DRINKING COFFEE IN A PROFESSIONAL WAY

First coffee has to be prepared either in a coffee machine or on the stove in a traditional way. After the preparation is over, it should be stored in thermos flask for later consumption.  If it were for immediate consumption, do not pour the coffee into the flask. Keep it in a vessel, preferably a stainless steel one. Once you are seized with an irresistible urge to drink coffee, pour the dark brownish liquid into the cup. Look at it for a minute. If it were steaming, then do not drink it immediately for it will scald your tongue. After a while bring the cup to one and half inches to your lips. In case you still feel the coffee is too hot, then put it on the table. But you may have to start for office early, and it is not much advisable to wait over a cup of coffee for a long time. So here are some tips for you. Take the cup with your right hand and the saucer with your left.  Pour the coffee into the saucer from the cup. Now the coffee is ready  for you to drink in the saucer. But for reasons best known to God it may be still hot. Then all you have to do is – blow air into the saucer through your mouth. But take care not to over do it. If the intensity of air exceeds a reasonable limit, then the coffee in the saucer may spill over the rims and may stain your spotless, ironed dress. If the coffee is still hot even after the air blowing process for hundred and twenty seconds, then pour the coffee from the saucer into the cup again. Take the coffee cup into your hand and walk to the refrigerator. Open the door of it and place the cup in the deep freezer. Look at your watch and wait for five minutes. Take out the coffee cup from the freezer. Now your favorite coffee is ice-cold. And now realize the greatness of professionalism. Professionalism has the expertise of making you drink ice coffee instead of hot coffee. Your aged dad and mom may not be professionals. So they drink hot coffee in sub Saharan temperatures in mid summer. Non-professinalism is a sad thing. Is it not?

Feminist

Feminists in their zeal to see an end to male chauvinism would go to any extent. They are sore at the word `boycott’ to abstain from something. Hence they threaten print and electronic media not to use the word boycott since boy is a male. But the feminists are good at heart. So they supply to the media about half a dozen synonyms to ‘boycott’ free of cost. But this is not an end. It is only the beginning. It is widely believed or more widely feared that they have great plans with far reaching consequences. The day is not far off when they picket the Universities to make the Bachelor degrees applicable for males only since Bachelor is a damn male. Feminist will not rest unless they are assured of Spinster degrees instead Bachelor Degrees. Hence in future ladies belonging to women lib movement may be getting Spinster of Arts, Spinster of Medicine degrees from Universities, of course by their male superiors. But it is open to doubt whether they accept the degree `Spinster of Commerce’ as it has the overtones of a bad thing. There is every possibility of the writer of this small piece being bludgeoned by women chauvinists even for raising this controversy.  Women, though they are libbers they are beauty conscious. Many among them secretly feel that the word spinster means an elderly unmarried woman. Then what about a twenty-year-old beautiful libber? She may demand a Miss Arts or Miss Science degree from the University. But there is crisis again. The words Miss Arts or Miss Medicine are akin to the words of Miss World and Miss Universe. So Aishvarya Rai and Sushmita Sen and the like may be angry at the Miss Degree concept. Though the women libbers are dedicated to the core of their cause, in all probability they may not spear-head a movement for change of the masculine gendered word Master into the feminine one. … in post graduation courses.

Lastly, if a woman libber has to undergo heart transplantation, and the available donor is a man, the poor, male thing is ready to lose his heart but does the eternally warring woman accept?

LUCKY IS HE WHO HAS A NAGGING WIFE

Lucky is he who has a nagging wife. A man however brave he might be is always scared of a termagant wife. Socrates could rise to such philosophical heights because his wife Xanthippe was an eternally quarrelling wife. Once Socrates’ better-half sorry his bitter-half nagged him for a long time till her mouth was swollen and refused to cooperate with her to utter anymore foul words. Though her mouth was tired, her hands were still active. She brought from the kitchen a big vessel with water and poured it on the Philosopher’s head. Contrary to her expectation, Socrates kept his cool and went with lecturing his disciples. But one of his disciples could not bear the sight of it. He became angry. Socrates, sensing his mood, observed that it is but natural for the thundering cloud to rain. Such was the way of Socrates to handle a nagging wife. At another time Socrates was hit violently. He took it with equanimity. Many philosophers of the day round the world believe that Socrates would not have started his famous philosophical enquiry to ti  (what is this) if his wife did not hit him on the head with a ladle. And if she were a meek and devoted wife, the world would have been deprived of a great philosopher.

Even British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli was also a miserable victim of his wife’s nagging. History remembers that he threw himself heart and soul into politics just to escape his wife’s nagging. When he was elected Prime Minister of Britain and the commonwealth countries under her rule, the ruling and the opposition MPs as well rejoiced over the occasion but not Disraeli. Poor thing, he was trembling all over and his heart was pounding against his chest. His wife’s commandment was that he should be home as soon as the parliamentary proceedings were over every day. But that day he was held up unfortunately. At last he started home. Long experience had taught him that that whenever he was late, his wife would be standing at the front door, her face as red as mid-summer hot sun. So he parked his car a few blocks of houses away and sneaked into his house through the back door. He changed his dress and sat before the dining table. Though it was chill outside, he was profusely sweating. He was unable to bear the mental tension. He was waiting for his wife’s violent outburst and wanted it be over at the earliest, so that he could concentrate on the supper. But her stony silence was torturing him. She stood beside the dining table with an unmistakable glint in her eyes. Disraeli had become even shakier. His hand was trembling and the fork in it too. He was too confused to differentiate what is what in the dish. At last the lady opened her mouth,’ why late dear?’ This seemingly simple interrogative was the fore runner of a great battle in which the winner was always Mrs.Disraeli. Now, Disraeli bent

his head. The fork fell from his hand. He got up. He was still shaking all over and perspiring as if he were taking bath.. He mentally concentrated on great heroes who fought valiantly and won bloody battles. And he opened his mouth. ‘Sorry dear,’ he said. `They…ah…it is those MPS who elected me the Prime Minister. Please don’t look at me like that. I didn’t ask them. The ruling party MPs elected me the leader on their own.’

`Does it mean that you would be late again?’ thundered the lady.

`No dear,’ Disraeli promised and saved the day. History says that he had kept his promise to the last day of his office.

Some great men are afraid of their wives even though they are not nagging. Once Motilal Nehru (father of the first Indian Prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru), and C.Rajagopalachari (the last Governor General of India when India attained Independence) visited Gandhiji late at night at his Sabarmati Ashram in Gujarat. Both of them requested Gandhiji to provide them with some eatables. It was One’O clock past midnight and Gandhiji’s wife Kasturibai was fast asleep in a corner of the ashram. Gandhiji was reluctant to wake her up. He was a little afraid that she might be annoyed if woken up at that odd hour. So he stealthily walked into the kitchen and tried his hand at preparing chapattis with wheat flour. But he dropped the pan on the floor and the clanking noise startled Kasturba out of her sleep. On seeing the two distinguished guests, she understood what Gandhiji was up to in the kitchen. She smiled at Gandhiji and asked him to engage the guests in conversation for sometime. And walked into the kitchen.

If I were not accused of digression, I would like to share a few things about nagging children. It is fully justified when a child nags his/her parents for something, which is within the limits of the wallet of the parent. To make an honest confession, the writer of this piece had got a glittering verdant green little tricycle when he was five, after a marathon nagging of 15 hours. 

My Uncle

I always recollect my uncle with a heavy heart. Though he died about two decades ago, his imposing frame with fair complexion and muscular arms is still fresh in my memory. He was my mother’s younger brother and when I was, five he was twenty-five, studying law. We had a two-storied house and my uncle stationed himself in a thatched structure on the terrace of the kitchen. In a corner of the terrace, there was a chimney like device to let out the smoke from the kitchen. My uncle used it a communication device whenever he wanted to talk to my mother. He put his mouth at the aperture of this device and yelled out, ‘Sister, is breakfast ready?’ My mother came to the corner of the kitchen where above the chimney was, and yelled back, ‘Just a few minutes, brother, the rice is ready, but the soup is still boiling.’

 I worshipped my uncle as a hero, for he was my savior many a time. When some of my playmates threatened to beat me, I began to cry. Then my uncle arrived on the scene and thundered at them. My enemies became meek instantly and slunk away. But it never occurred to me that that brow-beating little children was not a big thing for a youth. As my opponents ran away, I told my mother and father how uncle had bravely driven away the bad boys who tried to hit me.

On the terrace, there were two partitioning walls each three feet high, beside the thatched structure of my uncle. On one, I sat astride with a bronze plate in my left hand as a defensive shield and a long stick in my right hand assuming it was a spear. My uncle mounted on the other parapet wall with a shied and stick like a Greek soldier. We both fought challenging each other till sun-set. It was time for mother to appear at the battle scene and scold me to have a wash and get back to my studies.. Though my uncle was a Greek hero who could conquer any warrior in the world, he was as meek as a lamb in my mother’s presence. Whenever my mother stopped the great battles and boxed my ear to go and read, it was a subtle reminder for uncle that his annual law exams were fast approaching.

 What uncle said was rule of law for me. Once he gave me two annas ( five American cents forty years ago) to buy biscuits. Uncle told me that two annas would fetch ten biscuits. When the grocer gave me fifteen biscuits, I angrily returned five biscuits, saying that uncle knew better.

 The drinking water tap was at the ground floor and uncle was lazy to go there by stair-case to fetch water. So he offered to pay me half an anna per day if I feched him water. It was a secret deal between us because, my father was a strict disciplinarian and would have given me a good beating had he known this clandestine commercial proposal. I was mad after kites and saved this money to buy them during spring season.

 By the time he established himself as a lawyer, he was forty and I was twenty. He was also good at teaching and helped me a lot with my lessons in my graduation. In my twenties uncle was my friend, philosopher and guide and I poured out all my romantic escapades to him. He gave me a patient listening but never hesitated to take me to task whenever he thought that I was a little too dashing to any girl. Even after I had settled down in a lucrative career,  he assumed the same role of friend, philosopher and guide and we exchanged letters of mutual interest for many years.

All of a sudden,  he stopped writing to me. I thought he might have been busy with many  cases on hand

On a cloudy afternoon, the post-man dropped me a letter. It was not from uncle and but from my father, informing me that uncle had been admitted into a hospital with cerebral cancer. The letter numbed my senses for a while. I recovered myself and went to his native town. I found him in deep coma in the hospital bed. My aunt and cousins were at his bedside, too week to cry. I sat beside him and took his arm into mine. His arm was not that muscular. It is weak and wrinkled as a old man’s. Tears welled up in my eyes. I shook his arm and called him softly ‘uncle’. He opened his eyes for a while and closed again. Apparently, he did not recognize me. I sent my aunt and cousins home;  I stayed with him that night  With trembling voice I whispered into his ear how he was my hero and friend and how much I loved him. But there was no response. Tears streamed down my cheeks and drenched uncle’s forearm, supported under the neck. He lay on the bed, breathing heavily at times. Suddenly he uttered a loud cry and kicked his hands and legs. He shook all over the body. His convulsions lasted a minute; then he lay inert.. Before I ran for medical help, the duty doctor came there. He felt uncle’s pulse. He dropped the hand motionless. The nurse beside him covered uncle’s face with the white bedspread.

And that was the mortal end of my uncle. But he still lives in my mind.

Mischievous Children

A poet says that children are living angels on earth. But any parent would acknowledge that his/her child was a poltergeist till it was above ten. The inborn qualities of any child on earth are nagging, mischief and playing pranks on others. So before comparing children to angels, one should know whether angels too were genii in nature. Tales abound about children who resort to mischief, or pranks or nagging for reasons best known to the little hearts. Inquires any poor mother about her child, she will unleash umpteen tales about her child’s mischievous deeds or things achieved by nagging. Till date I have vivid memory of my three-year-old nephew whose mischief denied me a most awaited letter from my friend. For months I had expected a reply from Mahesh who had been transferred to a remote corner of Assam. My little nephew Bunty heard me asking my mother whether the post-man brought me any mail. At last one day the much-awaited letter did arrive. Unfortunately it fell into my nephew’s hand. He dipped the letter in a bucketful of water and pasted it on the door of my room. Not only that! He stood at the entrance proudly with his tiny arms on his hips awaiting my arrival from office. `Uncle,’ he chirped. ‘You’ve got a letter from Mahesh uncle. Here it is.’he showed me the letter that was about to drop down from the door as the water used as gum had dried. By the time I removed it, the inland letter was full of blue smudges with faint trances of letters here and there. I was angry. But I could not box his ears. His intention was honest. He wanted to surprise me with the grand display of the letter.

Children are often seized with a desire to do something novel and attract attention or to get a pat by imitating elders. My friend’s little daughter Bubloo imitated her daddy by meddling with his shaving-kit. As she had no hairy growth on her chin, she amply made it up by shaving off her eye-brows. But instead of a pat on her back, she got a reasonable thrashing by her mother. Poor Bubloo had to suffer on two counts. On the one-hand while shaving she sustained bleeding cuts on her fore-head and cried in pain. On the other received beating from her father for her misadventure.

 Another friend’s little son who had just been dabbling in English Alpha bets, wanted to surprise his father by writing A to F on a slate. But he could not find it on time. He did not remember whether he threw the slate under the cot or under the big wooden box in a corner of the room while going out for play. So, he caught hold of his father’s passport on the table. He scribbled ABCDEF in the leaves of the passport book brilliantly and gave it to his father  and expected toffees eagerly. It took for the unfortunate father five minutes to understand what had actually happened. The little one had got toffees but in the form of beatings on his back. My friend had to postpone his visit to the States till he got a new passport.

 For mothers who are worried about their children’s pranks or mischievous deeds could find consolation by realizing that even gods were no better and mothers of divine incarnations too suffered like them. Prince Sri Rama, the incarnation of Lord Vishnu once nagged his parents Dasaratha and Kousalya for the moon on a full moon day. Little Rama was persistent in his demand and no amount of persuasion helped. As little Rama began to cry, the royal servant Bhadra brought a huge mirror and reflected the moon in it. Only then Rama relented.

The mischievous deeds of  Lord Krishna, another incarnation of Vishnu are numerous and all of them could not be recounted here for want of space. Yet, one will deserve mention as it contains great philosophical truth. One day, when a group of pastoral maids were having bath in river Yamuna, Lord Krishna, hardly twelve years then, stole their clothes. The God-head said that he would return the clothes only if they come ashore and bow him. As the maids at last made up their mind and stood up, they were transformed into sages, who were ardent devotees of Krishna in their previous births. This mischief of Krishna teaches that undue attachment should not given to the body, composed of five elements (Earth, water, air, fire and space).

Coming back to the mundane world, I doubt that the immortal cartoon of  Dennis

by Walt Disney is the inspiration for the little brats’ round the globe, whose innocent deeds land them, as well as their parents in trouble many a time. 

Love By Post

The style and meaning of a love letter or billet doux reveals the person’s mental disposition who pens it. If he is a  teenager there will be nothing but sweet nothings about the girl he has a crush for. And it is vice versa too. To him his pimpled girl will appear like a Helen with moon like face. And to her the lover boy is Hercules though he is of thin built. But in their romantic outpourings to each other, they shower praise in their billet doux.

In adulthood, the love letter is sober, of course with less poetry in it. There is more yearning to understand the other person in such letters. The love expressed in such letters will last longer.

But the love letters authored by the roadside Romeos should be despised. For innumerable instances are there about gullible girls who fell a prey to such Romeos’ letters The billet doux of such elements are always intense in romantic poetry, though pirated at times. When a girl receives such letters she should not float on the clouds of romantic dreams. She should verify the antecedents of the boy apart from his good physique. If the lover- boy is  a bad type in spite of swearing his love by the five elements of nature, then let the police take care of him.  A few rewards with police clubs may deter him in future against producing tonnes of love-letters to innocent girls.

The language used in love letters many a time reflect the occupation of the individual. A computer engineer who fell in love with a software programmer asked her permission to log in to her heart. In his letter he said that if she would decide to close his file and throw away his floppy of love, he would format his life.

A Government employee wrote a love letter to his woman colleague next to his desk and put it  in the official folder and tied the red tape so that it would not slip. He put it on his table and went out for coffee. The attender who came there, thought it was an official letter.  Thus it traveled to half a dozen sections and finally reached her table with due official notings. None of the section heads cared  to take a close look at it and blindly noted, `may be considered’. The women employee in question was furious. She was angry not because her colleague wrote a love-letter to her; because it took so much time to reach her.

A doctor scribbled a love letter on a medical prescription pad,  to a lady doctor. He said that if his love was not reciprocated, he would send his heart to the mortuary after post mortem.

Similarly, a lawyer dashed a love letter to his colleague at the bar, and reserved his judgment on an arranged alliance for him pending the final hearing and disposal of his love letter.

In writing love letters employees of banks and other financial concerns are no exception. A bank officer asked his lady subordinate to open a credit balance with his love letter in the ledger of her heart. The lady promptly replied in her letter that in case of breach of promise, his love letter would be debited and shown as a liability in the balance sheet of his life.

Sending the love letter to the lady love or lover is a greater task than writing the same. From times immemorial various methods have been adopted to send the letter of love. Generally princes and princesses adopted parrots or pigeons to carry the message of love. In the epic Mahabharata, price Nala sends his love-message to princess Damayanti through a swan.

The immortal Sanskrit poet Kalidasa makes use of a cloud for this purpose. In his Megha Sandesam

 the hero sends his message of love through a cloud.

In another epic Sri Madbhagavatham, the princess Rukmini sends her love letter to Godhead Sri Krishna through a Brahmin. While imploring Lord Krishna to take her hand and rescue her from the forced marriage with king Sisupala, she avers whether the Brahmin had reached the destination or wearied by the strain of the travel rested somewhere  or, on hearing the proposal Lord Krishna  felt bad about her. Her letter reflects the throbbing of a virgin’s romantic heart.

Before summing up this piece, everyone should pity the poor, absent-minded lover who dropped his love letter  in the mail-box without writing the ‘To Address’ on the envelope!

My Cousin Mukund

Whenever I think of my maternal cousin Mukund, my memory races back to some four decades. His bony frame with large, intelligent eyes, a tuft of hair in the nape of his neck and sacred ash with vermilion dot in the middle on his broad forehead, still amuses me. He always wore knickers and half sleeved shirts He was about ten then. He was attending a religious school where Hindu scriptures were taught.  I was two years older than he was.

When I visited my uncle’s place during summer vacations, I always made fun of him. His tuft of hair made me laugh at him pulling at it. I imitated his Vedic incantation and it made him peevish. `I will see your end.’ he used to swear at me and ran to my uncle to complain about. `Father’, he complained, ‘Narsu (my pet name) is insulting my Sanskrit lessons. When I am reciting slokas (hymns) to get by heart, Narsu is standing behind me and mimicking.’ My uncle knew that I was the black-sheep who deserved a bang on the head, though with least force. But I had been gifted with appealing looks and as soon as I cast one such look, my uncle’s heart, which was a generous one melted. `Narsu is dark. Isnit he?’ said my uncle. And it was a grand hint for Mukund. He called me by the names of the animals and birds which were black. As I was leaving my uncle’s room casting a scornful look at Mukund, he dismissed me with a warning that if I mimicked scriptures I would be transported to hell and   would be boiled in a cauldron. It had its effect on me and compelled me to make friends with Mukund immediately. I complimented that he looked like a great scholar of Hindu scriptures with his tuft tied into a beautiful knot. Poor Mukund believed me and offered to assist me in climbing the mango tree in the backyard of the palatial house.

Mukund was an expert rider of the bicycle though he was rather short to mount it. Whenever my uncle sent us on an errand, he jumped onto the bicycle with great gusto like a warrior mounts a horse. After peddling  the bike for a few feet, he beckoned at me.  I ran after the bike and sat on the steel carrier behind the seat. As he biked along the lanes and bylanes making way through other bikes, lorries, buses and bullock-carts, I was really afraid that I would be run over and sent to hell only to be boiled in oil by the soldiers of the god of death.

On return, he tilted the bike a little and put his leg on the pyol of the house and got down like an Indian Maharaja would dismount a caparisoned elephant. Then it was my duty to push the bike into the huge hall and put on stand at a corner.

Despite his religious bearing, Mukund was a prankster who was always out to do something mischievous.

 It was my brother’s wedding. The venue was packed with guests and I was standing at the place where the ceremony was going on. Suddenly I felt a cold, wet sensation on my feet. Since it was chill and raining outside, I thought that a few raindrops fell on my feet. But I was wrong. It was Mukund who rubbed turmeric on my feet. It was the custom in the southern part of India to apply turmeric to the feet of women on auspicious occasions, as it was believed to bring prosperity. Mukund’s prank was already noticed by the women there and soon giggles followed. Mukund wanted to convey to me that I was like a women through his prank. I became angry. I mashed a banana and applied the pulp to his tuft of hair and caught hold of it. But as the banana pulp was slippery, his tuft of hair slid out of my hand and he ran away crying aloud that a womanish boy was attending the function. I had launched a man-hunt for Mukund in the wedding hall. Now I had a saree and turmeric in my hand. I wanted to drape Mukund in the saree and rub the turmeric on his face. Also I wanted to give him a good punch on his back. But Mukund instinctively knew what I would be doing to him if he were caught. So till evening he was out of my sight. By the time, the dinner was ready, my anger had cooled completely. During dinner, surprisingly we found each other side by side. He offered me a sweet and I gave him another. Thus we made peace.

As Mukund grew, a gradual transformation had set in on him. This metamorphosis was from a student of Hindu religious scriptures to that of an English-educated boy. He learnt English, Science and Maths with equal ease, and climbed the ladder of success in an admirable way.

As I read in news papers that he became president of an American multinational, I sent him a congratulatory message, with the drawing of a ten year old boy with a tuft of hair at the nape of the neck. Though he held the reigns of a big company his urge for pranks was still irresistible. He acknowledged my greetings with a colourful line drawing - a twelve year old boy (that is me) sitting among women with his feet bright yellow with turmeric!

Our Baby Austin

 It was a beautiful, verdant green thing with silver coated headlights mounted on the front mudguards and wheels with sparkling steel spokes.. The grill in between with a dangling handle at its bottom and the emblem on its top was of particular attraction.

The dangling handle  posed a veritable litmus test for my muscular strength.. It had to be pushed inside a little and then rotated in quick succession for ten minutes  and only then  the engine spluttered  and burst into a roar.

Though the name of the lovely thing was Baby Austin, my father christened it Raja Hamsa, the divine bird when it entered into our house and became a member of our family.

It was two door, five seater and it never grumbled, even our father sat before the steering on a rainy morning.

My father was a doctor and it carried him faithfully where he wanted to go to visit his patients mostly on catcha roads.

On week-ends it was a grand treat for us to have a ride in it.

I should be callous if I referred to it as just a car without any warm sentiment.

It was a small car of multi purpose. During a cold morning it gave us hot water and its back seat served as a warm mattress when need arose.

During a chilly morning when the barometer touched its lowest, my elder brother ignited the engine and kept it in idling position for five minutes. Then he unscrewed the bottom lid of the radiator. And the wonderful thing would happen. Hot water gushed down which I filled in an aluminum bucket. In those days cooking gas was unknown and this device hit upon by our eldest brother saved us the trouble of lighting the firewood oven to boil water for bathing.

Once it so happened that on a winter night a short, plump cousin of mine dropped in unexpectedly. Naturally he was asked to stay that night with us. But to our embarrassment the spare cot was broken and the carpenter would not turn up despite repeated requests. And no mattress could be borrowed from any neighbor as it was already half past  twelve in the middle of the night. My brother who devised hot water from the car, cried, `Eureka.’

Before we could recover the shock of his sudden, shrill cry, he ran down the stair-case. In less than ten minutes he was back with a four feet long back seat of the car on his head. In no time a decent bed was made with the back seat of the car and my cousin slept on it like a log.

As the baby car was thus serving us in various ways, Nature struck a discordant note and pathos set in.

On that fateful day, father planned a trip to a  village in the car. The occasion was buying a buffalo for our dairy needs. It was a family trip because all of us wanted to enjoy the greenery of the countryside for sometime away from the bustle of the city.

We got up early in the morning and got ready to embark upon our thrilling journey. My elder brother who thought of himself to be a co-pilot in commandeering the car beckoned at me His order was that I should go to the garage and twist and tweak the handle of the car till the engine warmed up and ignited. I was eager to please him so that he would be magnanimous to make a little room for me in the front seat. During running, the gear of the car always slipped from the second position o the front seat. During running, when my father pressed the clutch and shifted the gear into the second position, it would slip into the third one. It was my elder brother’s job to hold the gear-rod as long the gear was to remain in that position. Hence he was co-pilot.

I rolled back the sleeves of my shirt and set upon my task. The car was kindly. In less than five minutes the engine roared.

After elaborate rituals of checking the level of the oil in the engine, extent of water in the radiator and fixing of the terminal wires to the battery, our golden chariot found its was onto the road with father at the steering wheel.

Our car carried us to the destination without a grumble and towards evening the deal was struck.

As soon as the cattle owner arranged for the transportation of the buffalos by a truck, we started on our return journey.

The car was sliding on the road smoothly, with our co-pilot brother warning father that the gear in second position might slip at any moment and give the car violent jerks. I was sitting in the front seat, enjoying the beautiful scenery. The road was flanked by a row of tiled houses on one side of the road  and green fields on the other, some three feet below the  road –level.. Each of the house was bordered by a pyol and little children were playing on them while the aged ones watched over, munching fried ground-nuts.

Father at the wheel was enjoying the scene. He was also dreaming his hot-cup of coffee in the early morning with the fresh milk from the  newly bought buffalo. We children also engrossed in mouth watering thoughts about curd with thick scum and payasam with the unadulterated, fresh milk from the next-day.

Then! Putting a sudden, violent end to our thoughts, a little boy jumped onto the middle of the road from the pyol to catch a cut-off kite hovering on a tree in the fields opposite.

There was no time left to think. The distance between the car and the boy was hardly three feet. Father’s reflexes acted very sharply. To save the child from being crushed under the wheels, father turned the steering to extreme left..

Before we could realize what was happening, the car rolled into the fields and came to a grinding halt after hitting a boulder.

The accident would have been fatal had not my co-pilot brother switched off the while the car was rolling into the fields. Soon a crowd gathered at the sight and a good Samaritan  broke open the jammed door lock.

As if to save our lives, our car took the full impact of the accident and but for the trauma, we were safe with minor cuts and bruises. We left the car there and reached home in a taxi-cab.

It took us two weeks to get over the shock.

As arranged, the crushed remains of our car were brought back in a truck.

As father could not bear the sight of the dead car, he told my brother to pay for the freight and take charge of the  vehicle. were brought back in a truck.

As father could not bear the sight of the dead car, he told my brother to pay for the freight and take charge of the  vehicle.

On seeing the heaped material that had been our car, my brother broke into sobs. I also joined him with a violent cry.

Father realized that the unfortunate thing was beyond repair. Accordingly the truck assumed the duty of a bier. And it was led to its final resting place where its uncrushed parts were to be dismembered and put on sale. My brother and myself followed the funeral procession with tears.

A post card sized photograph of the car in a silver stand adorned father’s writing table. He used to gaze at it with tears in his eyes everyday till he left for his eternal abode in ripe old age.

Now everyone of our family members have a photograph of  that verdant  green  little thing.

Advice To a Child

Mahatma Gandhi practised what he preached. That is why Bapuji was respected as a practising philosopher. Once a mother approached him along with her naughty son. She touched the dust of his feet despite his gentle remonstrance. She said, "Bapuji, my little son eats jaggery which often makes him sick. He will not listen to me when I scold him to stop that bad habit. But he  has great respect for you. Please help us."

Gandhiji gave a patient hearing to the mother and asked her to visit him after a fortnight.

The mother did as told by Bapuji. On the appointed day he stroked the naughty boy's head gently and extracted a promise from him not to eat raw jaggery.
The mother thanked Gandhiji profusely but did not leave his presence. Bapuji looked at her inquiringly.
"Mahatma," she said,"may I know why have you taken two  weeks to just admonish my son not to eat jaggery?"

The great soul smiled, "mother," he said, "shouldn't I stop eating jaggery before I could ask the same of your son?"

That was Gandhiji. Einsstein summed up the spirit of  Gandhi when he said cryptically on learning about his assasination as "a living Christ died."

Gandhiji's Cooking Adventure

Mahatma Gandhi, whose moral courage feared even Emdens like Winston Churchill, was afraid of his wife Kasturiba. But his fear was borne out of his love to her, which was illustrated in a beautiful incident.

A small group of national leaders like Motilal Nehru paid a late night visit to Gandhiji's Sabarmati Ashram. They were very hungry and expected of Bapuji to feed them.

Gandhiji did not want to wake up his wife because,  she was sleeping like a log, after the daylong chores at the kitchen and the ashram in general. So, he tip toed into the kitchen. He tried to make wheat dough, but it resulted in a soup as he poured water more than required. The large vessel containing the dough slipped out of his hand and fell on the floor with deafening noise.  Kasturi ba was startled out of her sleep and rushed into the kitchen. She noticed Bapuji looking helplessly at the dough flooding like a stream on the floor. Also she heard muffled voices of Motilal and others in the hall. She understood the situation. She looked at Gandhiji, "Cooking is woman's business." she said. Go and entertain the guests. I will prepare chapathis (wheat cakes) and serve them soon." 

Like a little son admonished by his mother, Gandhiji walked back into the hall silently as ordered by his wife.
Gandhiji's deed is a glowing example of a man's love to his wife. It should be emulated by the lazy men who expect their wives to do all the household work, while they themselves while away their weekends, glued to the television set.
(Gandhiji's deed was poorly sourced).

A Spider's Sacrifice

A good mother's sacrifice in bringing up her children, is often compared to that of a spider. Generally a spider is despised as a loathsome creature. But its maternal love is unparalleled. 

The spider offers its body as nutritious food to its little things. They feed on the mother's body to sustain their life. By the time they grow up, the mother spider, by then a skeletal remain, dies.

A juxtaposition of the spider's oozing maternal love, was the gruesome incident where a cruel mother branded her four yearold daughter with hot iron rod. The woman wanted to finish her off as she did not want a girl child. May God stop the multiplication of such a breed of women which is a blot on noble motherhood.

An Elephant's End

An elephant loses its tusks six times in its life time. It will die when it loses them for the sixth and last time. The elephant bids goodbye to its near and dear in the herd and retires into the deep forest. There it stops eating and dies gradually.

The elephant's farewell is very touching. It is often compared to vanaprastha, where a Hindu householder takes leave of his children and grand children in a touching way and retires into the forest with his wife. There the old couple spend the remaining years of their life meditating on God.