The flip and flop of a Seat grabber

Flip side:

There is this something universal about the Seat Grabber. He never lets go any chance to grab a Window, Middle or an Aisle seat in a row, for his flock.

Why He? She always fronts him up in these forages. The main ideology of this family’s travelogue is togetherness in travel.

The flock’s logic defies definition – they knew , in advance, that the allotted seats were not in serial order; their confidence that they some how could mange to be seated together in the train.

The one thing that needs careful observation is how that chosen hero manges to identify the likely victims to strike a deal and how he goes about accomplishing this task - the ‘a la seat affair’!

On entering the compartment, he surveys the luggage rack and the space about twenty inches below it for vital clues.

Vacant spaces or small carry cases mean that he has found the likely row, where he can discuss a barter deal. His logic is simple – fewer luggage's mean less resistance to move to another seat.

He breaks the initial ice with a question “are you both travelling together?” Negative answer pleases him as working on the psyche of an individual is easier.

He pleads that two of his family ladies have been allotted seating, in different rows and can he please help. This sentiment succeeds 50 to 60% of the times.

One occupant is ready to adjust; the other one may throw a furtive glance at the rack- an auto reflexive gesture.

This is enough, for our hero. He will immediately offer to carry the small case and show the gentleman to the seat he has now allotted to him!

Now he has managed two seats ,side by side and if, he could manage the third seat as well….

This will be a little difficult task – might be a window seat or an occupant totally disliking such approach. The Seat Grabber looks at the power point to see whether some gadget has been plugged-in.

A plugged-in lap top or cell phone means resistance. If not, he will then offer his window seat, in the back row.

After reluctantly agreeing to change their seats, these gentlemen will be shocked to see that the ladies were already sitting side by side in two Aisle seats, barely separated by the walkway. Our hero is in the same row, but in a two seater window seat – two other passengers and the aisle way, in between!

What do they do after settling down? Open packet after packet of homely food, share and eat to their heart’s content. Catch the 40 winks or call and discuss on the affairs of friends or relatives.If nothing else, read newspapers and magazines.

Flop side:

Will it be this easy, every time to grab the seats of choice – No... No.

By coincidence, the chosen hero happens to board the same train. This time, one of the seat “donors” in the earlier journey assumes the observer status – he has easily identified the face.

He eagerly follows the progress, in seat negotiations that are sure to follow as nights follow evenings.

The second episode of ‘a la seat affair’ unfolded, as expected. The initial opening was a repeat performance of survey of the luggage rack and the space about twenty inches below it.

His body language indicated that he has already found what he wanted. The seat “donor” followed the Grabber’s eye-line that led to two small carry cases.

The likely victims were seated in the Middle and Aisle seat, one row ahead of him.

The “donor” sharpened his ears and eagerly waited to catch the sales pitch. He concluded, that the bargain will not take much time - only Grabber and his wife and a 06 or 07 year old boy made the contingent.

He also, rightly guessed that the grabber family had an aisle, middle seat in the three seater and the third, an aisle in the two seater – all in the same row.

The “donor” suspected that the bargain about to start might be for the one of the occupied window seats. This he inferred from the reluctant attitude of the boy, to occupy the aisle seat.

Seat Grabber swung into action, with out prompting from Madame this time, eyeing the gentle man (introvert), occupying the coveted window seat.

He moved nearer and asked him, “Sir, can you please adjust; this boy wants only a window seat and actually has this aisle seat?”

The Introvert, lowered his newspaper a little and politely said, “Sorry”. But Seat Grabber did not give up. Again he requested saying that the boy remained adamant and asked, “Sir, kindly do me this as a favour”.

The Introvert remained unmoved.Mr. Nosey, seated in a window seat, a row behind Mr. Introvert tried to help and joined in the pleadings.

Mr. Introvert maintained his silence and continued with his reading.

Grabber felt helpless and the boy started getting restive. He was about to move over to the other window seater to try his luck, in the same row.

But Mr. Nosey wanted to try one more time and convince Mr. Introvert, that he could make the boy’s journey memorable.

Nosey was happy on two counts – supporting Grabber’s boy and troubling Mr. Introvert.Why? He had this grudge– Mr. Introvert did not spare the extra newspaper to Mr. Nosey for reading.

By this time Mr. Introvert has had enough of nosing in his affairs. He turned to Mr. Nosey and loudly said, “Why don’t you make the boy’s journey a memorable one?  – give your window seat to the boy”

Suddenly Mr. Nosey realised that he had been missing the finest scenery passing by and started to intently gaze through the window to nurse his bruised ego!

Till the “donor” got down from the train,the boy was travelling as a standee, refusing to occupy his seat.

The chosen hero is after all not infallible – has hits and misses. The solace for him will probably be the odds of travelling with the same set of passengers, again, will be an astronomical probability. So, he was not perturbed by the thought that one of them might them witness his fiasco, if he fails next time.

A perfect woman with a perfect score.

The Surgeon:

Whether it is cutting vegetables, clothes or at times an argument, she exhibits a surgeon’s precision. 

At the end of the operation, she sutures – the clothes, bruised egos and at times the estranged relationships.

The Artist:

Shames an ACAD & ANSYS soft-wares by the way - she connects dots and dashes, filling shapes with coloured powders for rangoli competitions. 

If somebody asks you whether you can draw a straight line passing through number of points, with out using a scale, you think about for a while before saying “impossible”. 

This woman can do it, literally, off hand, on any surface and any number of times – circles loops and polygonals.

The General:

She is second to none in imposing a regimental discipline on her subjects. Age based considerations are out of question. 

Probably illness might get you some relaxation in the rules. But crossing a “lakshman rekha” is an offence meriting severe reprimand.

The Economist:

Spread sheets and Tally? Oh no -. She can easily work out, loans, EMIs, fees & expenditures and the anticipated size of the hole in the family budget. Living with in one’s means is practised as a rule and without an exception.

Armed with these figures, she starts a drive to prune the budget. Non-plan expenditures are jettisoned.

The Teacher:

Children are a tough category and always look for ways of cashing in on the affection-generated leniency taking it as a weakness. Like a veteran bridge player, they know when to “duck” or to come out with the “trumps”. Some times they raise the levels to bid for a ‘slam’ and duly get it – with a withering glance.

This currency does not get them anything from her. She knows too well, when to “shower” and when to “scald”. 

Helping with home work, completing a project or preparation for exams are priorities, where affection is an emotionale non grata.

The Trainer:

She imparts discipline; kindles devotion, moral values and humility; nurtures the art of developing friendship. Strongly advocates them to develop open mindedness and honesty. 

Never thinks, that once the kids start schooling, her job is done. She continues to strive to turn them into worthy citizens. 

An expert dietician that she is, permits studies and sports to be mixed in the right proportion to keep them fit and sharp. Never hesitates to seek help to better the educational prospects of her wards. 

The Physician:

From Grandma’s elixir to modern medicines, you name it; she will guide you through dosages, frequency, side effects, course duration - an encyclopaedia on symptoms & cures. Consultation is free and no prior appointment is required. Nutritional tips & recipes are gladly exchanged – a listener’s choice.

The Net-work Expert:

Virus in the network, network not connecting or the stupid PC failing to boot or has ‘hung’ itself. It does not matter at all. 

Phone calls, to friends, their friends, and relatives, their relatives get her all the information needed. 

This is her back channel diplomacy and issues are never put on a back-burner! Google (or) other search engines pant & puff and vie to get in to the second place!  

The Administrator:

Home (or) foreign affairs, the deft way she settles disputes, brokers deals and quells rebellion – in the house (or) with neighbours. Any nation would be glad to have her as an advisor!  

Nuanced response, favourably positioning, summits and sidelines, broadsides and asides – she does it all just like that. Out of media glare, of course! 

The Patron saint:

She assumes the role of a vigilant protector. She is the “Florence of Nightingale” to the sick and convalescing. 

For the worried mind, she becomes the “the dear Lightingale” – helping to remove the cob-webs, lighting the tunnel with illuminating wisdom.

She has a store of diligently gathered teaching of Gurus. All wise human beings are her Gurus – not necessarily based on I.Q but on compassion of heart.

Why the perfect score?

Achieving on all these fronts is a stupendous task, involving physical & mental gymnastics. This woman in question does all these with out a team of professionals to train her.

When the mentored physical prowess, backed up by mental tuning, exhibited during gymnastic event gets an athlete a perfect “10” why not a perfect “10” for the perfect woman? 

If I am allowed a say, to whom will I give the perfect score?

To my wife, certainly, Sir!

She totally disagrees, suspecting my insincerity- a philosopher’s stone!

If you are up to it, ‘blog’ it and I will certainly read it.

“Neatly done!!!!”

Opinion Maker II

In her opinion I am a space scientist - broken pepper coloured beard and a sparse bristles of hair on the head (never wants to say I am bald!) must have made her to think so. All of my space knowledge put together amounts to – naming a few planets (even if wrong, she would not know), odd constellations of stars and recalling myths surrounding them and weather permitting to point them out to her at nights.

But that was enough for her to decide that I am what she wants me to be. The kid who does not know yet to count beyond 1000, was eager to plunge in to the depths of deep space in the order of millions of kilometres. Naturally the numerals followed by number of zeroes catches up with her to confuse. It is a pity that the animated serials she watches, non-stop, on TV have no time to deal with these cipher matters!

The Little Typhoon, who fancies herself as a Jurassic park kid, wanted to know, why such hype is being raised about the Indian Mars Orbiter Mission. Organised kid as she was, she folded the Newspaper to keep my focus on the photograph taken during the lift-off of the Launch Vehicle. She described it as an anaconda like flame and smoke pushing the vehicle skywards. The simplest of depictions for a complex launch event.

The graphics detailing the relative positions of Earth, Sun and Mars followed by the multiple elliptical orbits were too ahead of her. But with a never to say die spirit, she wanted them to be explained one by one. Was it a spot test of sorts to decide whether to keep the tag ‘space scientist’ with me or not, I did not know.

After hearing my explanations- as we write in any official forms, to the best of my knowledge, she had a serious doubt: why it takes 300 days to reach Mars? With the help of the graphics, she just showed me, and play-acting, I could somehow make her to under stand that there are many zeroes involved, in the distance the Orbiter has to travel. Explaining beyond a certain extent now caught me in a trap.

Even after about 45 minutes of travel, the Orbiter could only cross over the Pacific Ocean (this kid goes for whaling expeditions in her dreams) and how it is going to cover the rest of the distance- numeral followed by many zeroes ( nice take- simply reproduced what I said earlier!)?

She then proceeded to pick out the flaws in the whole space programme (Mangalyaan) and her reasoning, for the sake of reasoning, was …..

(1). Instead of going vertically upwards, the satellite has travelled around earth, wasting energy. (2) Human being or a satellite cannot keep on running, non-stop, for 300 days – a wrong thinking. (3) The launch vehicle should have lifted off in the night and not in the afternoon, as at present and (4) Instead of going to Mars, it would have been easier to go to the Sun – bigger and visible.

Now, the space scientist in me woke up with a vengeance, at being belittled by the Little Typhoon. From my body language, like a iconic batsman changing grip on his bat to batter the leather globe all over the park, she braced herself to weather the space debris. Like a double-draw Wild West shooter, she gathered the Newspaper and her pictorial encyclopaedia – Visual Dictionary.

For her first point, I told her that it was done to achieve a specific positioning of the satellite and on technical reasons. In space every thing is done by using as little energy as possible.

For the second point, explanations given with the help of Newton’s laws did not convince her as no tangible proof could be furnished. But she was quick to point a finger at me and said, “How I can believe whatever he says; though he was a ‘Sir’ and yet he was not your teacher, am I right or not”?

Her logic for the third point left me wondering. I thought probably, the scientists in the launch team wanted Mars to capture the Orbiter at an auspicious moment in the day time (the length of a day being almost equal). Or could it be to avoid the line-of-sight obstruction from Diemos and Phobos transiting   across the Red Planet?

Unable to hold my curiosity any more, I asked her why she said like that. An expert in turning the tables around, she reminded me that it was me who told her that planets & stars are visible in the night sky. The other scientists also know this. Then why they decided to launch the rocket in the afternoon?

  

I understood at that moment that a child might grasp complex things easily and trip intellectuals with a simple question. Whatever answer I would have given on that day, might be only to justify the followed course of action. I might have lacked courage to agree and say “Yes, they could have launched it in the night”.

What would you have done, in my place?

Greed & Bribe – the bystander boils.

Greed and bribe - G&B have become consumer durables. The transaction is strictly on person to person basis, with or without an intermediary.

It is unique and unlike the one across any counter of a mall. Card swiping or issuing a check is out of question. It is cash and cash only all the way – without a receipt!

The alphabet B precedes G, but not in real life. The catch-22 situation is like which came first “the egg (or) the hen? How did they meet and what is binding them together?

Whatever it is, once initiated, this vortex goes-on like a run-away nuclear or a chemical reaction or cell division.

Simply stated, G & B embrace a multi-disciplinary approach and transcend national boundaries. Even the high seas are not exempted.

The safeguard, in the nuclear reactor is a moderator, which slows down the fission reaction. Chemical reactions can be frozen and cell divisions can be regressed through therapies.

The anatomy of bribe and greed is like that of conjoined twins. One cannot do with out the other. The emotion of one affects the other.

In this situation, “who is driving whom” becomes irrelevant. Surgical separation is dear and fraught with risks.

Who will bell the cat - to separate G from B or vice versa, paving way to deal with them one by one?

The Bystander is at his wit’s end when even a small work needing another person’s assistance, automatically boils down to this two alphabets – G & B.

The small work could be getting a signature, passing a test with personal appearance, residence change certification or a registration.

The seeker gets to call at the office of ‘so and so’ only to be told that the ‘so and so’ has just left on another work. By the time he logs three or four such visits, a sympathiser will approach.

He joins,bystander, in cursing the system and at the appropriate moment lets out the secret – I know somebody who can do this for a consideration- in a hushed tone as if delivering the dialogue in a spy movie.

Flustered with his earlier failures, the seeker relents. Presto! A signed declaration is sealed and delivered, by speedy hands.

The identity of the dieties,gracing the inner sanctum sanctorium,is not revealed and it is needless to say the spoils are shared, not necessarily equitably.

Bystander understood, after a few visits to various places/offices that the public are at the mercy of G & B. Public weighs the time spent Vs the result , by equating it  to a few currency notes.

It needs a just born baby to tell you that the equation is heavily loaded in favour of G & B. So what to do? Doff your hat and carry on with the help of a nearby sympathiser.

Perturbed, the Bystander started to write down the list of reforms he would like to propose, to set the malady right. His initial jottings continued into pages.At the end of that exercise he concluded that moralising, enacting tighter laws, ushering in e-seva and a host of other measures are not going to help.

Is there a cure in existence for the disease generated by G & B? What is its breeding ground? How can it be terminated (or) at least controlled? Bystander felt like being weighed down in a sea of agitation.

After his extensive research, Bystander stumbled up on a simple solution. If, by a miracle, both the seeker and giver decide to wait, process as per rules respectively, the wretched G & B will vanish.

This will be the moderator to tame the proliferation. He knew that changes will not occur over -night, but a beginning would have to be made somewhere.

Tormented by his inner conscience, Bystander turned to Muser for advice. Though Muser suffered similar pangs, he had no solution to offer – for the twin maladies.

Muser counselled Bystander with a touch of philosophy. He said, “Go with the crowd (or) swim with the current (or) understand that a drop of water added or removed will not make the Ocean happy or unhappy”

Muser’s earthly philosophy galvanised Bystander to formulate many action plans:

Plan A :

1.To become an elected representative and tirelessly work, from within. His inner voice cautioned that he can’t just like win an election.
2.To become a whistle blower. His inner voice reminded him of the ordeals of Assange, Snowden and quality inspectors (with NHAI & IOC) in India.
3.Form a Citizen’s Forum to persuade all to declare their assets – netas, babus and et all.

His inner voice strongly reacted: To whom, God? In what format? After, a few debate? On what day, 15th August or 26th January?

It gently reminded him of the many resignation dramas enacted by our elected representatives, boiling down to non-submissions in relevant formats.A publicised A-bomb with out the initiating charge. Critical to 'mass' or critical mass?

Undaunted, Bystander unfolded his further plans.

Plan B:
1.Start a movement to banish words such as bribe, greed and declare them words non grata.
His inner was bombarded him with question like “what if corruption, craft and speed money do not die? “What if, some wild mind comes up with another set of equally powerful words?

Bystander fell silent for a moment and decided to play the last trump card.

Plan C:
1.The nature’s gift of air, water and food held the key to the universal gateway.
2.He decided to enlist the support of geneticists to study and modify these key essentials, to act on the human RNA & DNA, to mutate and suppress these traits(G & B), at least in the future generations.

Bystander is still struggling to come to terms with this many headed Hydra called greed, bribe, corruption, graft and speed money. Care to help him? His help line is: .........

The vanishing sounding board.

 

It was by design that I became a blogger. My DinLaw (Daughter in law) and Son might have been waiting for an opportune time to throw a challenge at me.

As their plan unfolded, I understood that they had actively dreamed up this challenge for some time- to drag me in to the “net”.

An e-mail landed in my in-box, announcing the date they have chosen for launching the “site” They nicely dressed up the hook & bait – as a birth day gift. They tempted me to write.

Gifting part I did not mind but the tempting part hit the bull’s eye – my ego! They must have judged my dynamism to perfection – I move when my ego is moved.

To make sure, that I will bite the bait, they had heaped praise on my writing style, ability to look at things from different perspectives and PCing (writing using computer) in the draft.

To me, it read like an economic assessment of our country’s financial state. Even now I could recollect the sales pitch I had used with them to please go through the odes and short episodes drafted by me, before this advent.

May be the times have changed and now the very same people have opened a blog site, confident that my ego will do the rest!

It took my conscious & sub-conscious minds, to paint alternating pictures of glory and dread. Finally I received the green signal to sit in front of the PC. I did not want to let go the once-in-a life-time-offer.

Their original offer and DinLaw’s promise to extend editing support, if required, did tilt the scales, in my wavering mind, a little more.

They had some other devious plans but I had only one – to involve my DinLaw and Son in editing and managing the “site”.

Even before commencing my writing, I mentally tabulated (name, cell phone no & .com details of) my probable readership roster of  long time friends, close family members, relatives and whoever can suggest to somebody my blog address.

Then I started to recollect old sparks that could be turned in to short episodes for posting in the blog.

Here with a little raking up of the brown matter (mine only), staring intently at the roof (Robert Bruce and the spider web) I narrowed down about twelve plots.

You may wonder how I got these many on a trot. Let us call it a beginner’s pangs and leave it at that. So armed, I geared up myself to become a “net author” to paint the “net” and fire the imagination of my hoped-for-readers.

My DinLaw was forced to brush up her editing skills. That was my first test to see whether the promised support will be forthcoming or not. She was one-up, promptly editing, adding crisp comments and mailing them for a relook.

That was an ego boost. If you go through the following passages, you will see what I meant:

“This is what I love about your writing, its witty, gives food for thought, and I can go on. Somehow your work reminds me of PG Wodehouse”

“Hi Pa - Tempting the cat is inviting disaster..,”

“Nice read, there was very minimal editing. Wonderful draft. This takes one down the memory lane”.

“This is a break from your other work. More of observing mundane things and making the reader realize the actual importance of the object. Genius / Geniuses would be shedding happy tears, wherever they are after reading your work.  Have done some changes (computer terms).

“The read was funny, my god, what an imaginative child. You both are lucky to have found each other’s company. Tell me, can anyone else cane you? “

“I can see the effort in this document .None would come over, with a stick... max a user can do is comment on our blog”

“I was glued till the end, to find out what happened. You did have your editor glued to the system, in this narrative.”

“This is a beautiful narrative, once the post is published, why not send the link? I am sure she would cherish it.”

“Nice write-up, I really enjoyed reading this. Poor man, you must have scared the lights out of him :)”

“All three works convey unique incidents and are beautiful in their own essence. Let’s not merge them and disrupt the flow :)”

Who will not be moved with such encouraging editor’s comments and that made me to write an ode (if it is not one, pardon the misnomer & enthusiasm)

Ode on Editor:

“Rough drafts are pruned
Scissors & wit in hand
Mammoths became hippos
Whales give way to Eels
Poor Giraffe shrunk to be
A striped horse
Camels might take to water
As drakes and Ducks
I shudder when you will
Turn me into a Gnome.”

:) Haha, sounds like I have magical abilities! This response, from my editor, turned out to be the beginning of our woes. If I had access to net, my editor’s was down. If both had access, no write up was available for transmission.

Yet we managed to post the blog regularly. In the deep recess of my mind, a lurking doubt was always present - how long and when? I dreaded the day when my editor would call in and ask me to throw down the towel.

Since my ego was involved, literally more and more ideas poured out from within. Keeping pace with them was difficult, as I was a “pecker” on the key board.

Long hand drafts and revision helped to organize thoughts to some extent – any how it had to be converted in to soft copy, a daunting task.

Now I feel, after a few months, that they could have simply bought a gift and wished me “happy birth day” and all of us could have forgotten the occasion.

At the end of 999 postings, I took stock of my gains & losses. The summary findings pointed this way:
Telephone, cell phone & internet charges climbed up the chart.

Friends, who were talkative , suddenly started observing  maun vrat.

Those who promised regular reading became amnesiacs.

Associates read little but gave voluble advice, free of cost, on how to position the “site”!

Son, is a reader but not a reacher with comments all the while managing to stay away from the flood of words.

Daughter, a reader in spite of her busy schedules has promised to visit the blog on priority. Once in awhile posted comments and appreciations on the “blog”

Son’s friends are lukewarm as they did not know much about me in the first place.

Close relatives, some are in foreign soil, have tight work culture & less free time - understandable.
DinLaw and Muser – the two worried souls about the Law of diminishing returns catching up with their JV-the blog.

My “net” draggers might have realized by this time that when there were easier ways of wishing one on a birthday, they should have chosen one of them.

Why stocktaking at “999” and not at “1000”

I chose 999 as my bench mark and being worried about a landmark at 1000.

I am happy that I will have one dedicated reader, till I reached my bench mark. Wonder who? Who else can it be other than my blog editor!

I hope by this time my DinLaw and son would have realized that there are other ways of expressing birth day wishes. I believe they would have resolved to do so.

My inner voice wanted a hearing on this whole la affair “bogged blog” and it somehow had becoming poetical:

Aghar mey ekku shayarho tho
Ekku shayarie banoom istharaa
Toondnay mey faidhaa kya
Chippihain kaghin konaymay
Lagthahai aagayaa kuch mehamaan
Beemaari “net” aur cellphonon roopmay
Aatha hai roz teekusay phir
Jaathaahai dhin raathukay saath
Chalthaahai baathu aur kuch
Lekhin humbhi chadnaahai
Chalaaunga ekku gaadi par
Ab koyi rokkay aur na chadday
Ekdhum safed kagaz jodkay khaali.
Challa jaathahumn issikay dhun may
Dhadakthayy dil ke tharaanayliye!

The Opinion Maker.

The little Typhoon, study holidays are not, loved to discuss every thing but her academic activities in school. Probing questions, if asked, are expertly deflected like a seasoned ‘neta’ or an economic ‘pundit’ – in vague terms.

Whatever it is, her visits are like that of comets, periodic and mostly predictable. On one such a visit, she found me serious, pen poised over a blank paper, eyes staring fixedly at an imaginary spot on the wall and sitting like a statue.

I was struggling to complete a write up and she was determined not to allow me to do so. Otherwise, she had to come back at another time. It was highly un- acceptable and running counter current to her plans of swimming along with the flow to have fun.

Fearing no consequences, she went about disturbing my ‘tapas’ - pulling out the papers, snatching the pen and then standing in front of my unseeing eyes to block the wall out of sight. I lost my focus and she had the stage set.

The first object she noticed was a Visual dictionary. She riffled through the pages and stopped to look at the topic (pictures) under formation of mountains. Naturally, she wanted to know how these mountains were formed in the first place.

Welcoming the diversion, I started to demonstrate the concept of mountain formation. I folded my hands at the elbow, kept them parallel to the ground, palms facing downwards and at about chest level. Then, I asked her to stand in front of me and watch carefully the palms facing the ground. Both she did - without a demur. Surprise number one!

As she watched, I brought my palms nearer, and stopped when the middle fingers touched each other. She confirmed the contact, in a jubilant voice, usually heard from a mission control centre announcing the completion of a critical manoeuvre.

Then, I started gently pushing my palms against each other, from the wrist portion, keeping the rest of my arm –elbow to wrist joint, rigid and parallel to the ground.

After completely folding my palms together, I paused for awhile, so that she will get a mind’s picture of the folded palms. Then I let in the concept that, in a similar fashion, the mountains were created by the natural movement and collision of tectonic plates against each other.

A heavy subject and inept handling must have made her to loose track of the concept. This became evident when, after a long silence, she simply stated that I had shown her a ‘namaste’ and not a mountain formation.

She had formed her own opinion about the issue and stated it boldly - Earth was made in to dough and then God pulled up lumps here and there to make mountains. He put them in different places so that all of us can look at these mountains. Surprise number two!

The next few pages contained pictures of ocean, clouds and rivers in flow. Her doubt was how the rivers got the water supply? Here I had a doubt – whether she would ask such questions in the class room?

Using the illustrations, I explained about evaporation of water from the oceans, transport of vapour in to the atmosphere, cooling & forming into cloud masses. I let her know that rain bearing clouds will be grey or deep grey and just formed clouds will appear snow white. On further cooling, the water vapour in the clouds condenses and falls as rain – I completed my narration.

She accepted that rain comes from grey or deep grey clouds but had reservations about the source of water in the clouds. By her logic, the grey and white colour of the clouds did not match with the source - bluish or greenish appearing ocean water (courtesy the idiot box?).

Seeing predicament writ all over my face, she ventured to offer her own opinions about rain, grey & snow white clouds. Clouds are made in the sky. Grey and white clouds mix together, get purified and fall down as rain. To add further weight to her argument, she said that water in the ocean always remains there and it cannot go up. Only rain water can come down like in a shower bath!

Simply stated – clouds are not made with ocean water but rain water is made in the clouds. Can any logic beat this opinion maker’s opinion?

(This is where I laughed…fun unlimited)

The next interest turned out to be on ships and boats of modern and medieval times. Remembering her recent boat trip, to a nearby island, her face lit up like Christmas tree. She excitedly narrated how the knife in front of the boat tore the water and helped it to go faster and faster. She had already firmed up an opinion, logical or otherwise, that the observed phenomenon of prow wake was nothing but the effect of water being cut with a knife. I kept quite with out offering any explanation.

Lack of response is not taken kindly by this opinion maker. Deciding to educate me a little, she patiently explained “vegetables are cut with a knife, butter & bread is sliced with a knife. In the same way the boat cuts water with a knife - that is all”

After setting my thinking straight, she just left me alone to contemplate on these issues- her perspective opinions. I simply lost my sanity on the examples and arguments used to explain her view point (read opinion).

I restarted the struggle, to catch my inspiration train, after gathering the papers, pen and then focusing my eyes on the wall. Focusing proved futile after the brainstorming session the opinion maker had with me.

The Horlicks jar … Man!

The one pound glass jar with a nice printed cardboard packing still remains fresh in memory.

The content, Horlicks, was jealously guarded from the prying nature of air and moisture till it reached the consumers. A cardboard seal bonded on the mouth of the container ensured it.

It occupied a prominent place in display- in General and Medical stores. Once in the house hold it had a guaranteed a niche to reside.

The Horlicks, in glass jar travelled wide and far and was a permanent feature near hospital beds -to nourish the patients back to health. Doctors prescribed it, orally, along with a list of prescription medicines.

A visitor to a house hold, where children and elderly people are sure to be there, never forgot to bring this glass jar along with fruits, nuts and flowers.

In the household, the jar, full or empty, was carefully preserved by the home makers. Used the contents judiciously and found multiple utilities when the jar became empty.

Kids were attracted by the noiseless way the lid cap can be unscrewed to help themselves with spoonfuls of the tasty powder.

The opportune moments were carefully chosen, when the elders had their afternoon siesta, to effect the heist.

Their philosophy was very simple - hungry stomach & craving taste buds should not go unrewarded. If caught red handed, they were ready to quote from the scripture - Krishna stole butter to show His affection and in the same way, we are also showing our affection for the Horlicks powder.

What the elders could do, except to admire the quick wit?

The kids did not like the other health drinks – Bournvita or Ovaltin. They did not go after them for a simple reason. They came in tin containers and made hell of a noise while opening the lid – definitely not suitable for a clandestine affair!

A jar of Horlicks gave the women folk an edge in grading & dealing with the guests visiting the house. The most welcome got a drink of more milk, less water and liberally added Horlicks powder. The least welcome guest got more water, less milk and a sprinkling of Horlicks powder.

In the house, the empty Horlicks jars were treated still as precious. The jars got a religious warm water bath, a sun bath and towelling before being appointment as storage containers in the kitchen. The transparency, maintainability and hygiene must have appealed to the natural motherly instinct!

They organized the filled glass jars like soldiers in formation. Liquids, semi-solids, powders, granules and nuts clamoured to get stored in them, literally.

Home-made pickles and hair oil found a container which allowed them to see the world. Nuts, raisins and assortment of grocery items were stored with a facility to periodically inspect the contents.

The women folk being innovative assigned another role for the empty glass jar. They used it as a “churner” to separate butter from the skimmed cream.

The empty glass jars, became a special purpose vessel/container, in the hands of kids. They built an aquarium to keep river fishlings; converted them to arable land to grow seedlings, used them as a green house; as biological parks to rear (or to inconvenience) insects such as grass hoppers, gadflies, spiders and butterflies.

Times changed. The packaging changed- attractive plastic container replaced the glass jar. These plastic containers, finding lesser utilities, started fearing the recycle bins.

Many newer brands entered the market share of Horlicks began to shrink. Feeling the heat , it gracefully accepted the inevitable.

The TV opened up opportunities, for the health drinks, to promote & compete with each other. They turned the spotlight on infants & kids, coming out with 1-2-3,Jr. versions, -23- and -32- varieties. Aggressive marketing began….

Models, as brand Ambassadors, stood by extolling, measuring and sporting a Mono Lisa smile to ensure that the message captured the target audience’s imagination. To add ‘Zip’ and ‘Zing’ to the campaign, white coated gentlemen were roped in to give expert opinions.

Newer brands, different models and to up the ante all the health drink packets carried free gifts worth almost the cost of the product. Some even went crazy – offered free gifts that were attractive on the print and disappointing on hand.

Many brands and many claims – neuron activation, growth stimulation, strength & stamina fountain etc; - repertoire was truly amazing!

The rest is history – kids telling moms to buy this or that health product!

Now, only the semi-retired & retired old bones will be fondly remembering the content and the glass jar of Horlicks powder. The very mention of the name Horlicks will set their taste buds watering and flashing mental pictures of the extracurricular activities they enjoyed, using an emptied Horlicks glass jar.

Vive la the Horlicks glass jar of the bygone era!

Why is it called Horlicks and whether it is a singular or a plural?

May be one you can answer or Mr. Bachchan Jr might have an Idea!

Thereby hangs the Spider@web.

Mrs. or Mr. Spider cannot just walk in to a restaurant, order a meal of insects, settle the bill with tips and go home.

He or she has to find the food all by own efforts. Robert Bruce can vouch for this as he had spent considerable time watching spiders, while he was, in retreat , planning a counter attack.

The spider hail from Arachnids lineage and belong to Araneae clan. This clan has further genetic lines (tribes) such as Tarantula, Raft spider, Orb spider, Huntsman and house spider – a colourful lot!

This tribe has certain special traits. They are octopedes and walk on eight legs; feel with a pair of antennae like sensory organ called “pedipalp”.

Have normal eyes unlike, the compound lenses of, flies which they might catch for a meal. For grappling the prey, they have pincer like appendages called chelicerae.

To carry on with their trade of spinning, nature has endowed them with certain special devices, attitudes and skills. The creator has given them a never say attitude and they keep on trying till goals are achieved. A web to trap & catch insects!

The spider has a gland to secrete a polymerisable material and pair spinnerets to produce the silk threads. Polymer engineering and   textile technology, working in perfect harmony!

The spider is a craftsman par excellence in producing the finest of fibres! It employs tailspin and yoga techniques (sirsasana and padaasan), because the spinnerets are located at the tail end of the body.

They exhibit a hang glider’s skill and a trapeze artist’s timings to anchor the foundation pylons for the “web”. How and why they select the site for the construction is known best only to them.

Armed with natural instincts and working with single minded devotion, the Spider starts to weave the web. If the Spider has to approach for a building permit, any “..UDA” (Urban Development Authority) in the land will be amazed and pleased to grant it without batting an eyelid. Here is why?  The floor space index is high, very high!

Mostly the web constructed resembles an irregular polygonal structure- inset with webbed circles/involutes, filled with empty spaces – like a chicken mesh or fishing net. At the centre of the web, a royal seat is also provisioned. An exhibition of the finest art, of spin drying.

Then the spider ascends the throne, surveys, broods and patiently waits for the food coming in uninvited. The arrival of an insect sends vibrations through the web - bush or web telegraph! The spider rushes in from some corner of the web, cuttings short its contemplation or meditation.

This is his or her arena and we the spectators can take the seats in the Greek amphitheatre. In this arena the condemned is the unwary insect and the role of the lion, out to kill, is that of the spider.

The trapped insect tries to wriggle out unsuccessfully, causing more and more vibration on the web. Probably the spider likes to gobble up an insect with a fighting spirit!.

Ever slowly, the spider approaches the victim, quarters it and grapples it. The insect puts up renewed struggles which only serve to get the death screws tightened. The throes diminish and stop. An insect has breathed its last and a spider has had its meal.

The satiated spider wire-walks to another favourite corner to wait or engage in web repairing which gives it a chance to view the world doing sirsasana. A healthy practice indeed!

The female spider keeps the social order in check. Any male spider, advancing too close for comfort, is dealt with promptly – with a dose of poison, a la kangaroo court.

Watching them in some of their actions, we can’t brush away this dilemma - whether to pity the mauled insect or to marvel at the spider?

One of the species of Spider – the Tarantula enjoys a stellar honour. It has a nebula named after it. If it comes to know of this, it might feel on top of its web. But for a brief time only, as Crab, Cat, Ant, Swan and Horse also compete with the spider for this heavenly honour.

For all this stellar recognition, it suffers natural calamities due to rain and storm. Even when being rendered homeless, it tenaciously hangs on to the last thread of the web with hope of survival. If unsuccessful, starts rebuilding again, hoping that the departed soul of Robert Bruce will be near by to give company!

Is there any competition for the Spider?

Yes, the weaver bird and the honey Bee. The former gathers natural material and the later secrets the wax biologically.

The cat smelt something fishy.

A fully fit Tom was extremely pleased with himself. He did not fail to notice that the only mouse, that used to stray into the garden, was keen to avoid a repeat encounter with him - for health reasons.  The Madame was busy battling her own bulging dimensions in aerobics, calisthenics and swimming sessions.

Tom had no inkling that his sea of tranquillity was about to be churned by a tsunami. The Master of the house was returning from abroad. Madame moved her bulk like a possessed dynamo, to set the house in order. Heaps of clothes, shoes and tinned food items went underground.

The Master was hard to please and fool with. At a glance he could gather all the needed information. The rumour in the household was that he could deduce what must have happened, even from Tom’s behaviour.

Every one feared him for other reasons too. A look at his physique will chill any body in his/her tracks - heavily built, ebony coloured and sporting  a shock of snow white hair on the cranium. Aptly, he has been nicknamed as the Ebony Man.

With him, a walk in the park was like stepping in tune with the tremors felt during an earthquake. Tom was the shaking testimony for that. The commanding voice was like the whiplash of a thunder. It froze Tom in to inaction, making him to hold his heart in his tightly closed mouth, whenever such endurance tests were inflicted.
Yet, the Ebony Man treated Tom like a friend, brought him special delicacies and proudly introduced him to other pets and pet owners, in the park. May be because of this reason, he was putting up with all these - Tom concluded.

At this point in his memory trip, he saw the car coming to a silent halt, under the portico. The chauffeur jumped out and ran to open the rear door - in milliseconds, as if expecting a lobbed grenade to explode at the slovenliness.

Tom took pity on the chauffeur for working under such a mortal fear. The chauffeur endured the sufferings – for economic reasons. The master chose well (poor background), paid well (more than the neighbours) and demanded more and more (unlike the neighbours).

The chauffeur and Tom could not fathom this dual behaviour. But the chauffeur sensed that Madam might also be harbouring such thoughts.  The trio were secretly planning for a raison d’être, independently.

Tom had his own axe to grind – he did not like fishes dead or alive. He hated them even more when the Ebony Man forced morsels of cooked fishes down his throat.

During his recent visit abroad, the Ebony Man along with his son went on a fishing expedition cum picnic. That experience kindled a serious interest, in him, in angling for fresh water fish. He craved for them - at lunch, every Saturday & Sunday.

Armed with a branded fishing gear and forcing Tom to accompany him, he marched to the riverfront - to try out his luck. He chose a spot on the gentle slope of the river bank, cast his line and started reading a popular magazine – as he had seen, people doing like that, during his foreign visit.

Tom had nothing to do and watched the activities of other anglers – local professionals & hobbyists, to pass time. He only prayed that the Ebony Man catches a few fishes quickly and signals it is time to go home.

After an interminable wait, the Master called it a day and returned home. His wife greeted him at the door and expectantly took the hamper from him. The hamper must have weighed next to nothing.

She showed her displeasure by simply lifting and lowering the hamper, using her little finger. She had her reasons- the Ebony Man gave such a build up, the day before, assuring her that he knew all about river fishing. That Saturday Mr. Ebony Man did not get to eat his customary plate of fried fish.

Redoubling his resolve to land plenty of fishes on the next day, he started early. Tom unwillingly went along with him - thoroughly bored to be a spectator at a non-event. The Ebony Man cast the fishing line, with a flourish and waited awhile. There was a slight tug at the line and hopping with mad joy, he reeled in the line to pull out the prize catch. What he saw just stunned him!

The fish which almost got impaled in to the hook, escaped by a whisker and in the process managed to pull out the worm for keeps. In his amateurish enthusiasm, he did not even secure the worm properly on the hook and looked sheepish.

The subsequent Saturday & Sunday efforts turned out to be a little more productive. The Ebony Man landed small fishes measuring 3 to 4 centimetre in length. Tom had his own doubt that these small fries were not intelligent enough to nibble at the worm and then make the great escape. He ignored all these funny acts enacted during these fishing expeditions. He had an inner feeling that some thing unusual was waiting to happen, at any time now.

After a string of failures, the Ebony Man called on a fishmonger. Both of them exchanged a few animated words. Tom smelt something fishy about the goings-on and became attentive. The fishmonger left for awhile and returned with a basket. Then the exchange of contents took place. The final ‘nail on the coffin of the fishing affair’ was the currency notes changing hand.  Tom did not fail to notice the ‘spring’ in the steps of the Master on the way back home, with a laden basket.

Tom felt delighted, that at last, a chink in the armour of the Ebony Man has been found. He started thinking seriously on how to share the gathered ‘intelligence’ with Madam or the chauffeur. He visualised and discarded many plans on second thinking.  A few days later, he hit up on a simple but laborious plan to involve the chauffeur in the plot.

He started sidling & snuggling up to the chauffeur, who at first took it as an intrusion in his reveries. Getting no positive involvement, Tom tried the second act. He placed an object at a distance and tugged at the driver’s pants and then rushed to the spot and brought back the object. After many false starts, he finally succeeded in getting the attention of the driver, who by this time had taken a liking to Tom.

Tom took the play acting to the next level. He placed various objects at different locations, when the driver was watching him. Then he came up and as usual tugged at the pants. The driver then understood that Tom wanted him to go and fetch these objects, one by one.

Both enjoyed this game - the cat imparting training and the driver finding a little diversion in the dull routine of standing by the car. Finally a strong communication bandwidth has been established between the two. Now, Tom started to plan for the final thrust in the confrontation.

That took more time to evolve, making the driver to understand and then to execute it flawlessly. He patiently waited for an opportunity. He got that chance to go out with the driver, on an errand for the Madam. As the cat’s luck would have it, they were passing by the fishmonger’s shop. On seeing the fishmonger in the shop, Tom’s hackles raised. He tugged urgently at the shirt sleeve of the driver. The driver, by now attuned to these pulls & tugs, stopped the car and looked enquiringly at Tom.

The actions of Tom suggested that he wanted to stop and get down from the car. Both of them got down and walked up to the shop. The fishmonger recollected seeing the cat on the river front and assumed that the man accompanying it must be a driver working for the fishing enthusiast.

The fishmonger smiled at the driver and threw a morsel of fish towards Tom. Tom ignored the offering and the driver started conversing with the fishmonger. After exchanging pleasantries, the fishmonger wanted to know if he had come to order supplies for the Master.

The driver, not aware of the secret, told him that his Master likes to catch the needed fishes by himself. Confused, the fishmonger informed the driver that for the last two months, every Saturday and Sunday he has been selling a basket of river fish to the Master.

Tom guessed that his mission has been accomplished, leaving the driver and fishmonger a little perplexed. The driver understood that had stumbled up on a secret and hoped to impress the Madame, who always found him below par for the salary her husband was paying.

Returning home, the first thing the driver did was to share the collected information with Madame. He left quietly allowing her to think over and act on it. But he was sure, she will not let go of such a golden opportunity.

With a touch of master stroke, Tom feigned sickness and acted it out like a thespian, to avoid going with the Master on his next fishing trip. He has had enough of these fishing expeditions.

The Madame had decided on her own, to wait at the door step and confront the Ebony Man on his shenanigans. Unaware of these developments, the Ebony Man entered the house humming a popular tune – from the very first movie both of them had seen after marriage.

He extended the basket with a catch of fishes towards his waiting wife. She gave him a scornful look and asked him “how much money you paid for this prize catch?’ The Ebony Man was stunned into silence as she narrated the story so far, like a recap in TV serials.

She did not allow him to offer any explanation. The Ebony Man was left standing at the door with the basket full of fishes, which he really had succeeded to reel in, after weeks of failures. Hurt was one thing he could deal with but how come it has become an open secret that all these week ends he had been faking success in angling. This vulnerability bothered him most.

The Ebony Man was very sure that none other than Tom or the driver could have stumbled up on his secret. He cursed himself for being blind to the subtle changes in the mannerisms of Tom and the driver, in the recent days. He decided not to go on for any more fishing trips.

He did not like to be upstaged by a feline or a servant.  No more walk in the park for Tom.  A new driver is now reporting for duty.

Power Point Presentation & Persuasion.

The brown matter in Little Typhoon’s head must be a perpetual cauldron of ideas & strategies. She has four bargaining counters namely (a) pleading (b) pleasing (c) probing and (d) pressurising. When in need and the other person is unresponsive she uses these techniques.

For the past few days we did not meet each other and this must have brought her up to my room. She stood silently for awhile, feigning shyness and all the while trying to draw my attention. The moment I acknowledged her presence, the fun began.

The Calendar Girl:

For some inexplicable reason, the origami specialist has turned in to a paper shredding machine. Her philosophy had become “any paper that needs shredding needs me”

I gently chided her and told her that whenever a paper is torn, a branch of a tree dies somewhere. I could hear her mental gears shifting in her head. I was little prepared for the Q & A session that followed.

She: Some one has already cut the branches to make this paper. Why that branch should die once again when I tear this paper?

Me: That time the branches will be half-dead and they will now be dead for sure.

She: Can you show me the “dead for sure branch” If I tear this paper now?

Me: That particular branch might be anywhere in this country and I don’t know where it will be. Then how can I show you?

She: If I don’t know where it will be and if I cannot see it, then how can I believe whatever you are saying?

Sensing that I am getting in to a quagmire, I diverted her attention to do something useful on the paper, at least, before tearing it.

Quickly she asked, “How doing something useful on this paper will prevent the branch from becoming “dead for sure”?”

I closed my eyes and remained silent for a while. Thinking that I have started meditating, she silently left the room.

This tranquillity lasted exactly 10 minutes and 12 seconds. In came the Little Typhoon with a paper and proudly offered it for my scrutiny. I saw 56 squares neatly arranged in 8 rows. Columns and rows were hued with select colours. 

The numbers 1 to 31 have been written inside the boxes. The top three rows had days of the week written in her mother tongue, Hindi and English. Above these rows she had written “DECEMBER   2013” in English.

When I finished looking at it, she told me that she had drawn a calendar. I immediately checked to match the days and dates of Dec’13. 

Finding no fault in the work, I asked her why she had not written the month in the three languages.

Again she floored me with her answer. In any language the month will be pronounced almost the same! 

Oh, what a simple philosophy!

At the bottom of the sheet, she had pencilled her class and section. To top it all, she had scrawled her signature like a grownup!

The Poser:

She was a reluctant subject. She once told me, “neither your camera is good nor the photos”.  Yet, I liked to capture her ever changing mood with my cell camera. 

After a session, she will snatch the cell phone and view the photos in zoom, tilt and pan modes. Like a film director, wielding a megaphone, she would say “cut it” or “store it”

I have never imagined that this little Typhoon will be a veritable question bank. As far as she was concerned hesitantly asking is a doubt and boldly asking the same is a question. 

This kid never hesitates, so doubts also sound like questions. With practice I have learned to spot these landmines.

After a botched session of photography, she probably thought about infusing life in to the session or whatever was left of it.

She started with a simple question. “When I pose for a photograph today, I am 5 years old. If I look at this photograph when I am 15 will this photograph look like me then?

All these years, I never thought that, a child could, ask such a loaded question. Every one of us has accepted, intuitively, that pictures remain the same only on the day they were taken or drawn. 

How to explain this “doubt” asked as a question? Any loophole, another question (actually a doubt) will be fired.

I carefully worded my reply. Living things like persons, birds, plants, fishes and animals grow old and age. All will undergo changes with age.

She fell silent for a moment and I thought a happy ending is nearing. The next question she asked was as loaded as the first one.

“If I take a photograph of the “dead for sure” branch, keep both in my house and look at them after 10 years, will they look like the same as before?

Seeing my perplexed look, she explained that some time back I only told her that, living things grow old and change. A doosra & teesra fused in to one to flummox a batsman. 

Then she declared confidently that the “dead for sure” branch and its photograph should look alike as dead thing don’t change.

This is the ultimate in philosophical teaching! How would I have explained to her the morbid details, a living thing undergoes, of the life after death.

The Teacher:

Two geneses were the eye of this stormy session.

Gen1:

When I was about to go out, the Typhoon breezed in and requested me to bring her a pouch for keeping papers. She volunteered the information that she had run out of foolscap papers to keep in them – a two-in-one affair, nicely done. 

I could guess that she wanted these things because I was using them.

She got the folder & papers. I showed her how to insert a paper in to the designated packet. That was enough; she completed inserting the remaining papers herself.

The transparency of the packets thrilled her and was immensely pleased with her possession. Secretly, I was hoping that she would draw sketches on the papers and insert them back and show everybody her handiwork – like a painting display in a gallery.

I mentally calculated that all these things will be done with in the next 24 hours. Little did I realize that the 24 hours were too long for her when the bug has bitten!

Not belying my expectations on the time as well as the display, she walked in, like a kitten smacking its lips after secretly dipping in to a bowl of milk.

But the display was very disappointing as she had drawn only some squares and had written “dict” in each of them. 

At the top of the paper she had written: Time Table” and at the bottom her class and section. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, I asked her what is “dict” and why is it written inside all the squares?

That gave her the opening she was waiting for. She made me the student and designated herself as my teacher. It had become the case of inviting extreme trouble.

She went ahead saying, “Now I am your class teacher and will dictate now. Take this pencil and start writing” Military commands delivered like gun shots.

Pausing for a moment she said, “ No erasing allowed ,so don’t make mistakes” The session lasted nearly an hour and during that she dictated words, I wrote them, she chided me for imaginary mistakes – improper looping or failing to cross the “t” and dot on  “i” and “j” properly!. 

Without waiting for a reply, she would snatch the paper, erase the offending letter and ask me to rewrite it properly. 

She would stroke her chin with a pencil or twirl it between her fingers and watch her student at work. 

My agony was mercifully cut short, when her mother came in search of the missing child (read mischievous child).

She understood my plight and chided me gently for pampering the kid too much. Then she explained the gen 2.

Gen 2:

It appeared that the kid’s teacher made the children to practice to spell the words in the dictation class. The Little Typhoon, who was always looking for a chance, caught hold of this idea for implementing it on elders.

She dictated and failed (marks) her grandfather, grand mother, father & mother for the sheer fun of it. Her students showed lack of interest and that was why she had singled me out for the drill – the martinet.

Grandchildren or a grandchild, kids are a pleasure to teach, learn from and play with. The kid and you can easily go to the paradise and comeback pleased, that is, whenever the kid wants.

Step into my shoes.

Bringing up a son or a daughter is not easy. The task becomes difficult when one of the parents is little worried about what will be lying in store for them as they begin schooling, complete graduation and end their search for a career.

The implication is manifold- finance, securing proper grading, and higher education and so on and so forth.

Parents try and maintain a constant vigil till these goals are reached one by one. If the mother is a home maker, she literally studies with them, prepares them for exams, except for writing it herself.

If she happens to be an office-goer, financial support is ensured but the constant attention, on the wards, suffers a little or becomes an additional load.

The father has only one focus – to urge them to do better and better. Some fathers do help in studies, project works and suggesting additional learning activities, all with the aim of preparing them to face education & employment goals with ease.

This attitude makes the wards to dislike the regimen. This feeling is more in students nursing their own priorities in life, different from that of father.

Few kids express their feelings openly & politely. Some resent and store it in mind. A few rebel against the constraints.
Let us meet the father of an out spoken kid. The kid has now become a professional.

It is time for the father to ask for some little help – downloading, posting, a repair or such things. The ever polite young man, reasons out when he could do them or why he could not do them.

A temporary difference of might begin and end quickly. Each side conceding, some ground. The son might find a little time to do the works or the father himself might work out alternatives.

Next, let us meet the father of a squirrel minded kid. He is a young man and has his own share of troubles - adjusting with job environment.

His father had to ask for a little assistance; e-Payments, booking /cancelling of journey tickets or such similar things – while out of station. The cell phone call from his father, inadvertently, triggers an avalanche of anger.

The stored resentments try to surface and using little harsher words, he says, “I have no time for such things and pray tell me, why I am being disturbed. I have enough work on hand and worries in the mind, will you leave me alone?”

After this exchange of words, both of them maintain silence & distance for some time and wait for the ice to thaw out, slowly. The son tries to fit in a little time to extend help or the father himself tries to complete such jobs- with the help of friends.

Finally it is time for us to meet the father of an impish minded kid. This man had shrunk his psyche, becoming sensitive, over even small issues - a closed loop of stimuli & response. He had started living in a world of his own, intolerance masking his short comings.

This professional is in the habit of getting in to some controversy or other, with his colleagues & work, day in and day out. He has failed to let go the childhood attitude of “why should I?

This attitude isolated him from forming friendships and becoming irascible.

Once, his father just asked him why he cannot share some his daily chores, in the house. This casual remark of his father only aided the pressure on the suppressed resentments, to shoot up. The volcano simply erupted, spewing rage on his parents, particularly on the father.

After waiting for the outburst to subside, the father said, “Look, we all have problems. If you were in my shoes, you would readily understand the way I still struggle to keep us all going”

Haughty that he was, the son raised his voice and said, “The same thing goes here also. To understand my difficulties, try wearing my shoes instead. You will not even last a day, in my environment”

This smouldering anger stung the father. He quietly withdrew from the scene of conflict and sat thinking for a while. The son left home for a walk in the park, to cool down.

The son stopped talking to his father and avoided being present in the same place at the same time. Wondering what he had done, the father tried to put up with this indifference. Hurt and remorse playing spoil sport.

A week after the incident, the son asked his mother, “Did you see my pair of shoes? They are not to be seen where I left them last” The mother, not liking son’s disrespectful behaviour, remained silent.

A few hours later, the father showed his wife the two pairs of new shoes he had purchased and said, “He was right; his shoes are hard and hurts. So I decided to buy shoes for both of us”

His wife stood, rooted, with a faraway look for some time and finally said, “Like father, like son! Don’t drag me in to mediate. Both of you sit together and try to clear the mess”

The impasse continued and the uneasy calm around them made the Father and son to understand the true import of the phrase “step in to my shoes”.

According to the last available indications, they are still trying to reach out to each other – holding olive branches and cactus plants.
Why only sons? Why not daughters?

Oh yeah, if you can step in to her shoes, why not?