They paved paradise and put up a parking lot / And a big yellow taxi took away my old man. Joni Mitchell.

No one hails a taxi anymore. Shades of coming out of a cinema or concert hall, standing on the edge of a pavement and waving your hand frantically yelling ‘Taxi’ as another one whizzes past without bothering to stop. Those days are gone. Maybe the yellow cabs are still plying in good, old Calcutta, where I used to semaphore at taxi cabs frequently with little success. Calcutta takes its own time coming to grips with the dial-a-cab online generation and bully for it, say I. What you see in many cities, for the most part, is people milling around street corners, glued to their mobile phones, trying to call up one of a myriad number of cab hire services, whose vehicles are moving along at a leisurely pace or parked somewhere in the vicinity. You can even track them squiggling along on your mobile GPS. When the vehicle does arrive somewhere close, you and a dozen others rush to peer at the number plate to see if it is the cab you had booked. It can get quite frantic.

Nevertheless, once you are safely and comfortably ensconced in the back seat, or in the front if other members of the family are bringing up the rear, you can begin to strike up a conversation with the driver. As a rule, most drivers are not averse to a spot of chit-chat, particularly if the drive promises to be long with plenty of traffic jams along the way. Some of the drivers can be painfully garrulous. There are some drivers who are reticent and prefer to keep their own counsel. Which is fine so long as they are well-versed in the local topography, possess more than a rudimentary idea of where the short cuts are, not to mention the uncanny ability to avoid most of the one-way thoroughfares.

Incidentally, you want to be wary of the silent, brooding type of driver, probably nursing a secret grudge or sorrow. It could be the onset of manic depression. If you are still not with me, watch Robert de Niro in Taxi Driver on OTT. Spoiler alert: it is not for the faint hearted.

Then comes the interesting but not insurmountable challenge of which language to employ while conversing with the driver. If you take cities like, Delhi, Chennai or Calcutta, you can be reasonably sure that Hindi, Tamil or Bengali respectively will be the preferred tongue of choice though most of them can speak at least one other language. In Bangalore, where I live, a linguistic melting pot where people from all over the country converge looking for employment, the name of the driver alone does not definitively signify his mother tongue. A Venkat or a Raju can hail from any of the four (now five) southern states. Ditto a Joseph, a Karim or a Bashir. They could all be migrant itinerants from anywhere in a country like India where the peripatetic job-seeker is the rule rather than the exception.

A cheerful driver enlivens the drive and keeps you in good spirits. While such a one is unfailingly polite, he will not fight shy of letting his window down and discharging a volley of colourful oaths if a neighbouring car or two-wheeler attempted to cut across dangerously in front of him. Having got the invective in the chosen vernacular off his chest, he will roll up his window and profusely apologise for his intemperate language, particularly if there are ladies present in the car. ‘Sorry Sir, Madam, but that fellow was breaking traffic rules and might have caused an accident. This is the only language these fellows understand.’ The fact that we did not catch the return volley of abuse from his target was just as well. It is a well-founded truism that when it comes to road rage, the other fellow is always at fault.

Allow me to get a quick word in on car horns. I doubt if there is another country in the world where horns are employed so persistently and indiscriminately as in our own motherland. Most drivers have one palm semi-permanently placed on the horn. The resultant din is calculated to break all sound barrier laws, which in any case are observed strictly in the breach. For crying out loud, what do our drivers hope to achieve by blaring away at a large family of bovine creatures dreamily chewing cud and blocking the road? This is Bharat. Learn to live with it.

Matters don’t always have to be tense. On one occasion, I got talking cricket with one of my drivers. Always a safe subject to open a conversation with just about anyone in India, cabbies being no exception. ‘Tell me Raju (or it might have been Bashir), you must be a T20 fan. I am sure you have no time for the long-format, Test matches.’ Bashir (or Joseph) surprised me with his prompt response. ‘Sir, this T20 is masala cricket, just hitting every ball for six or four. No skill involved. I pity the bowlers who get to bowl only four overs and get slammed all over the park. Give me Test cricket any day. Five days of thinking, strategizing, two innings and the winner would have truly deserved it. Even a draw can be very exciting at times. Test match for me, Sir.’ I am, of course, translating and paraphrasing Venkat’s (or Karim’s) views loosely, but his mature and sophisticated take on the game took me by surprise. I felt abashed at thinking the less of him.

If it is election time, which is pretty much all the year round in India, who better than the all-knowing taxi driver to give us his seat-of-the-pants prediction on the likely results. With his uncanny pulse on current affairs, his predictions are usually right on the money! I will take his word against any jumped-up television psephologist.

Some drivers have the annoying habit of keeping the car’s music system on while driving, without so much as a by your leave. Whether the passenger is interested in the latest hits from Bollywood, Tollywood or Kollywood is of scant concern to them. One feels awkward to request them to shut the damn thing off, but needs must. You fish out your mobile and dial no one in particular, but it is enough of a broad hint to instruct the driver to stop Lata Mangeshkar’s high-pitched soprano or Kishore Kumar’s yodelling in mid-stride. After that, the driver himself is hesitant to turn the music on and you can then sit back in peace. One feels sorry to have to deprive the poor chap of his small joys, but there is a time for Lata or Kishore. A passenger at the back wrestling with his thoughts is not the right time.

Then your driver gets a call from home. He has to take it. He plugs in his ear piece. He looks at his passenger apologetically to indicate it’s his wife and he can cut the call only at his own peril. The next five or six minutes go by in listening to his better half and being at pains to explain to the apple of his eye that he cannot pick up the kids from school nor can he pick up the chicken biryani on the way home and could she rustle up something in the kitchen. At which point he removes the ear piece and holds it well away from his left ear as the good wife’s screams can be heard loud and clear. One’s heart goes out to the poor chap.

Oftentimes you call for the same driver multiple times because you have got to know him and he is familiar with all your usual haunts. GPS not required. At a pinch, he will even take your pet pooch out for walkies. By now the driver is almost a friend, if not quite a bosom pal and you encourage this association, unaware of a looming threat. Finally, it happens. He touches you for a not insubstantial loan. Sob story coming up. His father is going in for a bypass surgery. Tears well up in his eyes. He has managed to mop up most of the money but is short of 25k. By now you are choking up as well for your dear taxi driver friend and proceed to cough up the dough. He thanks you brokenly and promises the loan will be repaid with interest inside three months. You wave your hand grandly and waive the interest. You feel good about yourself for having done a noble deed. Dear reader, you know how this story ends. It ends badly. No sign of the blighter thereafter. Does not respond to your calls, probably changed his sim card. Bye, bye, 25k. Bypass surgery, eh? Pull the other one. Ah well, as P.T. Barnum famously said, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute.’

Shakespeare, through his character Polonius in Hamlet, has this to say about treating friends: Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried / Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel. If Shakespeare had been aware of them during his time, he would have made an exception and drawn the line at taxi drivers. Not all taxi drivers are devious, I grant you, but some of them are. If you are not on your guard, they can take you for a ride.

An allegory

It has been widely rumoured that the two chief honchos who carry the enormous burden of running one of our country’s most important and prosperous states, let us dub them Number 1 and Number 2, have had differences to iron out and scores to settle. As a common citizen, I am not privy to the precise nature of this alleged contretemps, though Chinese whispers suggest that it has something to do with an unwritten, unverified understanding that Number 1 will graciously make way for Number 2 to acquire the numero uno slot during their term of office. Being Chinese in origin, the veracity of the whispers will bear close scrutiny. That said, the present incumbent of the Number 1 chair has made it plain he has no intention of vacating it for the benefit of Number 2. Wild horses will not shake his resolve and unseat him. His seat is coated with Araldite. Is Number 2 sulking? The photos in the newspapers suggest that his smile is somewhat strained, but he insists we should not read too much into it.

On persistent questioning by the inquisitive and intrusive media, each of the two Big Chiefs has repeatedly said that it is the coterie at the High Command that they will answer to and on their instructions alone will movement, if any, take place. All this while proclaiming undying fealty to their party. Persistent gossip that one or the other of the two is imminently catching a flight to the country’s Capital have thus far proved infructuous. Of course, it is entirely possible that the notoriously inclement weather at this time of the year around the environs of the Capital has made flying at short notice a hazardous proposition, particularly if Indigo was the carrier of choice. The all-knowing media reckons that that explanation is somewhat facile and that there is more to this imbroglio than meets the eye. It must be added that the high-profile visit of the Russian President to New Delhi could have been a further dampener to lesser mortals flying into the capital to address their own agendas.

Meanwhile, the august members of the High Command have expressed their wish that the two chief protagonists running this critical state should sit down and sort out their own issues and not attempt to run to Mummy and her brood at every turn with a request to pour oil over troubled waters. If indeed the waters are troubled requiring the injection of some elbow grease. Mummy can do without cry-babies. She has problems of her own to grapple with when leaders with genuine ability are thin on the ground. We ordinary citizens are in the dark on this matter, relying entirely on unreliable media sources for enlightenment.

Subsequently, it has come to light that Number 1 and Number 2 have decided to have a series of breakfast meetings to iron out their differences, discuss weighty matters of state in pitiless detail and not put undue pressure on their bosses to intervene. This could also effectively squash any creeping aspirations of sundry, wannabe bit players, waiting in the wings to try and step in and usurp power when the Captain and Vice-Captain have taken their collective eye off the ball. One can never be too careful in politics, what with all manner of inquiries swirling round their heads.

These breakfast tête-à-têtes have consequently assumed immense importance and the much-reviled media, the chattering classes and the general populace are waiting with bated breath. Shades of historical international summits such as the Yalta Conference in 1945 starring Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin to put the kybosh on Hitler’s ambitions for world domination. They too must have had quite a few hearty breakfasts, not to mention long, liquid lunches and dinners. The lavish conference halls at this beautiful Crimean resort were, doubtless, redolent of Romeo y Julieta and Trichinopoly cigars, to say nothing of the finest cognac money can buy.

Anyhow, not to put too fine a point on it, our very own Number 1 and Number 2, more modestly inclined, agreed that desi breakfast was the way to go, and let Delhi or the devil take the hindmost. As these meetings were to be held in the strictest confidence, no one was allowed to be present in the dining hall of either of the two leaders, during the petit-déjeuners, barring the statutory photo-ops for the media. Lensmen had their fill of the VIPs drooling over the impending repast and had to scram immediately thereafter, leaving the leaders to tuck in. Taking no chances, stone-deaf waiters  were recruited to attend to the gastronomical needs of the leaders. A cunning, fool-proof plan.

One therefore had little choice but to rely on our old friend Fred the Fly, sitting unobtrusively on the table, largely unnoticed, pricking up his ears and picking up on the conversation. An added bonus for our household fly (Musca domestica) was that every now and then he could alight on one of the toothsome dishes and partake to his little heart’s desire. If he is swatted away, he could land on the broad shoulders of one of the two main heroes at the table. Fred attended as many as four such breakfast summits and finally shared his findings with the media. The details may be somewhat sketchy, but finally, we had our very own Deep Throat – Fred the Fly.

The local daily correspondent opened proceedings. ‘Fred, can you tell us how the meeting went?’

Fred smacked his lips, fluttered his little wings and said, ‘It went swell. It started with a plate of steaming idlis, accompanied by coconut chutney and piping hot, onion sambar.’

A stringer piped in. ‘That’s great Fred, but what did they actually say to each other?’

Fred leaned back on his black wings. ‘As this meal was at Number 2’s residence, Number 1 was gracious. He praised his colleague for keeping a good table. Adding that the idlis were really soft and fluffy but the sambar could have done with a bit more salt.’

‘And what happened next, Fred? I have to file this important story in an hour’s time. Please spill the beans.’

‘Ah, beans rings a bell,’ cut in Fred. ‘The beans poriyal, an unusual item for breakfast, went down a treat. It paired well with the next item on the menu, the rava masala dosa. Yum, yum. I was really buzzing.’

A young lady from one of the leading TV channels was getting impatient. ‘That is great to know Fred, but really, what did Number 1 say to Number 2 about vacating his seat?’

‘There was no question of vacating seats. Both of them were perfectly happy sitting where they were, expectantly waiting for the piece de resistance, the native country chicken dish, Nati Koli, though No.1 did mutter something about the leg-piece being a bit tough. Boy, did they attack that with gusto! I managed to find a greasy morsel on No.2’s hand-woven gamcha. Lip-smacking!’

An elderly correspondent from a leading local daily was beside himself. ‘Arre Freddie, are you going to give us some real news or what? All you have managed is to whet my appetite. At least, ask them to share some of the breakfast. We are famished.’

Fred smiled. ‘Don’t be so impatient, Sir. I haven’t even started on the dessert. Kesari halwa, with some outstanding Mysore filter coffee to die for, served in silver tumblers, to wash it all down. These things take time, Sir. As for sharing some breakfast with you lot, let me see if there are any leftovers.’

At this point, the press meet broke up, feeling badly let down, while Fred the Fly winged his way back to the dining room to attack the remains of the day. The two leaders had left to attend to matters of state after this hearty feast. Whether there was a feast of reason and flow of soul, we are not in the know. In the distance, Fred the Fly could distinctly hear the satisfied belches of the two leaders.

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I quite enjoy picking up a conversation with complete strangers. This could happen just about anywhere. Mind you, not every stranger you broach is likely to return the compliment, but you press on regardless. If your target, if that is the word I want, is reticent you take the hint and try your luck elsewhere. If you don’t take the hint and pursue, on your head be it. The waiting room at a doctor’s or a dentist’s chamber is usually an excellent place to get fraternal. A typical scenario can go something like this.

The man sitting next to me was absorbed in a paperback. I peered at the cover and took first strike.

‘Good morning, nice book you’re reading. P.D. James. Big fan. Big, big fan. One of my favourite fictional detectives, Adam Dalgliesh.’ That was a good opening, I thought.

‘Yes, I am reading it, and would like to continue reading it without being interrupted. If you don’t mind.’ I thought I detected an incipient frost in the gentleman’s response. Rather than reading the signal, I persisted.

‘The Black Tower, eh? One of her best and that is saying something. I shan’t spoil it for you and reveal the ending. This much I can tell you. It was not the butler that did it.’ I smiled broadly at my own, time-worn cliché. I was just trying to be convivial. He didn’t see the funny side of it. He got up and pointedly moved to another seat at the far end of the room. I raised my voice and called after him.

‘You must watch the television serial. Roy Marsden is brilliant as Dalgliesh.’ The duty nurse walked up to me and asked me to remain silent. I tried telling her that I was just working off my nervousness, what with the doctor’s consult to discuss the worrying swelling in my throat and trying to be friendly. She repeated her instruction, curtly this time, to keep quiet and not further aggravate my throat condition. I told her to watch Tony Hancock in The Blood Donor. She handed me a very old, dog-eared issue of India Today lying on the table. The cover story was ‘Finance Minister Manmohan Singh presents the Budget.’ That was how old it was!

Another place where you wait for long periods is at the airport departure lounge. Pretty much every single person is fiddling with his or her mobile phone. Even those reading a book are doing so out of their mobile Kindle app. Others are keeping themselves busy watching Tik Tok or taking selfies of themselves and posting the results on Facebook or Instagram. ‘Hi Mom, flight slightly delayed but we should be boarding soon. Love you.’ Accompanied by several red hearts. Mind you, the message could also easily be, ‘Hi Mom, biting into this gooey chocolate doughnut, yum-yum. Love you.’ Accompanied by more red hearts and other indistinguishable emoticons, smileys, memes etc. Such is the intellectual pressure of these video cons that one can barely keep up. On one such occasion, I turned to a teenage girl sitting next to me and asked her how many hours in a day does she spend on her mobile.

‘I am not sure Uncle, let me see.’ She then closed her eyes and went mutter, mutter to herself, presumably calculating her daily routine and declared brightly, ‘If you take out the ten hours of sleep, I could be on the mobile for at least nine hours daily.’

‘Good God, you sleep for ten hours? What about waking up for school or college? Have you heard of Kumbhakarna from the Ramayana? No, of course not. It would have been epic if you had! Go ask Google Gemini.’ My sarcasm escaped her completely.

 ‘Anyhow, you will have to switch off your mobile once we are airborne,’ I concluded with a wry chuckle.

She was equal to it. ‘Uncle, I don’t crash before one in the morning, so I need my beauty sleep, never mind your Kumba whoever he is or was. I am done with college and I work from home, mostly networking. As for being airborne, I will turn my mobile on to flight mode and binge watch Friends. For the nth time. So, it’s all cool.’ She spoke at such a rapid-fire speed that I could have done with subtitles! At which point, I turned on my mobile to check my email and WhatsApp messages. And browse a bit on YouTube. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Incidentally, I felt her employment of the word ‘crash,’ even as a shorthand for ‘sleep’ was unfortunate, seeing as we were about to take off shortly!

Then we have a situation where an almost unknown person at a departmental store approaches you with an uncertain smile. Too late to duck, followed by that old, familiar line. ‘Haven’t we met before?’

‘No, I don’t think so. You must be confusing me with someone else. Sorry, must rush.’ Of course, I knew the blighter. Met him last several years ago somewhere and had no wish to renew acquaintance. A real pain, he tried to interest me in some financial instruments for investment. Eminently avoidable. I then tried to push my trolley past him to reach for a brand of salad dressing, but he wasn’t having any. Stood right in front and wouldn’t budge.

He was persistent, I’ll give him that. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we meet at the coffee shop after you’ve finished here. You will not believe the kind of schemes I have to offer. What say you?’ I was sure it was some Ponzi scheme or the other calculated to erode my meagre savings dramatically while increasing his. Scheming would be a good epithet to describe him.

‘Some other time, if you don’t mind. I have guests coming for dinner and the cook can’t wait. Bye bye.’ Just then, fortuitously, he had to attend to his mobile and I made good my escape to the billing counter. As fast as my legs and my trolley would take me.

The one person you want to avoid at all costs, but almost impossible to shake off is the bore who will talk endlessly regardless of how many times you pointedly glance at your watch anxiously or try to catch the attention of an imaginary friend somewhere in the middle distance. The bore is made of sterner stuff. Not for nothing did Oscar Wilde define this pestilential nuisance thus, ‘A bore is someone who deprives you of solitude without providing you with company.’ You can come across such a person almost anywhere. I was sitting next to a young man at my bank waiting for the teller to call my token number. It was a long queue so we struck up a conversation, mostly one-way traffic. I took first strike.

‘Hullo young man, how often do you visit the bank?’ A harmless way to open a civil conversation, you would have thought.

‘What is it to you, old man?’ riposted the cheeky, young thing, removing his iPhone earpiece.

The ‘old man’ nomenclature stung, but I did not let it show. ‘Distinguished grey hair’ is greatly overrated. ‘Nothing, just making friendly conversation, but if you are not in the mood…’

He cut me in mid-sentence. ‘Purleez Uncle, don’t be such a bore. Can’t you see I am on a group chat?’

That was it. I had had my fill of this brat. I could have told him civility costs nothing, but that would have gone clean over his head. I decided to shut up, preserve my dignity and move to another seat. He called me a bore; the unkindest cut of all. I have never been accused of being a bore. The joke was clearly on me. Only I was not laughing. Once you start being addressed as ‘Uncle,’ you know it is a slippery slope. How did that Bee Gees song go? I started a joke which started the whole world crying / But I didn’t see that the joke was on me oh no / I started to cry which started the whole world laughing / Oh If I’d only seen that the joke was on me.

Acta est fabula, plaudite!

‘The only thing you’ve got in this world is what you can sell.’ Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman.

A few decades ago, if you paid a visit to a home with a modicum of house pride, you would unfailingly have found in their bookshelves or ornate glass cupboards, an entire line of leather-bound volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica (EB). They would stand tall and proud alongside the Complete Works of Shakespeare, the Bhagavad Gita, The Oxford English Dictionary and possibly jostling alongside, some of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries and for light entertainment, at least half a dozen of P.G. Wodehouse’s best and brightest. The last couple of titles could easily be interchanged with Agatha Christie’s whodunnits and Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason courtroom dramas. Not forgetting the almost de rigueur Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, which were offered at a throwaway price if you were a subscriber to the RD. All of which do not preclude any other favourite of your choice, so long as we bear in mind that the Encyclopaedia Britannica was a must and consequently, irreplaceable.

Now here’s the thing. In my living memory, I do not recall ever having taken out a single volume of the EB series to bone up on the exact dimensions of the tallest mountain peak in the world, the deepest ocean bed, the biggest star in the firmament, the most poisonous, carnivorous plant in the Amazon jungles or for that matter, everybody’s favourite, the tallest and shortest humans ever to set foot on planet earth. The more arcane the information one sought, the more EB became your go-to source, not that one went to it much, if at all. That is just a very small sample of the enormous amounts of minutiae contained in the alphabetically arranged EB, hard bound volumes. Come to think of it, I cannot recall an occasion when my father, a professional banker, slid out one of the tomes to satisfy his curiosity on the question of which was the first bank in the world to go kaput and leave its customers tragically insolvent. The only time these volumes were ever taken out of their shelves, very carefully by my mother, was to blow the accumulated dust off the top of the books, open each volume right in the middle pages and slam them shut with a hefty ‘thwack’ to get rid of more dust. Place them all back diligently in the same order and her work was done. And dusted.

Which leads me to the inescapable conclusion that one displayed impressive volumes like the EB more for show than for any practical use. In our present digital age, this issue is purely academic, as internet searches allow us to discover, in a trice, the precise length of the Trans-Siberian Railway (down to the last decimal point) or the average number of quills to be found on an adult porcupine. Or fretful porpentine, as Shakespeare preferred to describe the prickly mammal. Clearly the Bard of Avon had studied the nervous mental state of the porpentine in some detail. What a man!

We now live in an age where FB rules and the EB is all but extinct, one with the dinosaur and the brontosaurus. If at all they have not been sold to the highest bidder at an antique auction sale, or conversely a ‘raddhiwalla,’ they can only be treated as museum pieces. As I have not visited a museum in ages, I have no means of knowing if the EB is preserved in mothballs at some such habitat. Perhaps I should visit a museum, if only I knew how and where to find one. When I punched in ‘museum’ on my GPS, it guided me to Museum Road in Bangalore which had a number of colleges, churches and commercial establishments. No sign of a museum anywhere. I am sure I will locate one in the near future with some diligent digital search. As to whether I will find a collector’s set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica there or not is a matter of conjecture. Incidentally, Amazon (not the jungle) offers amazing deals on all manner of encyclopaedias, including the Britannica. If you wait long enough, they might offer them free, delivery included, provided you have adequate space in your basement; if you have a basement. No takers reported so far.

When all is said and done, one’s heart goes out to the encyclopaedia salesman of yore. I doubt very much if such a specimen exists anywhere in the world today, but time was when the salesman peddling encyclopaedias was the stuff of legend and song, almost a time-worn cliché. Equally admired by his bosses and colleagues for his indefatigable spirit and courage in travelling around the countryside, knocking on doors in an often-futile effort to sell these voluminous tomes, he was also reviled by housewives who were the salesman’s primary target as he invariably dropped by when the husband was off to work, fearing grievous bodily harm – the salesman that is, not the husband. Selling encyclopaedias was also a favourite subject for lampooning in comic strips in print and on television shows. I recall a sketch from an old Monty Python show, which I have reworked in my own imagination from a sketchy memory, as I cannot recall the exact dialogue. It takes the theme to absurdist lengths, a Monty Python trademark, to make the point.

EB salesman (rings the doorbell and raises his voice) – ‘Good morning, madam.’

Housewife – ‘Who is it?’

EB salesman – ‘A burglar.’

Housewife – ‘A burglar, did you say?’

EB salesman – ‘Yes madam. If you would be so kind as to let me in, I will help myself to some of your valuables and scoot.’

Housewife – ‘How can I be sure you are a burglar? How can I be certain you haven’t come to sell encyclopaedias? I cannot stand the sight of door-to-door salesmen offering encyclopaedias at special discounts.’

EB salesman – ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, madam. I know nothing about encyclopaedias. All I want is to burgle your sweet home.’

Housewife – ‘Well that’s a relief. Why didn’t you say so in the first place? You had better come in then. Can I make you a nice cup of tea? I’ll just put the kettle on and you can help yourself to anything your heart desires. Don’t you have a bag or something to put all the swag in?’

EB salesman (very hesitantly) – ‘Actually madam, I am not a burglar at all. I have been lying through my teeth and you were right. Profuse apologies. Can I interest you in a luxury edition of the Encyclopeaedia Britannica? There is something there about the Desert Horned Viper that will make your hair stand on end. Please madam. Take pity. It is as much as my job is worth. As a free bonus, I can throw in the complete works of Jane Austen – the Reader’s Digest Condensed version, of course.’

Housewife (looks pityingly at the salesman) – ‘Tell you what young man, I will not report you to the police for coming into my home under false pretences. You will never be able to burgle a baby’s rattle from its pram. And I have no interest in learning about the Desert Horned Viper or, come to that, the Iwasaki’s Snail-Eater. If you like, I can tell you a thing or two about the Hainan Black Crested Gibbon, also known by its biological name, Nomascus Hainanus. Look, you look like a nice chap. Have this cup of tea and a biscuit and be off with you. I hate it when burglars walk in pretending to be encyclopaedia salesmen. Or was it the other way round? Only yesterday, I had a nice-looking chap claiming to be a serial rapist, only to learn after letting him in that he was selling encyclopaedias. You can never trust anyone these days.’

Truly, one’s heart goes out to the encyclopaedia salesman. World famous director Woody Allen summed it up rather well. ‘There are worse things in life than death. Have you ever spent an evening with an encyclopaedia salesman?’

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but every single day of the week, I get a feel-good message from somebody or the other pointing out helpfully that it will be the harbinger of great cheer. These lyrical messages are invariably embedded in some scenic or flowery imagery enhanced by some schmaltzy instrumental tune. I ruthlessly employ the delete option no sooner than I spot it. These images are usually forwarded with little effort on the part of the sender, having done the rounds millions of times on the internet. Nevertheless, I felt it incumbent to take serious note of these missives for a solitary 7-day period, going from Sunday to Saturday. That was the least I could do. And the most. With a little help from a couple of nursery rhymes.

Sunday’s child is fair, wise, good and gay. Let me start with Sunday, when somebody I do not know from Adam unctuously informs me that this traditional day of rest will turn out to be full of excitement. Whether I need excitement on the day of Sabbath when the Fourth of the Ten Commandments has enjoined me to put my feet up, I am not sure. Mind you, my own religion prompts me to no such instruction. Still, that is what the message on my mobile says and I wait for excitement to escalate on Ravivar with bated breath. To kick things off, the power supply in our apartment block gives up the ghost for over six hours. This is followed by our back-up inverter downing tools and consequently my mobile phone running on empty. Cannot approach the neighbours as they face the same fate. The service provider informs us that the breakdown is due to an unforeseen snapping of cables down our street, something they haven’t tumbled to in years. By the time power is restored we are completely bushed, order a pizza online, the promised 20-minute delivery arrives in 90 minutes, the pizza looking like something the cat had brought in. The WhatsApp soothsayer was right after all! Incidentally, I may or may not be fair, wise and good, but I am most definitely not gay! At least, not in the ‘gay’ sense.

Monday’s child is fair of face. Let us move on to Manic Monday. My social media astrologer is all pumped up. Time to make some smart moves. Do not fret about the stock markets. This is the ideal time to invest. Trump is starting to go soft on India, tariffs will be reduced, H1B is being revisited. Above all, NDA is sweeping Bihar. Markets are set to soar. Oh yeah? What about these ammonium nitrate terror blasts in Delhi and Kashmir? What if we attack Pakistan and Trump has a rethink what with all those crypto deals at stake? I am not a salaried employee anymore. I shall revert to bank FDs. Better safe than sorry. As for being fair of face, I looked in the mirror and I think the jury is out on that score.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace. On cue, my WhatsApp well-wisher informs me that the colour of choice for the day is blue. If you are buying a car, opt for variants of blue. Wash your clothes with Robin Blue. Is the brand still around? Fill your fountain pen with Royal Blue ink before signing important documents. Blue Curacao liqueur will be a nice way to finish off a special meal, if you are eating out. Doesn’t miss a trick, my WhatsApper. Only catch is that I am not buying a car and I have not the faintest idea what brand my clothes are washed in. Fountain pen, that’s a laugh. My trusty ball-point will do the job, however critical the documents I have to affix my signature on. The Curacao would have been nice, but curd rice, lime pickle and one green veg is on the menu tonight. Washed down with Aqua Guard filtered water. I am full of grace in my domestic bliss. Not much scope to go blue in the face.

Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Who wrote this twaddle? The sun came up bright and early this morning, the birds were chirping merrily. Wordsworth would have trilled. Our cricketers, men and women, are having a ball. ‘Wot me worry?’ as Alfred E. Neuman of Mad Magazine fame used to intone. ‘Woe is me’ is not my mantra for the day, whatever nonsense that WhatsApp chappie will have me believe. Then again, if I get knocked over by a two-wheeler while crossing the road or nipped in the ankle by a rabid street dog, I might have to change my tune. That said, till Thursday comes along, I am staying put at home riveted to my television, watching some great tennis and some not-so-great fire and brimstone on the Bihar elections. And woe betide anyone who tries to change my routine for the day.

Thursday’s child has far to go. This time you nailed it, my friend. I will be driving to the airport to receive a close relative arriving from Chennai. Which will take a good two hours, more than twice the amount of time it takes to fly in from Chennai to Bangalore. You might say I am literal-minded and that the WA fellow was speaking metaphorically, that I have a long way to go in life before I call it quits. Or something of that sort. Given my age, I am not sure if he even got that right. Anyhow, I will take my chances with the airport drive, traffic snarls notwithstanding. Add two more hours on the return drive, and I should be ready to hit the sack. I don’t know about Thursday’s child, but this social media nuisance is going too far.

Friday’s child is loving and giving. On the cusp of the weekend, my Friday prediction points irrefutably to visitors turning up at our place when least expected. ‘You will be startled and surprised when the doorbell rings and you open the door to welcome a couple you least expected!’ Now this is a double-edged sword. The WA message thinks it is handing out very pleasant news, whereas visitors who turn up unannounced screaming ‘SURPRISE’ can be very off-putting. Do we take this seriously and order something special for lunch? Should we make up the beds in the guest bedroom? Questions, questions. The end result is that we wait the whole day anxiously biting our fingernails, and when no one arrives till 11 pm, our joy knows no bounds. We had been put to a great deal of angst for no rhyme or reason. Perhaps the mystery guests might have been ‘loving and giving’ but we were not complaining.

Saturday’s child works for a living. This I can vouch for to be utterly true. My wife was born on a Saturday and was a working woman all her life. Still is. When she retired well before her time, colleagues asked ‘Why?’ and not ‘When?’ What is more, even after retirement, she runs the house as she would a corporate organisation, never resting till the domestics have cleaned up every last speck of dust in the flat, and if needs must, doing it herself. Every now and then, I would implore her to rest her weary bones. An unwise call because back would come the curt response, ‘Someone has to do it. Would you care to take over the domestic duties?’ At which point, discretion being the better part of valour, I quietly slink off to work on my next blog.

That’s the seven days my friends from the ether so caringly give me a heads-up on. I normally never even look at them but I should be grateful that they give me enough ammo for a blog. The Beatles had a huge hit during the 60s with Eight Days a Week, but they led a blissful life with no social media to ruin their peace of mind. Though what they would have done with the eighth day, heaven alone knows. Solomon Grundy had the right idea. He was born on a Monday / Christened on Tuesday / Married on Wednesday / Took ill on Thursday / Worse on Friday / Died on Saturday / Buried on Sunday. And that was the end of Solomon Grundy. R.I.P.

‘Actors go into it because it gives us the chance to play people a great deal more interesting than we are, and to say things infinitely wittier and more intelligent than anything we could think of.’ Prunella Scales.

Prunella Scales died last week at the ripe old age of 93. Those of you who may not be familiar with her work, I seek your indulgence. However, to most of us who know of her, the sole point of reference can only be her role as Sybil Fawlty in the iconic, 12-episode television sitcom of the mid-70s, Fawlty Towers. She was one-fourth of the quartet that has made Fawlty Towers the best loved comedy on British television to this day. What is more, its fame has spread to most parts of the English-speaking world. The remainder of that fabulous quartet, I need hardly remind you, were the creators of Fawlty Towers, John Cleese as Basil Fawlty and Connie Booth as the maid Polly. Not to forget Andrew Sachs as the hapless Spanish waiter Manuel, who passed away a few years ago and about whom I wrote an obit piece on that sad occasion. On the off-chance that there are those among you who have not had the pleasure of viewing Fawlty Towers, highlights from the series (if not the full episodes) can be accessed on YouTube.

Getting back to Prunella Scales as Sybil, who together with her fictional husband, John Cleese as Basil, ran the coastal resort hotel Fawlty Towers in Torquay, on the south west of England. Her constant run-ins with her husband’s unintended japes and his inability, quite literally, to put one foot in front of the other without tripping up horribly, had us in stitches. She was viewed as a harridan by her husband and the limited staff of the hotel, but her customers loved her. Prunella Scales had the unique ability to combine comedy with a finely-honed understanding of timing, an ability that endeared her to millions of fans who couldn’t get enough of her. And, in fairness, the rest of the cast as well.

Such has been Prunella Scales’ indelible association with Fawlty Towers that one might easily overlook her distinguished, multi-faceted acting career spanning over 60 years on stage, film and television. Suffice it to say that the average denizen on the street knew her only as Sybil Fawlty, having no idea what her real name was. The roles she essayed elsewhere were many and too numerous to list here. Prunella Scales was not just a one-trick pony dishing out slapstick comedy. Perhaps one of her more serious roles, one that earned her widespread acclaim was that of Queen Elizabeth II in A Question of Attribution, a one-act stage play, subsequently adapted to film, written by well-known playwright Alan Bennett. In short, Scales has demonstrated her ability to play all manner of roles and her status as a thespian to match many hallowed names that bestrode the world of British theatre and film, remains undiminished. She was made Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in the 1992 Birthday Honours List, along with a slew of other notable awards. She was personally known to Queen Camilla whom she met socially off and on.

 Piquantly, a noted rose breeder in England named a rose after her name, Prunella.

On a personal note, my awareness of Fawlty Towers happened by chance in 1981 when I was working for a well-known tyre company in Calcutta. Our Managing Director was a Scotsman who was to retire shortly to return to the UK. At his farewell party where he was showered with the usual encomiums, he drew me aside and handed me a cloth bag containing four video cassette tapes containing all the 12 episodes of Fawlty Towers, about which I knew nothing at the time. ‘I think you will enjoy these tapes,’ he said to me. I was overwhelmed receiving a gift from our Big Chief whom we were bidding farewell to that evening. And that he had sussed out my fondness for British comedy. That was the beginning of my love affair with Fawlty Towers (a silent ‘thank you’ to Mr. Alistair MacIntyre). In subsequent years, I got myself the entire DVD set of the series, which is imperishable. If I told you I have viewed them on fewer than fifty times over the years, I would be telling a lie. A hundred times would be nearer the mark. And still counting.

I would like to conclude this tribute to Prunella Scales and to the television series she helped make so memorable, as I leave with you some of the most risible quotes from the series. Many of them will be better appreciated if viewed in context, but I will have to take that chance. Those of you who have not seen the episodes of Fawlty Towers, find a way to access it online or by any other means. If you have, then watch it again. You cannot get enough of it. God knows we could all do with a laugh in these toxic times we live in.

Basil Fawlty: ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s only my wife laughing.’

Sybil Fawlty: ‘I can’t abide cruelty to living creatures.’

Basil Fawlty: ‘I’m a creature and you can abide it to me.’

Sybil Fawlty: ‘You’re not living.’

Basil to Sybil Fawlty: ‘Do I detect the smell of Burning Martyr?’

Basil Fawlty: ‘A satisfied customer. We should have him stuffed.’

Mrs. Richards (a dotty, aged, stone-deaf guest): ‘Faulty? What’s wrong with him?’

Sybil Fawlty: Psychiatry, that’s a relatively new profession, isn’t it?’

Psychiatrist’s wife (a hotel guest): ‘Freud started it in 1886.’

Sybil Fawlty: ‘Yes, but it’s only now we’re seeing them on the television.’

Polly (the maid): ‘Could I have a raise? Mrs. Fawlty said it would be alright.’

Basil Fawlty: I don’t think we see eye-to-eye vis a vis the frozen assets.’

Basil Fawlty: ‘Well, let me tell you something. This is exactly how Nazi Germany started! A bunch of idiots sticking their noses in, looking for something to complain about!’

Major Gowen (a senile, eccentric permanent resident): ‘The strange thing was that throughout the morning, she kept referring to the Indians as niggers. No, no, I said, niggers are the West Indians, these people are wogs!’

Regarding that last quote, John Cleese narrated recently that almost 50 years after the first telecast, hyper-sensitive, thin-skinned, literal-minded activists have suddenly woken up and objected to the use of pejorative racial stereotypical terms in Fawlty Towers. Cleese stoutly defended himself saying that was the way some people spoke in those days and that he himself does not support the views of the fictitious Major Gowen. Speaking of which, I was myself taken aback when I came across the word ‘nigger’ in a novel by the much-loved and adored P.G.Wodehouse, written around the early part of the 20^th century. Much heated debate has ensued over the deletion of the term in subsequent reprints of the novel. The jury is still out.

Well, that was just a soupçon of the biting irony and wit from Fawlty Towers, and there is a lot more where that came from. If this does not drive you to go and watch all the 12 episodes in one binge sitting, you are more to be pitied than censured. Prunella Scales,’ or rather, Sybil Fawlty’s passing gave me as good an excuse as any to relive one of my favourite television comedies. Sharing it with you, dear reader, only doubles that pleasure.

It is only when one has lost all things, that one knows that one possesses it. Oscar Wilde.

Tucked away in an insignificant corner of my morning daily was the news that the legendary, if controversial Irish novelist, playwright and poet Oscar Wilde’s library card was reissued 130 years after being revoked over a gay conviction. Wilde’s unconventional (for those days) sexual proclivities did not endear him to the powers-that-be at the turn of the 20^th century. In medieval times, they would have burned him to a crisp at the stake. Or hanged, drawn and quartered. As it was, he was incarcerated for two years hard labour between 1895 and 1897 to atone for his ‘sins.’ In keeping with the temper of the times he brought widespread ignominy on himself. That said, every cloud has a silver lining. During his stint in jail Wilde wrote his bittersweet essay De Profundis, which was in fact a 50,000-word letter to his erstwhile, jilted lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, himself a poet and journalist. Soon after his release from prison, Wilde’s monumental poem The Ballad of Reading Gaol was published.

It would not be too much to say that the man who wrote those light-hearted societal comedies, The Importance of Being Ernest and Lady Windermere’s Fan and the more serious Gothic novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, among several other notable works, was reduced to a byword and a hissing among the cognoscenti of the time. With the passage of the decades, ‘Time, the great healer’ has decided to get into the act and play The Good Samaritan. A bit late in the day, 130 years late, but still welcome. The British Library has now sought to make amends by honouring Wilde through reissuing a reader’s card in his name. The original card was revoked following his conviction for ‘gross indecency.’ He was banished from the library’s reading room in 1895 over his charge for having had homosexual relationships, a criminal offence at the time and convicted bang to rights.

The new card, delivered to his grandson, author Merlin Holland, is intended to ‘acknowledge the injustices and immense suffering’ Wilde faced, the library said. Mr. Holland said the new card is a ‘lovely gesture of forgiveness and I’m sure his spirit will be touched and delighted.’ As a lover of the English language and literature one is immensely pleased that Oscar Wilde’s unjustly tarnished reputation has now been restored to its rightful place. Good on you, British Library.

Unfortunately, I did not enjoy quite the same luck with the British Council Library in Calcutta during my long period of residence in that colourful city. Let me hasten to add that my sin was laughably minor compared to Wilde’s perceived and (mis)judged misdemeanours, but more of that anon.  I became a member of the British Council, or BC as we fondly called that institution, during my university days. Located on the tony Theatre Road, later appositely renamed Shakespeare Sarani, obtaining a membership to the BC was a piece of cake. All one had to do was furnish one’s college identity card, flash a smile at the comely librarian and in the blink of an eye, you were handed the membership card with your name duly printed and a library number to go with it. It was almost a badge of honour that you proudly carried around in your wallet. Several years later, on entering the corporate world, one experienced the same sense of pride on being accepted as a member of one of Calcutta’s prestigious social clubs, such as the Saturday Club or the Calcutta Cricket and Football Club.

Apart from the wonderful selection of books that the BC stored, many of us made a beeline for the library for other reasons. First and foremost was the excellent air-conditioning, which was a godsend in a swelteringly hot and humid city like Calcutta. I am talking about the late 60s and 70s when the ironically named City of Joy suffered unscheduled power cuts for interminably long hours during the day. Even in those days, the BC had its own back-up generator, which enabled us to sit in considerable comfort in the capacious reading room, pretending to pore over some voluminous tome or the other. Occasionally, a gentle snore would emanate from a senior citizen who had wisely decided to use the bulky 80-page Sunday Times as a makeshift pillow, for his post prandial siesta.

As for us undergrads, let us not forget that many of the girls from other colleges also found the BC an intellectual and convenient haven to meet up with their boyfriends. Libraries the world over had a strict ‘observe silence’ policy. Between the boys and the girls, therefore, it had to be a strictly ‘whisper sweet nothings’ strategy. Eye contact only. The icing on the cake was that our library had a vinyl record collection of unusual material. A case in point being a long-playing record of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Ernest featuring legendary thespians like Sir John Gielgud and Sir Ralph Richardson among other notables. A wide collection of Shakespeare’s plays was on offer as well. The BC was also well-stocked with plenty of sterling stuff from the BBC’s record archives. However, if you were browsing hoping to find The Beatles or The Rolling Stones, you would have been sorely disappointed. That said, popular musicians of that era flaunted their erudition and love for literature, frequently namechecking their heroes. Here is Irish bard Van Morrison, ‘Tell me of Poe, Oscar Wilde and Thoreau / Let your midnight and your daytime / Turn into love of life.’

Getting back to why I did not enjoy Oscar Wilde’s luck (having his library card restored posthumously) had nothing to do with anything so murky as the great writer was punished for. Apart from the salient fact that I was and am still alive! It was a simple, mundane matter of a ‘late fee.’ The BC were sticklers for rules. You were permitted to keep the books you borrowed for a maximum period of two weeks, with a permitted extension of an extra week if you called in and informed them. The librarian smilingly and a tad resignedly, told me that on one occasion, she received as many as 27 calls from borrowers seeking an extension as they were struck down, ‘bedridden with the flu.’ Evidently on an epidemic scale! Any further delay would have invited a stiff fine. More tardiness, sickness real or imagined notwithstanding, could put you in the dreaded black list for expulsion. When I tell you that the shame of being expelled from the BC was roughly equated with Oscar Wilde’s own misfortune, you will understand why we students were desperate to return books on time. In my own case, I had to grovel and plead to retrieve my card.

As I sit and contemplate the unique case of Oscar Wilde and libraries in general in the year 2025, I wonder if public libraries exist in the same profusion as they did several decades ago. If they do, it is a moot point how many people visit these libraries. School and college campuses will have them, that is a given. Last I heard, the venerable National Library in Calcutta, formerly known as the Imperial Library, stands more as a grand monument to British architecture than as a house of learning and research, reflected in the paucity of visitors. This unfortunate situation can partly be attributed to reading material being more easily available on the internet. More significantly there are far fewer people, in particular youngsters who take the time and effort to read a book from cover to cover. Someone recently wrote, only partly in jest, that more books of J.K. Rowling are sold and ostentatiously displayed in home libraries than read. After all you can watch all the Harry Potter oeuvre on cable television and sound extremely well read in peer group company.

When the brilliant actor, writer and peerless raconteur Stephen Fry was chosen to reprise the role of Oscar Wilde in the 1997 biopic Wilde, the serendipity was uncanny. For one thing, Fry more than passably resembled Wilde. More to the point, he was avowedly and proudly gay. It was an inspired casting made in heaven and here is what Fry himself had to say about it in an article for the New Yorker, ‘If I were to say that all my life had been a preparation for playing Oscar Wilde, I would (aside from sounding ridiculous) be laying my tender rear horribly on the line. Yet I had been made to feel for years that this might be true. I have had archly nudged into me the winsome phrase “born to be Wilde” more times than I care to remember. “The chubbier you get the more you look like him,” I have been told. “If you can’t, no one can.” And “Let’s be honest. With a face like yours, it’s the only lead you’ll ever get. Otherwise, it’s a life of Gestapo interrogators, emotionally constipated cuckolds, and Bond villains.”’

The man who played Oscar Wilde so convincingly on celluloid received handsome plaudits for his performance. We should thank our lucky stars that we live in more enlightened times when Stephen Fry was not expelled from a library or any other public institution. For on screen, Fry did not play Wilde. He was Wilde. He did not receive an Oscar for his role, but the real, late Oscar would have smiled benignly from heaven. Always assuming the Pearly Gates were not barred to him.

 Sugar / Oh, honey, honey / You are my candy girl / And you got me wanting you The Archies.

I had no cause to worry about diabetes all these years. Never even entertained a passing thought about sugar, other than adding two heaped teaspoonfuls to my tea or coffee every morning or evening. That said, I am not one of those who has a ‘sweet tooth.’ While I have indulged in the odd jalebi, sandesh, Mysore pak, kaju barfi or sugared doughnut, I have never hankered after sweets. I could take them or leave them. Until that is, one of my friends casually asked me what my HbA1c reading was. I had no idea what he was talking about.

‘HbA1c?’ I repeated. ‘What might you be blabbering about? Sounds like some kind of chemical formula. You have the advantage of me, my friend.’

My friend was taken aback. ‘What, you have never heard of HbA1c? Don’t you take your annual blood tests? At the very least, you would have checked out your fasting and post-prandial sugar. Most of us are obsessed with sugar levels nowadays. The papers are full of it.’

‘All that is fine and dandy, but I still do not know what HbA1c is. Pray tell.’ Seriously, I did not know the first thing about it.

My dear friend seemed to be a bit of an expert on matters medical. Every family has one. ‘It gives you a three-month average assessment of your sugar reading. This is a far more accurate way of assessing whether your blood sugar levels are normal, pre-diabetic or full-blown diabetic.’

‘And a random fasting or post-prandial test is not accurate enough?’ I asked.

‘Not really, because people tend to keep away from sweets completely a couple of days before testing which will give a skewed reading that all is well. Crafty. The medicos are wise to this ruse. That is why doctors insist on a three-month test.’

‘Are you sure you’re not a doctor? You could have fooled me.’ I can be biting when the mood takes me.

The long and short of this conversation was that I was persuaded to take an HbA1c test and discuss the results with my GP. Armed with the report, I waited for my doctor to give me the bad news.

The doc read the blood report carefully as there were other parameters that were tested, finally laid the sheet down on his table, removed his spectacles and shook his head slowly east to west and back again, filmy style and said, ‘Hmmm.’ Always a bad sign, this non-verbal communication.

I was beginning to get tetchy. ‘Well, what is it Doc? You can tell me. I can take it.’

‘Your HbA1c reading is 5.9,’ he declared somewhat gravely.

‘Is that bad?’

‘It’s not great but as Shakespeare said in a different context, “tis not as deep as a well nor as wide as a church door, but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve.’” He looked rather pleased with himself, my well-read physician.

On the other hand, I was miffed. ‘Doc, if it’s all the same to you, can we shelve the Shakespeare lesson for some other time?  You can also skip all that guff about pancreas, insulin etc. Tell me where I stand on the diabetes scale.’

‘You my friend, are kind of between and betwixt. Neither fish nor fowl. You are not a confirmed diabetic but neither are you totally free of the scourge. The threat perception is mild but it is lurking, waiting to pounce. It’s a sort of warning shot across the bows that you should  take heed. Take more care of what you eat, and take a critical look at your sedentary lifestyle. Exercise is the order of the day, apart from regulating your diet. You are what you eat, as they keep saying. You are at the pre-diabetic stage and need to go easy on excessive starchy foods and opt for sugar-free substitutes to spike your beverages. Incidentally, diabetic sweets are available these days.’ He had said his piece.

‘Diabetic sweets? During this festive season with Deepavali just round the corner? I am told they taste like mud.’

‘But it’s good, healthy mud. Do not mock things you know nothing about.’

It was now my turn to go ‘Hmmm,’ rather thoughtfully. ‘But Doc, I am fairly conservative when it comes to my eating and drinking habits.’ I raised my glass of water and said, ‘Mud in your eye, Doc.’

Ignoring my jokey toast, he said, ‘Drinking habits, you say? I hope you are imbibing not more than a peg or two. And rum is strictly a no, no. Comes from sugarcane and molasses’ he continued, raising his eyebrows needlessly.

‘Why do you jump to the conclusion that the word drink automatically suggests alcohol? Apart from the rare, celebratory glass of wine, I am almost abstemious. I was referring to juices, soft drinks and the like.’ In case you are wondering at my somewhat irritable and over-familiar manner of speech, the physician was an old acquaintance of mine and I could afford that liberty.

‘Aerated?

‘Pardon?’ I was a bit lost.

‘Soft drinks, do you go for Coke, Pepsi and so on?’

‘You hardly expect me to get through a pizza without periodic gulps of Coke, do you? It’s a junk foodie’s sine qua non.’

‘Ah ha, pizzas eh? Well, I’ve got news for you. Put a stop to pizzas or hamburgers and no more Cokes or any other form of sugared, aerated drink. Got that? We need to bring your HbA1c down to 5.7 or under. Sine qua non, indeed!’ He was clearly unimpressed by my smattering of Latin.

‘How about Coke Zero?’ I countered.

‘No means no. They are all fizzy.’ He was going livid. I was worried in case he needed attention.

‘Ok, ok, no need for hysterics. After I hit the magic 5.7, I can binge? You know that old Julie Andrews song? Just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down.’

‘Good grief man, I don’t allow singing in my chamber. Anyhow, that song was meant for toddlers. Where did you unearth Julie Andrews from? What are you, a teenage adolescent? Now look, I have plenty of patients waiting. Can’t spend the whole day chit chatting with you. Here is a list of do’s and don’ts. Read it carefully and quickly and see if you have any questions. And less of the Mary Poppins stuff, please.’

I ran my eye down the printed sheet of paper. ‘Haven’t tried red rice or millets before. Might be worth exploring. Our Prime Minister speaks highly of millets. I must confess he looks in the pink of health. Eats a lot of mushrooms too, I believe. Hullo, what’s this? No more idlis? Come on Doc, all patients in hospitals in south India gorge on idlis, post op. Idlis are practically a religion with us.’

The man with the stethoscope gave me a knowing look. ‘I thought you will say that. Look, just go easy on the rice idlis. Rava or semolina idlis, upma etc. are fine.’ I thought a rava idli is an abomination, like egg dosa but I chose not to argue.

‘But Doc, even Shashi Tharoor sings paeans of praise to the humble idli and he looks pretty fit to me, barring a few extra inches in the equatorial belt, as my school master used to describe the midriff area. Perhaps he could lose a kilo or two, but other than that even Adonis might envy his looks. The MP from Thiruvananthapuram, as is his wont recently said, “A truly great idli is a cloud, a whisper, a perfect dream of the predictability of human civilisation.” He went on to compare our idli with a Beethoven symphony, a Tagore poem, a Husain canvas, a Tendulkar century and much else besides. He is a wordmeister, after all, if you’ll pardon the coinage. He might have got slightly carried away there, but we can put it down to poetic license and a bit of gallery-playing. The Keralites love their idlis.’

My doctor friend exhibited unwonted patience while I prattled on. Finally, he got a word in edgewise. ‘Perhaps you should consult Dr. Shashi Tharoor regarding your pre-diabetic issue. I think he is a doctor of something or the other. You are clearly wasting your time here.’ His wounded sarcasm was not lost on me. I felt I should make peace and ask him just a few questions on my diet before being shown the door.

Sorry about that Doc. I was just trying to keep the conversation at a frothy, light-hearted level. So, let me make a check list of all the things you have declared a resounding ‘No’ to. Polished white rice, sweets of any kind, carbs including starchy stuff like potatoes, all deep-fried stuff and a further 27 items which I shall not bother listing out.  In short, as some smart aleck said, “Everything I like is illegal, immoral or fattening.” No, no, no to all of them. Perhaps I should dub you Dr. No.’

For the first time, the good doctor’s face was wreathed in a smile. ‘You haven’t forgotten your Ian Fleming, I see. In that case, I will stretch a point. You can have the odd drink, preferably a vodka martini. Shaken, not stirred.’

I left his chamber in good spirits, thinking pleasant thoughts of the man they call Bond. James Bond.

Harold ‘Dickie’ Bird passed away on September 22nd, widely mourned, at the ripe young age of 92 in his home town in Barnsley, Yorkshire. Peacefully in his sleep. Which is nothing less than the great man deserved. Now I can hear many youngsters, who follow cricket, reading this column, assuming youngsters read the newspapers (digitally or otherwise) these days, going ‘Who is this Dickie Bird? What is this fellow blabbering on about? And how can a 92-year-old man be described as young?’ One can only feel a deep sense of pity for such literal-minded ignoramuses. Or ignorami, if your Latin is up to scratch.

 However, if you belong to that segment of the populace that appreciates the game of cricket, not merely to marvel at those perfect cover drives and muscled sixes, or stumps cartwheeling, or fielders taking sensational diving catches, but takes an avid interest in those ‘characters’ who have involved themselves in other aspects of the game, and found love, honour and recognition in so doing, welcome to the world of Dickie Bird. Arguably the most celebrated umpire the game of cricket has known. ‘What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?’ asked the late Trinidadian, historian, Trotskyist activist and Marxist writer C.L.R. James in his brilliant, social and cultural tour de force of the game in his book, Beyond a Boundary.

As a rule, cricket umpires are a faceless lot. They stand there, the pair of them, for long hours braving fickle weather conditions, player tantrums and spectator animus. Depending, of course, entirely on which way the umpire’s finger moves (or not), when a highly histrionic appeal is made for a leg before or caught behind. It is then, and only then, that the umpire comes under the spotlight. If there was one umpire who managed to win over crowds, players of all national hues, not to mention the administrators ever since he stood behind the stumps and announced in a stentorian voice, ‘Play,’ that umpire was Dickie Bird.

Dickie Bird was nothing if not an obsessive perfectionist. He had to be absolutely, 100% sure before he raised the dreaded finger to send a batsman packing prior to upholding a leg before or caught behind appeal. Always remembering he started umpiring long before television cameras and DRS took over most of an umpire’s decision making. Many bowlers felt Dickie was a bit of a ‘not out-er,’ strictly adhering to the old dictum of always giving the batsman the benefit of the doubt. England’s much-admired captain Mike Brearley, had this to say about Dickie, ‘My only complaint with Dickie Bird is that he requires a degree of certainty that is almost neurotic; like the man who has to keep going to the front door to make certain that he’s locked it.’ That said, he displayed nary a doubt in raising his finger with alacrity at Jimmy Amarnath’s leg-before appeal against Michael Holding, signalling India’s famous victory at Lord’s in the final of the 1983 World Cup, sending a grateful nation into rapturous celebration.

Already many emotional homages have been paid by cricketers, journalists and broadcasters from all over the world to Dickie and reams have been written about personal experiences on the field. Sunil Gavaskar getting a haircut from Dickie because an errant lock of hair was blowing into his face during a blustery day in Old Trafford, Manchester in 1974 is but one of several amusing examples. Thanks to barber Bird, Gavaskar scored 101!

For myself, as a cricket enthusiast deeply involved in matters arising on the field of play as well as the cultural and idiosyncratic ethos surrounding the game, Dickie Bird sits at the top of the tree, along with the likes of revered commentators like John Arlott, Brian Johnston and Jim Swanton. They may have played a bit of cricket in their time but it was their unique ability to bring the game to life, when television was still a twinkle in broadcasters’ eyes, that set these gentlemen apart. We were glued to the wireless reveling in their banter and witticisms. Dickie Bird was not a commentator but a raconteur non pareil. I was fortunate to pick up a double CD titled An Evening with Dickie Bird, which amply displays his wit and wisdom.

If Dickie Bird’s quirks and angularities as a revered umpire could only be enjoyed from a distance as spectators in the stands or in front of our television screens, a product of our imagination, he was a most engaging and entertaining speaker at many a cricketing soiree, where fine wine flowed in step with the heady eloquence. Much of that treasure is contained in those CDs. I can but share a few gems. That said, even if you have heard some of it elsewhere, they still bear repetition. Under the circumstances, I shall refrain from employing that age-old aphorism, ‘Stop me if you’ve heard this before.’

Dickie’s close friend of 75 years, a doughty Yorkshireman himself and sometime cricketer, later on a celebrated talk show host, the late Michael Parkinson, had this to say about our protagonist, ‘Only Shakespeare could have invented a character so full of life’s rich juices as Dickie Bird. Cricket’s genius has been to accommodate his foibles and celebrate his humour.’ Coming as he did from a relatively humble background, Dickie’s humour was that of the rugged Everyman of lore. Here’s a snippet of what he had to say when the Queen invited him to receive his OBE. Evidently, he got a call from the Queen’s office inviting him for lunch. ‘I said – because I thought someone was taking the mickey – if I have been invited to have lunch at Buckingham Palace, I will walk to it from Barnsley.’ He ultimately took that long train journey to London to visit the Queen. Arriving at the Palace much too early, he showed his special pass to the Bobby on the beat at the Palace gates and was told he can’t go in till the Changing of the Guards. When informed that he had come to have lunch with the Queen, the policemen told him to kill some time at a tea shop round the corner. He killed four hours and finally was let into the pearly gates. Anyhow, Her Majesty took one pitying look at Dickie and said he’d better have a drink and he replied, ‘If I may, I will have a glass of red wine and she said, “I’ll have a drink with you, Dickie.”’ Just a gentle, civilised interaction between a commoner and Royalty, but it is the way Dickie tells it that will have you in stitches.

About the great if controversial Geoff Boycott, another Yorkshireman, Dickie’s wry comment – ‘I am the only one he talks to. He hasn’t got a friend in the world, but if I wanted someone to bat for my life, that would be Boycott.’ Then there was that occasion when Sachin Tendulkar, all of 16 years old, playing an ODI in Sharjah for the first time against the West Indies, met the great Dicke Bird, who asked the young adolescent, if his school had granted him leave to play cricket for India. And Tendulkar replied (in Dickie’s mock imitation of Sachin’s high-pitched, teenage voice), ‘My headmaster has given me permission to play for India, Sir.’ Bird goes on to say, in awed tones, that Tendulkar scored 89 against the likes of Walsh and Ambrose!

There are many more such examples from these recordings that one could cite. Suffice it to say that Dickie Bird was one of a kind. They broke the mould after him. Deservedly, a statue of him is erected in Barnsley. A fitting tribute. Had he been with us and officiating in the just-concluded, fractious Asia Cup fixtures between India and Pakistan, he would have called the captains after the game and told them gently but firmly, ‘Now come on lads, stop mucking about. You are not chokra boys. Shake hands like gentlemen and leave your politicians to indulge in all the argy-bargy.’

R.I.P. Harold ‘Dickie’ Bird.

Published in Deccan Chronicle on October 1, 2025.

Caveat: Some of what you are about to read happened. Some of it did not, though it could so easily have. Either way, a pinch of salt would help garnish the offering.

India’s Prime Minister, Narendra Modi is celebrating his 75^th birthday, his platinum jubilee, which came about on September 17. The present continuous tense is employed since the celebrations, countrywide, are expected to go on for a month. Let me rephrase that. India that is Bharat is celebrating, with much fanfare, its Prime Minister’s crossing of this seminal milestone. Doubtless, all his colleagues, friends and acolytes have been gathering outside 7, Lok Kalyan Marg (Race Course Road is considered an abomination) to shower him with blessings and good wishes. Sweetmeat shops (any other meat will invite capital punishment) would have made roaring trade with laddoos and jalebis selling like hot cakes. In western countries, they say it the other way round. The media, particularly some select newspapers and television channels have pulled out all the stops, left no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored and any other cliché you might wish to employ, to mark the occasion. Several columns of space and oodles of air time were devoted to singing the praises of our charismatic leader.

All this is par for the course and only to be expected in a country where hero worship of our tallest leaders is an article of faith and practically enshrined in the Constitution ever since we gained independence. What is of far greater interest to many of us is the fact that President Donald Trump saw fit to extend his personal greetings to his ‘dear friend Narendra.’ Whether he warbled Happy birthday over the wires or not, we shall never know. Thank heavens for small mercies. What is worthy of note is that Mr. Modi graciously returned Trump’s goodwill gesture . Not that it was Trump’s birthday or anything, but you get the drift. If Trump was first off the blocks to greet the PM, Vladimir Putin and Pope Leo were not far behind, snapping at his heels (Trump’s heels) while remotely proffering a congratulatory hand. Xi Jinping, as is his wont, remained tight-lipped. Other heads of state don’t count.

Did India’s Leader of the Opposition, Rahul Gandhi extend his good wishes as per informal protocol? He probably did after a fashion, though he was readying his much-touted hydrogen bomb as a birthday present. Said bomb, bearing the legend ‘Vote Chori,’ from what little we could glean, appeared to have downed tools. Went down with a whimper. Yet again. The wick didn’t quite catch. The spirited young man, however, will not be cowed down. He promises to rise from the ashes, Phoenix-like, and return with another weapon of mass destruction. This time with a bang. His persistence is praiseworthy.

Amidst all this bonhomie (for the most part) there are rumours, entirely unfounded and unreported, that put a different spin on this ‘feast of reason and flow of soul’ between the two heads of state who have been at cross purposes lately. Trump and Modi that is. They haven’t exactly been on the chummiest of terms, not to put too fine a point on it. One version has it that Peter Navarro, one of Trump’s henchmen and the bloke who specialises in dropping at least two bricks every day on the ongoing, fractious trade negotiations between India and the United States, is alleged to have suggested that it was the Indian Prime Minister’s office that contacted the White House a few days before ‘dear friend’ Modi’s birthday and made a craven request that Mr. Trump should call and wish our PM well on D-Day. An anonymous caller from the White House is rumoured to have responded by saying, ‘You can hardly expect our President to recall birthdays of the heads of so many nations, when he can barely remember Melania’s. However, since you have made the request during this delicate period in Indo-US relations, we will pass your request on to President Trump.’

While there has been no official reaction from the Indian side to this unofficial, unverified bizarre report, one junior functionary from the PMO who understandably wishes to remain nameless, vehemently responded by saying, ‘If somebody has, in fact, suggested that we made the first move, we can only respond in a language the Americans can understand. Go tell that to the marines. Our Prime Minister only thanked President Trump in response to the latter’s birthday greetings. That is the sum and substance of it. The rest is baloney.’ Apocryphal or not, this has a familiar ring to it.

We now await Navarro’s next gaffe with bated breath. Meanwhile, we can expect more ‘good cop, bad cop’ pronouncements from all the President’s men. If Navarro is the bad cop, the well-groomed Secretary of State, Marco Rubio usually steps in to play the good cop – ‘Ties with India is one of the top relationships the U.S. has in the world today.’ Really? You could have fooled me, Marco. I suppose the strategy is to keep India off kilter, but it does not appear to be working, judging from the President’s feeble, conciliatory gestures of late, followed immediately by the H-1B jolt. ‘It’s all rather confusing, really,’ as Spike Milligan’s crazy creation, Neddie Seagoon used to intone in The Goon Show all those years ago.

To add spice to this whole brouhaha, one of India’s prominent economists advising the Government has confidently predicted that the 25% secondary sanction by America on India’s exports will soon be lifted, post which a further reduction can be expected on the base tariff. And presumably everything will be, in Wodehouse-speak, oojah-cum-spiff. When I read that, I was wondering if it was entirely wise on the learned gentleman’s part to have made such a bold, public statement, even if talks behind the scenes appeared to indicate such optimism. Tempting fate, I felt. Waving the proverbial red rag to a bull that has been very bearish towards India. Then again, what do I know? Encouraging animal spirits, as propounded by John Maynard Keynes is all very well, but tread warily lest they should turn around and bite you in the fleshy parts.

All said and done, the PM and his party henchmen will take full advantage of every available opportunity, in this instance his extended birthday bash, to reach out to the electorate to think well of the ruling alliance when election time comes round. With the Bihar state polls just around the corner, felicitating the country’s numero uno with all the pomp and splendour that his powerful party can muster, will only help the cause. The opposition alliance will have its work cut out, as has been the case these past few years, to create any kind of dent in the BJP bulwark. Of all the strategies that could be available to the I.N.D.I. Alliance, the least favourable option ought to be the ceaseless bad mouthing of the PM via the Election Commission. If for no other reason, one says this because it appears to be merely performative and counterproductive. They need to put on their thinking caps and come up with something different and original. Right now, that seems a far cry. Unless you are counting on, from distant Washington, the constant din created by ‘The Guns of Navarro,’ having an impact on the Indian voter. For now, those guns appear to be firing blanks while India’s birthday boy and his team burn the midnight oil to keep matters on an even keel amidst a highly complex, volatile and unpredictable global geopolitical scenario. The vat is simmering and with Pakistan and Saudi Arabia announcing their nuptials, it is boiling over.

Happy birthday, Prime Minister.

Tailpiece: I read with astonishment a news headline that famed Hollywood actor Johnny Depp has directed a film named Modi: Three Days on the Wings of Madness. Surprisingly, this startling news item received very little play in India. Only on reading the fine print did I realise, with relief, that it was a biopic on the turbulent life of Italian painter, Modigliani!