MURGI BABA AND FAMILY CHALE RAIL GAADI MEIN

There are joint families. Then there are disjoint families travelling together on trains. Gulliver's travels pales in comparison to the adventure i and those around me have when we board the great Indian Railways. Here are some accounts of them.
It has been a time honored tradition that train travel, whether for marriage or a funeral, has to be done with everyone on board. In the earlier days, when steam engines chugged on our rails, my family, so i have been told, used to carry provisions for cooking rice, sambhar and side dishes. This included taking a gas cylinder. Laws were bent because it was ensured that apart from Doctors and Engineers, some were destined to become Indian Railway officials.
As times changed, the "carrying supplies" part stopped. But, at major stations en-route to our destination, food was delivered. It was either a work colleague of some aunt who owed a favor, or a daughter-in-law who was to please the family. Idlis, vadas, chutney and even samosas made it to our carriage. Plus, at major stations, someone used to get down and get the platform's best. It was Vada-pav at Shirdi, Kachoris at Nagpur; our family is blessed with an appetite to crave for. No station was spared. On our return journey, hawkers waited with garlands, and more food.
Now to shift focus on what goes on INSIDE the carriage.
Someone had to be there to distribute the food. The little ones were chosen for this purpose. On some occasions, the children had to cross two bogies, which they did, diligently. The pantry car and the staff were bemused and horrified at our eating habits. They skipped our bogies in silence. No one wanted to face our volley of questions. "What have put in the rice? How old are the vegetables? From which station was the chicken picked up? " Our co-passengers stopped to offer us snacks. But we did not hesitate to stare at theirs.
Our notoriety has spread to the ticket collectors across India. The favors we ask for, even the Railway Minister would not dare to. "Clean the toilet. My daughter is health conscious." "Why is their a whitelight near the toilet? Get me yellow ones", "Call someone to turn the fan towards us", " Move the guy to the next carriage. We want the upper berth".  "Look. The guy next to me has farted. Book a case and throw him out. We know people at Vidhana Soudha and the Red Fort. We are VIPs".
Passengers had enough of us too. "Can you move?" is usually the first polite question. "Look Mister. There are 30 of us and we need to be in the same carriage. We have a seat in the next one. Move it or lose it". Their only entertainment were our tall tales of our achievements and our bitching about distant relatives.
The kids were an embarrassment. Spilling Coke all over. Sitting forcibly in-between newly weds. Vomiting the Kellogg and milkshake. Coming straight out of the potty with an unwashed bum. The loud wailing. The list is endless.
When we did reach our destination, the mad rush to get down was an Indian tradition we were committed on keeping. Such was our crowd and luggage, that even people sitting on reserved seats found themselves on the platform. Our bargaining was so loud, that even coolies avoided us. The burden of carrying the suitcases fell on the young male members of the family, including me.
I've undergone many such trips in my teens. I shall do so when i reach 70 too. But for now, solo trips are my thing. But if you are up for it, and want to experience one crazy ride, just hop-on and leave the rest to us.

TEACHER'S SPECIAL: IDEAL JAWA ROTARY SCHOOL PART 2

One of the most awaited moments was the photo session. Someone, somewhere always used to play spoilsport. The teachers, along with the aayahs'(helpers) had a harrowing time ensuring that a picture perfect frame was not ruined. Even the poor camera guy tried his best to be patient. But it could never be achieved. The group photos i have are a testament to this.
The aayahs' were in charge of the children. Be it serving sandwiches, tending our cuts and bruises or cleaning us up after we puked, they were our unofficial grandmothers. They shared a good rapport with the teachers. The teachers were among the best in their field. Some were strict, some were easy going; but they never compromised on the quality of teaching. Even children with special needs were admitted to the school. They were given enough room, space, support and were never discriminated. I am one of them. Never was my stammer made fun of by friends or bullys'. The teachers ensured this and today, i speak confidently in public.
We did have a music teacher. The good man used to look like Santa Claus in jeans and a shirt. Our tune was definitely out of sync and sounded like the Devil's Choir. But the man of God ensured that we got it right. That's how our Christmas carols were polished and made presentable to our parents. I believe the stage still stands where the functions used to be held. I even had the honor of hosting one such event.
Some of the teachers were Anglo-Indians. Their accent of Kannada used to send the class in peels of laughter. The art and craft lessons, the computer lessons, getting scolded for stealing the rolling ball of the mouse, sticking gum underneath the desk; all these made our days truly memorable. The library had an amazing collection of books, from where i received the gift of reading.
We looked forward to returning to school after summer vacations, especially when we had to go to a higher section. We could boast about being seniors. The teachers welcomed us with open arms, and once the bell rang, we rushed out, screaming and kicking to our cycles, autos and tongas.
We did have our personal share of sorrows. Lost friends and classmates were mourned by the entire school. They will always hold a special place in our hearts.
The  last day i left the school, i never knew it would be the end of a journey. The last time i heard the bell ring, i did not know i will not be returning. Sometimes i wish i never grew up. If i had the chance to be a kid again, i would definitely go back to Ideal Jawa Rotary School.

MS.SHRUTHI C MOHAN, THE HEARTFELT TALKATHON

Among girls, there are those who talk, there are those who don't and then, the unique species of Talkathons. Once they start, they pause for the occasional breath and to giggle at the SMS. Before you could make your escape, they have caught you. You have no other choice but to meekly surrender and listen. I did. To Shruthi.
As cousins, we grew up together, and even went to the same school. Shruthi is younger to me by 3-4 years, but she makes up for it in intelligence. She, like many women in the family, joins the 'powerpuff girls league'.
I never expected that she would join engineering (and talk gibberish which all my engineering friends do). It feels proud when you see your loved one mature from a little girl to a young adult. It feels even better if they turn out smarter than you.
My knees are all black and hard, like that of a camel, thanks to the games we played as kids. I used to be down on all fours and pretend to be a dog, a tiger or some circus freak show. She was the "master". Never did i allow for an exchange of roles, not out of love though; at that age, it was all about jealousy and dominance. Part of the games involved putting my mum in siesta mode. This was to ensure that the coast was clear to play as much as we liked. Mum frowned at the childish games and at my dirty knees.
It was a right of passage for every child in our household to fall down the wooden stairs. And the other kid was blamed. Shruthi fell. So did i. Unconsciousness followed. A general dose of massage with ice cream for one, while the other was scolded and kept in detention. Fighting was part and parcel of our childhood. And the kid Shruthi, for important reasons, had to kept out of the two-man cricket match we played. Reason One. She was a girl. Two. She used to ask for a second chance when she got out. Three. That horrible crying and moaning if she was kicked out. Me and my other cousin were left to face her mum and her serious disapproval of our behavior. Once, it had got really bad and little Shruthi wailed and wept the whole afternoon, standing outside my room. Looking back, it was really stupid on my part to hurt her.
But time heals all wounds. We have shared more joys and she has supported me and our family at our time of need. True. Family never turns their back on you. And Shruthi has been the backbone of ours .
Her talkathons still continue. Her hairstyles' change faster than the seasons. She is the cynosure of any party or function she goes to. She is the appointed Fashion Godmother of all the girls in the family, of which we have quite a few and counting! Her warmth of heart still keeps us from freezing in loneliness.
A true INDIVIDUAL.

TEACHER'S SPECIAL: IDEAL JAWA ROTARY SCHOOL PART 1

My parents say i was rejected for this school. Had it not been for some silly antic i played, i would have missed the opportunity of a lifetime. I remember Sheila F. Irani with her costly cigarettes staring down and just popping a smile. Her husband was the legendary founder of the Jawa bike factory, Farooq Irani. If i'm a biker today, it's because of the school's charm that has rubbed on to me.
Back in those days, Ideal Jawa Rotary school was the creme de la creme of primary education, till 7th grade. It was a matter of status if you child was in this school. The only competitor i can remember was St. Joseph's. Ideal Jawa was located in the middle of the city. Those were truly the golden days of us, the school and Mysore.
The uniform was blue checks and shorts for boys and frock for girls, knee length  Some of us always used to outgrow these, vertically or horizontally. In the 7th grade, some of the fashionable girls stuck to the uniforms of 5th or 6th grades. This was the chagrin of our teachers and the delight of the boys, for obvious reasons.
Open day used to be more fun than sports day. This was when each class competed to be the best, in terms of presentation of models. From butterflys of thermacol to entire villages, no expense was spared to ensure that the best theme wins. The preparation for this used to start early. Most of the us could take the afternoons off to prepare charts and rearrange desks, while our parents toiled on the models.
Covering the notebooks in crisp brown paper was a must. The wrapper carried the logo of the school and this was a matter of pride. The canvas shoes had to be cleaned and not torn, especially on Wednesdays. On this day, we had to wear white. It was a nightmare for our parents. From stains of mud, gravy and jam to blood from our cuts, there was hardly a Wednesday when the uniforms came back intact. Saturdays were the best. One, it was a half-day. Two, it was 'colour dress' day. We dressed in our best and most prized, making sure an impression is created.

GAUTAM, THE LOVEABLE LOUDMOUTH

You always know when Gautam has arrived. So do your neighbours. And most of the time, they are just not pleased about it. Gautam calls out your name so loud, the entire neighborhood opens their door and quickly shuts it too. Imagine this during your afternoon siesta in the sleepy city of Mysore. And his choice of topics and words usually do the following to people: draw frowns, turn up the volume or quickly move away from the place.
Yes. That's Gautam in-your-face for you. The tall, lanky brahmin minces no words on issues of the world when he shouts and howls his disgust at them. And his facial expressions go well with it. He shows no regard to time, place or occasion. Be it youth forums, student meetings or Big Bazaar, if Gautam has to say it, he says it. These may be traffic conditions, bribe, sections of the Kamasutra or just plain bitching.
I stumbled upon this specimen in 11th grade. He wore a red colored cap. He resembled a gargoyle with a tucked in shirt. For some reason, he always checks whether his shirt his tucked in properly. I figured this may be because of his days in NCC. He knows how to get along with a variety of people and is an outdoors guy. He is a huge fan of road side chats and here too, he makes sure that the girl gang next to him hear his remarks of feminity and beauty, however weird they make be.
At first, you might be embarrassed by him. But, you can always count on him. I was touched and amazed at his dedication for completing a project work for my college. It involved creating a science model for eco-friendly village and he did it with all his heart.  Loyalty is one thing which i would associate with this guy. My respect for him grew more during our recent bike trip where, had it not been for him, I would have returned defeated.
All these make Gautam unique. It makes him an INDIVIDUAL.

KRITIKA P-WORLD'S BEST SIS

I remember when i visited Hyderabad, the first person i would look forward to meeting was sis. Our summers would be filled with chasing dragonflies and stringing them with a long thread (It was years before i realised this was animal..or insect cruelty). Sis would always play the cruical role of peace maker in the family, making sure that video games, legos and WWF cards were promptly returned in one piece at the end of the day. She was the appointed guardian of my BDay cake, to ensure the neighborhood gang didn't get the best pieces. Because she was the only girl in family, and was pretty, (the other cousins were dark, fat and just plain ugly), she was pampered and she still is.
None of us three brothers and sis are blood related per-se, but that hasn't stopped us from having our sibling fun and quarrels. Sis still sends rakhis to us by post, though i would love the chance to have it personally tied by her. And there is always a letter accompanying it, a welcome change from the emotionless e-mails i start at.
She puts family and others before her, and believes in charity. This attribute of her, i believe, cost her the best years of  life, teenage. Granny gave sis the ponytails, the nerd glasses, the braces and the dull gowns. By my standards, it was a "dark age in fashion" for her. Thankfully, that phase is long gone, including the fat, and she is at her presentable best.
The distance between us is what makes every family reuinion special. Had we been together, we would not have valued the bro-sis relationship. Her suggestions always get me out of tricky situations.
I feel stupid that i fought with her once and made her cry. People, never make a girl cry. It fills you with a guilt that you carry for life. Me and sis are on good terms now. But i wish i had the wisdom and forgiveness she has.
Sis complains that being born a Scorpion is a curse, 'cause nobody listens to you. But you don't need to speak to communicate. Just a nod and you know we have your back.

Here's a HiFi! to the greatest and the best sis of all, Kritika P.

YASH, A BRUSH OF KINDNESS

I saw Yash for the first time in my Bachelors at St.Philomenas. That was the time when i did not interact with anyone, boys or girls. Especially girls. I was labelled odd and arrogant. I do not remember when i started to  opened with the others in a friendly manner. It must have been the beginning of the second semester. Yash on the other hand seemed to get along with others from the beginning. 

One day in the lab, she posed a question as to whether i was a Tamilian. I never knew my origins would come to be a conversation starter. I replied i am a Hybrid, a mix of Andhra (dad), Tamil (mum) and Karnataka (grew up). That was how our friendship began.

I find her forgiving nature absolutely fascinating. I could never have that attribute, being an Arian. To her, relationships matter a lot. For me, doing the right thing matters a lot, people be dammed. At first glance, her sense of fashion, if she had one, did not impress me. Those were the days when looks mattered to me. I did not think very much of her.

But, time teaches you a lot of things. One important lesson is never to judge people by their looks. It took me some time to see Yash for the wonderful human being that she is, and i wish i had some of her qualities.   She still keeps in touch with me, even though i deleted the numbers of almost all my classmates after college. Yes, some do pop up on Facebook now and then. But in terms of personal interaction, i learnt that it is important to actually see peoples' faces, than poking them online. 

I feel privileged to have a friend like her, who messages unfailingly every morning. At a time when 'I' matters more than 'US', its always good to have a person like Yash as your friend. Cheers to her and her wonderful family, dog included.