Absent friends, may they stay that way. Christopher Hitchens.

I ran into an old friend the other day. Acquaintance might be a more accurate word as I had not met him for the best part of twenty-five years, so we had to pick up the pieces gingerly after the usual round of ‘Good God, surely you can’t be…’ and ‘You are? I would never have believed it. What happened to your hair?’ and that sort of stuff. You know what I mean. Truth to tell, he wasn’t that great a friend of mine. He just happened to be in the same social circle that I moved in during my early working days. I will allow that he was more than a nodding acquaintance, but once you had said that, there was not a lot more to be said. Anyhow, I always knew him to be a hard-boiled cynic. Nothing was ever good enough for him. The glass was always half empty. Obviously, decency prevents me from revealing his real name, which I had completely forgotten, till we reintroduced ourselves.

I shall therefore refer to him by the monicker we employed behind his back, namely, Scoffer, on account of his unfailing tendency to scoff and sneer at just about anything and everything. For the record, and I am not doing this to show off, it is believed according to legend that, ‘a cynic was a member of a school of ancient Greek philosophers founded by Antisthenes, marked by an ostentatious contempt for ease and pleasure.’ Boy, am I glad to get that off my chest!

So there was Scoffer and here was I, bumping into each other, totally out of the blue. As I had indicated earlier, after the initial bumbling around, recognition dawning slowly but surely, we pumped hands and decided to get nostalgic over a tall glass of the chilled, frothy stuff. I was not expecting this tête-à-tête to rise to the level of a feast of reason and flow of soul, but one had been well brought up and one had to be civil. It was clear from the outset that I was buying the beer. He made no protest, not even for form’s sake, so that was that. Perhaps he had fallen on hard times. He did not seem in particularly conversational mood. Nursing some secret sorrow, I daresay.  I decided to break the ice.

‘So my friend, good old Scoffer. Fancy running into you like this. I say, you don’t mind my calling you Scoffer, do you? Force of habit.’

‘Whatever,’ he responded laconically. ‘You never called me that to my face, always behind my back but I shall let it pass. After all, you are paying for the beer.’

Perhaps he did possess a grim sense of irony, not that I ever had an inkling of that earlier. Still, the passage of time can bring about changes. Like balding. I clung on to this hope.

I pressed on. ‘What have you been up to all these years?’

‘This and that,’ he mumbled.

I was not letting him get away with this. Or come to that, that. ‘I thought you might say that Scoffer, but exactly what kind of this and what sort of that?’

‘To cut a long story short, I have been dabbling in all kinds of things. Couldn’t hold down a job, marital status a bit wobbly, if not actually on the rocks, played the stock markets recklessly and am deep in the red. Net result, I am suffering from hypertension and do not make for very good company, I am afraid. Not the ray of sunshine you might have been expecting.’

Frankly, I did not know what to expect, but this was proving to be a right, royal dampener. A wetter blanket, you would have been hard pressed to find. I was already regretting this accidental reunion. He appeared so forlorn, any moment I was expecting him to start blubbing into his beer. If things continued like this, I might have had to pop across to the nearest chemist for a strip of anti-depressants myself. I decided to take him out of his lugubriousness and engage him in some matters of current interest.

‘Right Scoffer, I am sorry to hear that. Marriage on the rocks, did you say? My commiserations. Why not chase that beer down with something stronger on the rocks? No? All right, let us shelve your sob story for now and turn to something more cheerful. I know you were a cricket buff, a Kapil Dev fan, so what did you make of the World Cup final? 2023, not 1983. India fashioning defeat from the jaws of victory?’

At this abrupt change of subject, Scoffer brightened up. ‘Are you out of your mind? Were you even following the game? How do you mean fashioning defeat from the jaws of victory? We were never in with a shout. The blasted Aussies had us by the jugular from the outset and never let go. Get me another beer.’

This was better. He was properly riled, but at least, he cast off his morose shackles and became animated. That’s what cricket does to people in our country. I signalled for another beer and goaded him on.

‘Yes, yes, I am aware of all that, but we lost the toss which was a bit of a blow. At least, that seemed to be the opinion of most Indian commentators.’

Scoffer remained unimpressed. Took a large swig revealing a lush, frothy moustache and continued, becoming much more voluble. ‘Stuff and nonsense. The big occasion got to our players and we played like sissies. All very well gloating about having won 10 matches on the trot. Got a bad case of the trots when it mattered most. Who ever remembers the runners-up? Everyone recalls Edmund Hillary as the first to climb Everest. Who remembers the second guy?’

‘Tenzing Norgay?’

‘Of course, you know the name, as do I. We won quiz competitions in Calcutta, remember? How about the rest of the world? I rest my case.’

Scoffer was now in fourth gear, cruising. I got back to the original subject. ‘All right, but I must say it was good of our PM to lend all the players a shoulder to cry on after the game. Dressed in blue as well to go with the players’ dress code. In any case, they got the blues after the defeat. The PM would have loved to hold aloft the trophy with the Indian team, that too in his home town Ahmedabad, in a stadium named after him. Big photo-op denied.’

‘You can’t have everything,’ countered Scoffer. ‘Anyhow, since you brought up the PM, the smiles were certainly back after the recent assembly polls. Whose side were you on?’

I was not really prepared to get into a political debate, especially in these polarised times but I kept the conversation going, hedging my bets. ‘What more can I say than that the ruling party swept the polls?’

‘Swept the polls? scoffed Scoffer, ‘you could say that, which is stating the bleeding obvious. They wiped the floor with the opposition. Make no mistake, The Man is coming back in 2024. God help the misalliance.’

‘And God help us all. Dear me, I can detect those capitals a mile away in your emphatic prediction. The Man, eh? You could well be right, but those poll numbers, they were off the charts. Should we be worried about EVMs?’

Scoffer became so agitated, he knocked down the empty beer glass, stood up unsteadily and gave slurring speech, as though he was addressing the entire pub along with the huddled masses. ‘Look here, we lose a cricket match and you blame the pitch and the toss. The PM’s party trounces everybody else at the assembly elections, and you start talking about EVMs. How about Telangana? I have had it up to here with you. Goodbye, and may our paths never cross again.’ Scoffer stormed out, literally frothing at the mouth. At the exit door, he tripped over the threshold, was helped up by the liveried doorman and limped off. I was left to settle the bill, but I bore no ill will towards my misanthropic friend. He was more to be pitied than censured.

 Cricket and Politics. Two topics in India that can bind or break friendships. In this case, this Scoffer disease was never a friend to start with and I deeply regret the fact that he is well ahead of the game, having quaffed several beers at my expense. Not cricket. And not very politic.

There is a tendency amongst many of us hack writers to attribute any slick proverb to Shakespeare. The Bard of Avon came up with so many smart lines befitting any occasion, that one can be excused for giving him the credit for aphorisms he did not even write. My proverb of choice for this essay is ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ I diligently researched the saying to ensure it was not one of Shakespeare’s nuggets. In fact, it was William Congreve who came up with this beauty in his Restoration play, The Mourning Bride, way back in 1697. Congreve is also credited with the other famous quote, ‘Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,’ which has often been misquoted as ‘Music has charms to soothe a savage beast.’ Dear reader, I can see you getting all fidgety and going, ‘That’s all very well about Congreve whoever he was, but where are you going with all this? We haven’t got all day, you know.’ My apologies. I will come straight to the point.

I recently came across a news item that a woman in the city of Pune was so incensed with her thirty-something husband that she punched him in the nose, so hard that the poor fellow died. Probably of nasal asphyxiation, if there be such a term. She almost certainly did not mean to total her hubby but that, tragically, is what happened. Apparently, it was the young lady’s birthday and she had set her eyes on a shopping trip to Dubai. When it became clear that no air and hotel bookings for Dubai had been made, and that the husband was planning to fob her off with some flowers and a dinner date at a nearby restaurant, all hell broke loose. You would not be far wrong in saying the gloves were off.

The better half, for want of a better term, hauled off and delivered a vicious right hook to the unfortunate chap’s nasal bridge that would have made Mike Tyson proud. She punched his lights out and not only did the husband see stars, he was soon one among the stars! Evidently, the husband had also promised her expensive jewellery and luxury perfumes, but nothing was forthcoming on the big day. You can see where the hellish fury was coming from, but hey, she could have confined her aggression to a few tight slaps or something less fatal than a bleeding, blocked nose resulting in the bread winner’s last breath. The police are now trying to piece together the whole unpleasant episode. The killer widow must be full of remorse and crying her eyes out. Next time, if there be a next time, she must learn to go easy on the wrist work and follow through while delivering the punch. Better still, the stomach would have been the least fatal target what with its natural cushioning and inherent give. Which is sooner said than done. ‘Heat of the moment’ will be her plea to the cops and the courts. My own take is that she will not face the ultimate wrath of the law, though a verdict of manslaughter could well be on the cards.

In a reversal of roles, an irate husband in Bangalore hurled a pressure cooker full of boiling sambar at his wife, causing severe burns and injuries. I am not making this up, cross my heart and hope to die. This after not being able to push her over the balcony or finding a knife handy to stab her mortally. And the provocation? Apparently, the family was skint, unable to pay the rent and living from hand to mouth. The man of the house was an electrician and the distraught wife requested him to help a neighboring senior citizen with some electrical repairs, thereby earning an honest wage and keeping the wolf from the door. Why this perfectly reasonable suggestion should have shocked the electrician to such an extent that he should himself have turned into a werewolf, reached for the sambar-filled pressure-cooker and performed a discus throw with it, is a moot point. His wife was rushed to hospital.

Last heard, the wife was recovering and the husband was headed for the hills, tail between legs, being pursued by the local gendarmerie. So here we have an instance of a woman, not quite scorned, but scorched and scarred by sambar. I would suggest she follow her Pune counterpart, viz., find the blighter, and with hellish fury punch him with all her strength right on the nose. And let the devil take the hindmost.

For the most part, domestic physical violence has a been a conspicuously male preserve. Never a day passes without the media reporting a man abusing his infinitely better half for the flimsiest of reasons. Like the chappatis were too cold or the tea was too hot. Once in a rare while, we get refreshing news of the tyrant getting his comeuppance, bobbitised by his partner in the dead of night. Such cases are few and far between. However tragic the consequences of the Pune lady’s pugilistic approach towards her husband, she was probably taking out her frustration for being ignored or rebuffed over long periods of time. The anger was building up to a crescendo. However, that is only me playing guessing games. I do feel a pang of sympathy for the unfortunate husband who was merely trying to keep the home fires burning by not splurging on expensive foreign travel and shopping sprees in Dubai. Truth will out. It is one thing to literally have one’s nose put out of joint, quite another to have the breathing apparatus rendered hors de combat forever.

Moral of the story. Next time your wife insists on a foreign holiday and a visit to Cartier or Gucci in Paris or Venice, keep your guard up and stand at a safe distance away from her before saying ‘No.’ Above all, learn how to duck and weave.

As published in the Deccan Chronicle dated November 29, 2023.

I recently spent an enjoyable holiday in Sri Lanka with my extended family. The weather was hot and humid but we were put up at a comfortable hotel in a seaside resort in Kosgoda. Seafood aplenty, washed down with lots of beer and generally lying about like beached whales under umbrellas and getting our quota of Vitamin D. I am not much of a one for crabs, lobsters, squids, clams, oysters and other delicacies from our mighty oceans, but everyone else was gorging the stuff like there was no tomorrow, while I nibbled away more conservatively at some veg and eggetarian fare.

I don’t swim so I could only admire the sea from a safe distance, except to allow a frothy wave to lap at my feet and ankles. Poet Sylvia Plath’s wonderful quote came to mind, ‘A second wave collapsed over my feet, lipped with white froth, and the chill gripped my ankles with a mortal ache.’ That is stretching it a bit but then, Ms. Plath was rather big on mortal aches. Played a bit of ping-pong, after decades, in the evening and one or two of us nearly came to grief attempting ambitious forehand and backhand smashes, managing only to fall heavily on our posteriors. Happily, no fractured limbs or mortal aches and we are still here to tell the tale.

So much for a brief synopsis of a somnolent holiday. The real reason for this piece is something entirely different. To my regret, we discovered that Sri Lanka was now offering entry for Indians into their lovely island country without having to pay an entry fee for visas. The regret stems from the fact that we had already obtained our visas a few weeks earlier, and had paid our USD 20 per head with no hope of a refund. Not that the fee was extortionate but still, one felt somewhat diddled out of something for nothing.

Now that I am back home, I was happy to learn that as many as 60 countries are offering Indian tourists visa-free entries. It was the work of a moment for me to study closely each of the 60 countries to prepare for my next holiday. What a delightful prospect awaits all Indian citizens. They can just flash their passports and waltz into any of these wonderful countries. One has watched with envy Europeans and Americans do that all the time at London Heathrow, JFK or Charles de Gaulle or wherever. Let us take a closer look at them, shall we? I mean the 60 countries, not the Yanks and the Europeans.

Taking it alphabetically, we kick-off with Albania, about which I know next to nothing. As a budding child philatelist, I liked their colourful postage stamps. The country is located in the Balkans abutting the Mediterranean not far from Greece, so I am guessing the scenery and food should be good. And with any luck, cheap. I will salt Albania away for future consideration.

Moving on to sunny Barbados in the West Indies, how can we cricket-mad Indians not want to visit the home of Sir Garfield St. Aubrun Sobers in Bridgetown? I believe the great all-rounder, arguably the greatest ever, is hospitable and happy to pose for selfies. If pressed, he just might invite you home for tea. Rum might be on offer if you are there when the sun goes down. Barbados, you betcha.

Bhutan is virtually like travelling in India, so it won’t count.

To the British Virgin Islands I shall give a wide berth, as it will be no different to travelling across to Sri Lanka or Goa. And anyway, it is in the Caribbean, where I already plan to visit Barbados to discuss cricket and raise a glass or three with Sir Garry. One can have too much of a good thing.

Cook Islands next. It is somewhere in the South Pacific, and if you are prepared to fly for close to 30 hours, take another 48 hours to recover from jet lag, only to stare bleary-eyed at the ocean and some mountainous scenery, well, good luck to you. Perhaps I should not be so pessimistic. This is the South Pacific we are talking about. Who knows, you may spend Some Enchanted Evening on the golden sands and you may see a stranger. The rest is up to you.

Dominica, El Salvador, Fiji, Grenada, Haiti and Jamaica are really more of what we have already talked about. Of course, if you are seeking a quick divorce, then Haiti is the hot spot for getting it done in the blink of an eye. Americans, who plan their divorce even before taking their marriage vows, were seen frequently landing in Haiti to effect a lightning quick separation, clearly a much more arduous process in the United States. And the icing on the cake? You can also get married again to your new flame almost immediately after the divorce papers are signed! It’s an all-in-one marriage and divorce package in Haiti. Avant-garde rock musicians Steely Dan, said it best when they sang these memorable lines from their funky number Haitian Divorce, ‘Oh, no hesitation / No tears and no hearts breakin’ / No remorse / Oh, congratulations / This is your Haitian divorce.’

Kazakhstan, Macao (SAR China), Micronesia (how much?), Mauritius, Montserrat, Nepal (that is virtually India, and sometimes China), Niue (never heard of it) so might be worth checking out. Oman, Qatar and Senegal do not greatly appeal to me. Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Vincent, the Grenadines and Sri Lanka are like going to Goa. Trinidad & Tobago (we can check out Naipaul’s house for Mr. Biswas) and Tunisia, Thailand (aren’t we fed up with all those massages?), and what on earth, come to that where on earth is Vanuatu?

 We then come to Botswana, Bolivia and Burundi. Not terribly keen. Cambodia is worth a visit. Don’t know much about Cape Verde Islands and Comoro Islands, though. What is with this obsession with a profusion of islands? Perhaps the tourism industry has been under the cosh and these islands wish to make it easier for people to visit them, buy some property and settle there permanently. Fugitive jeweller baron Mehul Choksi is holed up somewhere in one of these islands, so there just might be a darker agenda to this visa free lark.

I am not sure how observant you are, but we have gone clean off the accepted alphabetical order. When I say ‘we,’ I am referring to some functionary in Delhi’s North or South Block. I mean, how do Botswana and Cambodia come after Vanuatu, wherever that is? The government moves in a mysterious way, its wonders to perform.

However, we trudge on manfully. Or should I have said, personfully? A red line appeared below that word as soon as I typed it in, but what the hell? If Microsoft is ignorant of gender etiquette, there’s not a lot I can do about it. Back to these destinations that our government is so keen we should visit. Any takers for Mauritania, Mozambique and Myanmar? Didn’t think so. Mind you, I was two years old when my dad was posted briefly in Burma (now Myanmar), and I do have one or two faded, sepia bromides to remind me. I guess I will just stick to those memories and let sleeping Burmese lie.

Palau Islands? Again, with the islands, this one a closed book to me. Rwanda and Samoa? No, thank you, not even if you fly me first class at government expense. That goes for Sierra Leone and Somalia as well. These are what Wodehouse (bow in reverence) once described as 78 rpm countries (revolutions per minute). Seychelles only reminds me of that school boy tongue-twister, ‘She sells sea shells on the sea shore,’ but little else. Bringing up the rear are Saint Lucia, Tanzania, Timor-Leste, Togo and Tuvalu. Really?

Hurrah and huzzah, just two more to go. Two familiar names – Uganda and Zimbabwe. Whatever its current situation Uganda, part of East Africa, I shall always associate with Idi Amin, whose very name gives me the collywobbles. Beheaded human trophies in his freezer and so on. Nevertheless, among many Asian British passport holders who migrated to Britain from East Africa, notwithstanding Enoch Powell’s tantrums, were Rishi Sunak’s parents. Their boy has done well, hasn’t he? And he married that nice, rich girl from Bangalore. Not that the well-heeled Richie Rich Rishi is scraping the bottom of the barrel. That does not mean I will visit Uganda, but I shall fly to Britain. Once more with feeling.

The list ends, predictably on Z for Zimbabwe. I may have fleetingly considered Harare to take in a bit of cricket, but Zimbabwe’s cricket has taken a nose dive and they do not appear to be too interested in the game. Mind you, they once beat India in a World Cup fixture in England, but that was just one brief, shining moment. I have a simple question for Zimbabwean cricket. Where have all the Flowers gone? Perhaps I should focus on big game hunting, for which that part of the world is celebrated. Must watch Hatari! again.

If those 60 nations, which have come up with this generous bilateral agreement with India to let our denizens enter their ports without let or hindrance, are not quite to your taste, you can always opt for visa on arrival (which could involve some tedious form-filling at their airports) for such destinations as Azerbaijan, Benin, Colombia (you may never return), Djibouti, Kyrgyzstan, Lesotho, Tajikistan, São Tomé and Príncipe amongst others. More well-trodden nations like Singapore and Malaysia are on that list.

As for the United Kingdom, United States, France, Germany and all the other glamour countries in Europe and elsewhere, you will continue to pay through your nose, run from pillar to post, and when you finally do obtain your visa, you will wonder if it was all worth the trouble. Our Foreign Minister, Dr. Jaishankar had a Deepavali tea meet with his Japanese wife at 10 Downing Street last week. Presented Rishi with a cricket bat autographed by Virat Kohli. Surely that alone is worth the price of a visa-free entry into the UK for Indians? Not all Indians can get married to British ministers, leave alone Prime Ministers. Prime Minister Modi, only you can make the waters part. We are waiting.

Cast: Mohawk Mata as herself / Hero-none-the-wiser as himself / Joy Dehradun as himself and introducing Henry the Rottweiler as his dog self.

This is a short one-act, off-key musical play about a feisty parliamentarian, her ex-boyfriend Joy Dehradun, a Rottweiler named Henry and Hero-none-the-wiser, a wealthy, off-shore industrialist (at least, he seems to spend much of his time off India’s shores) who has access to the feisty, at times hysterical, parliamentarian’s official login id, through which he can periodically feed awkward questions for the over-the-top parliamentarian to parrot faithfully, and histrionically, during (un)parliamentary debates. The general idea being to bring disrepute to some other fat cat industrialist, and through him, to the supreme head of our government, hoping to make him squirm and with any luck, fall. Not just fall from grace, but fall period. Like the Roman empire. Let us see how they get on.

(As the curtain rises, the stage reveals a fierce-looking, black Rottweiler sitting on a plush sofa and gnawing contentedly on a bone. Enter stage left, a youngish lady, sporting Randolph Amelia shades and dressed in a colourful sari, with a Louis Vuitton bag ostentatiously slung over her shoulder. She is our feisty parliamentarian, Mohawk Mata, waving her LVMH bag to go with her Gucci scarf. Her western fashion accoutrements are contrastingly set off by a prominent large, red bindi on her forehead. Her joy knows no bounds upon seeing Henry as she breaks into song, while hugging and slobbering all over the canine. Henry joins in too, as you will see).

Mohawk Mata – ‘There’s a hole in the cushion, dear Henry, dear Henry / There’s hole in the cushion, dear Henry a hole.’

Henry – ‘Then mend it, dear Mohawk, dear Mohawk, then mend it, dear Mohawk, then mend it. I am trained to gouge out holes in cushions. How is that for a doggerel, Mohawk?’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Very cute. But it was you that bit into the cushion, dear Henry, dear Henry. Why should I mend it, dear Henry, you naughty, naughty boy?’

(Readers will have observed that they have gone clean off script from the original song and have started improvising. The rest of the song goes to pot, while Henry goes potty on the sofa).

Henry – ‘Because, dear Mohawk, you did not teach me how to mend cushions. You taught me how to bite and chew, which is what I do for a living. Mending is your affair. All that once bitten, twice shy nonsense does not apply to me. Anyhow, sitting at home, I see that you are quite adept yourself at biting, chewing and spitting out bits of your opponents’ flesh in parliament. The cameras are never off your scarily mobile face. But mind, you tend to froth at the mouth. People might think you’ve contracted rabies. Not from me, thank God, but clearly, I have taught you something.’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Yes, my dear sweetie-kin, you have taught me so many things. My bark is now fiercer than my bite. Oops, there goes my mobile. Excuse me, Henry, I have to take this. Oh God, that is Hero-none-the-wiser on the line. I shan’t be a tick, Henry. Ok, ok, I will attend to your ticks in a moment. Hullo, hullo, is this who I think this is?’

As Hero-none-the-wiser is calling from Dubai, his voice is heard over the theatre sound system.

Hero-none-the-wiser – ‘Like you didn’t know. Listen Mohawk, I am in deep excrement, thanks to you. Why couldn’t you keep your trap shut? How much more do you want for questions? This ‘cash for query’ nonsense is hitting the roof, and I am tired of having to answer awkward questions from the media with that same old ‘I have said whatever I want in my affidavit.’ For crying out loud, tom-tomming to the whole world about your Italian handbags and your Ferragamo shoes, not to mention your French perfumes. Look where it has landed you? And me. All over social media as well.’ At this point, Hero-none-the-wiser, on cue, breaks into a recent Van Morrison hit song.

‘Why are you on Facebook? / Why do you need second-hand friends? Why do you care who’s trending? / Or is there something you’re defending? / Get a life, is it that empty and sad? / Or are you after something you can’t have? / Did you miss your fifteen minutes of fame? / Or do you not have any shame? / Put yourself in the frame / For what some people work very hard to attain / Or are you looking for a scapegoat to blame / ‘Cause you’re a failure again / Why are you on Facebook? / Why are you on Facebook?’

As the chorus line fades, Hero-none-the-wiser waits for Mohawk Mata’s response.

Mohawk Mata – ‘Catchy song Hero, but you have been had. Spilling the beans under pressure from ‘we-know-who’ in your affidavit, what were you thinking? So I gave you my login and password. Big deal. Everybody’s got everybody else’s login and password in parliament. Nothing to make a big song and dance about. By the way, I am more an X (ex-Twitter) person than a Facebook fiend.’

Hero-none-the-wiser – ‘You mean you were a twit and you are now an X-twit.’

Mohawk now throws her head back and begins to warble, a la John Lennon with a streptococcal infection.

‘Here I stand, head in hand / Turn my face to the wall / If he’s gone I can’t go on / Feeling two foot small / Everywhere people stare / Each and every day / I can see them laugh at me / And I hear them say / Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away / Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away.’

As the song comes to a close, Mohawk Mata’s erstwhile boyfriend enters stage left, Joy Dehradun. On seeing him, Henry the Rottweiler leaps from the sofa straight on to Joy Dehradun’s chest, knocking the handsome lawyer base over apex, simpering, whining and licking the poor man all over his face.

Joy Dehradun – ‘There, there, who’s a good boy then Henry? You love me? Of course, you do. You see, Mohawk. Henry is mine and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. He is coming home with me.’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Like hell he is. He stays right here with me. I have put out several videos of me and Henry virtually rolling in the hay, in a manner of speaking. Once the judge sees that, you will have about as much chance of canine custody as a snowball in hell.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘Henry it’s now or never. Remember that Elvis Presley classic?’ Joy begins to sing.

‘It’s now or never / Come hold me tight / Kiss me my darling / Be mine tonight and forever / Tomorrow will be too late / It’s now or never / My love won’t wait. Come on Henry, jump into my Merc.’

Henry – ‘I can’t come with you now, Joy. The Ethics Committee has called me for a hearing this afternoon. They’ve got a bone to pick with you, Mohawk and that Hero-none-the-wiser fellow, Mr. Moneybags. So they have promised to throw some chunky bones for me to pick on. I think I shall spill the beans, if not the bones. And please Joy, don’t try to cover Elvis, if you want me to come with you. Much better if you can belt out that old classic, How much is that doggie in the window, bow-wow. That is more within your vocal range. And mine.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘That is perfectly fine, Henry. You give that Ethics Committee hell but tell them your future lies with me. I will be waiting outside in my Merc. Just jump in at the back.’

Henry – ‘Who is that guy sitting in front? Didn’t know we had company.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘That is just my good friend, Rishicant ‘Scooby’ Dooby, who has been firing a few hot ones at Mohawk in parliament. Don’t worry, he is on our side.’

At which point, Mohawk Mata goes into a convulsive epileptic fit, recovers and dials that former cricketer’s son from a leading news channel and fixes an appointment for her 16^th interview with that same network. She then jumps on to the sofa where Henry was reclining and begins to wail her swan song. For a dog lover she elects, rather incongruously, to tearfully render Memory from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats. However, the lyrics are appropriate and poignant, as the curtain comes down. There is no curtain call.

 ‘Memory, all alone in the moonlight / I can smile of the old days / I was beautiful then / I remember the time I knew what happiness was / Let the memory live again.’

The emotional impact of the song is completely ruined by the sound of a dog barking behind the curtains. Which respectable dog wants to hear a cat singing?

                                           THE END

My younger brother and I were kiddies between the ages of 5 and 9 when we spent a few years in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur in Malaya, as it then was. The reason being that my father, who worked in a private commercial bank (later nationalised), was posted in that part of the world for several years during the 50s. If I am still here to tell the tale, then you would have divined dear reader, with that sharp acuity that so characterises you, that I am well stricken in years. Not quite senile and doddering, but decidedly long in the tooth. As a family, we do have in our vaults, some faded black and white photographs taken during that period, to remind us of one of Britain’s many outposts that we called home for the greater part of a decade.

Prior to Kuala Lumpur and Singapore my dad was also stationed briefly in Rangoon where my older brother and I were with the pater and mater. I was too young to remember anything of Burma and my younger brother was still kicking and making a nuisance of himself in my mother’s womb. The photographs were not of the highest quality, and I am not just referring to the inevitable fading and spotting involved with bromide prints of that vintage, but also in terms of composition and character. ‘There, that’s me sucking my thumb on the far, left corner and that’s my brother sticking his tongue out as the cameraman asked us to watch the birdie.’ Not exactly from the Cartier-Bresson school of photography, but useful to spend an idle hour going through them. Particularly when you plan to revisit your past.

During these periodic reminiscences of mine, I have had occasion to go back and do a flashback on cities like Calcutta and London, and pen my thoughts as to how certain gradual changes have taken place in these cities. Always remembering that I am now based in Bangalore, a city I went back to, to put down roots, having spent my post-Far East childhood there. Nostalgia keeps claiming me for its own no matter how hard I try to stay rooted in the present. When you try to rediscover a city like Kuala Lumpur, having last lived there over six decades ago, expecting to instantly recognise familiar landmarks in a trice, is unrealistic. As I was to learn on this visit a couple of weeks ago.

To be perfectly honest, I had no real plan or desire to visit KL. ‘Let the dead past bury its dead,’ is my motto, as Longfellow put it so eloquently. Rediscovering something that happened within ten to thirty years ago is doable. The memory bank over that kind of time frame holds you in good stead, and the changes wrought in the city of your choice are never that drastic that you ‘have about as much chance as a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a pound of melted butter into a wild cat’s left ear with a red-hot needle.’ Now I put that in quotes because I have lifted it from one of Wodehouse’s gems. I have my principles. I do not go around pinching other people’s quotes, trying to pass them off as my own. Not cricket. To get back to the subject, my feelings on arriving at the capital city of Malaysia, where I had spent four years eons ago, was not dissimilar to Wodehouse’s one-armed blind man.

Nevertheless, I landed in KL to be met by my younger sibling, who had arrived earlier from Chennai with his better half, and her close relative settled in Malaysia. We were to spend about a week in the capital city, keen to visit every possible landmark that our fading memory and sepia-tinted old photographs would permit us to do. Our friends and relatives had thoughtfully drawn up a programme in advance to make our voyage of rediscovery as smooth as possible. However, there was a catch. The streets where we had lived all those years ago, the few landmarks to identify them by, had all vanished without a trace. More of that in a bit. One or two well- known tourist spots are still there in full splendour. Take Batu Caves for instance.

Batu Caves, the house of Lord Murugan, son of Shiva and his consort, Parvathi and brother of elephant-God Ganesha, was the scene of thousands of visitors. There was a temple at the base of a steep hill, and another darshan could be had if you had ventured to climb several hundred steps leading to the caves, to pay obeisance. Discretion won over valour and we decided to admire from afar and gaze in wonder at the gigantic, grand gold-painted statue of the presiding deity that towered over the entire area. Monkeys frolicked around, full of mischief, reminding one of the many temples in India. We also visited one or two Chinese places of worship and frankly, one looked just like the other. Chinatown was a must, selling all manner of cheap knacks and gewgaws, and most of the stalls were manned by Bangladeshis! Their Chinese masters just sat back, scratching themselves, enjoying their smoke and endless cups of tea, while raking in the ringgits.

My brother had an address we had apparently lived in, on the arterial Klang Road. We only had his word for it, though we did have a couple of photos of our bungalow with the entire family posing in front of it. Our friends showed great patience driving us around the vicinity of what might have been the location of our residence. What we came across instead were multi-storeyed buildings galore, a couple of shopping malls and a few tennis courts. I gave it as my considered opinion that those tennis courts might well have once been our picturesque bungalow! And if you don’t believe me, I can show you the pictures of those tennis courts. If that fails to convince you, you can view the photos of our bungalows. I have all bases covered.

Lest I forget, there was old La Salle School, which my brother and I attended for a couple of years, probably 2^nd and 4^th standard respectively. Our hosts reassured us that the school does indeed exist and is flourishing. Off we went, hunting for the school we barely remembered, aided only by a class group photo of mine which displayed the school banner at the back, but little else to mark it out by. On arriving, the guard at the gate firmly refused to let us in. I could not recall the school song, if there was one, else I would have sung it for him. I showed him the photo, he remained unimpressed, told me visitors not allowed. So, I stood outside the gate and clicked a few snaps. Frankly, for all I recalled, it could have been any school, but at least, I have something to show folks back home, how I first learnt a smattering of bad words in Malay and Chinese.

On some of our longer drives to Malacca and Genting (a pleasant resort with a casino attached), we hired a charming young Chinese couple to drive us around and act as tour guides. They were called Chini and China, I kid you not. Indeed, they were like a couple of cute Chinese pandas and I am guessing the latter was the man and Chini his wife. China (pronounced Cheena) could only drive and his English was non-existent, necessitating his young wife to be the official interpreter. Well, full marks to Chini for trying, but she might as well have been speaking to us in Mandarin or Cantonese or whatever. I tried a few bad Chinese words I had learnt in La Salle School on them, and they giggled. They both giggled a great deal which kept them and us in good spirits, and they got their Rs and Ls reversed (turn light, then reft and stlaight), an Oriental speech impediment we were familiar with and could decode. Happy campers. Incidentally, the Malaysians add a ‘la’ after every sentence. It is a kind of informal term of endearment. ‘KL is really hot, la. All twelve months, la. No winter, only rain. Even then very hot, la.’ Welcome to la-la land. By the way, try as we might, we could not find a souvenir shop in Malacca selling their storied Malacca cane of legend and song. Maybe we did not look hard enough. Too hot, la.

As you would have rightly concluded, my friends, our journey to Kuala Lumpur to delve into our past turned out to be somewhat of a non-starter. That said, our hosts and friends who remembered my parents with much fondness, were most hospitable, made us feel at home, took us round various parts of the city, and kept us well fed. We posed in front of that glitzy, architectural marvel, the imposing Petronas Towers, where superstar Rajanikanth and his ilk have often shot many of their action sequences, we posed in front of the even more imposing edifice of Lord Murugan (aka Subramanyan) in Batu Caves, a sprawling golf club here, a pan-Asian restaurant there, the ubiquitous Saravanabhavan hotels everywhere – all good. As to spotting anything even remotely resembling 88 Klang Road, our hearth and home circa 1955 – 58, we were chasing a mirage. A nice mirage, though. At least, we have the photographs to invest the mirage with some life.

So, if you are visiting Malaysia any time soon, never mind which part of the year, it will be hot. Too hot, la! But the people are velly, velly fliendry.

Carnatic musician T.M. Krishna has recently held forth on the perils, as he sees it, of music lovers inexorably leaning towards consuming the art form through a plethora of streaming OTT channels and eschewing live performances. Sitting comfortably at home, one can order entertainment, à la carte, often through state-of-the-art sound systems. Not to mention the all-pervasive mobile phone. ‘Spoilt for choice’ is an oft-repeated phrase. Krishna’s gripe is that increasingly, music lovers are becoming disinclined to attend live concerts, thereby denying themselves the opportunity to experience, along with others in the auditorium, the immediacy and thrill that a live performance promises. And, with caveats, delivers.

What Krishna posits is inarguable in theory. The facts on the ground may or may not bear this out. Since I have chosen to cite a Carnatic musician’s views, let me stick to the cloistered world of Carnatic music to take this discussion forward. Our world has come a long way over the decades, and there have been fundamental sociological and lifestyle changes. I am not an anthropologist, but that pretty much sums it up. I am keeping the Covid pandemic out of this purview, though it might have been a contributory factor in accelerating the process of keeping people out of concert halls. However, Covid was a black swan event and the scourge’s relevance to current behavioural patterns is virtually nil. Covid distorts the narrative.

YouTube and other digital platforms were not available back in the day, but radio was a hugely popular medium. All India Radio’s weekly National Programmes and morning offerings of Carnatic music were avidly anticipated. The tallest musicians gave of their time generously to these programmes, which only whetted the appetite of listeners to flock to concert halls to listen live to their favourite musicians. Vinyl records, cassette and spool tapes would circulate freely amongst friends and relatives who would wear them out listening to these masterpieces endlessly. If you were a Carnatic music aficionado back then, there was not much else happening to divert your attention.

Fast forward to the past couple of decades. If you look beyond the pandemic aberration, there are two factors that make attending concerts not quite the experience it once was. Just getting from one place to another has become arduous and a deterrent. In many metros, concert venues are located far apart and only those who live in the vicinity make the effort. Then there’s the parking woes, traffic navigation and the anxiety to return home. The exception is a city like Chennai, where many venues exist within shouting-distance of each other. This is particularly evident during the December music festival, when people move form venue to venue like those great historical migrations.

Krishna does make the point that a handful of musicians who enjoy box-office appeal, are the exceptions to the rule. I am not sure that this is a recent phenomenon. Even in the 60s and 70s, the venerable Music Academy Madras would find itself hard pressed to fill the hall for all but a few stars. It is possible that there were more stars then than there are now, though that is debatable. From about the early 80s till the mid-90s, there was a palpable lull in concert attendance, barring a few bankable artists. Thence, till well into the millennium years, there was a huge upsurge of interest with a host of young musicians breaking through the clutter. Concert halls were bursting at the seams.

This flies in the face of any sweeping generalisation that people are not inclined to attend live concerts. Quality finds its own level and rises to the top, like cream. Music lovers have become more selective and will attend concerts of artists they consider worth their while. The stresses and strains of modern life cannot be overemphasised. Then there is that hoary old chestnut, ‘are youngsters interested in Carnatic music?’ The question rhetorically suggests that they are not, but the conclusion is facile and fallacious. Sell-out concerts witness the presence of a more than respectable number of teenagers and those in their 20s and 30s whooping it up in their Ed Sheeran tee-shirts. ‘Awesome Kalyani, boss’ they WhatsApp to one another in the auditorium.

In conclusion, it is not anyone’s case that home viewing is a better form of experiencing music than a live performance, but needs must. Krishna opines, inter alia, that the virtual world is ‘a dangerous manifestation of reality, because it excludes person-to-person interaction. It is an intoxicating drug.’ That is a matter of opinion, but the virtual world is here to stay. Just as Krishna himself has self-avowedly admitted to being an integral part of that world, warts and all. An intoxicating drug? Many users are mainlining on it.

Deccan Herald, October 7, 2023.

‘What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.’ Cool Hand Luke.

(This story is being narrated by a retired government servant).

I am experiencing a few issues conversing with people below the age of 40 these days. Which is a dead giveaway that I am above 40 years old. As to how many years above 40 is for me to know and for you to preferably not find out. Don’t get me wrong. The sub-40 age groupers do speak English perfectly well, no problems there. I cannot vouch for their Tamil or Bengali. Even the words and phrases they use are ones that I am quite familiar with. So where is the hitch? Or glitch, if you prefer. I am not fussy, either way. It is the context that stumps me. The thing of it is, the way in which they employ their vocabulary drives me up the wall. I hear the words, I know the words, yet their import escapes me. You see what I just did there? I am already lapsing into a we / they binary, and that is not desirable while conversing in the same language with fellow humans. Sometimes I think I am losing it, then I tell myself if I cannot figure out what they are saying, then surely, they must be struggling to follow my conversational methods. That puts us on an even keel, and I must brace myself and be up for the challenge.

It is with such conflicting thoughts swirling around my head that I had the somewhat dubious pleasure of meeting a young gentleman, a chit of a lad really, while waiting at our friendly neighbourhood bank for the teller, or whatever they are called these days (cash dispenser?), to call me up for transacting my business. This young man, it was impossible for me to guess what his age might have been, sat next to me immersed in his mobile. Other than the inescapable fact that he was younger than me. Most people are. He was prematurely bald, which is the way with many of the younger generation nowadays, what with all the multi-tasking across time zones, shattered love lives and multiple woes besetting them.

 In which respect I had a head start over him, being blessed as I was with a full head of hair. Distinguished silver grey is my preferred description of my thatch, if that does not sound too vain. He was wearing a pair of faded denims with holes at the knees and his canary yellow tee-shirt had this bold legend, GO F*** YOURSELF! The three asterisks after the F were not typed by me to hide my queasiness, that is exactly how the tee-shirt announced itself and, by implication, announced the young wearer. Of course, he was completely absorbed in his iPhone. What did you expect? However, he turned towards me, smiled broadly and introduced himself.

‘Good morning, Sir,’ said he, ‘you can go before me, if you like. Like, I am just chilling.’ I was chuffed at the respect he was showing, but I declined. The air-conditioning at the bank was effective and I was not averse to a bit of chilling myself.

Ever so pleased he did not address me as Uncle. ‘No, no, you were here before me. Let us adhere to the time-honoured queueing tradition.’ I hoped the word ‘adhere’ did not confuse him.

‘Are you sure Sir? I am in no hurry. It is my off day from work.’

‘Day off, off day, that makes two of us. It is my day-off-day too. Every day is my off day. I am retired from service. I just need to be back home for lunch, which is still three hours away.’

The young man was not quite sure whether he should be happy for me or console me. I mean, in India many people feel it is the end of the world when they retire. ‘Well Sir, I guess you are enjoying your retired life. Must be cool, being able to watch all the cricket matches all day long.’

What’s with this affinity towards arctic climes? – cool, chill and so on. ‘There are more things in life than cricket matches,’ said I tartly. ‘Tennis, for a start. Anyway, what line of work are you in?’

‘I work for a software company here.’

‘But of course, why did I even bother to ask? You cannot throw a stone in Bangalore without striking some software chap or the other. But what is it that you do exactly in this software company? If that is not betraying confidences.’

He looked dubiously at me and proceeded to clear his throat, as if to say, you asked for it. ‘I write code, design apps for a variety of digital platforms, monitor their effectiveness on a continuous basis, and make course corrections, as and when. All this on behalf of various clients, our inputs uniquely tailor-made and applied for specific purposes. We charge them a bomb. By the hour.’ He then turned back to his mobile as if he had just told me what the time was.

‘Is that all?’ I asked, ‘or are you keeping things from me? Anyhow, if you will pardon a personal question, what are you paid for doing all that stuff that you just rattled off? Sounded most impressive, though I might need an English translation.’

‘It is a personal question, but no sweat. It varies from company to company but on average, perks and everything included, I would say I clean up around Rs.35 lakhs per annum. By the way, that is just my salary. The company charges the client in numbers you don’t want to know.’

‘How old are you? 21? And why are you bald? And why do you wear torn clothes? Can’t you afford something better? At that salary?’

‘So many questions. Let us just say I am older than 21 and leave it at that. We are all suffering from hair loss and IBS, that is irritable bowel syndrome, given the hours we keep and the tension involved. We work crazy hours, aligned to American timelines. As for the torn clothes, you won’t understand. Why are they taking so long? There are just two people in front of us.’

‘What is the hurry, young man? Plane to catch? Relax. You seem all frazzled. If you like, I will stand you a café au lait at the coffee shop next door, after this. You could use one. Cup, I mean. Or mug.’

‘Sorry, just a bit knackered. Yeah, coffee. That’s a thought.’

‘Fine, by the way what is your name?’

‘Rabindranath. You can call me Robbie.’

‘Bengali?’

‘Everybody asks me that. No, Kannadiga. It’s just that my parents hero-worshipped the bearded Bengali bard.’

‘Ah, where the mind is without fear etc. Bengali bearded bard, eh? Nice alliteration! By the by, I am Narasimhan. Call me Nari. Hooray, just one left in the queue. Last question Robbie, and I don’t mean to embarrass you. What is that printed on your tee-shirt?’

‘I am not embarrassed, Sir. You might be. What do you think that is, printed on my tee-shirt? Which part of it do you not understand?’

‘I couldn’t bring myself to utter that word.’

‘What word?’

‘That one starting with F and then blank, blank, blank. I mean, GO F*** YOURSELF! I am all for freedom of expression, but surely there are limits, young man. This is a bank. You can’t go around flaunting stuff like that on a tee-shirt.’

‘What? GO FREE YOURSELF!? What is your problem with that? Seriously.’

‘Is that what it is? Then why bother with the riddle, Robbie? Why not just spell it out?’

‘Where is the fun in that? It is called a teaser. You certainly got teased, didn’t you? Now I know how your mind works, begging your pardon.’

‘Thanks for nothing. Your number is flashing. And the coffee date is cancelled.’

Note: This retired person and the young software geek at the bank were all set for what at first seemed a love feast. The more they tried to talk to each other, the more things started breaking down. They spoke the same language, but they spoke in different tongues. The generation gap is a cliché, but it has a ring of truth to it. I am reminded of that great line from jazz singer and guitarist George Benson’s song The Masquerade, ‘We tried to talk it over, but the words got in the way.’

I don’t mind having a reputation as a serious and spiritual person. I think that would be a nice reputation to have. Russell Brand.

During my slaving days in an advertising agency in the 70s in Calcutta, we were required to work closely with market research organisations. Some of these research companies were spawned by the advertising agencies themselves and the research folks sat cheek by jowl with the ad crowd at the office. This was a clever way of keeping all the business revenue, advertising and research, under one corporate roof. All that changed many years down the road but that’s another story. One of the many rudimentary lessons I learned during my interactions with research professionals was that you need to be totally objective in framing your questionnaire such that no bias creeps in when you go around quizzing respondents. For instance, it simply won’t wash if you ask a question to a housewife on the lines of ‘Madam, we think Golcate toothpaste is harmful to your gums. Do you agree?’ You will be guilty of leading the respondent. The makers of Golcate toothpaste will sue you for every last paise. Let me get back to the res.

What has all this got to do with the price of fish? I hear you ask. I indulged myself somewhat merely to give you, the reader, the impression that I have been around, know my onions and will be treading on solid ground with respect to what is to follow. You see, I have been scratching my head these past few weeks trying to figure out who this Russell Brand chap is and why our newspapers here in India are so keen on featuring his life, sexual peccadilloes and court cases on a regular basis.

There are wild allegations about this gentleman, assuming he is one, apparently a millionaire television personality by profession and a dangerous and rapacious predator by inclination. Ask Katy Perry, not that I know who she is. A sort of Jekyll and Hyde character, this Brand, but most people seem to think he is more of a Hyde and Hyde character, the Jekyll side of him being conspicuously absent. My point being, why talk about this Russell Brand, who might be worshipped as an anti-hero for his wayward lifestyle back in the U.K. but is a total nonentity here in India? Do The Guardian, The Sunday Times or even the Daily Mirror headline page 3 with a picture story of one of our Bollywood stars, take your pick, having an ugly spat with one of their girlfriends? I think not. So why must The Times of India feed us stories of this Brand fellow and others of his ilk from the western world?

As a conscientious blogger, I decided to surf the net to glean a bit more about Russell Brand instead of relying solely on what could be dodgy newspaper reports. YouTube provided plenty of snippets about him and his extraordinary persona. One nugget I picked up was that he married singer Katy Perry in Rajasthan’s Ranthambore tiger sanctuary, under Hindu Vedic rituals! Divorced fourteen months later, presumably under American or British rituals. While all this was of academic and perhaps, prurient interest, it did not in any way, give me a clue as to why Indian audiences should be interested for our print media to waste so much editorial space on the man. To be fair, he talks fleetingly about practicing yoga but that is about as much of an Indian connection that I can gather (besides the Ranthambore tiger reserve wedding), and one heck of a stretch at that. I can understand if stories concerning Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt were to be featured. Many Indians do watch their movies and can relate to them, but Russell Brand is a closed book.

It was then that I said to myself that I should not allow my personal bias to cloud my judgement. It is entirely possible that I am some kind of weirdo who does not even know the first thing about the world-famous Russell Brand, and that he could very well be the main subject of conversation at every cocktail party in all the metro cities of India. Not in any party I have attended, but in every other party. I recently wrote a piece admitting my non-existent knowledge of pop diva Taylor Swift and her songs and had half my readers coming down on me like a ton of bricks berating my ignorance and calling me a moth-eaten fuddy-duddy. That is when I arrived at the conclusion that I should do a quick dipstick study (I can do the jargon) to ascertain what the level of awareness is with respect to brand Brand, in my neck of the woods.

As indicated earlier, having had some exposure to the way professional research is conducted, I decided to spare no effort to proceed diligently in asking the right questions (actually just the one question) to a set of people to elicit the level of Brand (pun intended) equity Russell enjoys in our country. Or not. Clearly, there was no need for me to travel all over India to do this. A small but representative sample size chosen with care should do the trick. I decided to go with the random sampling method. I am on a roll here, folks. Onward and upward!

To be on the safe side, I called up one of my old pals, a whiz in the research business, explained my dilemma, and sought her guidance on how to go about this Brand project. Incidentally, for reasons I cannot put a finger on, the market research business is dominated by the female of the species. Always has been. I can only put it down to their superior analytical prowess and empathy which enables them to draw people out of their shyness and start talking. Fair play to them, I say. There is hardly any point in embarking on a research exercise if you can’t get a sensible word out of the party of the second part, or the respondent. My friend, the research pro, asked me to proceed on my Russell Brand study strictly on pre-determined lines. I had made copious notes in my little black diary. I mean a leather-bound notepad with ruled pages, clip-on pencil and stuff. Not one of your digital affairs.

As soon as I stepped out of the main gate of my apartment block, I was to buttonhole the second human being I spied, and pose the question, ‘What does the name Russell Brand mean to you?’ Following this instruction to the T, I stopped a young lady who was ironing clothes for some customers in our block. She could only speak Tamil, but I had my instructions, and I could converse fluently in Tamil. Accordingly, I lapsed into the vernacular and posed the question to her about Russell Brand. She looked quite blank and mildly alarmed. Thus far, she had conversed only with my house maid. I took her awkward silence as a ‘don’t know,’ licked the tip of my lead pencil, jotted it down and proceeded down the road.

I then walked a little further, turned left and stopped at the third house on the right. This is called random selection. Whether I knew the resident of that house or not would have been entirely a matter of coincidence. In the event, I did not. I rang the bell, a dog barked and the door opened to reveal a well-dressed gentleman. As I did not look like a door-to-door salesman, he greeted me and let me in. The Jack Russell frisked about, sniffed at my ankles, thought better about lifting its hind leg, concluded I was not a threat and sat down next to me. ‘I will only take a minute, Sir. I am doing a small survey. I see your pet is a Jack Russell terrier. Speaking of which, does the name Russell Brand mean anything to you?’

‘I have heard of Russell Crowe. Good actor, Gladiator,’ replied the man of the house. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?’

‘Thank you, Sir. I have taken enough of your time. I have more visits to make. Another time, perhaps.’

He saw me off at the door, with the Jack Russell yapping away in the background. Given the level of response so far, I may as well have asked the terrier what he thought of Russell Brand.

Still, ours not to reason why. I took out my little notepad and sauntered off in the direction of my next stop. ‘Take the second turning right and halt at the third bungalow on the left.’ I did that and faced a Nepali security guard who viewed me with suspicion. Since there was not much point asking him if he was aware of one R. Brand, I requested him to show me into the palatial bungalow. After what seemed an eternity while he spoke on the intercom, a sprightly teenage girl wearing a Coldplay tee-shirt skipped out and told me her Mummy and Papa were out of the country and could she be of any help. This was the light at the end of the tunnel. The Coldplay tee-shirt won the day. ‘What do you know about Russell Brand?’ I queried.

‘I know zilch about him, but my friend in London says he is a perv, but quite sexy. That is all I can tell you.’

Didn’t quite strike pay dirt, but near enough. Job done. I could have hugged her but wiser counsel prevailed. She might have taken me for a local avatar of Russell Brand. Thanked her profusely and departed, the Nepali guard still eyeing me warily. Literally putting one foot in front of the other, I completed seven more planned random encounters, including one with a Dunzo courier, who was chatting with his girlfriend on his mobile, and who abused me in guttersnipe Kannada. I decided to call it a day, came home and conducted ten telecom interviews asking the same question to people I did not know from Russell Brand. Without exception, all of them cut me off, one of them threatening to make a police report about a crank caller.

There you have it, my friends. I ask again. If no one in India, or at least in my two-kilometre radius, consisting of a representative sample in Bangalore, knows anything about Russell Brand, why is my daily newspaper so wrapped up in him? It’s not as if he is Justin Trudeau or something. Not to put too fine a point on it, I too must wonder why I spent so much time writing about this non-entity. Duh!

I was fiddling with my mobile phone a couple of days ago, since most of us have nothing better to do these days, when I came across one of those short videos that had gone viral, as the expression is, rather like dengue or the Zika virus. The Instagram or Tik-Tok reel was about a couple of minutes long and featured a fetching young lady, walking around a new premium liquor outlet that had just opened its doors somewhere in a ritzy suburb of Mumbai. It was a promo, of course, and the lady in question was introducing the viewer to this luxury wine and liquor store. The word luxury is a much-abused term to mean anything that is perceived as upper crust, rare and consequently obscenely expensive. The more expensive, the more the luxury quotient kicks in. While mine hostess was jabbering away breathlessly about single malts and vintage wines, she stopped in front of a swank, blood-red Ferrari, parked plumb spang in the middle of the store. It was not clear if the car itself was up for sale, but the general idea seemed to be to accentuate the luxury feel in the store. And what better than a Ferrari, to a. the l.f. A bit out of place I thought, a car in a wine shop but what the hell, drinking and driving is kosher in the luxury segment. The number of Audis, Mercs, BMWs and Jaguars, under the ministrations of sozzled millionaires that have climbed pavements, wrapped themselves round trees and lamp posts, slaying six, are too numerous to mention.

However, since this is a wine store and not a retailer for upmarket automobiles, we were also helpfully informed that customers will be waited upon by sommeliers to aid the process of selecting the right libation for their specific needs and palates. Note the ostentatious choice of the word sommelier, which is nothing more than a fancy French expression for a waiter who can gab on endlessly about wines and spirits, in the process confounding our confusion. What is more, if you are a wine connoisseur, and even if you are not, this is probably the only such store in the country (if the girl is to be taken at face value) where you can actually sample a variety of wines and / or spirits before making up your mind which brand of potion you wish to lavish your ill-gotten gains on.

The girl on screen was doing precisely that, sampling the stuff while still steady on her feet, and gradually, almost imperceptibly becoming incoherent towards the end of the film. ‘Neapolitan, sorry Napoleon brandy, cognac, what’s the difference, 1875 vintage, fill quarter of the goblet, no ice and swirl, swirl, swirl, inhale the fumes and down the hatch. Neat? Hic! Sorry. Retake yaar!’ Some outlets in big airports like Heathrow or Charles de Gaulle provide this kind of exclusive service at their duty-free shops. The passenger, probably travelling business or first class, is looking for something rare to take home. He sips from one goblet, takes a swig from another, downs a third and before he knows it, the sommelier, whose small talk is as smooth as the drinks being purveyed, has convinced the sodden sod to buy all three bottles. Nice work, if you can get it.

The one thing that impresses me most is the amount of knowledge these fast-talking liquor sales folk have garnered and how persuasively they can communicate the various subtleties of the beverage they are promoting. (‘Feel the nutty walnut and cashew flavour in this dry sherry.’) It is almost insidious. Before you can say ‘bottoms up,’ you are eating out of their hands. More accurately, drinking out of their hands. Most of the sommeliers I have come across, even those outside the United Kingdom, appear to have been recruited from the U.K. That is quite understandable, English being the lingua franca of the world. Chances are many of them must have started life out in English pubs, serving veteran elbow-benders and moved on to higher things. It is also possible they have special schools for training in the field of liquor small talk, so you come out with a degree, your head crammed with deep insights on the subtle intricacies of el vino.

Speaking for myself, though not a toper by any stretch of the imagination, you will not find me averse to indulging in the odd drop of vin rouge or vin blanc, if the occasion calls for it. However, it is the conversational gambit of these sales chappies at the duty-free counters that fascinates me. It is an extraordinary amalgam of knowledge, wit and banter that cunningly inveigles you into their web. Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly. Next thing you know, you are a goner, three bottles heavier and a few hundred pounds lighter. And there’s still the chocolates and perfumes left to take home.

I have been an active witness to a couple of these encounters, notably at London Heathrow’s exclusive Terminal 5, reserved only for British Airways. Walking into one of these spacious duty-free spaces, redolent of rich wines and single-malts combined with ‘all the perfumes of Arabia.’ I was clear that I will merely loaf around the shop, admiring the big brands and vowing to myself that earthquakes will not loosen a pound coin out of my pocket. A voice spoke from behind me.

‘Good morning, Sir. Are you looking for anything in particular or can I guide you in any way?’ He spoke impeccably, could have been an Englishman from Oxbridge, though why an Oxonian or a Cantabrigian should be selling wines at Heathrow was not for me to reason why. In the event, he turned out to be a young Sikh lad, probably from Southall. Gurmeet, his badge proudly announced. For some reason, they don’t display surnames. I was wondering if he would suddenly break into some popular Punjabi rap. Rapper Gurmeet.

‘Hi Gurmeet,’ I responded chattily. It was good to see an Indian face, though truth be told, he was no more Indian than Rishi Sunak. ‘Just browsing, not that this is a book shop or anything, ha ha.’

‘No Sir, not a book shop,’ responded Gurmeet tartly. ‘Could I interest you in some fine wines, Sir? If you could step this way, I will introduce you to Reginald, our highly qualified sommelier this morning. He will take you through some of our best wines and perhaps something even stronger. Reg, please help our guest travelling to India, I think. Ta.’

Gurmeet sidled out of sight and I was left with Reg and half-a-dozen bottles of varying shapes and sizes, plus several sparkling goblets. We were all set for a right, royal booze-up. Reg cleared his throat. His parents migrated to the U.K. from Jamaica during the 50s, so there was not a trace of the Michael Holding accent in him. More like Benedict Cumberbatch, if you closed your eyes.

‘Good morning once again, Sir. As Gurmeet has just told you, I will introduce each of these exclusive brands briefly, at the end of which you will be invited to sample them. And depending on which of these superb offerings you decide to buy, we will be giving a special 25% discount. With your permission, I will begin.’

‘Er, I am not sure I will buy anything. So my sampling your wares should not be conditional upon an actual purchase. I wish to make that clear at the outset.’ I was glad I got that off my chest. I mean, a Chateau Lafite 1956, priced at 1550 pounds discounted at 25%. They were virtually giving it away!

Reg was most polite. ‘No problem, and if you don’t mind my asking Sir, are you travelling Business or First Class?’

That got my dander up. ‘What has that got to do with anything, Reg? If you must know I am travelling cattle class. Is that a problem?’

‘Not at all Sir.’ He was a bit flustered. ‘It’s just that we have special offers for First and…oh, never mind. Let’s turn our attention to the drinks.’ In this vein, he carried on, offering me generous sips from different brands of wine (I have had tastier cough syrups), whisky and liqueur until I had become cross-eyed. In fairness, he had placed a silver spittoon next to me. Apparently, I was supposed to spit out the liquor sample into it, after the customary swirl in the mouth, but I kept swallowing the stuff. I wasn’t even listening to his endless banter. I could only hear the sommelier droning on about the pluses and minuses of corks and screwcaps, ’99 Canalicchio Brunello, Napa valley, 2% Petit Verdot, sedimentation and so on. I could barely stand, but I managed to blurt out, ‘Thanks very much, my old sommelier. You can talk the talk, though I can barely walk the walk. Tell you what, I shall pick up that mini bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. 3 quid? You will give it free? You are a prince among men, Reginald, and I shall write to your bosses telling them so.’

Feeling flushed, I staggered out towards Gate 47, 11 minutes by foot the digital sign said. Woof! And not a courtesy transport, golf cart in sight.

I commenced my trudge. Stirred, but not shaken.

One of the most exciting tasks that a married couple anticipates is the arrival of the proverbial stork with their first born, or for that matter, second or even third born. Rarely in our straitened times do couples go for more than two kids, three being a bit of a stretch, probably accidental. Unless, of course, you are Elon Musk, in which case after the announcement of the birth of the eleventh baby, he has just got down to spitting on his hands and getting into his stride. More of Musk anon. It is superfluous to add that in our enlightened age, marriage is not a necessary pre-condition to add to the world’s head count. In fact, as a wedded couple you are not even called upon to be of a different sexual orientation. Same sex couples can have children, just like anybody else. That should cover the whole gamut, unless some new development has taken place in the sphere of human behaviour and physiology that has escaped my attention.

My preoccupation this week is more to do with how couples and their near and dear ones get into a right, royal tizzy over what to name the impending arrival along with the patter of little feet. Those who do not wish to know in advance the sex of their bundle of joy that is still blissfully swimming in its mother’s amniotic fluids, run around with reference books while frantically Google searching, scouring names of boys and girls. In any case, Indian law does not allow parents to know the baby’s gender in advance. Depending on which religious denomination you belong to, Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Sikh, Parsee, Jain, Buddhist or any other, there are loads of names for you to sift through during those nine months of cozy captivity for our little wonder.

Fierce debates rage in the homestead as all kinds of names are scattered about like so much confetti. If it happens to be a boy, Amar, Akbar or Anthony or their variants should do just fine. Sticking with the Bollywood motif, if it’s a girl, one could turn to that notorious vamp Bindu’s cabaret dance line from the 1971 hit film Kati Patang, ‘Neena ya Meena, Anju ya Manju, yaaa Madhu!’ Not that it makes a blind bit of difference, but the vamp’s name in the film is Shabnam, though she is affectionately called ‘Shabbo.’  That is a translation from the opening line of the song. The context is different but still, I think you can see where I am going with this.

To further complicate matters, many couples are keen on nailing both the official registered name for the baby as well as a nick name or pet name. ‘Right, we have all settled on Krishnamoorthy Venkatasubramanian as the final name, if it is a boy, as it incorporates in some shape or form the names contained in the father’s and mother’s family genealogy. However, he shall be known as Kittu to the world. If he migrates to the United States and becomes a billionaire software czar and covets the White House, he shall change his name to Kittu Venky. The same rules apply if the arrival is a girl. Full name, Anahita Ambegaonkar, converted in America to Annie Amby.’ This principle will hold irrespective of which religion the child belongs to. As an aside, I find it rich when Americans moan about difficulties in pronouncing Indian names with more than three syllables, and find the need to shorten them, Yank style. What about former U.S. National Security Advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski then? Wrap that round your tongue.

The process of naming a child, in this modern age when the world is our oyster, or as the poet Wordsworth had it, ‘the world is too much with us,’ has become somewhat universalised. Westerners, who notoriously make a fuss about pronouncing names from the southern hemisphere, have become just that much more familiar. They still behave as if the cat has caught their tongues, but they muddle through. Kamala Harris poses no problem, that’s easy-peasy, Vivek  Ramaswamy is rapidly gaining currency with frequent appearances on American television debates. Britain’s Prime Minister Rishi Sunak is a walk in the park, though his first lady Akshata Murty could prove a handful, if not a mouthful. To the native Brit that is, not to the Asian migrants.

For reasons I am unable to articulate, Indians in India celebrating the impending new arrival with a ‘baby shower,’ a western concept, seems little more than something the marketing mavens of the gifting industry have showered upon us, to expand their business by showering the baby with gifts. Not unlike the ad blitz inflicted on an unsuspecting world on Valentine’s Day. There are those that aver that the idea of a baby shower was originally inspired by ancient Greek and Egyptian rituals. In traditional India, there are certain ceremonies held when the woman is still ‘carrying,’ but we tend to go a bit soft on the gifts!

Now that we have turned to the subject of names in the western hemisphere, I cannot but talk at greater length about Elon Musk and his rapidly expanding familial empire. While I have touched briefly upon the Indian diaspora and the unique challenges that their names could pose to a western audience, the Twitter now X mogul, Elon Musk, has blazed a new and enthralling trail when it comes to naming his eleven offspring. Across three partners (Justine, Grimes and Shivon Gillis), the prolific Musk has fathered eleven children, and I would not bet against more in the pipeline – more partners and more children.

While one gasps at the great magnate’s fecundity, it is more the names his children were burdened with that is noteworthy. Try these on for size. Nevada Alexander Musk, twins Griffin and Vivian Musk which was more conservative, Kai, Saxon and Damian Musk, X AE A-XII Musk (I kid you not), Exa Dark Siderael Musk, nicknamed Y as X AE A-XII had already appropriated the nickname X (makes sense), Strider and Azure Musk and the latest arrival, Techno Mechanicus, nicknamed (what choice did they have?) Tau. Somewhere along the way, they sadly lost Nevada, then resorted to IVF, Vivian declared she was a transgender, the IVF a second time produced triplets, the abovementioned Kai, Saxon and Damian.

At which point Elon and his first wife Justine decided she had had enough and separated, something the Americans do with elan. So with Elon. Presumably Grimes and Shivon Gillis are still in the frame, but honestly, my guess is as good as yours. If you have been able to make cogent sense out of all that, you are a better man than I am, Gunga Din. Overall, not that I am much of a Bollywood follower, I can’t help but paraphrase one of their big hit numbers in doffing my hat to the productive Elon, ‘Tu cheez badi hai Musk, Musk.’ Loosely translated, in case you are reading this Elon, it means ‘You are great, awesome, awesome!’

One thing that really gets my goat with Americans is when the father and the son are given the same name, as in George Bush Sr. and George Bush Jr. It gets no easier when both of them become President of the U.S.A. Obviously not at the same time, but still. In casual conversation at a party for instance, someone says something like, ‘That was quite a victory for George Bush.’ Your natural response to that comment would be, ‘Which George Bush are you referring to? The one that freed Kuwait of Saddam Hussein’s occupation or the one that smoked out Saddam from a hidey-hole somewhere in Iraq, leading to his execution?’ See what I mean? Merely affixing a Sr. or a Jr. just doesn’t cut it. That is taking the lazy way out. I know there is an H.W. and a W that splits the difference between father and son, but that doesn’t help. And why John Kennedy was called Jack at home is even more of a mystery, what with his wife being called Jackie. Ours not to reason why, I suppose.

If it was just the newborn’s name that parents and elders tear their hair out coming to grips with, that is nothing compared with the argy-bargy that goes on in relation to how to spell the name. This is particularly relevant in the Indian context where superstition and old wives’ tales count for a lot. The baby arrives on schedule, spittle generously foaming around the mouth, gurgling away while everybody goes coochy-coo. The father rushes in, brandishing a sheet of paper and announces with much fanfare, ‘I have it. From this day forth he shall be called Nikhil. I have checked it out with the priest. It’s all kosher and official. We can always call him Nikki or Niks at home.’ The mother then peers at the sheet of paper, smeared with sacred ash and kum kum, bearing the bold legend NIKHIL, scrunches up her face and says calmly, ‘The H will have to go. We cannot go beyond five letters, and my family guru says H, being the eighth letter of the English alphabet, portends ill luck. So let us settle on NIKIL.’ Given that the change suggested was not drastic, everyone agrees with a sigh of relief. This is a common occurrence in millions of households around the country. If the baby is a girl, the name could be Riya, Ria or even Rhea. It is all written in the stars.

When all is said and done, the newborn is the victim here, having no say in the matter whatsoever, lumbered with a name he or she will have to live with forever. Techno Mechanicus for crying out loud, you want to change your name? You can, but have a care. Your super rich dad could cut you out of his will and where will you be? What is the point of changing your name to John Doe if you are going to be left skint? Remember what Shakespeare said? ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Though on this occasion, I would prefer to sign off with James Joyce, ‘What’s in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.’

Way to go James, or should that be Jim?