk to another.  We ended up having a masala chai at a nearby chai stall.  It was great to get his perspective on how life at my old workplace has changed.

Everytime I see a face that looks familiar, I walk up and ask ‘Are you so and so ?”  Eight times out of ten I am correct, and, the next few minutes are a rush of feeling and catching up.

As I sit enjoying the rush of feeling, with tears pouring down my cheeks,  the song that comes to my mind is one composed by Dwijendralal Roy … dhano dhanya pushpe bora…the best rendering is by Hemanta Mukhopadhyaya, who, for a few weeks,was my Bengali teacher ,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDiXDHGvGHM

The Help

On December 1, 1955, in Montgomery, Alabama, Rosa Parks, a woman of African-American heritage refused to obey the driver’s order to give up her seat to a white passenger. For the Civil Rights movement in the United States that action was as pivotal as Mahatma Gandhi’s making salt without paying the salt tax on the beach at Dandi, on April 6, 1930. Behind each of those acts was the history of oppression that had brewed and simmered till one valiant person took it into his or her hands to say ‘No.’

A few years ago, Kathryn Stockett, a writer born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi, who was brought up by an African-American maid, wondered what the woman who raised her thought and felt about life. Kathryn’s thoughts led her to write the Help, about African-American maids working in white households, in the early ‘60s.

Her book which was initially rejected by 60 literary agents, according to one article, finally got published in 2009, and, has been on the New York Times Best Sellers list for 53 weeks now, selling, reportedly, over 5 million copies. The book captures the social ethos of the South in the US, particularly in regard to the lives of the women working in homes of white people, providing a peep into the world that led Rosa Parks to refuse the order to vacate her seat on the bus.

The book was made into a movie which was released in 2011, and is an ensemble piece about a white woman, Eugenia ‘Skeeter’ Phelan, played by Emma Stone, and her relationship with two African-American maids, Aibileen Clark, played by Viola Davis and Minny Jackson, played by Octavia Spencer. As we now know, Octavia Spencer won the 2012 Oscar for Best Supporting Actress for her part as Minny Jackson/ Viola Davis was nominated for the Best Actress Oscar this year for this role, and, I was personally surprised that she did not win it. The movie itself was nominated for Best Picture. Skeeter who wants to become a writer, decides to write a book from the viewpoint of the African-American maids and the racism they suffer as they work in white households of the South.

Understandably the maids are initially reluctant to share their stories, for fear of losing their jobs. However, an initiative by Hilly Holbrock, one of the white woman in the film, to build separate toilets for people for colour since, ‘they suffer from different diseases …’ prompts Aibileen to start sharing her experiences.

‘The Home Help Sanitation Initiative’ that Hilly Holbrock sponsors is straight out of the sets of what could be a modern day Nandanar Charitram. The telling scene in which Minny Jackson is unable to use the outdoor Help’s toilet because of a tornado storm, and, loses her job for using the house toilet, is all about human tyranny. Of course, Minny gets her own back in a way that I will let the reader watch the film to know. Too powerful for me to steal the thunder of the scene in the movie.

In a way the movie sadly reminds me of the way household help often gets treated in India, even today. Scenes like where the Help lavishes loving care on the children of the households they work for while their own children grow up fending for themselves.

Again the scene where Yule May Davis, played by Aunjanue Ellis asks her employers for a loan to send her two children to college, is refused, ends up stealing a ring and is arrested as she tries to pawn the ring to raise the money, could all be scenes out of an Indian movie, or, if truth be told, real life… As I watched the Help, I was reminded of the White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, a book I read at one sitting returning from India a few years ago…, and, its scenes of how servants get ill treated

The white upper class portrayed in the movie have the same values and attitudes of the upper class in almost any society. The snootiness, the exclusivity and class-colour consciousness is set in the Southern US of the ‘60s, and, could easily be transferred anywhere else in the world at any period of time.

The movie also tellingly portrays the stereotypes that existed (and continue to exist in places) about women, work and what they could do and not do. The ‘interview’ Skeeter has with her Editor, Mr Blackly, played by Leslie Jordan, speaks volumes about attitudes that prevailed towards women at work … The only column Skeeter gets to write is Miss Myrna’s Household Hints column, which actually gets written by Aibileen, since Skeeter doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to prevent tears as you cut onions … see the movie to know how to do so, as per Aibileen.

Like Nandanar Charitram there is an intense religiosity woven into the movie and one gets glimpses of the faith that stirred Rev. Martin Luther King, and, also the ‘acceptance’ that seems to be a part of the ethos of a community struggling, like Nandanar and the Aibileens…

A definite watch if you are concerned about those sort of issues…

+++++

Khuda Hafiz, Nawab Saheb

The death of the Nawab of Pataudi, known in later years by his plebeian name, Mansur Ali Khan, brings into clear relief the sepia tones of my life.

We first heard of the Nawab somewhere in 1961 or 1962, when I was just getting into high school. The Nawab saab, the son of an equally famous cricketer, the Nawab of Pataudi, Sr, Iftikhar Ali Khan, had met with a car accident in England, and, had lost his right eye, which was replaced with a glass one...in the years that followed, we would hear of his role in the Indian cricket team, scoring a century here and there...till when Nari Contractor got injured with a hit to the head (no helmets in those days) playing in the West Indies the Nawab of Pataudi, Jr., stepped in as captain.

In those days, cricket was still a gentleman’s game, played in white, with the players earning the equivalent of $10 a day. Test matches were for five days, and, as India’s top cricket commentator, Harsha Bhogale has pointed out, if rain washed out one day, they got paid for only four days. The million dollar sponsorships that the cricketers of today get were to wait another twenty five years. In those days, the only decent living they could make was to ‘work’ for the State Bank of India, where they got paid, irrespective of whether they came to work or not (sponsorship of a sort, one could say).

The first time I got to see the ‘Tiger’ Pataudi play, I had to line up at 5.30am outside the Corporation Stadium in Madras, listening to the early morning passenger trains screech their way into the nearby Central Station. The match started at 10.00am, and, if you went to take a leak, you lost your place in the line...so you always took a friend along to hold your place, or, did something which you do only on the streets of India. Tickets were Rs 5 (cannot be translated into a dollar equivalent, so infinitesimally low in today’s equivalency) but cost me my full month’s allowance...but, those were the days my friend...we lived for that...if we were not at the stadium, like the rest of India, we spent the five days of any test match with our ears glued to a transistor set...

One of my women friends correctly remarked today that any girl who lived in those days had a crush on Tiger Pataudi...the other hotties were ML Jaisimha and Abbas Ali Baig...between the three they had all the girls in India covered, leaving the proletariat, like me, to cook up fake autographs of these cricket stars to get the attention of the females

A particularly attractive Brahmin girl I knew in those days had this almost fatal infatuation for Tiger Pataudi. Her caste origins are being intentionally mentioned as the later part of this story will show. She would make her brothers and father take her to every spot the Tiger had visited and spent the day before a picture of the Nawab praying that he would bestow his glance on her. It so happened that one evening when the Nawab was in town, her orthodox Tam Brahm family was discussing possible names for an expected new arrival. The Vishnu Sahasranama which gives the thousand and one names of the Hindu God Vishnu was pulled out and a short list was being prepared. Our sixteen year old damsel felt that the most appropriate name for the coming child, should it be a boy, would be a Muslim one, Mansur, after her then heart throb. Needless to add when she articulated this to the gathered assembly of Tam Brahm uncles and aunts they did not appreciate the spirit of national integration being displayed by this teenager. One aunt promptly came up a cupful of detergent soap and made the young lady wash her mouth for having uttered such a sinful thought. Her doting grandmother administered her the only resounding slap that she ever gave her (methinks that more of those administered early enough may have helped, but, that is another story). Moral of the story: good cricketer or not, names for Tam Brahm boys can come only from the Vishnu Sahasranama.

The only occasion I actually got to see and talk to the Nawab was in 1964 or 1965 when I tagged along with another female friend who was part of the social elite of Madras (her knowing me was an exception to the generally elite company she kept) who knew the Nawab. After waiting a few hours in the foyer of the Oceanic Hotel sipping a Coke I got ushered into his presence. The wicket keeper Inderjitsinhji was also there, and, I spent about ten minutes in desultory chatter with the Nawab. I remember trying to figure out what made him so attractive, but, soon realized that I could never think like a girl...

The Nawab dealt a body blow to our fantasies when he married the super attractive heroine of the Indian film screen, the one and only, Sharmila Tagore...a distant niece of India’s mystic poet Rabindranath Tagore, Sharmila is not just a pretty face...she is a tremendous actress too...together, the Nawab and she have grown and have graced many an occasion in India with their celebrity presence. Two of their children have also acquired a name in the Bollywood arena, and, their potential daughter in law, is also a Bollywood star.

The Nawab was all that was classy about the ‘60s and ‘70s in India...the shadows of the Raj were growing longer, and, the brightest jewel in the crown was shimmering its way into the sunset and a new dawn...70, these days is too early an age to die, and, I hope the Nawab did not suffer much from the lung disease that took him...Khuda Hafiz, you are with God now, Nawab Saheb, we wish you continuing peace and happiness as you rest in the arms of the Maker...

Civilization catches up with the Langur monkeys

http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/article800682.ece?homepage=true
http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/article801118.ece
The Commonwealth Games are scheduled to start next week in Delhi, and, the papers have been full of stories and pictures about the preparedness or the lack thereof. There are pictures of pan-stained wash basins and much else. But, that is not what caught my attention today…the Hindu ( a major Indian newspaper) has a lead story on how the CWG authorities are ‘employing’ trained Langur monkeys to keep away wild monkeys from the games’ sites. Civilization, I chuckled to myself, is catching up with the simians too…

I can quite imagine the conversation in a Langur family…”Our Chottu, you know, has got a good job now ?” Mama Langur would be telling her friends sitting on the mango tree outside the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium, “Civil service ki naukri mili hai, Chottu ko…” adding, “…ab tho contract ka naukri hai…magar Games ke baad permanent ho jayega…” (A job in the government civil service. Right now it is a contract job, but, it will become permanent after the Games)

Aunty Langur whose son Mottu did not get the job because he was overweight pipes in saying, “Of course that is what they say…that they will make him permanent after the Games…my cousin who was recruited for the Asiad Games in 1982, is still on contract…and this time, they told him that he was too old for the job…”

“Maybe Chottu will do so well that the Canadians will recruit him and he can go to Canada” Mama Langur piped in, already having dreams of visiting Niagara Falls once Chottu goes to Canada…

Aunty Langur could not get that go past her…”You know these Canadians are big chors (thieves)…they tempt our boys to apply for immigration to make money…and when the boys go there they tell them there are no jobs for them because they do not have Canadian experience…in any case what will a Langur do in Canada, there are no wild monkeys to chase away at the Air Canada stadium when the Blue Jays play” Aunty Langur chipped in, showing off her superior knowledge of Canada…Aunty Langur added, “You know Sarala’s son had to come back after paying 10,000 bananas for his immigration because he could not find even a circus job in Canada…no Canadian experience”

As this talk was going on among the women, Dada Langur ambled in, scratching his paunch…Dada Langur was the grand old monkey of the lot…he was grizzled from several fights he had over bananas, peanuts and yes, women in his days…he had wandered to different orchards and claimed that he had sat on a tree in Birla House at one of Gandhi’s prayer meetings…

“What are you women gossiping about ?” Dada asked as all the women monkeys covered their heads with the approaching alpha male…Walking into the assembly, Dada Langur fondly patted Sharyu, a thirty something year old curvaceous Langur, making it look avuncular, but, everybody knew his thoughts and intentions…

Mama Langur told him, “Dadaji, the Commonwealth Games are starting next week…” “Of course, I know about the Commowealth Games…" Dada Langur replied, "you must remember that I am almost as old as the Commonwealth itself…Did they finally get those toilets fixed ?”

Mama Langur who had to get in the news of her son’s selection to the Civil Service job cut Dadaji short, “Our Chottu has got a job with the Civil Service for the Commonwealth games…right now it is contract but will become permanent…”

“What job has Chottu got ?” Dada Langur asked, reaching for a clump of bananas…

Before Mama Langur could say anything, Aunty Langur chipped in, “He is going to drive away all our Langur brothers and sisters who will be visiting the stadiums from the villages…” Since Mottu hadn’t got the job, she needed to show the job in a bad light…

Dada Langur listened to Aunty Langur and swallowed a few more bananas…

“You know, they say the British left India, but, their practices never left the country…this is true not just for men and women, but, also for monkey dom…” Dada Langur started saying…

“During the salt satyagraha,” he continued, “whom did the British use to assault the satyagrahis…not British constables…the British sergeant stood with his sola topee on and ordered Indian constables to attack…the Indians had been trained on how to hit their brethren…the British sergeant stood by and gave orders…the Indian constables did the dirty work…”

“Of course, the Indian constables got special privileges…in fact, when the British left they took many of them to Bilayat (Bilayat means Overseas, the root word from which the word Old Blightey comes) with them…I remember, my cousin’s friend, Gilbert…his real name was Gowrishanker and he changed his name to Gilbert…went to Bilayat the year the British left, married a white girl and settled down…”

“So, Girls…” the patriarch continued, “things don’t change…civilization is catching up with us monkeys too, sixty years later…Mama Langur, forget marrying off Chottu to your brother’s daughter, Bitiya…get ready to welcome a Canadian memsahib as bahu in a few years’ time…” Dada Langur gave another avuncular pat to Sharyu and limbered off into the trees near Jawaharlal Nehru stadium