Hello! Olleh!

Hello! Olleh!

I was doing nothing in a lazy, slow sort of way, when I got the call. It fairly jolted me, the “jannngg” of the phone ring. After disentangling my legs from the armchair’s, I put ear to phone. Or was it phone to ear? I don’t remember now. It is not important.  

Right. So I was putting ear to phone or vice versa. I uttered the important word, the password for every one of my confidential tele-conversations.

“Hello?”

“Olleh!¹” The answer was crisp and to the point. The popular return password, given before any business was discussed.

“Is that you?”

“Yes, it is I.”

“I?”

“Me.”

“I or me? Don’t confuse and tangle me. Now I’ll have to ask you the untangle question. Tell me, how many letters does ‘Thippagondanahalli²’ have and how many are repeated?”

“Eh?”

“Okay. It is you. Now pack your case and get ready to travel. Secret mission. Don’t go and tell your neighbour or borrow his suitcase. Usual preparations. Don’t shave. Meet me at the car park of Metro, the station, not the bar, near your house at 6:35 sharp tomorrow evening, pronto, without fail. In case you are going to get delayed by traffic, call and inform beforehand. Right?”

“Right!”

Khat³. The call was cut. Our department was careful to keep calls short and to the point.

I rose to my full height. And remembered that I hadn’t been told how many guns to pack. Shoot! I’d have to call back now and find out. Shoot, shoot! And while I was at it, I must also find out who called me. Shoot, shoot, shoot! How could I have been so careless? I called back the number which had called me. On the second ring it was picked up and he seemed to know what I was going to ask, for he uttered just two words, the first of which was “Two”. The second was “Aleph”.

Khat. The call was cut.

I understood. One, I was to pack two guns. Two, it was Aleph beta (“son”), the third-in-command, who called me.

I quickly changed into my teens and jees, no, actually my jeans and tees, and took an autorick to Comm Street. At the first corner, there is a shop which I patronise. The shopkeeper, simply known as Bhai (“Brother”), sells good quality peanut chikkis⁴ at reasonable prices. He also clandestinely deals in other exotic stuff, a fact known only to a select few. Sometimes he lets me pay later, when he is confident I will return from my mission. Bhai saw me approach and laughed. Comedian. Everything looked funny to him.

He attacked me with questions. “Kya ba? What ba? Tume aati kathi lekin aati nai? You say you are coming but not coming? Kya kissa? What matter? Sab khairiyath? All well?”

I replied, somewhat diffidently “Arrey, pooch nakko, bhai-jaan. Arrey, don’t ask, brother-life.” So he stopped asking.

“Manje do gunnaan diyo. Gimme two guns. Abhich. Right now. Phataphat. Fatafat.”

“Kisi ko maar daaltin tume? Are you going to bump off someone?”

“Shshsh! Secret! Tume pooch nakko, hume nai bataatin so. You don’t ask, I won’t tell.”

“Ho-oh? Do lyaaza. Is that so-oh? Two minutes.”

He stepped out and shouted, “Arrey Chhotu, do cutting cha leko aa re. Arrey Chhotu, bring two cutting teas.” And promptly a small boy appeared carrying a steel frame holding several small glasses of what looked like tea and handed one over to me and one to Bhai. I took a sip. It tasted like gunmetal and brought back memories of that eventful day in Stanbull when that canteenwala had shoved the barrel of a gun into my mouth and demanded payment for the measly cup of cutting chai which he had served me. First time I tasted gunmetal. Those days, plastics had not become popular and guns were still made the traditional way, from metal salvaged by melting old Kadahis⁵ (frying pans). It was this self-same Bhai who paid up for me. We go back a long way. He has never let me pay for chai after that.

Sending Chhotu off and making sure no one was watching, Bhai reached out under the bench he was sitting on and pulled out a small steel trunk secured with a length of naada⁶. Safe. Apparently the naada knot needed a password to open. He quickly muttered “pappa pippi puppu pow” and yanked. Voila! The knot unravelled.

Taking another look around to see that no one was around, he quickly opened the trunk and pulled out some seven or eight menacing looking guns. He explained that they were made by his own chachajaan (uncle-life), from tough unbreakable PVC, the same material used for making overhead water tanks. I nodded. Yesss! Just what I wanted. I checked them all and selected a blue Mausa Tadap (Saat Par Paanch or .65) calibre and a yellow Mausi Dhadak (Tees Par Teen or .33) calibre. These Mausas and Mausis were good. They showed no mercy. As long as they were with you, you were in relative safety.

After a quick bargain and a promise to pay soon, very soon, I shoved the Mausa into the waistband of my jeans at the back and the Mausi into my left sock and ambled off. A couple of minutes later I realised I had forgotten something crucial. I went back and asked for bullets. Bhai gave me two of the latest “Gudbud” non-gradable hard plastic bullets – a large one for the Mausa and a small one for the Mausi, along with two small rolls of tough parachute-nylon string – one end to be tied to the ring at the end of the bullet and the other to a similar ring at the tip of the barrel so that immediately after the bullets hit their targets, they could be yanked back. It was an ingenious retrieval design called “Wapas”, invented and patented by a bulk trader in bhujiya sev⁷ who was experiencing difficulties in collecting payments from his dealers. I was also given a cleaning cloth free of charge. Bhai knew how to take care of his special customers. I thanked him and pushed off. I was armed to the teeth and ready. Don’t mess with me!

GLOSSARY

1.     Olleh = a commonly used return password, the Hello returned.

2.     Thippagondanahalli = The name of a village and of the reservoir situated there which used to supply water to the city of Bangalore. An 18-letter tongue twister word, in which 6 letters are repeated, one of them twice and two of them consecutively.

3.     Khat = the sound made when a telephone call is cut decisively. Dons especially like to end calls this way.

4.     Chikki = a sticky toffee made from peanuts and boiled jaggery. Minus the peanuts, the jaggery toffee was known in the Bangalore of the nineteen sixties as “Stickjaw”.

5.     Kadahi = a bowl-shaped frying pan traditionally made of iron, with handles or ears on either side.

6.     Naada = the string that is used to tie pyjamas around the waist. Also used to secure suitcases and boxes. A naada knot is nearly impossible to unravel.

7.     Bhujiya = a savoury snack which originated in the town of Bikaner in Rajasthan and which doubles as a life saver on Earth.

(Bhu = Earth; Jiya = Life; Sev = Save)

-       © Shiva Kumar 2017

The Train to Mayiladuthurai

The Train to Mayiladuthurai

In Tamil,
“Mayil” = Peafowl (peacock or peahen),

“aadum” = dancing,

“thurai” = place

Mayiladuthurai gets its name from the Mayura or Mayil (peacock) form in which Goddess Parvathi worshipped God Shiva at this place. While previously known by its Sanskrit name Mayuram (and Mayavaram) meaning "peacock town", the town has been recently de-Sanskritized to its Tamil translation Mayiladuthurai as a result of a petition by the Mayuram municipality to the Government of Tamil Nadu in the wake of the Dravidian Movement. The Mayuranathaswami Temple dedicated to Goddess Parvathi is one of the most important Hindu temples in the town. There is a statue depicting Goddess Parvathi in a peahen form worshipping a linga, the symbol of God Shiva to the west of the eastern wall of the temple.

                                                                                                            (Source: Wikipedia)

As the week dawned – (do weeks dawn?) – and I got my instructions to get ready for a train journey, it dawned on me that I had no clue. I donned my thinking cap and thought. Then “thunk!” It sank in. Another secret mission. They should make a list of all missions beforehand and give it to chaps being sent on missions so that chaps don’t get confused when they have to go on missions suddenly. Weak yawn.

Gradually, the details filtered in. I gathered them.

Anyway, to come to the nub or the crux or the rem, there I was, all details committed to memory and torn up, shredded, burnt and flushed so no one will ever know. In secret service parlance it is referred to as “no need to know”. What? Exactly. It will be tough to get anything out of me now. How do you unflush, unburn, unshred or untear something?

I got a pleasant surprise when I sat down and booked my train ticket online. As soon as I entered my age in the space provided, there was a “sproing”, followed by an “aila!” from the computer and then the price of the ticket got halved! Voila!

At the appointed time on the appointed evening, I stood on Platform No. 2 of Bengaluru Cantonment Railway Station, twiddling the shoulder straps of the haversack hoisted behind my back, waiting for the Mysuru-Mailaduthurai Express (My-Mai Express) to arrive.

There was something stabbing me in the back. I opened the haversack and peered in. Ah! It was the steel spoon packed to help me shovel the curd rice in. I pushed it into a corner away from my back and went back to waiting.

This My-Mai Express used to be called Bangalore-Tiruchirapalli Express and ran from Bangalore to Tiruchirapalli (and back, of course). Later, its run was extended up to Thanjavur and it came to be called Bangalore-Thanjavur Express. Still later, someone somewhere somehow decided that the train needs to run more up and more down and stretched its route somewhat at both ends. The result is that it now runs from Mysuru to Mayiladuthurai. And back. Bengaluru City, which started off as the origin and destination station, got pushed down one third of the way from the Mysuru end.

The train arrived on time and I hopped in. Then hopped off. Wrong door. This one said 1 TO 72. My berth was not near this door. I ran to the other door which said 72 TO 1 and jumped in before anyone could say “Mayiladuthurai”. Moving stealthily and quickly, I secured my berth No. 70 near the door by placing my haversack on it. I was allotted the top berth. Top berths for top men. Hah!

The cubicle was empty except for me and another gent. Probably another agent. He didn’t speak much. In fact, he didn’t speak at all. This could be because he was fast asleep. Smart thing to do when you have to get off at half three in the morning.

I quickly opened my dinner box, unpeeled the butter paper wrapped around the butter-pepper sandwich and wolfed it down (wolfed down the sandwich, I mean, not the butter paper), shovelled in the curd rice and vadumanga pickle with the back-stabbing spoon and curled up in my bunker, er, berth. And didn’t sleep one wink. I wanted to, but was afraid I might wake up in Mayiladuthurai.

But I must have nodded off because I was woken up suddenly by some noise. The well-oiled clock in my head read 01:03:27 hours (my head follows the 24-hour system of telling time, starting from 00:00:00), we had reached some station, the train was motionless and there was commotion outside. It seemed like hordes of people were trying to get into our compartment. My sleep was eroded. I heard the word “erode” being bandied about and, using my superior intelligence, was able to guess where we were. Listening to the pandemonium outside, I prepared for the worst eventuality but need not have worried because I was ensconced in my top berth and no one attempted to snatch it away from me. It is rather difficult to snatch top berths away, you see.

Ultimately, a group of four persons, including a tiny kid of about three-and-a-half, barged their way in and triumphantly took possession of the vacant berths below me. Suddenly the compartment had become full and started to tilt ever so slightly towards our end. I lay still and pretended to be sleeping by not opening my mouth. But kept both my ears open. Just in case.

By and by the train chugged off once again and picked up speed. The din died down only slightly. Because the kid, who was secured to one of the middle berths by a printed Erode bed-sheet and the arms of his mother, wanted to get off and run around. He started demanding his rights vociferously but his amma was unmoved. The person I assumed to be his father was hiding under another Erode sheet on the top berth opposite mine. The kid started bawling loudly. I sobbed silently into my pillow. Goodbye, sleep, thou art mist terribly. Pray, when will thou come to mine eyes?

Ultimately and to my great relief, the kid and the mummy appeared to reach some kind of amicable settlement or understanding or truce; a couple of papers were signed and exchanged between them, they shook hands solemnly and went into silent mode. I tried sitting up to give thanks but there was no head room so I did it supine.

The next thing I remembered was that someone was shouting “Yendiru, adutthadu Trichy (wake up, next is Trichy).” I clambered down, slipped on my slip-ons, hitched my haversack and waited. The clock in my head said 03:29:38. Right on time, the train as well as the clock. (I must remember to continue to oil my head regularly.)

Trichy Fort! As I detrained and clambered up the steps of the over-bridge, I got a glimpse of the Rockfort Temple, lit bright. I paused and shot off a quick Namaskaram to my Supreme Commander.

The autorickshaw men of Trichy Fort are a militant lot. I am told that, back in the days of yore, they used to ferry warring soldiers from both camps up and down the fort. They became known for naming the fare and not budging but getting paid by the warring soldiers without demur. This automan wanted eighty rupees to convey me to my lodge. I felt the fare was unreasonable and told him so. He did not budge. I cleverly decided that, if he did not budge, I would, and got going by foot. When the going gets tough, the tough get going and all that sort of thing. After walking for about twenty rupees, I found another auto chap who quoted a more reasonable fare of sixty rupees. I got in and we phut-phutted to the seventy-year old hostelry which was to be my abode for the day.

The watchman at the gate asked me my name. I told him. His eyes opened wide and he opened the gate wide. I walked in, and presented myself at the empty reception. Nothing happened for about a minute. Then a genial gent who turned out to be the third generation owner suddenly materialised through the far wall and asked me my name. I told him. He just nodded and pushed a register towards me and, showing me a blank rectangle, told me to fill it, which I did, with a beautiful three-dots-reducing-to-one “kolam” ( or rangoli, traditional design made by hand from coloured powder, on the ground in front of houses and a popular custom in South India). No, actually, I filled in my name and address. I paid him a grand sum which shall remain confidential. He then made a secret notation in the register and said “1-2-3”. I blinked. This code was not given to me. Then he clarified, “that’s your room number” and I relaxed.  He advised me to “go and relax for some time”. Summoning the watchman, he handed over a key to him. The watchman politely relieved me of my haversack and waited.

It was not yet four o’ clock and still pitch-dark outside. I held the watchman’s hand and he led me to my room, my haversack in his other hand, I couldn’t see if it was the left or the right hand because of the darkness. He opened the door, switched on the tubelight and waited expectantly. I gave him ten rupees and he parked my haversack on the side table. Fair exchange.

After he left the room, I whooped and lay down for a spot of rest.

The lodge has a quaint dining hall, large and pillared. It serves only “tiffin”, no “saappaadu” or meals. There are small individual tables with a stool in front of each. There is also a sign which says “PLEASE PUT THE LEAF INTO THE BIN AFTER USE”.

They make only so many idlis every morning, a sort of a limited steamer service, and since half as many persons had already eaten, two to a person, the idlis were sold out. I had to be content with poori-urulaikizhangu (poori-potato sabji) and dosai-chutney-sambar.

I polished off two poories while my dosai was being manufactured. When it was delivered, I could only stare. It was a huge affair, about a yard in diameter and could easily be unfurled into an umbrella - it was only missing a stick with a handle on one side and spokes on the other. The dosai was reverently folded, re-folded and laid onto my leaf. Sambar and chutney were poured on one side while I tackled it from the opposite side, working my way inwards slowly but surely, all the while careful to ensure that the chutney-sambar dam was not breached. By and by, the leaf became clean. I rolled it up tightly, folded it in the middle and dropped it into the bin dutifully.  A hearty breakfast was finished off in typical style with a tumbler of strong filter kaapi, sakkarai kammi.

Having fortified myself thus, I set off from Trichy Fort on my mission. Which I won’t tell you about, it being a secret mission and all that sort of thing, you know. Suffice it to say that I accomplished a fair degree of confusion. My only regret was that I did not get to have panneer soda, the fizzy rosewater flavoured drink which I’ve had only in Trichy.

The return train journey to base was nothing much to write about, so I won’t write about it. I arrived back in Namma Bengaluru at the crack of dawn and was ferried home in an autorickshaw named “Om Madurai Veeran”.

© Shiva Kumar 2016

Rangaswamy & The Tiger

Hilarious!

Rangaswamy & The Tiger 

(Colonial Poetry of the Raj)

Deep in jungle I am went

On shooting Tiger I am bent

Bugger Tiger has eaten wife

No doubt I avenge poor darling's life

Too much quiet, snakes and leeches

But am not feared these sons of beeches

Hearing loud noise I am jump with start

But noise is coming from damn fool heart

Taking care not to be fright

I am clutching rifle with eye to sight

Should Tiger come I will fall him down

Then like hero return to native town

Then through trees I am espying one cave

I am telling self - "Rangaswamy be brave"

I now proceed with too much care

From nonsense smell this Tiger's lair

My leg is shake, I start to pray

I think I shoot Tiger some other day

Turning round I am going to go

But Tiger giving bloody roar

He bounding from cave like shooting star

I commend my soul to Kali Ma

Through the jungle I am went

Like bullet with Tiger hot on scent

Mighty Tiger rave and rant

Rangaswamy shit in pant!

Must to therefore leave the jungle

Killing Tiger one big bungle!!

I am telling that never in life

I will risk again for damn fool wife.

                                 ~ Anonymous

                                   (source: internet)

Unfair Words

P.G.Wodehouse (Plum to his fans) spoke about how difficult it is to find a rhyme for “love”.

Unfair Words

Plum spoke about the difficulty, by Jove

In finding a rhyming word for ‘love’

Dashed unfair are these dashed words

Can’t be rhymed forwards or backwards

Orange, for instance, is by itself, all alone

In solitary confinement, loneliness prone

The solution to this problem called orange

Is to simply its colourful name re-arrange!

Purple is one more such feller

Sort of a roving single bachelor

No kith, no kin, no mimic and no mime

No copy, no dupe, no verse nor rhyme!

And unless you deign to consider

Substitutes below par and inferior

You have to carry on, regardless

With orange and purple, rhymeless

-         © Shiva Kumar 2016

Dreamy Maal Chakni

Dreamy Maal Chakni

1. Sock 1 cup dal from the Urals, ½ cup dal left over from the tour and ¼ cup king-mother beans left over at night or at least 8 years, sorry, 8 hours old.

2. In a pressure pan, add a little pressure. Pour a little oil into the troubled pan and let it calm down. Heat it till hot. Frightfully lie one opped chonion, one small god of parlic and one finely gingered grate.

3. If you wish to add one or two spoons of kasoori methi, add. If you don’t wish to add, don’t. Subtract. Multiply. Divide. Do the math. Agar nahin karna hai toh math karo. Go and do khethi baadi instead.

4. Add one big tomato finely chopped or two small tomatoes super-finely chopped or three smaller tomatoes super-duper-finely chopped or four still smaller tomatoes totally super-duper-finely chopped or ... you get the Atlantic drift.

5. Add some terrific murmuring powder, silly red powder, dakhni maal masala and some tastefully pinched salt. Lie frightfully till the mixture is homogeneously reduced to a sad pulp.

6. Add the socked dals to the mocked masalas and a liberal dash of milk along with two fingers. Close pressure pan and cook well. Whistle a jolly tune 4 to 5 times. Check if you have put on weight since the last dal session. No? Good.

7. When the pressure subsides, open the pan and remove the fingers. Add more water, more masala, more salt and anything else lying around. Add more heat. Don’t subtract anything. Mat karo. Pinch more salt if you like. Remember to taste the salt before adding. Heat on till everything boils once more. Encore!

8. Give a coat of coriander varnish. Glory be to la hoja verde of the Familia Corianda. Go to the verandah. Play the viola. Voila!

9. Dreamy maal chakhni ready. Steady, go.

- Sieve Cucumbar

-      © Shiva Kumar

    18 July 2016

Bongo Trumpet

                                 THE BONGO TRUMPET

KOLKATA’S PHEVRIT TRANSAMERICAN NOOSEPEPPER

KOLKOTER PRIYA TRANSAMERICA PHANSAMARICA

To-day’s news delivered yesterday.

Read to-day and tear tomorrow : Aaj padho aur kolkoter karo

Published every now and then from the laptop. Ed: Sudden Shiv

Weakened edition: Soon-day, Sechszehn fur Siebzehn Joolai

One single page

CITY  ON  HIGH  ALERT !!! Plans for secret meeting unearthed by your phevrit noosepepper before any unearth happens. Read on! ACHTUNG!  ACHTUNG!  ACHTUNG! CAUTION NOTICE TO ALL KOLKATANS -          Filed by your correspondent from an undisclosed location in Sharif Town, Omar Kolkata, on Sola Joolai -            Your phevrit noosepepper has learnt from reliable but anonymous sources (your correspondent forgot to ask their names, but has promised a quick update within a week) that a group of unfettered lunatics are planning a secret rendezvous at, hold your breath, the ordnance factory! They are planning to have a blast there! (You may breathe now.) These as-yet unseen insanes are said to very closely resemble humans but prone to unpredictable behaviour. They have named themselves after a fruit of the genus prunus.  Without easting or wasting any time, your correspondent very generously shared a scoop of this three-scoop news and alerted the alert authorities. They immediately deputed the keeper of the simian enclosure who swung into action to track down and deal with these ufos. Meanwhile, the ordnance factory has been kept closed to-day. All weapons including brooms, sticks, coconut shells, papayas, etc., are safely stored in a wire cage, secured with foolproof pyjama naada. Your phevrit noosepepper has been tasked with the responsibility of issuing dire threats, sorry, urgent summons, sorry, saavdhaan notice to all citizens to be on the alert.

IMPORTANT WHATTUDU TIPS      1.    If you see any unidentified object or baggage at the railway station or the airport, do not pick it up. If you do, you will be responsible for paying the baggage charges. If you see any identified object or baggage, don’t touch it. The owner may not like it.      2.    If you see a copper without a helmet, beware. Our fruity friends are known to have a fondness for coppers’ helmets and may be lurking around the corner. They may be lurkas or lurkies, we don’t know yet.       3.      Our Prunus manus are said to communicate by throwing bread crumbs at each other. If you see bread crumbs strewn in your path, go around them. However, if you find bread crumbs coated with jam, then it is a new thing and needs to be investigated. Call us and we’ll see what we can do about it.       4.      Stay away from the ordnance factory. Don’t even think of having a blast anywhere near it.       5.      Watch out for flying fruits. If you are caught plum in front, turn around and run for it.       6.      That’s all for now. More soon. Stay at home to stay safe. Don’t exit. (Note from Ed: There will be no issue of your phevrit noosepepper until further notice as your correspondent has gone into hiding and the editor fears for his wellbeing. Soo you seen.)

Shoes for sale

SHOES FOR SALE

One complete pair of leather shoes for sale, my own

Comprising one left, black and the other, right, brown

Both left and right are of the same size, number eight

A nine might squeeze in but find the fit a mite tight

Also included: one black lace and one brown lace

There’s even a third one, burgundy, just in case

They’re as good as new, though the soles are lightly worn

And very carefully maintained, though slightly torn

Hate to sell as they’re deeply attached to my feet

But compelled to do it so as to make ends meet

If interested, contact my agent’s office

Uninterested parties may stay away please

-                                                                                                                -  Shoe Coomar

© Shiva Kumar -  July 2016