Requiem for the good ol’ television set

Requiem for the good ol’ television set  

As I turned around to go out of the shop my eyes fell on it. It was lying in a heap, amidst others of its ilk, in a corner. I suddenly felt very bad. I had come to this electronic shop to exchange my old portable TV for a new one. It had been with us for the last fourteen years – our first colour TV. It was through it we had made our acquaintance with the cable revolution. While I had my dose of news analysis, necessary for my Civil Services examinations, from the news channels, my parents had their fill of the family sagas and religious discourses from it. The number of channels then was limited and the twenty programme capacity of the TV set was sufficient. With the growth in the number of channels down the years the set’s features started seeming to be small. But the thought of a replacement was still far off as we were not very voracious TV watchers. With time however, its age began showing. It would get switched off by itself, the colours would leave the screen or the sound would get muted for small moments. The TV mechanic’s visits gained in frequency. As my infant turned into a toddler, the TV’s remote became his favorite toy, rendering it unfit for any control of the set. One had to go to the TV set to give it any command. When I heard about this exchange offer I decided to avail myself of it. And here was I getting the new big TV set packed.

   That, a lifeless common thing as an old TV set can raise the feelings of an attachment, had never crossed my mind. I felt hurt seeing the way it had been shoved in a dusty corner. “It is of no use to us Sir”, I heard the salesman telling a prospective customer who had come to exchange his electronic good. “For us it is all scrap and the offer is just to enable buyers to move to better electronic goods”. It saddened me and I felt like telling the salesman that mine was still in a working condition and that it deserved a better treatment. The thought of taking it back with me crossed my mind but, before my emotions could have the better of my decision, I immediately moved out of the shop.

   “Didn’t it feel bad the way our TV set was lying in a heap of disused TV sets?” my wife commented as we drove away from the shop. With a lump in my throat I could only nod in affirmation.

Rain Rain go away
Poor farmers seem to pray
As the crop on fields lay
For the harvest as they sway. :-(

( wrote this impromptu as the rains came lashing in Allahabad on 12-4-12 and the thought of the wheat crop lying in the open in the farms came to my mind)

A Soliloquy ( For the Teachers and Parents to hear)

Though about 30 years have elapsed when I was a primary level kid, I seem to remember so much of then. The names of the teachers who were specially attentive to me are engraved in the memory. Of course, I was kid and didn’t notice that they were lovingly attentive to each one of the class! I remember so well my exhilaration at the pats on the back and, a resolve to prepare the next lesson more thoroughly for more such pats. How I hated it whenever my performance was measured in terms of the achievement of others in my age group – and that too before others. These grown ups! How would they all feel if their weaknesses are discussed before their friends? They laughed at me when I said that an apple is of white colour. Come on just cut it up and won’t you find that the most of it is white? Yes, yes I wasn’t conforming to fixed standards but didn’t I have logic? They glared at me when I replied that “mangoes are found in the shop”. I was made to learn that they are found on trees; though, till then, I had seen them only in vegetable-shops to which I had accompanied at times with my father. It was only later that I found them to be correct when I saw them hanging on the trees. The reminiscences can go on and on but my only request is to please do not forget your own childhood and, love a child for what it is – a child.

Regards-

Skand Shukla

a link to Khushawant Singh's article in which he published a parody of mine http://www.hindustantimes.com/News-Feed/KhushwantSingh/This-was-one-miserable-winter/Article1-653540.aspx

Whispering Forties

Whispering Forties

As the tongue longs for taste buds-titillating delicacies, the heart says tut-tut. The insurance agent then puts forth medical policies, gently insinuating that now's the age when a medical check-up every six months is a must - and one never knows what they may throw up! The reminder of age irritates a bit but, as soon as you try to adjust the distance of the brochure to read the fine print, it strikes you that the prospect of wearing reading glasses is not so distant.

The grey had started showing in a few strands a couple of years back and we had got used to being addressed as 'uncle' by pretty young lasses. But, suddenly, colouring hair - the few patches that have remained, that is - seems to be the only option to ward off being similarly addressed by those in their early thirties. Our daily brisk walks (which have replaced strenuous sport) only accentuate the passage of time since we were young. We look askance at young couples who, oblivious to the world, are lost in their sweet-nothings. More than two decades have passed since we ourselves were in the same romantic mood, unaware of the realities of the world and times ahead. In that era without cellphones and internet, we made anonymous calls on the landline just to hear 'her' voice, checked the air in the cycle tubes or petrol in the scooter to keep pace with her, got palpitations while exchanging lecture notes and created unspoken rendezvous of the spots frequented by her. That's when we would have gladly given our lives for that one furtive glance from her.

No, it's not thanks to the 'naughty forties' syndrome that these thoughts recur. Rather, the term itself is a misnomer because naughtiness is an everlasting attribute, but it's only in the forties that it starts getting noticed and earns the disapproval of society. By 40, one is supposed to be too mellowed by life to indulge in romantic musings and hence the frowns.

It's when, instead of attending boisterous gatherings, you seek quiet meetings with like-minded companions. It's only now that poet Wordsworth's lines in Tintern Abbey become starkly clear. They trace so eloquently the growth of an individual focussing on "an appetite; a feeling and a love,/ That had no need of a remoter charm,/ By thought supplied, nor any interest/ Unborrowed from the eye" to a person who matures "hearing oftentimes/ The still, sad music of humanity" that is "of ample power/ To chasten and subdue". Apply those words written in homage to nature to romance instead, and these are times when romance gradually subsides, leaving behind the essence of love.

Nevertheless, the icing on the 40th birthday cake doesn't seem too inviting. After all, the calorie meter starts ticking in the mind immediately. In fact, birthdays are not awaited as eagerly as before. Perhaps that's because they remind us of time left rather than times to come. Then again, our worldview seems to change too. We seem to lose that fearlessness and crass individuality which marked our thoughts and actions. We take decisions not for ourselves alone but give a thought to all related. We start adopting things and practices once considered irritating and restricting - from mundane helmets and seat belts to the sublime heart, home and hearth.

It`s only in geography - the Southern Hemisphere - that we have the "Roaring Forties"; in life, the forties whisper. Life tells us it's time to pause and plan, to take account not only of finances but also of relationships - and that we ought to calculate only when it comes to savouring a cake, not human relationships.

IT’S WEDDING SEASON FOLKS - HT 12-12-10

IT’S WEDDING SEASON FOLKS

God! Another wedding tonight! After returning home from an unnerving day at the office this is my expression when I glance at the heap of invitation cards on my table. When one would love to sit cozily with a mug of tea and newspaper and, talk with the kids about their day at school, one has to haggle with wife on the clothes to wear at the wedding party. “Not that one dear, you have already worn it twice last week”, she says. I don’t understand if I myself don’t remember what clothes I wore to some place, how others can remember them. The almost the same set of people you meet in every party is a testimony to the belief that the world is a small place. And, almost the same menu in each of them only strengthens it. It all begins with a cup of ¾ foam filled coffee or soup (invariably tomato!) which everybody takes with a prayer that the feast begins soon. The clarion sounds with the lightening of the spirit lamps below the dishes and, a clamour starts for the plates and spoons. Even the DJ’s ear-splitting music gets drowned in the clangour. A small war zone gets created at the table where the ‘rotis’ are being baked. As one moves towards the veggies section, one tries to locate something exotic- other than paneer (palak, butter masala and, kadhai), potato in various hues and, daal. Even these ‘routine’ items would have been exciting if they tasted differently in different parties. But the strange thing is that throughout the country they taste the same as if all chefs were one. Through a deftness that gets acquired over a number of parties, everything eatable is piled on one plate. One’s finesse is then tested in his/her success in not letting everything mix with everything while picking up morsels and, simultaneously protecting ones clothes from getting into the neighbouring plate or, vice versa. When the still half-filled plate has been consigned to the bin, one moves towards the dessert section where again one looks for something other than the usual gulabjamun, imarti and halwa. Hot milk in kulhars has been a late addition in this section without giving a thought as to where does this milk come from when there is always a dearth of quality milk all the year round. The attention now shifts to the ‘vyavahar’ table. After ensuring that one’s name and the amount against it has been entered correctly, one moves towards the exit for an encore at the next venue, not forgetting the paan, of course, on the way out.

Beep, beep

Publication: The Times Of India Delhi;
Date: Oct 11, 2011;
Section: Editorial; 

link- http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/edit-page/Beep-beep/articleshow/10306893.cms

Page: 14

Beep, beep

Familiarity breeds contempt, goes the adage. This also holds true about the words connoting contempt. My fear is that epithets once considered the choicest are getting devalued due to their overuse. Profanities can

not be treated lightly. They have their own significance, an ‘estranging’ effect as the formalists in literary criticism would perhaps say. They jar, intensify, condense, turn ordinary language on its head and render the meaning more perceptible.

Ask a policeman its worth and he would sing encomiums. A common man regulates his blood pressure by chanting the swear-mantra when the current goes off, discusses the price of petrol, vegetables, milk, describes the systemic frailties of the country or refers to a politician. The ‘SMS’ industry is raking in the moolah as most of the messages exchanged do not deal with lofty thoughts.

There were times when even the innocuous ‘abe’ in addressing a person was frowned upon by elders. No sooner did he hear the words ‘I swear’ that one of our English teachers would send the boy reeling with a rap across the face, though the poor boy would only be referring to vowing while explaining his conduct. The comic books of yore would denote a character’s venting anger by the universally understood symbols of percentage, spiral, star grid etc (% # * $). The adjectives uttered were left to the reader’s imagination and experience. Cuss words were so sparingly used in society that during the initiation rituals, fresh entrants in engineering and medical colleges had to undergo special training to attain knowledge of the meaning, usage and appropriate pronunciations of these words in chaste vernacular. The seniors were obviously concerned as they knew that the newcomers had been only bookworms until then and had to be initiated in the practical world.

Swear words have had their place in our culture as well. The singing of ‘gari’ – raunchy songs – holds an important place in the wedding ceremonies. The festival of Holi is another example. They perhaps are instances of society’s mechanism of venting against established social mores in favour of the dominant. It might be Russian philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin’s ‘carnivalisation’ at work where there is a momentary disruption of hierarchies of a social structure.

Invectives shock because of their uncommonness. Imagine the jolt if even the most sacrilegious of us hears a respectable elderly man or a lady mouthing foul adjectives. Times, however, are a-changing. Words considered offensive earlier are being ‘automatised’ (in the formalist terminology). Addressing one (who really was not one’s) ‘saala’, not very long ago, could lead to serious repercussions in mutual relation. But now, no more. Now, ‘saala’ is just another word for exclamation, just like another ‘S’ word – ‘shit’. Sentences in the western part of UP and Punjab seem incomplete without a fair sprinkling of the ‘B’ word. Social sites have sanctified the ‘F’ word and it is used with aplomb by teenagers as the elders cringe with embarrassment.

Bollywood has had a vital role to play in taking our vocabulary to new heights. When kids start lisping ‘saala’ and ‘kaminaa’ – grand adjectives to what was once considered the sublime emotion of love, and the art of dance – the words become part of everyday speech. It seems that it won’t be long before Dada Kondke’s puns will be taken as the figurative language of our film industry; after all, the language in some of today’s films is being dubbed as that of realism. As Shelly would have said – if ‘saala’ comes, can ‘D K Bose’ be far behind? My only fear is: How shall we express our disgust when all words for it become part of the routine!