POLL POSITION

I followed up on my good resolution to cast my vote as the first thing ‘to do’ in the day.  After morning Mass, nicely timed at 6.30 AM, I took the 10-minute walk to the polling booth along unoccupied pavements, bordering empty streets.  No crowds, no traffic.  But I did encounter members of the ‘walking brigade’; trim in t-shirts, shorts and jogging shoes they cast enquiring looks my way.  I did not look like a regular.  A newbie, perhaps?  Fellow jogger? I smiled my ‘No!’ Fellow voter? They returned the smile, ‘Not yet!’

 

And then there was the canine brigade as well.  One lady had three fluffy miniature albino pekes. Ankle high and royal lap dogs, they come with a fascinating history of their own.  I stopped to exchange insults with them – pekes are snobs!  Then there was the dog walker with seven on separate leashes – three in front and four to the rear.  Tall and short, fat and thin, they walked in perfect synch!  The Drill Sergeant would have been proud of them and how!!

And so to the polling venue.  I must truly look innocuous. The bevy of policemen – a whole cohort by the looks of them – were uninterested, and allowed me to pass through the portals unaccosted.  No frisking, no security check, no ‘have you carried your mobile phone?’ Apparently, no trouble was expected. At the booth itself, a line of ten or so had already formed; an improvement over the last experience when we were just three and waiting for the booth to be opened! Clearance was brisk, my name found on the list, I cast my vote with the confirmatory ping and exited the booth with my inked left index finger. I took the comfortable walk home.  The whole exercise had taken a mere half hour.

I have cast my little boat upon the water.  Will it sail or will it sink? Will it go far and achieve much? Or will it be engulfed and overwhelmed? The portents for the future are not too far away.

Back home to a hot cup of tea and the morning paper.  And I am assaulted by a solicitation by Modi for my vote – a full page frontal in the Times.  Surely, this is a violation of the code of conduct? Solicitation is not allowed on voting day?!

Chivalry, oh chivalry…

Yesterday, it was a welcome night out at the Catholic Gym. The Music was good, the company excellent, the atmosphere charged and noisy, the food so-so, and the night warmed up as the wee hours approached – I’d give it an 8 on 10, despite my encounter with ‘the queue’.

The snacks and refreshments required the purchase of coupons and there was just one person dishing them out to the milling crowd. After standing patiently in line while it remained static for what seemed like forever, I discovered that the men in front were ordering their chhotas and burras – this entailed stating the tipples, the quantity and numbers. For example, three large whiskeys (name of brand), two small rums (name of brand and either dark or white), one small brandy (name of brand), two vodkas, and a couple of cokes. The man at the counter would then have to check the rates, calculate the individual cost, tot up and total, enter it manually on the receipt, receive the cash, and dish out the change.

I tried my luck. ‘Is there a ladies’ queue?’ The gent before me bestowed a genial smile and a not so genial reply, ‘This is a private venue. You get ‘ladies only’ in government office!’ I tried another tack. ‘Separate line for ‘Senior citizens’? The same gent turned round and gave me a funny look before facing forward again. Oh well, I resigned myself to my fate and spent the time profitably, calculating how much the bill would be. It was quite some time before I made it to the counter and I had the amounts down pat: so many plates (name of item), rate, total. The man at the counter scribbled away to my dictation, tore off the counterfoil and favoured me with a wide grin and ‘Thank you, Ma’am!’ If only those men before me had been efficient tipplers.

Apart from improving my mental math ability, there was one more lesson I learnt: When you’re hungry don’t join a queue of thirsty men!

(Perhaps, on second thoughts, I should have captioned this post 'Oh Chivas Regal...!)

Falling in love again…

At first glance he seemed large and lugubrious. Even a bit ungainly. But there was something about him that captivated me and I asked for an introduction. He was very polite and stepped forward to take my hand, but his response was disinterested, almost dismissive. I was piqued. I am usually well received and most are happy to make my acquaintance. I may not be outgoing but neither am I unfriendly. And, in this case, I put on my best smile and offered an enthusiastic ‘hello, so pleased to meet you.’

I volunteered some small talk, but there was none forthcoming in return – just a glance to concede his awareness of my presence and my voice. He is young; not yet old enough for the taciturnity he projects. So how could I make him notice me, pay me more attention?

I began to look out for him so as to make it seem as if I had bumped into him just by chance. At every opportunity, I offered a warm smile and an even warmer ‘hello’. All I received was a perfunctory glance in return. Sometimes, there seemed to be a glimmer of something more. Perhaps an attempt to take the conversation beyond the initial overtures, but that was all it was. He would shuffle a little closer, rearrange his features, give the impression that he was clearing his throat and then, nothing. He would relapse into a personal reverie.

What were his interests? How did he pass his time? Perhaps if I could get a handle on these, I would be able to excite his attention. He was definitely not shy. One time I touched him, letting my hand linger just a fraction longer than necessary and he did not withdraw. But neither did he react. Indifference? To me? Surely not!

It has been a very long time since I lost my heart so thoroughly and I am not one to give up easily. A visit to his home might constitute an invasion of privacy, so I dropped in at the workplace instead. Once again, he was very polite and rose to receive me, but it was his colleagues who were happy to converse with me while he returned to his seat and an inner world. Contemplation seems to be his forte.

His colleagues love him too. They do not find him as remote as I do, and prefer to term him placid and easy-going. They are made happy just by his presence. I am not so easily satisfied. I find out what he likes best and take my leave. On my next visit, I bring him a gift. He accepts it willingly, takes it to his place where he examines it more thoroughly, giving it all his attention. He follows this up by a thoughtful glance in my direction. Hopefully, I have found a chink in his armour and the next time he will be a little more welcoming, a little more interactive. With time, I will be able to make him like me at least a little. I will have to be satisfied with only 'a little', for I know that he belongs to another and I could never make him completely mine.

A two-year old Golden Labrador should not be all that difficult to woo!

Snip, snip, snip!

The Greeks have been advised to give their debt a haircut. It’s all over the news! When talks began about austerity measures, trimming the debt and cutting back, it was inevitable, given the flexibility and adaptability of the English language, that ‘one word covers all’ would be used – so, haircut it is.

My own overgrown tresses occasioned some sharp reminders that mop-head suited me better than matronly and ‘When are you getting that haircut?’ became a frequent interjection in conversations. When the news, too, was peppered with the ‘H’ word, I took it to heart and decided it was now or never. With both trepidation and misgiving, I did a quick tic-tac-toe and opted for a local salon, a stone’s throw from my home.

There is a history behind my hair cuts and a reason for the reluctance. My earliest memories are of a pudding bowl. The ayah would place a large pudding bowl over my head – large enough to just cover the ears – and then trim around the edge, cutting off any hair that was visible. The final touch would be the fringe which was trimmed to just above the eyebrows. Simple, effective and neat if somewhat unimaginative.

An army lifestyle usually meant far flung outposts and no hairdressing salons worth the mention. We were serviced by the travelling barber who knew the date and the time without benefit of cell-phone, I-pod or electronic reminder. On the appointed day and time, he would turn up on our doorstep, kit in hand, and we would take our turns in the ‘chair’. Father first, I next and Mother last. Those were the days of the ‘bob’ and he managed to make us look quite presentable! Occasional visits to Bombay included a trip to Madame Jacques at the Hotel Taj Mahal. Coiffeuse to the elite, she always greeted all customers with a smile and exquisite courtesy. My turn in the chair required ‘just a trim’ (trims were cheaper than a full hair cut), but Madame J was a true professional and she would put in that little bit extra with scissors and comb to give me the perfect ‘look’.

When her eponymous salon closed down, we shifted loyalties to Rocco. He was a short, dapper, voluble, jovial Italian who flirted outrageously with his clients, age notwithstanding, and a visit to his salon was a treat. Here, too, was perfection. You could shut your eyes, enjoy the teasing banter and walk out with your crowning glory exactly that. He eventually shut shop and returned to his native Italy.

Marriage took me away from the locality and I made friends, in turn, with Sarah, Lolly and Eula who worked from home and kept my tresses in trim. Then, we returned to Colaba. The years in-between had seen many changes. Now, there was a plethora of boutique salons with intimidating protocol and even more intimidating prices. I opted for the easy way out. Hubby and I would visit his barber, in tandem, and sit beside each other for a ‘his and hers’. Safely escorted, it was always a happy experience.

This time, I needed to pluck up courage and venture out on my own. So, a ladies' salon it had to be. The girl assigned to me looked at my rueful expression and asked the reason. I told her that a ‘first time’ hair cut and a visit to the dentist were on par. She smiled, judged the height from the top of my head and pumped the chair so that it rose some four inches – more memories of the dentist! Well, I am happy to say that I have survived the experience; my head and my purse are considerably lighter and it will, hopefully, be at least six months before I have to work up my courage again.

There are many things that are better for being short and sweet and that goes for my hairstyle too!

I am a Catholic

Raised in a Catholic family, I was educated in Catholic institutions and, since our Parish Church provided us with a Youth Club, I spent my leisure in a very Catholic social environment too.

We wore our Catholicism like a badge. This had its positives and its negatives. One appalling negative was the ‘holier than thou’ attitude which, thankfully, has now been shed. But the positive is what I would like to dwell on here.

If we were truly Catholic, we had to be perfect. Now, don’t get me wrong. We were not superhuman or even supernatural; it was just that we were expected to put in our very best effort and take pride in all that we did. Let me illustrate: employers and prospective spouses always wanted the ‘Convent trained’ because this meant that the best possible education had been provided. Catholic teachers, nurses, secretaries were always in demand because they could be expected to deliver and deliver quality. To say, “I am a Catholic’ was as good a certificate as any. If someone needed a repairman or wished to make a purchase from a particular vendor, you would recommend the person with the postscript, ‘Go to so and so. The work is excellent, you won’t be cheated and he(or she) is a Catholic.’ Yes, we had a very good name.

I once numbered among my acquaintances a Catholic carpenter who rejoiced in the name of Romeo. He was so much in demand that you had to plan at least a year in advance, book him for the work and issue interim reminders lest he forgot. He never did, but I was a nervous customer. His work was first class and he always followed up on the job. He made sure that the customer was fully satisfied. I still look on his work with pleasure, some 30 years on. Considering the demand, he could have overcharged, but he never did. Then there was Robert the contractor. He started out as a simple stonemason but went on to be a builder in his rural community. He was a byword and no job was too small to merit his personal supervision. I once queried a wall that he had constructed for me. His reply? ‘This is built by Robert. It will stand for a hundred years!’ I will certainly not live to see that, but a quarter century on, that wall is still robust and it stands tall against the elements.

When did we start to fall by the wayside?

The decline has been insidious. I first noticed it when some years ago I entered into a contract for renovation with a ‘Catholic’ contractor. The work seemed good. Once the final payment was made, however, things started coming apart. That was when I discovered that the fervently promised guarantees were nothing but dust in my eye (pun intended). I put it down to individual aberration.

Now, several years down the line, I have clocked many more such incidents and I am deeply saddened. It is a blot on our collective escutcheon.

It has happened and we cannot turn back the clock. But we can remedy the situation. Perhaps we need to make it known that this is ‘not Catholic’. Perhaps we need to go out and reaffirm our faith and values. Perhaps we need to remind ourselves that, in the words of a much loved mentor, ‘We must shine for Christ!’

The Soundest Financial Advice

Every day, the news screams out one word, ‘SCAM’. And the list keeps growing. Some scams prompt a cynical lift of the eyebrows (so what’s new?) while others provoke a gasp of incredulity (could anyone be so gullible?). One such is the so-called ‘Citibank scam’. One man was able to get the very wealthy (make that ‘extremely wealthy’) to part with sums running into crores of Rupees in order to fill up his personal kitty. The honey trap? Get richer, even quicker. Greed, one of the deadly sins, was hard at work!

Here is a true personal account that I read some years ago, one which caught my imagination and changed my outlook: A young wife and mother of three was finding it hard going to make ends meet, when her husband lost his job. With one chronically ill child and five mouths to feed, a mortgage to pay off and school fees to be met, her single income was insufficient to cover the costs. The family was in imminent danger of losing their home and the children their education. She prayed desperately for a miracle but none seemed forthcoming. Her parish priest, concerned at her very obvious misery, enquired into her circumstances. He offered her what seemed like a ludicrous piece of advice: give one tenth of what you receive to God. Here was someone who could not make ends meet. Where would she find one-tenth to spare? But the priest was persistent. Even a dollar or just a few cents, but do it. In the meantime, he arranged for school fees to be deferred and used his parish contacts to re-engineer the mortgage so that the installments were made lower and the term longer – a breathing space.

Soon, the husband found a job. It didn’t pay much but they were able to catch up with the bills. The family income grew incrementally. Things were looking up. But the point which carried a punch is best expressed in her own words, “We never became rich in the material sense of the word, but we always had enough. Even more important, we were happily aware that we had enough. We were blessed.”

And she kept her word to give one tenth to God, no matter what.

The custom of tithing is not new but seems to have fallen into disuse – one hates to part with money that can be spent on oneself. On the other hand, like all good habits, once started it gathers in momentum and the results are amazing. God does not renege on the deal, does not divert the dividend or abscond from contact. Here is foolproof ‘investment’ advice, one that no bank relationship managers will ever give. And that is why their clients end up losers.

Try it. It works. I know.

And may you always enjoy enough!