A CONGREGATION OF COUSINS IN A BYGONE ERA!

     Perhaps the field was fairly new even when when I was nearly ten! Today I’m nearer to seven times ten and it’s nothing like it was way back then…

     I reminisce about when we cousins numbering a couple of dozen used to descend for summer holidays to roam free at our grandparents’ home at Bangalore. We were among the 64 progeny of the seventeen siblings who grew up in the gracious old bungalow! Enjoying the aftermath of the April showers, a major delight was slipping through single file or vaulting over the turnstile that separated Oorgaum House, popularly known as OH, the sprawling 2 acre property of the P.G. D’Souzas, into New Field, owned by the Jesuit Religious Congregation, founders of The St. Joseph’s Indian Educational Institutions.

    Grouping agewise perhaps, we’d eagerly engage in the chatter of youngsters or teasing that ended in occasional scraps and fights. Ducking one another in the stream I remember as part of the routine; so too the tosses and bruises surely for the more adventurous.

   With Cork trees and Kirk trees lining the edge of the field alongside an open drain, the delicate white blooms the Cork trees shed, were ideal to twine into garlands. The tangy fruit of the Kirk trees was unique, entailing some endeavour with pods to be peeled and pinkish hued tongue coating skins deseeded, before devouring! Another thrill was to sail the empty shells (resembling boats) that dropped from the silk cotton trees. Silk cotton was a major ingredient used to fill pillows those times. I recollect that post a rainshower, we’d chase the tadpoles that slithered about the drain in copious numbers. Quite easy to trap in our hankies, but extremely challenging to manipulate the entire catch into Gran’s old jam bottles first filled with drain water.

         When tired of New Field, our cousinly camaraderie continued within the ancestral home compound. Tapping rubber from the rubber tree, winding and wrapping the liquid over a stone, then exulting if an irregular shaped grimy ball actually bounced was a competitive experience! Mingling with the poultry, the cows and goats, running away from vicious geese and ‘gobbledy’ turkeys, following ‘Cow’ John, the attender of these delightful specimens was a favourite pastime. Lunch time and it was a rush for ‘home made’ buttermilk at the hands of Mary aunty who’d be churning’ it in a mud pot with a ladle secured with ropes; frothy, fresh and cool to dish out to  thirsty kids. Thereafter it was off to Gran’s kitchen to observe her work with an iron blower at the old wood fire, at which we’d all try to have a ‘go’, raking up more ashes into the food being cooked, than flames! How we presumed on her immense patience with us...

     Tea time was treat time with a baker turning up on the doorstep furiously ringing his bicycle bell to announce his arrival with freshly baked bread, buns and delights like butter biscuits, cream horns, Japanese cakes and butter beans packed neatly into a trunk fitted on the carrier. Naturally with our numbers the entire load would be sold out at OH and consumed in a jiffy!

    Bathing at dusk was a unique experience too with a ‘bhan’ or iron pot built into the wall of the bathroom, half within and half without, stoked with firewood by the attender without, and containing steaming hot water exuding an aroma that is irreplaceable today. This itself before dinner and bedtime would ensure a sleep of the babes! At times we’d be blown out of our wits though with the croak of a frog keeping us company.

     ‘The family that prays together stays together’ was an adage strictly followed at the ancestral home and daily the clan would gather for the family rosary led by Gran and the elders, prior to suppertime and maybe a ‘singsong’ around the piano, before we all spread out to sleep; many opting for mattresses on the floor of the large hall to carry on the ‘lights off’ chitchats with best cousins, ghost stories and fool around a bit more till a happy dreamland claimed us…

THUNDERING TAMARIND!

Thunderstorms and thundershowers are traditional this time of year, but we’ve touched mid April without sign of either. What instead has been thundering with a vengeance over and around the area about my residence, are pods of tamarind, introducing me to my first experience of such a phenomenon, as I’ve never having lived in such proximity to a tamarind tree before.

Aged over a hundred perhaps, this tree towers protectively in majesty over my cottage situated within the compound of a Senior Citizens Home at Bengaluru. Branches spread across my roof and that of my twin cottage to the left, providing shade and placidity in the yard by the side, while the trunk offers companionship to my scores of plants that lie in the bed and the pots that surround it.

Entirely through February and March, tamarind thundered onto my roof like it was pouring rain cum pelting hail stones, such was the decibel levels of thuds, at times shaking me with a scare. The tamarind ‘fall’ is indeed interesting in the manner of its universal appeal. I’ve never seen how magnetically people from varying walks of life pursue it with the innocence of a childhood memory never forgotten. Nonagenarians resident here scoop it up with the same glint in their eye and saliva on their tongue, as do freshers to the taste. And not to forget the ‘tween decade types who cannot resist peeling off of the crisp shell that reveals the alluring splendor of the sour green or the sweet tangy ‘chenk’  tamarind depending how far into the season they’ve stumbled on the loot.

Mid April, the produce was sold to a veteran Muslim tamarind dealer, obviously an expert at the art of stripping the tree bare of every pod, who involved his family in sorting, cleaning and packing the booty into sacks. He and a helper scrambled up the tree and onto my roof, detached the bounty with long poles attached to which were curved knives, then descended to dart between my precious house plants to pick out the dropped fruit from among stems and leaves, while I kept ‘cavey’ with heart in mouth , my arthritic legs not able to keep pace with their agility, nor my eyes capable of following their offspring appear here there and everywhere viz. at my windows, doors, my portico full of collector’s odds’n’ends, with their sundry requests for a broom, a stool and what have you, to enable their endeavours.

They spent the day sorting tamarind pods after the picking. I came out to chat awhile through the processes, requested some photo ops and gave the young granddaughter a chance to click some pics, thrilling her to bits. Heartening to know the young girl was in school, assisting only on holidays.

Folks like these work in tandem, similar to a conveyor belt, but with such an admirable human dimension. I observed no arguments, no irritability. If any, it surfaced occasionally from my side. Kudos to our labourers who search for their daily bread, yet have no grumbles.

Our tamarind tree has since fallen silent, bare of its fruit till the next year, its abundance of delicate leaves having also withered and blown away in the dry summer heat.

In their place thankfully, a fresh new burst of life has emerged in the light green leaves sprouting this season!

BANDH GALA VS. GALA BANDH!

      

How world famous India has become for both of these colloquial usages! One brings us fame, the other shame…

 The sartorial elegance and grandeur of the former stands out most when a group of world leaders gather for a photo-op, whether worn on the diminutive frame of Lal Bahadur Shastri or the broad chest of Narendra Modi, a tall turbanned Manmohan Singh or a sharp featured Jawaharlal Nehru who inserted a red rose within a buttonhole for greater glamour. In a sleeveless avatar it has come to be termed the ‘Nehru Jacket’ and popularly used in the current era by TV anchors, politicians, the aam aadmi and aurat from villages right upto high society haute couture types, who may need to satisfy casual warmth or a look of swank. This ubiquitous attire is created from materials ranging from khadi to elegant silk, carrying with it a touch of comfort cum class. The fashion is lasting mind you; long after the Panditji’s time…

Notorious on the other hand, sad to say, are the bandhs that are now grabbing galore not only universal attention, but importantly, India’s daily abilities to learn and earn across the country, while they afford a gala time to ‘goondas’ who’ve no better occupation than to destroy, loot and intimidate anyone who defies their mandate from the leaders of these agitations. Never mind that these persons who roam free and rule the street on ‘bandh’ days, most often  do not have the faintest notion what their cause is all about.

For me who lives in Bengaluru, hailed as Silicon Valley of our nation, It is distressing that two Fridays in a row recently, our renowned city had come to a standstill on account of protests for matters that cannot be resolved by bringing the day’s activities to a ‘bandh’! Later it was literally on fire when all hell and hooliganism broke loose regarding the Supreme Court order on the Cauvery water sharing issue. Absoutely no way can this be tolerated, I say! While the authorities proclaim likewise, they don’t seem to overtly contain the situation except make some pathetic overtures of enforcement of law and order which time after time does not work. So much so, those who’ve braved out such occasions before by keeping their establishments open, only to be hit hard by ire of protestors, loss of property, stocks in trade etc. have now just decided to quit the fight, lose a day’s livelihood instead and stay off the streets and shun risk. Never mind that additionallly, poverty forces  lakhs of our folk to eke out an existence by living as street vendors or daily wage workers and bandhs cause them to starve even more, but who cares about them. No one, no way...

Seems both bandh galas for better and gala bandhs for worse are here to stay!

EXCHANGE BUCKET CHALLENGE!

“Amma, Amma, aiyo, aiyo, my money is worthless! I was looking from the kitchen while you were watching the news on TV and I could understand what that PM saar was telling. What Amma, from midnight our Rs.500 and Rs.1000 notes will not be accepted anymore? Amma, what to do? I have been keeping only these big notes in my cupboard to make one nice Fixed Deposit soon. You know this is my practice. You told I must save. I like to do it my way. To collect the cash for many months, and then keep in one Fixed Deposit Receipt Amma. Before that I like to count my money every time Amma. I like the touch. Then only I feel some safety!”

Restoring my veteran care giver elderly housekeeper’s peace and tranquility was a herculean task as I had to explain to her the whole reason behind the diktat, assuring her money was still legal tender, could be exchanged or could be deposited just as she’d planned earlier. However it was hard to assuage her anxiety and persuade her to avoid rushing to the Bank the following day. Somehow I convinced her to wait instead for at least a fortnight for the situation to settle, and then solve her own issues tranquilly when the staff would recover from the onslaught, find sufficient time to deal with her needs, hopefully having recouped their depleted energy and equanimity from the inevitable stress and demands they would have faced through the exchange exercise.

I can share that my heart slipped many beats too and landed me in a panicky state when I heard the declaration. This, due to being aged and disabled having accumulated as a ‘security blanket’ to expend on exigencies, some considerable higher denomination ‘moolah’ myself;  as also taking into account that I am a ‘once a month’ user of bank service, a non user of plastic cards and significantly because the Bank has long ago stopped dispensing smaller denomination currency notes. Thoughts as to how to tackle the situation plagued me immediately, owing to my circumstances of lack of both ability and mobility, as I knew there was no fear ahead but only a looming logistics jam to face, which would entail many trips to the bank owing to the limit imposed on withdrawals and exchanges per day.  Problematic for people in my plight as with the daily wage earners and poor uneducated non bank account holders that are countless lakhs…

However what cannot be cured for those who are law abiding, must be endured for the sake of ridding our economy of black money deviously disappeared or bundled up galore in places and spaces we’d never imagine existed! I hail the move if it all tumbles out as expected. Trust our own efforts made at great inconvenience to our bankers and to ourselves, to get our bits and pieces replaced with ‘crisp’ replacements go not in vain as we comply with the Prime Minister’s Exchange Bucket Challenge  aka black money eradication surgical strike… 

DATELINE DENTURE!

      I’ve reached this venerable or is it vulnerable age, when I’ve had to come to terms with the fact of decaying teeth! Therefore this necessitated me trotting off to my dentist and accepting her advice that I can no longer hide behind the myth of managing mastication of old age culinary fancies with decayed stumps of grinders which were sadly beyond recourse of saving. Hence it was the only option to have them extracted while there was still some visible protrusion, so as to avoid intrusion like gum cutting, and thereafter settle for a denture to replace six uppers, four on the left and two on the right! Thankfully the remaining teeth are my own, though needless to say, some are capped.

     It’s not that I’m an octogenarian or even septuagenarian yet, the age bracket of folks with whom I always associated dentures. I’m a mere sixty six or ‘clickety-click’, to use ‘Housie’ parlance! Now even more, I figured, after acquiring my new dental device.  I was under the impression it would be just that; a misfit in my mouth which a close friend reminds me, never remains closed and goes ‘yakety yak’ with garrulous advancing age. My fears thankfully were allayed I must admit, as the denture is light and easy and a perfect fit. Vastly different to the clumsy set my dad used to term  his ‘take out teeth’, shoving them in and out of his mouth with alacrity, almost akin to a party prop on special celebratory family occasions, with a view to amuse his grandchildren!  Bless you dad for managing uncomplainingly half a century ago as my denture contrastingly, is comfortable to wear, has not interfered with ‘That Certain Smile’ and poses no problem when I eat, nor affects the taste of food. At times though, I must admit if I try to eat and converse simultaneously I do feel a sense of choking. Older, more seasoned denture adventurers reassure me that it is nothing more than a fear or phobia that I’ll overcome with regular use of the appliance.

    Interestingly, one hurdle I faced while dear dental doc with her genteel and gentle manner was demonstrating to me the technique of insertion which I accomplished with aplomb, was surprisingly, the challenge of removal of the prosthetic. This proved to be my bugbear. Being arthritic, with deformed fingers that are miserably incapable, totally lacking in strength and restricted to use of my right hand alone which fortunately reaches up to my mouth, but not able to seek support of my left as it is incapable of stretching similarly, owing to restrained elbow and shoulder joint mobility, I was trying to coax her to let me ease out the denture with the obtuse rear end of a tweezer. She considered this the weirdest suggestion ever, but I convinced her it would work without damaging either my gum or the denture. Eureka, it did!

     We Persons with Disability (PWDs) are innovative, especially in India, forced sometimes as we are into unforeseen situations requiring ways and means of quick thinking to grapple with  challenging circumstances that confront us, and many a time to even to seek out solutions to tough subjective daily requirements of living, with a view as well to have these heeded.

Glad to mention anyway, that within a few days of use and trial to extract the denture with my single finger, albeit awkwardly, I’ve mastered the art and mustered the necessary strength; hence discarded the tweezer…

     In the final analysis I’d like to advise that daily dental care is preferable to a situation of dealing with dentures. Dental treatment is relatively pain free compared to the past, is sophisticated and implants are available today for lost teeth, but entail time consuming dental sittings and pinch the pocket. Truly, there is nothing like preserving original teeth perhaps for an entire life span. Regular care and check ups are the answer! I’ve been careless, and now in old age I cringe that it’s an absolute must to take double trouble over denture protocol and care.  Dear Readers, please don’t lose your teeth to a slothful attitude…

LOGANATHAN, LADY LUCK & ME!

LOGANATHAN, LADY LUCK AND ME

     It was off to the bank as usual one morning a couple of decades ago. On the way I was preoccupied with thoughts of the ensuing half yearly closing, and deposit targets not yet reached.  The shortfall was Rs.10 lakh and I was wondering where on earth I could tap this amount.  Being the Manager of a prestigious branch in Bangalore, my superiors presumed that money simply flowed in at my command. But that wasn’t the way it worked.  Even my efforts with the regulars who helped me at this time every half year were unsuccessful.  They pleaded lack of surplus funds owing to a ‘tight situation’ year.

     I was a worried person when I entered my cabin, and not in the best of moods. To crown it all, I found Mr.Loganathan there.  He was a small borrower, always with a despondent face and even more so when he came to request a temporary overdraft. I suspected this was the case today and wasn’t up to tackling his problem as well as mine. “Why couldn’t he be a well-heeled depositor instead?”,I thought to myself in irritation.  But I managed to muster up enough politeness and asked what I could do for him.

     Mr.Loganathan waved a lottery ticket at me.  Irritation turned to anger as I imagined that he now wanted to use our finances to gamble. And then - this man who seldom smiled and never looked me in the eye when making his financial requests, excitedly shoved a newspaper under my nose.  He pointed to the results of the Karnataka State Lottery – the bumper prize number in particular, and set down his ticket next to it.  He was mumbling in a state of shock that he had WON, yes WON! WON! WON! - Rs. 22 lakh!, and could he please deposit the amount with our branch. COULD HE???!!  I couldn’t believe it!  I would have hugged the man, but restrained myself, knowing he would squirm with embarrassment, and I didn’t want any rival bank manager getting hold of him.  So, calming down, I bundled him into my car and drove him to Vidhana Veedhi.  We didn’t budge till the ‘powers that be’ finally decided that Mr.L was the authentic winner and issued him the prize cheque.  Needless to say, both of us went laughing all the way back to the bank!

      I got my reward too, for surpassing my target – the Best Managed branch in Karnataka Region.

(Jacqueline Colaco is a former executive of Bank of Baroda).

MY MINISTERING ANGEL!

MY MINISTERING ANGEL

By Jacqueline Colaco

     If ever there was one, this is she – Mini Jacob!  With her gentle persuasion and her winning smile, Mini is able to coax the most reluctant muscle or joint (read: stubborn patient!) into greater mobility.

Sensitive, but strict!  No lame excuses hold water with her.  The ‘I can’t’ syndrome does not work either.  Her ready repartee smashes all verbal attempts to escape. Like when I say, “I am too old now – leave me alone” she retorts, “But life only begins after 40!”  She works on every stiff and aching joint of mine (rheumatoid arthritis).  Be it fingers or toes, her skilful manipulations make them dance.  A few tweaks (from her) and shrieks (from me) won’t harm, says she.  Be it knees or hips, the quads and hamstrings must perform.

    “How else will you walk properly?” she asks me.

    “But I’m disabled” I tell her, “I don’t need to walk like Miss World!”

    “No,” she comes down heavily on me, “you are not disabled and yes, you can, so practice getting rid of that limp.” And she shows me how I should walk.  And then she takes me walking up the stairs. “Hips forward, back erect. Look up.” And once I’m up, it’s time to walk down.  She stands on the landing below – patient as ever, while I dither in making a descent.

     “No, don’t look at me.” “But you’re so pretty,” I demur, trying to delay that first plunging step.    She pretends not to hear.

     “Look forward, bend your knee and just step down,” - (sternly now) - “you can do it.”  As if it is the easiest thing in the world.  And then – a spark of ego inside me dictates that I should accept her challenge.  My eyes sparkle with defiance and I try to do my best.  She has me hooked.  It’s not so difficult after all, I find.  And she nods in approval.  I feel so great that at last she’s satisfied with my performance. This was the result of our hard work together, day in and day out. I know from the look on her face that it hurts her as much to hurt me, but she does it for my good. 

    When people tell me: “You are walking so well now”, I say a silent prayer of thanks to this ministering angel – my physiotherapist, my psychotherapist, my friend.

_*_*_*_

(2012 - When Mini suffered from breast cancer a couple of years ago I was able to reach out to her in support. She is now well again.)