One anecdote. That’s what Indian Railway promises you each time you choose to avail of it’s services. Of course, conditions apply. The journey needs to include at least four hours of day travel; and you need to be wearing the best pair of ears in your wardrobe.
So there we are, the newly wed couple and I, sitting in this cubicle meant for four. I’m dividing my time between reading a book and staring out of the window poring over its contents (the book’s, not the window’s). Therefore, it’s not long before my presence is rendered invisible to my co-travellers; and the cooing which had begun with spots of hesitation is soon in full flow.
​
I come to gather that they’re Delhiites who’ve been visiting the tiger reserve in Sawai Madhopur. Nopes, they didn’t get to see the tiger. But our stoical city-dwellers aren’t complaining. Wasn’t the ambience in the jungle just great? And isn’t that what they were mainly there for? Besides, there was the chirping of birds, the chatter of monkeys, the dancing of deer....You get the picture. Put doe and doe together.

It appears there’ll never be trouble in paradise but that’s just when our man embarks upon a new subject. Monty is throwing an all guys party over the weekend, he informs. Could he go attend? He’ll not be long, and the only reason he wants to go is so that he doesn’t seem unsocial to the old gang. Reluctantly, she emits a yes. Smart boy, I’m thinking to myself. Made good use of that commodity called inertia which Newton talks so highly about. But alas, my assessment of our man is mistaken. He soon reveals himself for the novice he is. Instead of pretending that he’s understood the faux-yes to be a real-yes(like any seasoned husband would do), he wants to know whether baby really-really has no problems with his disappearance. No she doesn’t, baby tells him. Yet the young fool presses on. And eventually, the inevitable happens. Well, baby doesn’t actually bare her fangs and claw him to death, but her eyes flash a glare which according to William Blake is found only in distant deeps and skies. Yes, we have tigress, tigress, burning bright!
Sawai Madhopur seldom disappoints.

I get off at Mathura and it’s still two hours to Delhi. I’m kind of sure that this should be enough time for affairs to convalesce. After all, few things compare in strength to the power of nascent love.
 

While I sit through that brave but failed experiment called Jagga Jasoos, I tip my hat to the casting director; for one among the very few things which work in the movie's favour is the casting of Saswata Chatterjee. No one, absolutely no one but that quintessential Bengali could've done justice to the role of a 'free-spirited and slightly-eccentric' man. Am I typecasting Bengalis? Well yes. And as if that wasn't bad enough, all I'm offering as corroboration is anecdotal evidence. Then again, let's not forget that enough of 'anecdotal' does eventually get us to 'empirical'.
 
 So, here's to some wonderful Bengalis I've known!
 
Sabyasachi Mukhopadhyay: An ace swimmer and a cogent debater. He was my senior in school by four years and so he obviously had first rights over this expensive watch which I'd gotten that summer. Here’s the incident:
 
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves….Okay, let’s keep it simple. It was evening. I was rushing for Astachal and Mukko(as SM was fondly called) was returning from swimming practice. He spots me and goes on to give me a few instructions about the attendance-register at Astachal, and then, as we're about to part, he remembers "अरे हाँ, वो तेरी घड़ी खो गयी।" It was beautiful, the nonchalance with which he uttered those words. To this day I harbour a suspicion that Ram Gopal Verma lurked somewhere in that vicinity. It's plainly evident that the dreaded Bhawani of 'Shiva' had Mukko for inspiration (when after doling-out instructions to a minion about some killing to be executed, he adds 'और हाँ, जाते जाते एक cigarette packet भी।' )
PS:the watch was eventually found and duly returned.
 
Another free-spirit I have the pleasure of knowing is a batch-mate from school. Saumya Acharya. But since the anecdotes accentuating the free-spiritedness of this particular Bengali may not be entirely appropriate for this forum, we'll make do with that single line of profound wisdom which the Acharya once deigned to reveal to me. 'ग़ौर कर लिया है मैंने सब मुद्दों पर, ऐसा कुछ है नहीं life में serious होने लायक।"
 
And then there was Sumit Chawdhury. My room-mate at IIT Delhi. The man who'd gotten through IIM Ahmedabad with just a week of study (only in that last week had he
staked claim on our jointly purchased, three-year-old copy of IMS.)
 
So, there’s Chow, visiting me after a two-year stint in Japan. With a deadpan expression and in that typical drawl of his, he’s elaborating upon some snaps in a photo-album, "those are cherry blossoms.....the Japanese consider them sacred.... manifestation of life and all......it's inauspicious to pluck cherry blossoms......brings very bad luck." Then, with a small smile and with much deliberation, he pulls the snap out of the album to reveal what’s hidden underneath "here are some cherry blossoms I plucked."
 
Khoob bhalo, isn’t it?

​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.