Learning the Art of being Unhappy – Part 1

Sometime in the early 1970s.... it is summer vacation time. We had moved a few years back to a place called Belgaum in  the state of Karnataka (mistaken to be Belgium, by some of our relatives!). During this period, we would make the annual trip to our hometown in Orissa. There would have been detailed planning, months earlier, to ensure that the reservations and connecting trains were all confirmed.

As kids, we would all be excited looking forward to this vacation trip. The bags would be packed along with food and rations to last the 3 day journey. A largish, hard plastic water canister, with a small metal spout at the bottom, was a critical piece and I felt mighty important to be given responsibility of its safe keeping. A purple bedding roll had to be carried – it comprised of 2 pillows at the ends, thin mattress / quilts and bed sheets, rolled up and buckled. This had to be carried, since in those days, the berths in the trains were made of wooden planks only (except first class). 

We would go to the station, at least an hour before its scheduled time, although it was certain that the arrival of the train was uncertain. Dad would comment that he hoped that the train would be allotted platform number one, so that we would not be required to walk across the long over bridge and climb the never ending steps.  On reaching the station, we would be accosted by a gang of registered porters, who looked radiant in their bright red shirts. There would be a few minutes of hard bargaining on the charge to carry the baggage to the platform. Finally, there would be an agreement (have realized through my later situations in life, that any and all negotiations always ends up with a mutual satisfactory agreement!).  For sure, Dad’s hopes would not have materialized and the porter would announce that our train would arrive on the last platform! He would then roll a piece of cloth on his head and pick up the first suitcase and place it on his head. The next two would be hoisted over the first one by us, without him showing any signs of discomfort. He would then urge us to hand him another bag which he would sling on his left shoulder. As if to make us realize that his charges are justified, he would pick up another bag with his right hand and commence his brisk walk to the platform. Dad and I would walk alongside him, to ensure that he does not disappear with our luggage! (A fear so unwarranted, but exists, even today, in almost every traveler's mind!). The porter would reach a spot on the platform, where he expected our designated coach to arrive. The baggage would be lowered on the floor and arranged neatly, creating a space for the family.

Mom and sis would perch themselves on the suitcases after ascertaining the bag is strong enough and nothing inside would get crushed. And then the interminable wait would start. We would watch trains arrive on other platforms and other travelers get in joyfully to start their journey. The cacophony of the station would be interspersed with shriek, incoherent announcements of the status of other arrivals and departures. There would be a constant stream of old ladies and small children in ragged dresses approaching us, seeking alms. Notwithstanding their apparent need, I have it grilled into my mind during those early days to never encourage this – as giving alms to one would ensure that you become the most popular altruist in the station. Soon we hear a bell – this confirms that our train has just left the previous station and we are thrilled. It would reach in the next 30 minutes or so. All heads are turned towards the horizon where the train is expected to arrive. Dad warns that the train has a scheduled stop of 7 minutes only, and we must quickly board the train. He is tense. There are a couple of false calls, whereby it happens to be a goods train rumbling across or another one surprisingly diverting itself into another platform, at the last moment.  Mom makes sure that all of us are safely away from the platform’s edge. The train chugs in. The confident porter’s prediction has been wrong, the compartment is further away. He picks up our baggage and all of us rush behind him. There is a scramble at the door but we manage to push ourselves in. After finding our seats, a count is taken of the baggage, to ensure that nothing has been lost. The porter is paid off – the cunning fellow has no change to return, and he pockets the balance, knowing very well that our priority now is to settle down and start our journey. Dad is pleased that the first stage of the umpteen journeys he has taken has started off well. We still have a few long minutes to spare, before the train starts pulling out of the station – and it has been always this way - unnecessary anxiety.

We have one window seat allotted between the four of us. I quickly glide myself there, much to my elder sister’s annoyance. Her glares do not deter me and I gloat over my newly acquired kingdom, watching the dusk approach. Dad takes care of the security and ensures that all the baggage are chained and locked to the seat stands below. Mom opens the bedding to make the family comfortable. Soon it is night, and all passengers open up their packages to have dinner. The entire compartment is filled with the aroma of diverse Indian cuisines. After having some delicious “puri – aloo” followed by a dry sweet, all retire to bed, with a thrill that the vacation has actually begun.

The next day passes off well, reading “Amar Chitra Katha” and Tarzan comics that I have carried and having intermittent fights with my sis, whenever I am bored. I have the South Eastern railways, timetable with me and I keep announcing where and when the next stop is going to be. When the halt is reasonably long enough, Dad makes a foray to fill up the water cistern from the stained, white mosaic drinking taps on the platform. I can see much anxiety on Mom’s face till he returns back safely. There is no catering service in the train, so when at times he is able to pick up some “vadas / idlis” with the watery chutney, it is devoured with utter pleasure. The soot of the coal from the steam engine (there were no diesel / electric engine trains then), gradually coats us – a wash at the small sink at the end of the aisle, freshen us, but it is not long before our face and hands are black again. We have to alight at Vijayawada to change trains, sometime late in the night. We are put to bed early, since we may not get much sleep later. The train is running two hours late, Dad is worried that we may miss the connecting train, if it gets late any further.

We reach Vijayawada at 2.00 am. An hour earlier, we have been woken up and the bedding is rolled up and everything repacked. Bleary eyed, we follow our parents to the “waiting room”. There are people all over the place – some of them sleeping blissfully on the floor with a plain bed sheet, some on a chair with their legs perched up, the lucky ones having the space to stretch their legs on a bench. We freshen ourselves us, and Mom dabs some powder talc on us, I guess, to camouflage some of the remnant soot. In the absence of computerised booking system, our reservation on this train would be certain only an hour before its schedule. Dad goes and checks up the reservation chart, and comes back happy that 2 of the 4 seats have been confirmed. We will manage amongst us. We board the train at 5.00 am, the negotiation with the porter repeating only this time it is in Telugu, and more exorbitant, considering that we are strangers in this place. 

The journey to Cuttack, our destination, where our grandparents live takes us almost another day. We reach past midnight. We have managed with two berths during the last twenty hours. Tired and exhausted, we are elated that we have finally reached. I have no more strength or inclination to irritate my sis. We find 2 cycle rickshaws which will take us home. Barking dogs greet us in the stillness of the night. My grandparents are awake to welcome us back after a year. Mom gets into a mode of ensuring that we are presentable and shoos us to go for a bath, with cold water. Black soot makes rivulets on the red flooring of the ancestral bathroom. A fresh set of clothes. The arduous journey lasting over two days is over. We have a month to spend, before we make a similar trip, only this time in the reverse direction. And many such journeys, over the years to come.

But I always enjoyed myself and never complained.

Maybe I was too young to understand the stress. Maybe I had the energy of a child and did not let the obstacles and discomfort bother me. Maybe my parents ensured that all my needs were taken care off. Maybe irritating my sis was an energising distraction. 

... Maybe I had not yet learnt the Art of Being Unhappy....

(.... To be continued .....)

My Monthly Ordeal

I have been going through an ordeal every month. It is about going to the hair salon, once every 4 – 6 weeks to trim the wavy, obnoxious curls that have become quite vicious at the nape of my neck. I do not recall when I started developing this distaste – maybe when I was 35 ( I  had developed enough free space on my pate, where a game of chess could be played.)

The ordeal would typically start on a morning of a weekend, with me either driving up or walking down to a neighborhood salon. Getting in through the doors, initial anxiety would build up to see how many people are already waiting in the queue. If the bench is already full, you step out to get a little more of the weekend sunshine on your face. After a couple of customers exit, looking more human than they were 45 min back, you  venture back into the interiors. The waiting customers look up and into your eyes, so that you register them and silently commit that you will not jump the queue. One of the kinder ones adjusts himself so that you get a place to sit. Quickly, you make a mental calculation, using the rate problems you did in 8^th grade, on how much of your weekend time you are going to invest in this non value adding exercise. Now knowing that you have to spend a good 30 min or more, you glance at the reading material on the table in front of you. The Sunday newspaper is split between 3 people. You hope to at least get the supplementary page which has the weekly horoscope by Bejan Daruwalla, to ascertain whether the wait is going to be more than your estimate of 30 min. But no luck. So you pick up the ubiquitous Filmfare magazine which is at least 3 months old and you wonder how Rekha still looks so beautiful, in spite of the pages being so frayed, with the hundreds that have read the magazine over the last couple of months. 

Rekha’s eternal beauty and the filmdom’s gossip don’t hold my attention beyond a few minutes. My gaze goes up and makes an assessment of the 4 prisoners, in front of me, bound with their plastic aprons. Prisoners – because they are at the mercy of the hair dresser, with their heads at various angles. Based on the progress made on each of the prisoners, I again make an estimate of how long will it take before my turn comes.

And it is at that moment that my real ordeal begins. 

It is not the waiting that makes it difficult. Realization dawns on me that all these guys spend at an average of 26 minutes on the chair. While analysis of my past data confirms that the hair dressers have spent a maximum of 7 minutes while giving my haircut. My idle mind brings up a question – why is the Law of Proportions not applied here? One pays for vegetables and fruits proportionately to the weight of the goods purchased. So should not the hair dresser charge you based on the time he spends on you? Why should I pay 100 bucks for a simple trim, while he charges the same for all those 4 guys, who have mass of hair like our ancestors had eons back? It is this inequality which created my revulsion of this monthly exercise. Considering the fact that the low hair count, as such,  creates a complex, being unfairly charged for it only makes it worse. 

And that’s why my monthly trips to the hair dresser had became an ordeal.

Till ....

... I went to the hair dresser at Alexandria on a Saturday morning. The time had come to get rid of my unruly curls. Being in a new place, I went to one, where my predecessor used to frequent, called Hakims (I have now realized that many Arabic words are common to Hindi). The first shock that I had was that there was no queue and no film magazines to read. I was accosted with a warm “Sabah Kheir” (Good Morning) and led to one of the 2 vacant chairs in a spacious hall. His English was good and I was happy that he clearly understood that I needed a “medium” trim (I have had bad experiences in the past where I have had a military cut due to "mis-communication"). After getting me comfortably ensconced in the chair, he has a little boy bring me some special “chai”. It  tastes really good – but I wonder whether I will be able to finish the tea in 7 minutes. My hairdresser seems to have all the time in the world and goes on with  his assignment with complete dedication and care. I see the difference – earlier, I used to be one in a pending queue, to be done away fast; now I am with a hair dresser who is doing it for the love of his work. I have finished my tea, but he is still absorbed, ensuring every aspect is perfect!

After some time, he announces he is done and unties my apron. My first reaction is to look at my watch – gosh, it has taken 32 minutes! For once in my life, I get a feeling of exultation at the hair dresser – he has cared for me as much as much as he would do for a person with a thick, greasy mane. I am ecstatic and when I look at the mirror, I feel that it is the best haircut I have ever had (though in reality, it is no different, when there is nothing much to cut!). I feel on top of the world, and after giving a handsome tip, walk out with a demeanor of utter joy and bliss on my face.

I have had a revelation – find a gardener who would passionately take care of your little rose garden in a vast non - arable land ... ‘tis much better ... than to have a farmer who tends to the large paddy fields with monotony, because he knows not what love of work means.

The last nine months, I have been eagerly waiting for 4 weeks to complete and wishing that the obnoxious curls grow faster – so that I need to visit Hakims again and luxuriate in the experience that I had missed in the past years. 

It is no longer a ‘monthly ordeal’

The only flip side is that my wife has begun suspecting whether I am seeing someone!! My obsession with the timeliness and that I look forward to my monthly tryst at Hakims has her really worried. And that I spend a few seconds every day in front of the mirror, running a comb through my hair (that had ceased for the last 10 years), confirms her suspicions.

But I guess, it is the tribe of happy bald men, like me, who will empathize, how good it feels to get a fair treatment at the hairdresser, notwithstanding their suspicious wives.

Gandhi in Egypt

The world has been watching Egypt over the last 18 days ... TV channels have been broadcasting 24 X 7 trying to catch every emotion ...commentators have been excitedly giving their inconsistent insights, leaders of other countries providing unsolicited advice ... !!

Army tanks on the Corniche looking incongruous with their guns pointing at the tranquil, blue Mediterranean sea, slogans of protesters reverberating like thunder on their march through Horraya street, curfew timings having a new definition, neighborhood vigilantes securing themselves in the absence of police, a sea of humanity congregating at Tahrir square, an embattled President continuing to believe in himself, anxiety writ on many faces due to the uncertainty...these 18 days, was an Egypt I had not seen in the 10 months we have been here.

I was not born when India gained it's Independence in 1947. I had known and learnt about the Freedom struggle, only to score marks in my History exams. I had taken the word 'freedom' for granted. The British ruled India for around 200 years. During that period they contributed many positive aspects to India, which we still benefit from - the railways, the educational system, parliamentary system, our English literacy ....but it was the elusive "freedom" which made leaders like Gandhi and millions of other countrymen, to take the path of choosing who governs their society and their lives. It was the discrimination and the the enforcement of what suited the "government" and not the people, that made people revolt.

Egyptians felt the same - notwithstanding that President Mubarak had done many good things for Egypt (in war and peace, as the Military Chief saluted him in the speech after his resignation). But there were many things that was going wrong in the governance which the people did not like and wanted a change. The Egyptians wanted to live without fear, to have the freedom of choosing who and how would their society and their lives be governed - with a hope of a better future.


Whenever any Egyptian meets me and learns that I am from India, he speaks about 2 people - Amitabh Bachan and Gandhiji. When we came here first, I was very surprised that Egyptians respected and loved Indians so much. Their admiration for Amitabh is understandable, with movie downloads available at a click. But that they revered Gandhi so much had no explanation.


Egyptians are extremely warm and are peaceful by nature. If at a political, international level, they have avoided continued conflict by signing the peace treaty with Israel, at the grassroots level of the society, one finds them always without rancor or animosity.


They yearned for freedom - and as a society are very peaceful. Therefore the only way they could achieve freedom was if a Gandhi was in their midst. And it is this fact that explains why Egyptians intrinsically revered Gandhi - it was this latent desire in their hearts  - it was hope, that one day, they will also achieve their freedom through a non violent revolution.


And it is precisely what happened. Because of their understanding and influence of Gandhian principles, it was not one Gandhi ....but millions of Gandhis that took upon to Tahrir Square. It has been sheer perseverance, determination and their faith in non violent satyagraha, that today, a peaceful, mass based revolution has been achieved.


Gandhiji has been in Egypt as much as in India. 

And I am glad to have experienced the emotions of this movement, in all its hues, till the evening of 11 02 2011 (don't miss the palindrome). In fact, on hearing the celebrations break out after President resigned, I rushed out onto the streets (much to my wife's chagrin), to get a first hand feel of the happiness and exuberance erupting on everyone's faces. And it was a moment I will always remember.


I was not born in 1947. But during these 18 days, I did get a small feel of what Gandhi and all Indians would have felt on August 15, 1947. It was more difficult then, 25 long years of struggle, no 24 X 7 channels or Facebook to broadcast what they would have endured. And to succeed in those circumstances, specially against a government of different nationality, is exceptionally praiseworthy. 

Today, I take a moment to salute and thank all those who participated in India's freedom struggle - to give us a life of freedom, of which we do not realize it's value.

God bless the people of the two countries  and all those who believe in peace and harmony of humanity.