​He approaches me with a sheepish grin and I instantly know he wants something. My guess is right. It's an advance that he seeks. I ask him the reason for it and he starts to blush. He's getting married he says, sheepish grin firmly in place. I'm disarmed by his ingenuousness and find it difficult to keep myself from being drawn into a conversation. She's from a neighbouring town, he informs, and he still hasn't had the chance to talk to her. He has her photograph though. He shyly pulls it out of his wallet to give me a glimpse. I find her rather ordinary to look at, especially when compared to his handsome self. I guess he reads my verdict; for he instantly offers by way of explanation 'स्वभाव की बोहोत अच्छी है सर, सब रिश्तेदार बताते हैं'। I burst out laughing. And because I know that my laugh will for sure be misinterpreted, clarifications notwithstanding, I end-up obliging him with the sought advance.
 
The lyrics of a Manoj Kumar song are raked up as I see him leave, 'चाँद सी महबूबा हो मेरी कब ऐसा मैंने सोचा था, हाँ तुम बिलकुल वैसी हो जैसा मैंने सोचा था'
 
Or, as Proust would say, 'Let's leave pretty women to men with no imagination.'

​There's this ilk of doctors I'm in love with. These guys are reticent, proficient, and they tolerate no intrusion in their line of work. Allow me some anecdotes to better acquaint you with the genus.
 
Now since the best tales usually come out of साडा पंजाब, it's only obvious that Akshay Arora should tell of a wonderful ophthalmologist in Gurdaspur. Not only could this doctor keep his sang-froid in the face of a patient attributing a microbial infection to computer-screen glare, he also proved himself to be a prince of repartee. So when the patient ranted for the third time 'डॉक्टर साहब, दिल करदाए अख़खान नू खुजाता जाऊँ, खुजाता जाऊँ,खुजाता जाऊँ।' the good doctor coolly consoled 'ओ ना ना! दिल दी सारी ग़ल्लान नी मानते।'
 
And yesterday it was the turn of Seema Jha to be at the receiving end. She'd taken her sick boy to the doctor and her anxiety began to build as the examination was completed in near-total silence. Then when the prescription was being jotted( of course, in silence again), she gave in to the temptation of ascertaining that the matter wasn’t too serious, and that sonny-boy was merely under the weather. 'ये सर्दी से ही है ना डॉक्टर साहब,' she hesitantly asked. The doctor conceded a little smile as he answered 'अगर सिर्फ़ सर्दी से होता, तो सभी बीमार हो जाते।'

 As I watch my wardrobe being pruned of unwanted clothes, a thought crosses the mind. It’s a thought about the slow demise of the kurta pajama. Now when I say kurta-pajama I obviously don’t allude to that designer stuff in chrome yellow and turquoise blue, which is very much alive and kicking. What I refer to is that plain-white garb of cotton which till very recently prevailed as the staple evening-dress. I refer to those casuals which men slipped into once they’d decided to spend the evening at home. It is those casuals that I bemoan; the casuals that have been replaced by bermudas/trek-pants and T-shirts.
 
Not that I hold anything against the Ts, but it needs to be ceded that the gains the new entrants make in expediency are paid for in terms of grace. I somehow find it difficult to visualise my granddad attired in a pair of bermudas.
 
Also, while we’re on the subject of endangered apparel, we might as well pay heed to that other candidate in need of resuscitative oxygen: the handkerchief. Okay, I agree the disposable tissue obviates the need for one, and that hygienists now deem the kerchief a less safer option for nursing a cold. But still, there can be no writing-off of the humble handkerchief. There’s something ineffable about it that renders it an old-world charm. As Robert De Niro says in ‘The Intern’, “a handkerchief is not for you to use. You carry it in case a lady needs it.” So I guess it’s not so much about changed fashion as it is about changed outlooks.
 
Which brings me to my recent Jaipur trip and an afternoon spent with a wonderful lady and her husband. As my son bent down to touch this gentleman’s feet, he smiled and said that he’d rather shake hands. Since this dear friend - who’s not traditional in your copybook way – happens to be a medico, the reply I offered to his objection was an anatomical one. I told him that when it comes to tradition, I prefer to describe my inclinations as agnostic. Therefore, just like members of his ilk never bother to remove the vestigial appendix until it starts to be of trouble, I too prefer to let the traditions just be.
 
Does that make me old school? I don’t know. But if it does, I would straightaway want to pin the blame on just that – my old school, Scindia. For this is an institution where we did both; we shook our teacher’s hand and we touched their feet as well. Importantly, we learnt to distinguish what occasion demanded for which of the two. And yes, we had the kurta pajama as well. A whole sea of it at the Astachal every evening.
 
What about the handkerchief, you ask? Well, morning inspection duly ensured that each of us were in possession of one; even though that all-boys school wasn’t exactly looming with the De Niro contingency.

​‘Ranoji mein ho?’ he asked, without lifting his gaze from the answer sheet that he happened to be thumbing through. The answer sheet was mine and the test in pertained to was the maths test from the recently concluded half-yearly exams. ‘Yes sir,’ I replied. Then even before I could sneak a peek at my marks, I knew I’d fared pretty well; for Khan sahab had allowed himself a little smile. Mind you, just a little one. Because his dignity and meticulousness would not allow his fondness for his old house to venture into the domain of prejudice. Indeed, his dignity was an attribute he zealously guarded. And it is no small tribute to it that while there were nicknames for most teachers( boys being boys), Khan sahab was known as just that: Khan sahab.
 
Khan sahab left Ranoji the very same year I enrolled there, and the privilege of having him for a housemaster eluded me by the smallest of margins. However, since it was a fresh wake in which I basked, I got to know a lot about him through the stories that abounded. There was the praying Rahul Nandy story, the laughing-Raavan (Rahul Kulshreshtha) episode, the shahi-toast sagas and many more. Of course, there was also the anecdote about reining in Salman Khan's tormentors - that bunch of indiscreet lads who were rather risqué in their allusion to the conjugal preferences of Mr. Salim Khan.
 
But interesting though these narratives may be, they by no means form the core of my memories of Khan sahab. That space is ruled by a set of streaming vignettes; moving snapshots, if you will. And foremost among these snapshots would be the ones from the Republic day and Independence day parades. Yes, as most Scindians from that era would have correctly comprehended, what I allude to is that handsome frame in an immaculate achkan; a frame awash with abiding visual appeal; a frame so majestic that it rendered his incongruous bicycle almost invisible.
 
The next snapshot is about Khan sahab's version of the Indian map. To his drawing hand, that map was always an image of undivided India. Some of us at that time viewed his map as a flawed perception of the subject he was teaching. Now, I see it differently. I believe that map wasn't so much a desire to alter geography as it was a yearning to have history rewritten.
 
Finally, my most abiding memory of Khan sahab: the snapshot of a lone figure standing on the sidelines of a sports-ground (this is from the days when he'd ceased to be housemaster.) Khan sahab, on his way home after games-hour, would invariably stop over to catch a few minutes of any match that his house happened to be engaged in. Curiously, his vantage point was always well removed from that of the other spectators. A telling habit I'd say. It apprised of his instinct to keenly watch over the objects of his affection. More importantly, it apprised of his preference for going about that task in an unobtrusive manner.
 
And that, for the time being, could be the only consolation his loved ones may find assuagement in.

Seven year old Anshuman Jha is back from school. He knows that his dad (who came-in home from an out-of-town visit after AJ had left for school, and went away to office soon thereafter) has brought him a new tennis racquet. AJ sets out on a frantic search to locate it. His elder sister cautions him against doing so because the racquet is meant to be a surprise. ‘मुझे surprises पसंद नहीं हैं’ he ticks her off.

Predictably, he soon finds the racquet. He’s happy to see it. The sister attempts to puncture that glee by reminding him that his gratification has come at a cost. His eagerness has deprived their dad of the thrill concomitant  with present-giving. AJ goes quiet for some time. It appears he’s feeling guilty, but that interlude is only the soundless working of a dangerous mind. He soon bounces back with a plan. Though he doesn't use those exact words, what he tells his sister is quite on the lines of what Amitabh had said to Helen in the movie Don (the scene in the hotel room when Amitabh held a gun to Helen’s head and wanted to use her as a hostage to escape the policemen outside. The said remark was made in response to a smirking Helen’s “रिवॉल्वर ख़ाली है डॉन”) “सोनिया, तुम जानती हो कि रिवॉल्वर ख़ाली है, मैं जानता हूँ रिवॉल्वर ख़ाली है। मगर पुलिस नहीं जानती कि रिवाल्वर ख़ाली है“
​
So yes, when I come back home in the evening and hand him the racquet, the brat has the gumption to throw open his eyes in surprise and shriek with absolute conviction “अरे वाह!”

‘Do you know that left-handed people live seven years less as compared to right-handers?’ asks the eldest daughter who’s into her teens and a lefty.
‘Bullshit! Highly unlikely that prescribed sampling methods would’ve been heeded for such a shady survey,’ I reply, instinctively. Then as I look into those beseeching doe eyes, I’m immediately apprised of my tactical error – employing rational argument in a situation that requires factoid to be countered with factoid. ‘But yes,’ I change course, ‘left-handers are far more creative than right-handers. And they also enjoy an undue advantage in sports.’
There’s a short silence before she responds,‘Tears of happiness flow out from the right eye first. Tears of sadness and pain, from the left.’
Okay, so we’re pitted against some major googling here, I realise. There’s little chance of victory but one nevertheless tries to hold fort for the lefties in this right/left battle. ‘So tell me,’ I ask, ‘when we board the plane this summer-vacation, which direction would you want to turn upon entering? Right or left?’ I think I have her flummoxed with this question on ‘class’ divide, but I’m mistaken.
‘Do you know dad that when bats come out of a cave, and provided there’s no obstacle in either direction, they first turn left.’
I’m hoping her remark is a non-sequitur, and that she has no intentions to label worldly-aspirations as ‘blind’. But more importantly, I’m hoping she isn’t ticking-off the ‘family vacation.’ Not just yet.

Professor Lajpat Rai was one of the likable profs at IIT-Delhi. He had been a part of the Indo-Russian LCA(light combat aircraft) design team and would often regale us with anecdotes from that stint.  This is a favourite from that collection:
​
A standard problem faced by airplanes plying in cold regions is that of ice-formation at the propeller tips(the low pressure at the tips causing the low temperature). The ice so formed is sucked in and goes on to severely harm the propeller blades. The solution?  Heated oil. This used to be delivered to the propeller tip (and then taken back for reheating) through expensively machined concentric tubing along the axis of the propeller shaft(expensive, because of the precision engineering. Unbalanced forces don’t sit well with high RPM.)

Then one fine day, out of the blue, along came this great whirl of an idea. Or shall we say, little whirl? It was suggested that the tip of the propeller be made slightly eccentric. This would create local eddies that generated just enough heat to prevent the ice from forming. Simple, and absolutely brilliant!
 
passing thought : Could it be that our day-to-day concerns and apprehensions are in fact the eddies which keep the ice of angst & ennui from forming?

Standing in the ticket line at PVR(Priya, as it was called 25 years back)I became the custodian of civic propriety and was adroitly fending off queue-jumpers with remarks that weren’t entirely polite. Then along came this hulk. A man of sinister appearance who spoke from the northwest corner of his mouth. Obviously, I didn’t at all take offence to him jumping the queue. Ajju sniggered. Then to drive home the point even further, he asked me with feigned innocence “yeh pehelwaan aisa kya karey ki tu bura maan jaaye?”
That phrase went on to achieve folklore status.

Remembering Ajju this friendship day, I find his words ringing true in another, more profound, manner. As I grow older clinging to the friendships of my youth, I see myself getting more and more tolerant of them. And I realise that this magnanimity is for my own sake, not theirs. I guess I’m too lazy to start afresh. I’d rather spend my emotional energies rationalising acts that don’t meet expectations.
​
Bhailog, Ajju theek hi kehta tha – tum aisa kuchh nahi karr sakte ki mein bura maan jaun.