CAPTAIN KIRK GETS BACK TO EARTH

CAPTAIN KIRK GETS BACK TO EARTH

As the space capsule passes over Delhi, India, a Hindi speaking Indian-origin member of the staff at the Earth Mission Control takes the com. 

Captain Kirk had learnt a smattering of Hindi for one of the Star Trek episodes that could not get made on account of budget issues. He had, in fact, planned a short dialogue in Hindi with Spock but Spock spoke no Hindi. Kirk loved watching Hindi films and listening to old Hindi film songs. Now, Mission Control thought they'd give him a surprise by speaking to him in Hindi.

 

Mission Control: Earth to Capt. Kirk. Namaste, Kirkji! Kya khabar, sab theek thaak hai? 

Capt. Kirk: Kirk to Earth. Ohohohoho! Namaas Tay! Sab tick tock, dhanbad! Everything's going like clockwork!

E: Dhandad nahi, dhanyavaad! Thank you. Achcha, bolo, upar se aapko Bharat kaisa dikhta hai?

Captain Kirk: Window say dekka. Kooch nahi deekta hay. Sab dua hee dua hay. Too much smoke hay.

E: Woh dhuan nahin, baadal hay, I mean, hai. Yahan baarish ka mausam hai. South West, North East, aisa kuch kuch hota hai. Yahan sab gharon mein subah subah chai ka paani ubaal rahe hain. Uske wajah se bhi ho sakta hai. Ya koi savere ka dhundh hoga.

K (breaking into old Hindi song): Doond? Sansar ki har shay ka itna hee fasaana hay, ek doond se aana hay, ek doond mein jaana hay. Larala lalala lala, lara lala lara lala, hmhmhmhmhmhmhm!

E (as the capsule begins to move out of range of India): Achcha, theek hai, theek hai, ab Angrezi mein bolo, Hindi bandh karo, whole Earth ke log sun rahe hain. Hindi mein bologe toh sabko iska arth maloom nahin hoga.

CK: Theek hai, arth samajh gaya. OK, Earth, understood. 

E: (switching over to official sounding voice): Earth to Kirk. Well done, Captain. We are proud of you.

K: Still learning, Earth. These Hindi songs are like vitamins.

E: I meant your space trip, not your Hindi songs. And that reminds me. Have you taken your 90+ vitamin capsule?

K: Yes, I have, Earth. With 90 ml of pure water. You know, I felt like singing “Koi cheese milane ko jee chahata hay”. The capsule is still floating around in my stomach. I have a gut feeling that it will take a while to dissolve.

E: Understood. You may now initiate capsule descent procedure. The space capsule, not the vitamin capsule.

K: Copy that. Thanks for clarifying. Initiating space capsule descent procedure. Happy I was able to "boldly go where no 90-year old man has gone before". Signing off now. In other words, Kirk out, but coming back in. "May aa raha hooooooo!"

~ © Shiva Kumar

17 Oct 2021

 

--

 

 

An Evening in Paris

An Evening in Paris

The Monsieur and the Madame are on a whirlwind sigh seeing tour and are waltzing thru Paris. They are taking in all the sights of the romantic city that is always having insomnia and they are quite breathless all the time. 

Many of the scenes they have not seen before so they are happy that they have now seen the unseen scenes. They go and stand for a split second under the Eiffel Tower that is towering over their heads and they take a selfie. Of course, only the French ground is visible behind them in the selfie, so they take a reverse selfie of the tower.

Soon they are whirring thru the Museum that is housing the vintage antiques to see all the age-old exhibits that even now continue to age even as they are seeing them. 

Finally the Museum has been done by them to utter satisfaction and they are strolling thru the gardens at breakneck speed without taking their eyes off the colourful inflorescences that are also perfumatic. They are fulfilled.

Soon it is time to wind up for the day and reach their place of rest and recuperation for little bit of rest and recuperation.  They are taking the RER for their R&R. They are flying thru the roads of the city and reach the RER station.

Our intrepid despera-duo are dancing down the steps with amazing grace and rotating thru the turnstiles with amazing speed because the RER is already arrivée, impatiently awaiting their entrée like Alibaba’s cave after correct password is given. And with a zip, zap and a zoom, they pass thru the RER’s sliding doors just as the doors are shutting their sesames. They land in the aisle in a moving act, as it were. Le magnifique, their alacrity! 

And they continue their bon journey nonchalantly.

When they reach their destination station, the RER doors they open reverentially to welcome them out. The despera-duo’s heads are already spinning due to their frenetic making of the circuit, so they step out with a lot of ginger onto the static platform. Not to worry, they are steady and make landfall safely. They are clutching clutch-bag in the one hand and their tiquéttes in the other. Their hands are full.

The TC, “Renѐ Georges Gregoire” proudly displayed on the name-badge he has pinned on his chest, is taking a stroll on the platform at that very coincidental moment, ruminating about the vagaries of his not so fast-paced life, when he spots them on his radar. He, being utterly duty conscious, confronts them and requests from them their kind display of the Tiquétte. Monsieur and Madame, not to be outdone by a mere Gregoire, proffer their Tiquéttes simultaneously with flourish and élan. M. Gregoire accepts first one, then the other, slightly bending the knees each time to show courtesy to these graceful foreign tourists. 

M. Gregoire: Monsieur et Madame, welcome to Paris. You are, how to say, nouveau dans cette ville? New in this city?

Madame: Si, Signore! Er, I mean, oui, M’sieu!

MG: Aha! Perhaps you are ze Italiano, eh? Espanol? Mexicano?

Mme: No, we are Indians. From India, where Indians live.

MG: Oui, oui. I knew it! I love India! I love Sharooque! Now, let me examinate your tiquѐtte. Ah!

(Silence ensues for the next minute as the TC examines the tiquѐtte. Then he looks up with a little confusion as he punches his tiquѐtte-punch in the air rapidly a few times.) 

MG: It is unpossible to pinch the tiquѐtte! Zey are, so to say, expiré! I cannot pinch zem.

Mme: Expiré! (Breaking into Hindi) Kya baat karte ho? Yeh taaza tikat hai. Abhi abhi toh kharida hai!

MG: Non, non, non! Oui. Si, see, slowly, plisse. I am explanating. See, all day long you are ze running with speed. You are clinching ze tiquѐtte wizin your palm and you are ze, how to say, releasing ze moisture zru ze zkin on ze tiquѐtte. And tiquѐtte expiré! Zo, I cannot pinch zem.

Mme: Now I understand. You mean perspire. And you mean punch.

MG: Oui! You are hitting ze nail on ze zumb! Yais! Perspire! And ze tiquѐtte is wait due to perspire.

Mme (pulling out a hair clip from her hair and pointing it at the TC): No problem. Joost puncture, I mean, punch, the expiré tiquѐtte with zis and we can be on our way.

MG (looking relieved): Oui, Madame! Zis vairy good idea. Merci! Now you are released! Namastѐ! May hoo naa! Plisse to say bon jour to my friend Sharooque! I love India!

Madame and Monsieur quickly thank the TC. Then, turning around and without looking back, they hurry out. Monsieur is still scratching his haid. 

Paris, you are loved!

~ Chevaugh Coumarzipan

     03 August 2019

© Shiva Kumar

    

A TYPICAL GOLF MORNING IN THE LIFE OF AN INVETERATE BANGALORE GOLFER

[Author's note:

I had written this piece a few years ago as an appreciation with a bit of gentle leg-pulling for my good friend who is a true blue Bangalorean (which, I like to believe, I am too), and an avid golfer (which I am not). He belongs to that special breed of men who retired at the right age, learnt to make his own coffee and toast, and took up golf.

I have removed all names from the original piece, changed coffee to tea, tweaked it a little and made it suitable for general consumption.

Some descriptions are magnified 4x for enhanced experience. To reduce magnification to 2x, close one eye while reading.]

***

A TYPICAL GOLF MORNING IN THE LIFE OF AN INVETERATE BANGALORE GOLFER

4:00 am – Alarm sounds. Groan! Open one eye, check time and date. 

Time – check. Date – check.

4:01 am – Check calendar note on phone. “Tee Off at 5”. Haul self out of bed, muttering unmentionables. 

4:02 am – Stagger to bathroom. Do, do and do. Shave. Shower. Out. Ret geady. Turquoise golf pants, orange tees. Check mirror. Yes! Looking samrat!

4.20 am – Switch on kettle and toaster. Two slices of toast, high speed pop up, quick dab of butter. Gorom pony, two Earl Grey bags, sudden dip dip dip. Tea, black. Ah! All set. 

4.30 am – Tumble down the stairs to car.

4:32 am – Stop. Check pockets. No car key. Check again. Thankfully, haven't forgotten flat key. Tumble back up. Catch breath at thirteenth step. Walk up slowly. Open door softly. Wife still asleep. Look for car key. Check if it is for same car or other car. Mumble mumble about inefficient maids. Roll downstairs. Try not to trip.

4:36 am – Get into car. Insert key into ignition slot. Start countdown. 5,4,3,2. One second before ignite, ABORT! 

Get out. Open dickey. Check if bag of golf clubs still there. Yes. Inhale deep. Exhale long.

4:37 am – Get back into car. Key into slot. Start quick countdown. 3,2,1. Ingite. Gun engine once, twice. Take off.

4:38 am – Slam brakes. Wait till security guard comes running and hurriedly opens gate. Open mouth to reel off some choice abuses. Shut mouth abruptly as guard throws a smart salute. Fling arm upward in response. Careful, don't hit roof. Drive out.

4:39 am – Drive. Slow down. Intersection. Look to right, then to left. To be safe, look behind. Round it off by looking in front. All clear? Drive on.

4:50 am – Reach golf club. Gates are open, thank goodness. Security guard watching, barely awake, waiting to go off duty. Park car in nearest vacant slot. Switch off. 

Take deep breaths. One, two, three, four, five. Inhale, exhale. Five times each. 

Calm down. Relax. 

Feeeeel your senses come alive. 

(Continue breathing to stay alive.)

4:53 am – Put on smart new purple cap. Get out of car. Open dickey. Pull out golf bag. Lock car with remote. TUIK! Swagger to front desk. Desk man not there. Nobody in sight. Swagger wasted. No matter. Wait.

4:55 am – Desk man comes running, caddie at his heels. Caddie hefts golf bag onto his back and stumbles off.

4:57 am – Opponent swaggers in. Now enough people hanging around to see him swagger, dash it. Seeing enough people seeing him, he swaggers a bit more, walks into coffee table, dashes against it, dash it! Sadly, no harm done to table or leg. Damnit.

4:59 am – Tee off time! Hoy! Toss a coin for first tee-off, don’t call anything, catch it as it comes down, show that feller you can toss as well as he can swagger. Drat. Coin misses outstretched hand, falls on ground, rolls off into the lawn, out of sight. Drat. No time to search. He claims he called right. Right. Leave it, show courtesy. Left.

5:00 am – Tee off! Now your turn. Head down, look at the ball, left leg bent just so, steady, breathe in, breathe out, close eyes, open eyes, tilt head slightly towards nor’ nor’ east. Bring driver down smartly. Follow through generously. Wow! See her fly! Hand over driver to caddie with careless insouciance. Hands in pockets. Hands out.

5:03 am – Swing, hit, walk. Down the straight. 

6:05 am – Swing, hit, walk. Chalo. Your opponent is walking beside you. Beware, he may try to distract you. Behave like stranger again. Ek baar phir se ajnabi ban jao.

7:10 am – Swing, hit, walk. Caddie is counting, keeping score. So just swing, hit, walk. Keep walking. Don’t think of the score.

8:35 am to 10:00 am – Walk. Drive. Putt. Cut. Slice. Chop. Slash.

10:15 am – Hah! Collect hundred rupee note from loser. It's the same one you’d lost to him last week. You had written down some nice juicy notes about him on it with the caddie’s pencil stub which he parks behind his ear. Examine note again. Some new notes written on it. Read notes on note. It is about you. But no time to lose temper. Time to console the loser. Tell him all is not lost. Who knows, you may again lose to him next week, like you did last week. That brings a smile to his face. He offers to buy you a beer. Now that brings a smile to your lips.

10:30 am – Walk to 19th Hole. Accept compliments from all and sundry along the way. Take off smart purple cap, ruffle hair carelessly, put smart purple cap back on. Hand over a couple of shhh notes to caddie. Ruffle his hair. Give him car keys to put the golf bag in. Remind him loudly to bring back the keys. Laugh out loud. Good joke.

10:45 am – Raise the mug. Cheers! Relive the game. Walk. Drive. Putt. Cut. Slice. Chop. Slash. SLOSH.

01: 30 pm – Whew! How fly times. Time to eat.

02:30 pm – Stuffed. Enough. Bhoot mazaa aaya. Thumba channaggithu! Dil bhar gaya. Ab bill bharo. Swipe card, wipe face. Weakly wave goodbye around the table. No swagger left. Stagger.

02:40 pm – Float to car. Settle in. Don’t relax. Yet. Start car. Go. Slowly.

03:00 pm – Heach Rome. Let into gift. Press 3. Upsy daisy. Smooth lift off. As lift door opens, shuffle out, smile on lips, thinking of good game and good time had. Lean on doorbell. No, wait – key is with you. But door is open, courtesy efficient maid. 

Make for recliner. Pull off soos and shocks. Recline on recliner. Snooze. 

~ See-You Cou-Mar

~ © Shiva Kumar

(Originally written on 01 July 2015.)

POTTERING AROUND

POTTERING AROUND

on a diffused Sunday morn

Woke up rather early for a Sunday. After fortifying myself with my first dose of strong kaapi, sakkaré kadimé, served in an eversilver tumbler, I stepped out to check the weather. Overcast sky. Evenly spread brightness but not sharp. Dreamy but not dreary. 

I touched the tip of my forefinger with my tongue, held it up (the finger, not the tongue) and turned it around. An old Indian trick. There was a light breeze, barely perceptible, gently swirling around, but no wind yet. The wind will start up later, in the afternoon. The swing of Ashada, you see. Jhoomta mausam, mast mahina and all that sort of thing.

Going by the diffused lighting, I can guess the sun must be lounging by his window (does he open the window to let in air or does he do it to let in light also, I wonder, then I realise that he himself is the light, and that leads me to ask other questions, but that's a different stream of thought and I'd rather not go there now) glancing through the newspapers, his own eversilver tumbler of steaming hot filter coffee, strong, sakkaré kadimé at his side. 

Checked the flower pots parked on the compound wall. No change in count or position. Status quo prevails. All seems well. Some unchecked growth in one or two that needs to be weeded out. Spotted a couple of tiny yellow flowers among them, and what looks like a tiny, upright bhendi. Bhendi! No, just a lookalike. Never seen anything like it. Well, well, well. I'll let upright bhendi lookalikes be, for the time being and saunter back in for my second kaapi.

At the time of going to press, the weather condition remains unchanged. I suspect it shall remain so for a couple of hours at the very least, before the breeze comes up and the showers begin to come down.

The year's at the Ashad swing

And the day's at the morn

Morning's at seven's edge

The flower pot's gettin' bhendified

Don't see no lark on any wing

Nor any snail on any thorn

Sun's by his window ledge

But clouds are hovering, worldwide

(Apologies to Robert Browning)

~ © Shiva Kumar, 27 June 2021

****(

The year's at the spring

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;

The hill-side's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn;

God's in His heaven—

All's right with the world!

Robert Browning, Pippa Passes (1901)

Harry Boy!

HARRY BOY!

Harry boy, ek pony ka glass jaldi lao. Ham ko gallay may pyaaz hona lagta hither. I have onions in my throat here. Pony zarroor mangta. Tumara country may too much pyaaz hota. The onions are getting hotter and hotter. Onions to the left of me, onions to the right of me, if I see any more onions, I’ll go off my onions. Aur mera sola topi bee lao. Heatstroke hona mangta hamara upar se. I’m dying of heatstroke in my upper storey, for goodness’ sake. Ek jigger thanda bee leke aao jaldi quick. Hamara dill aur jigger dono burn injuries se goyal hai.  Dill and jiggery!

This is too much, for Gawd’s sake. Bhoot hai, Bogvann ke vastey. I didn’t bargain for so much sun. Bhoot dupe hai. I’ve lost every drop of moisture in my bloomin’ body, for heaven’s sake! Dehydrated. Bay-pony ho gaya. No wonder we don’t hardly see any sun back home. All of it’s here, by Jove! Call the bhistis. Pony mangta. Sheesh and Jeremy!

I suppose you know the Dumka jungle? You do? Well, just the other day not too far back, I was there in the blessed jungle, by Hukum. I hadn’t gone too far inside, though, before I realised I had forgotten my sodden sola topi at the Dawk Bungalow. Och! Had to hike right back, pick it up and find my blinkin' way in again but while doing so, left my blasted elephant gun behind on the table, the same bloomin’ gun with which I shoot everything from mosquitoes to mangoes and even the beastly pictures that you see hanging on the wall! Low down trickery by the topi! Foosh and Pigmy!

When on Company service, His Majesty’s humble servants never turn their backs on jungles even if they happen to find themselves without the trusted elephant gun tucked into the waistband. They carry on, irregardless. So I did. The old legs were shaking a little owing to the chill in the undergrowth and the sola topi was soaking on account of the junglee humidity. Beads of perspiration dotted my brow and began to destarch the old collar. Foof and frangipani! 

I detached the collar to ease my neck, quelled the shivers with a tot of the stuff I carry in a hip flask for just such occasions and waded in fearlessly. Not for nothing do they call me Fearless Freddie. I sent the chokra boy ahead as an advance scout, just in case. And do you know what he did? The young whippersnapper, son of a native gun, blast him, came back with a tiger, can you believe it? No? Well, I had to bloody well believe it because I saw the tiger right behind him, matching step with him to maintain a military beat. Roar and raspberry! 

Without further ado and not even waiting to shake my hand, Chokra Boy quickly shinnied up the tamarind tree behind me, leaving the tiger panting, with no one else to confront but me. Nonplussed by a breathless native. Lung and langoty!

Thorny bush to the left of me, slushy swamp to the right of me, tiger to the front of me, no elephant gun to the support of me. I did not have any tamarind tree climbing skills, there having been no tamarind trees back home in Old Blighty to practice on. I did some quick mental calisthenics while the tiger was catching his breath and came up with a stunning solution. I signalled “strategic time out” and the tiger, ever an IPL fan, had to agree. He gave a frustrated roar and, indicating by pointing to his left wrist with his right that he would be back in ninety seconds, slunk away to the nearest waterhole. I sniggered. Let him go and drink water. Tiger pony pisi. Sher O’ Shayari!

Indicating to Chokra Boy by hand signals that in ninety seconds I would be far, far away, I unsheathed my wings and flew to the Dawk Bungalow, living to fight another day. Whoosh and vamoose! 

Daai Tiger, nee vaada, paarkkalaam!  

Veni, vidi, vici.  We’ll see.

- Shivaugh Coomaar

- © Shiva Kumar, July 2018

CAUGHT ON THE WRONG FOOT

CAUGHT ON THE WRONG FOOT

You can distinguish the tick of a pendulum from its tock

But can you distinguish a left sock from a right sock?

**

Mismatched socks are alright, I suppose, even proudly worn nowadays, given the current fashion trends rippling thru the footwear segment, but socks caught on the wrong feet are something else. 

Let me explain. A confusing thing about a sock, any sock, is its orientation, that is to say, which foot it is knitted to go on. I mean to say, when they make a pair of socks, do they just make two of the same thing or do they make one each of left and right? If you haven't thought about it, just think about it. Pick up a sock and look at it dispassionately from top to toe. What do you see? You see a length of tubular knitted fabric, open at one end, closed at the other, and bent at close to right angles in the middle. So far so good. Now multiply it by two and what do you have? No, no, it doesn't give you your age. You have a pair of socks. But do you see any clue as to their orientation? None. Do you see any sign telling you which one is meant to adorn the left foot and which one the right? Not a one. Any one could be either. Or neither, or both. 

I have seen many a punctual office-goer (I would include myself but then I have never seen myself, if you know what I mean), getting ready for the morning dash to work, reduced to tears just trying to decide whether he should insert his left foot or his right into the blessed sock he is holding in his hands without committing a foot fault.

It is time to take matters into your own hands. Whenever you go out to the sock store (you could call it a "sock kadai" but if you speak Tamil, don't) and buy a pair of socks, make sure to identify the left and the right and mark them LEFT and RIGHT with indelible (not inedible) ink while they are still new. If you are not sure which language to use, go for colour coding, but remember to use red for left and green for right, like they do for the port and starboard navigation lights of oceangoing vessels and airliners. You may use blue and yellow if you wish to be different and don't wish to follow international conventions. Of course, if you are colour blind, it is best to use white ink, except when the socks are themselves white, in which case it is advisable to go for black. 

Just imagine stepping out with your left and right socks interchanged! You wouldn't be able to walk properly and your feet would be constantly getting in the way of one another, causing much entanglement. Or leading away from one another, resulting in what my good friend from Patna would call "bahut lar-bar".

On an aside, we have a tenant at one of our organisation's properties who asked me at the very start of his tenancy to remove all low level footstools from the premises. A gangling sort of a man, he told me that he suffered from a problem of wayward feet and there had been quite a few occasions when he had had painful collisions with low lying furniture in his path. Thinking about it now, I wonder if he habitually wore his socks wrong.

Remember, socks are not like pendulums that go tick tock. It is easy to distinguish between a pendulum's tick from its tock, but it is quite another thing to differentiate a left sock from a right sock.

- © Shiva Kumar, 21 April 2020

A GULMOHAR BRINGS CHEER

A GULMOHAR BRINGS CHEER

Early this morning, as I came out of my house for a breath of the fresh, crisp summer morning air after a particularly strenuous yoga session involving quite a bit of breathing in and, hold your breath, breathing out, I saw this pretty red blossom fallen on the road outside my house. It was the typical Gulmohar or Flame of the Forest, with four spoon-like petals but of a beautiful darker shade of red instead the usual bright orange-red, one upright white petal with streaky yellow and red spots, and the other paraphernalia of sepals, stamens and all.

Bengaluru has many flowering trees and looks very colourful at this time of the year, presenting a pretty picture early in the morning, the roads carpeted with colourful red, orange, yellow and pink blossoms, before the traffic starts to build up and they are crushed under the wheels or blown to the sides and the BBMP appointed karmacharis appear on the scene to sweep them up.

There are no Gulmohar trees on my street so my guess is that some morning walker must have picked it up somewhere else while on her or his rounds and carried it along for some time before dropping it in front of my house. I wondered what made the walker do this.

I imagined the walker, who shall remain nameless, for I have no clue yet as to who he or she is, in shorts and tees, masked up and sneakered, out in the crisp morning air, walking the walk, maintaining a steady one-two-one-two, eyes focussed on the ground in front of the marching feet, almost in a trance, intent on burning off the calories imbibed or devoured last night. He (or she, as the case may be though, for the sake of making it easier for me to report, I shall for the time being assume it is a he) is sweating profusely as he completes two laps of his regular route covering the main and cross roads circuiting his house.

As the walker passes under the flowering Gulmohar on the third lap of his weekend walk, the majestic tree, pleased with his dedication, blesses him by bending its boughs slightly and dropping a blossom on his head. The 'ploink' of the stalk hitting his scalp causes the walker to break step and come out of his trance. 

The walker looks at the beautiful flower fallen at his feet. Wow! As he gazes up at the orange-red and green canopy above his head in wonderment, he is surprised he has not noticed this tree before on his walks. He must remember to come back and take a few pictures to post on his Facebook and WhatsApp groups. No point interrupting his walk now. And, before doing that, he must find out what it is called, google it and read up a bit on it. Nature can be so beautiful, he thinks. He picks up the flower and looks at it this way and that as he holds it in one hand and continues his walk.

But his walk is not the same now. The flower has caused him to slow the swing of his arms. The breezy, swinging follow through is missing and the rhythm of his walk has been upset. The step monitor, or whatever it is these electronic gizmos are called, strapped to his wrist, beeps a warning. The walker looks at it in alarm. Gosh! He has walked ten steps less in the last three minutes, so he has burned nearly half a calorie less. Drat! He should be more careful. 

He takes a last wistful look at the flower before dropping it in front of my house as he continues on his walk.

And that is how I think that Gulmohar landed in front of my house. I must take a walk around to see if I can spot that tree.

~ © Shiva Kumar

    (or, should I say, Shiva Ku-Mohar?)

    Saturday, 10 April 2021

VACCINATED!

VACCINATED!

I got myself vaccinated on the last day of the last financial year.

As vaccinations go, there was nothing special or extraordinary about the event itself. It came and went. I am told that a good third of the nation is well on the way to getting vaccinated even as I write this..

A few days back, during a routine consultation, my doctor had mildly castigated me for not getting it done earlier. So, when a school classmate suggested that I enquire with the neighbourhood hospital as he had heard that the crowds were less there, I called immediately, only to be told that they had exhausted their stocks of the vaccine. The lady who spoke to me took my number and promised to call me as soon as they received fresh stocks.

I was surprised when she called me back within an hour to inform me that fresh stocks had arrived and she was adding my name to the hit list. Yay! I was allotted token numbers eleven, twelve and thirteen for self, wife and mother respectively, and told that we should reach the hospital by 10 sharp the next morning.

I spent some time reading up on the subject and meditating afterwards. I reminded myself that we must eat well before leaving, wear our masks, and keep ourselves well hydrated.

We reached there at 10 sharp, as sharp as the needles they were going to use on us, smiling behind our masks. An elderly guard directed me to a shamiana covered enclosure nearby. It was a largish space with plastic chairs placed in rows. About half of them were occupied and there was a subdued hum of excitement in the atmosphere.

The place seemed full of senior citizens, of course because vaccination was open only for that age group. There were several couples among them, some milling around a counter, some sitting, busily filling up some kind of form. I noticed one gent who sat, looking up and counting something on the fingers of his hand. When he caught me looking at him, he smiled sheepishly and said “year of birth”. I quickly made my own calculations and stored them in separate slots numbered 11,12 and 13, in a corner of my mind.

A few persons were sitting with the blank forms in their hands, looking hopefully at others just walking in. I could guess what was going to come and quickly hid my pen in my trouser pocket. I went off to find forms to fill.

I sat in one of the plastic chairs and filled in the forms with alacrity. I was then directed by the guard to stand in a line, forms in one hand, Aadhaar cards in the other while the lady at the desk attended to each person, checking and cross-checking details and feeding them into an app in her phone.

This done, I was made to stand in another line, this time for another lady to verify that we were indeed who we said we were on our forms. After unmasking and photographing us for the app, we were sent into a room with curtained enclosures. Ah! Finally. I went into one enclosure where a uniformed nurse with somewhat stern eyes and sleeves rolled up was waiting. She made me pull down my shirt and stabbed me in my biceps with a needle.

"There!" she pronounced and pointed to a common seating area. "You are done. Now go and sit there for half an hour." She reminded me of 'Pachamma Ayah', the formidable nanny who carried my bag and drove me and other kids to school with a stick in her hand, back when I was too small to retaliate.

I went and sat there quietly, in a perforated steel chair without cushions or headrest with about twenty three other blank looking citizens while a formidable looking officer of the guard stood to one side with his arms folded and "observed" us all for half an hour. A coated gent, who was obviously some kind of certifying authority, called out our names a little too loudly, handed us our certificates of vaccination and let us go with a magnanimous wave of his hand.

By half past twelve we were back and by three I was back at work!

Afterwards, I heard some people say that I would experience some pain at the vaccination spot. I think this is a baseless rumour. I pass that spot every day on my way to work and I don’t experience any pain or anything any time.

There might have been a little bit of tiredness, wiredness and all that, but I think that is allowed in a senior citizen who is running around and feels for his countrymen undergoing such hardship and all.

So go and get yours!

~ © Shivaccinated Kumar

 

A TESTING TIME

A Testing Time

As we break into the new year and a time of renewed hopes, there are lots of things to look forward to, not the least of them being the wish that our cricketers carry their winning form into the third test a few days away.

The humiliating loss in Adelaide generated a feeling of despondency. Fans started moving around bent low and with masks covering their entire faces. For many, the Test series was finished. Khel khatam. Discussions were taking place in hushed whispers about the timing of Kohli's return to India. A small bunch of Australians, here in Bengaluru probably on some software assignment, were spotted treading warily on soft-soled sneakers, not wanting to ruffle the feathers of their Indian colleagues who were sulking over the Adelaide loss and waiting for the slightest opportunity to give back. Their usual bellowed greetings of "Howdy, mite" were muted and some even changed it to "Namaste, yaar". 

Then the Boxing Day Test happened. The low despair resulting from that first Test was wiped out in four days of inspired cricket. The tables were turned. India had bounced back! The despondency of Adelaide was solidly countered in Melbourne, bringing in new confidence.

And there is much talk now about the leadership qualities of Ajinkya Rahane. The understanding and morale boosting fist bump he gave Jadeja after being run out by that worthy allrounder seemed to say "don't worry about getting me run out, bhai, who knows, if you hadn't done it I might have gone on and on till the end of the fifth day". The little chat with the newcomer Siraj before he brought him on to bowl appeared to convey some closely guarded secret, because the debutant tightened his shoelaces, got his chin up and went on to rattle the Aussie batsmen. There was a seasoned captain's confidence about him as he rang in intelligent bowling changes and field placements and his calm demeanour throughout conveyed to everyone watching that he knew a thing or two about knowing a thing or two. It was a welcome change from the rather energetic display of the captain on leave. But then, I don't know how many people care for calm and quiet leadership these days.

All said and done, as we all know and I guess he too has been told, he is only a "stand-in" captain. Not a "dupe" like the one that Kohli might use while shooting for one of his ad films, but a kind of a two-eye-see holding things in place and keeping the engine ticking over till the supremo returns. And this is just one Test. One swallow does not a gulp make or something like that. Let him settle down and operate as captain in the next two Tests before we start singing more of his praises. And we must sing softly. Or Virat may hear. 

Meanwhile, there are reports that the newly appointed vice-captain Rohit Sharma and teammates Rishabh Pant, Shubman Gill, Navdeep Saini and Prithvi Shaw have all been told to isolate themselves after they were filmed seated indoors at a Chinese restaurant in Melbourne, having their meal. I didn't know that Chinese food could do this. All kinds of rumours are floating around and a new storm seems to be brewing. Let's hope it is only a storm in a soup bowl and blows over quickly for the selectors to get into their own huddle and pick the eleven for the New Year's Test in Sydney.

Till then, it's back to the waiting room!

~ Shiva Kumar, 03 Jan 2021