LEAVE IT TO PAPOO

Kawcaw

                                       Leave it to Papoo

Ever since my son pushed off to America, there is a gaping hole in our support system. My computer and mobile are the two epicentres of the technological illiteracy that I suffer from. When Anurag was here, he made it a point to come in the morning to partake of the amrit dispensed by my mother. He would also drop in on his way back from the office. I would invariably have some problem or the other lined up for him.

I also had the able guidance of elder grandson Achintya, who absorbed all his encyclopaedic knowledge by playing with the system. Incidentally, he also contributed to the overcrowding of the desktop by leaving helter skelter his homework, mostly copied from Google. My younger grandson Amrit did not solve any problems; he merely added to my suffering by downloading games and cluttered my desktop with the debris of games he had won or lost.

You could say that I had a permanent establishment of one and a half problem- solvers and one and a half problem-creators. So my bullock cart lurched on but it did lurch. With the exit of the brigade, I was left helpless, buffeted by the storms and hurricanes of the turbulent digital ocean.

Initially I took recourse to the expertise of the younger set whenever and wherever I could catch them: my brother-in-law Ravinder Raina: his son Manik, my other brother-in-law’s son Vinny and a host of assorted nephews, nieces and grandchildren and visitors and acquaintances. These days I admit I have become somewhat of a pest to the younger generation.

I am sure that many people of my age are faced by this sort of situation. To take an example of the kind of stuff that stymies me, my printer started showing signs of ill health some three months ago. It wailed ever and anon, “The ink is running low.” But when I brought it to the notice of my son, he blithely dismissed it at first as the preliminary signal of a temperamental machine. He took out several printouts and found them of high quality.

“You should start worrying, Daddy, when the print quality starts to deteriorate, not otherwise”, he advised.

I postponed the purchase of a new cartridge, especially as refilled ones have a habit of churning out smudged copies and new cartridges are very expensive. It was also not clear whether only the black ink was running low or the coloured one was also showing signs of strain. As I had not taken out manifold versions of coloured prints, I thought the colour cartridge could wait for a little while longer.

Two days before his departure Anurag bought two cartridges from the    Canon shop in Nehru Place, just in case. He replaced the black one and took out a print. It was first rate. He kept the colour cartridge in stock and advised me to replace it only when the need arose.

Little did I realise how much knowledge one must possess to replace a cartridge in a printer. When you open the lid, both the cartridges move on a frame three times before they come to a halt. That is the time when you remove the old cartridge and put in the new one. While inserting the new one you must remove the plastic tape that keeps the ink intact. I had that esoteric knowledge from an earlier encounter  and removed the tape. But when I operated the machine, it would not yield a copy.

To cut a long story short, I contacted Vinod Kaul, my brother-in-law’s brother-in-law, who deals with computer accessories. Several abortive visits later, Vinod was forced to take the copier physically to the Canon Service Centre. It turned out that the machine was throwing tantrums because of a dust allergy. It had to be serviced before it would come back to normal.

About 15 days ago, my wife told me in the morning, “Yesterday Mamaji had rung up around 11 p.m. Apparently your Facebook account has been hacked. Several videos containing obscene material have been inserted on the timeline”. I rushed to my PC and found the page full of videos. I opened one and found some obscene stuff. (A dog and bitch copulating, to be precise, though why an act of nature between two consenting adults should be termed obscene, I cannot fathom)

I had no clue what one did when one’s account was hacked. I thought of who I should consult. Suddenly I was reminded of a dialogue I had with Ajay Kaul alias Papoo who is the second son of my co-brother-in-law Shri Avtar Krishen Kaul. He recently took his parents first to Rameshwaram and Tirupati and then to Dwarka. A veritable modern Shrawan Kumar. When I praised him for his attitude towards his parents, he said, “Mausaji, don’t worry that Gugoo is no longer here. Any time you have a problem I am at your service.”

I said, half in fun, “You are talking like Abhinav Chaturvedi in Hum Log. He would keep on saying , ‘leave it to Nanhe!’ ”

“Yes, Mausaji, you can leave everything to Papoo”.

I rang up Papoo and told him about my predicament. He asked for my Facebook password and signed off.

After half an hour, he and his wife Shiva came to our house. Shiva said, “We have looked at your account. It was indeed full of muck. We have cleaned up the whole thing. So you can go back to work as usual.”

Papoo added, “We have coined a new password for you. It is this”. He passed on a piece of paper. “All you have to do is to inform your friends on Facebook and apologise. As far as Facebook security is concerned we have informed them of the attack. Thy will keep your account under watch. Normally there should not be a repeat attack.”

 I was amazed at the speed at which the younger generation moves. Had Papoo not been around, I would have been lying dazed, not knowing what to do first.

“What do I need to do?” I plaintively bleated.

 “Nothing. All aspects have been taken care of. You just sit back and relax. Leave it to Papoo, I promised you.”

 When it came to transferring the Tata Sky connection from Anurag’s name to mine, I thought it would be damned easy.  Anurag rang them up several times to ensure that the formalities were completed before he left. 

His subscription was expiring on 17^th October. Out of the cleanest motives possible, the company executive advised, “why not let the old connection complete its term and the new connection be taken from 17^th onwards?”

In between my wife rang up several times to be assured that the transfer formalities would be completed before 17^th October. When nobody came physically, we spent the best part of 16^th trying to get hold of an executive in the Customer Care Centre. Most of us have gone through the frustrating experience of talking to a computer. The computer gives you ten options and you have to choose. By the time you have tried to assimilate which option applies to you, it is time for a replay. Finally we succeeded in getting hold of a human being, who forwarded us to someone else, who forwarded us to someone else. Finally we were told that a work permit had been issued and the transfer would be physically completed next day.

We heaved a sigh of relief. It proved to be premature, because the work permit was cancelled by an SMS that evening. No reasons were given but we were invited to have another round of discussions with the computer in the Customer Care centre.

That is when I felt I had had enough.

I rang up Papoo. He heard me out and said,” Do not worry, Mausaji. This will be sorted out in five minutes.”

It was 8 p.m. I put my TV on. It flashed a message saying that our balance with the company was down to Rs. 13.  Soon thereafter,our transmission ceased.

It would have stayed that way but for Papoo. Apparently he rang up the company, found out that our balance was exhausted, made a payment of one month’s charges online and got the connection restored.

Does not sound like magic. But for me it was. I could not have got through to the CCC in the first place. Secondly, I do not know how to make an online payment. If payment in cash had to be made, it could only be on the next day. Thirdly, I did not know where the Tata sky office for Greater Kailash was located.

If this is not magic, I would like to know what is. For me now, anytime I have a problem I cannot solve myself, I have a second son. My slogan is, “Leave it to Papoo!”

Caution:  Lest there is some misunderstanding,Papoo’s services are not available to all the oldies who are confused by the Digital Age. He is available only to his Mausaji.

A HOLIDAY FOR RAJ

                              A holiday for Raj

These days people are on the move all the time. My Mamaji Shri R.K.Sadhu has just returned from Stockholm. My sister Asha and her husband Dev are currently in Singapore. My cousin Usha and her husband Rattan Lal Raina are visiting their son in the States.

Why am I saying all this? Today, this is ghar ghar ki kahani. Children are settling abroad and parents visit them.

Raj is special. She is bound to her hearth and home with hoops of steel and is not one of those gallivanting grahasthins who hanker after holidays and  hotels. She is happiest looking after her own brood like a mother hen. 

Sathya Sai Baba told her once in a personal interview that she would have to spend most of her time looking after the  welfare of many generations. Raj  replied promptly, trying to display her knowledge of arithmetic, “ Yes, Baba I have to look after four generations.”

Baba smiled mischievously and looked obliquely at Urvashi, our daughter-in-law. “No, five, “he said.

 Baba was right! For many years now she has had to cater to five 

generations of Kaws ranging from my mother who is ninety to Amrit who is nine. With my son’s family moving recently to Cleveland, her attention span has come down to three.

So when I recently went to Panchagani in Maharashtra, she sneaked in a holiday for more than a week.

I have been going to Panchagani now and then to participate in training programmes run for senior officers of the Government in collaboration with the Department of Personnel, Govt. of India.I have been waxing eloquent about the ambience of the place, its plateaus and valleys, strawberries and silence,   trips to nearby villages and  temples, mild climate and flowers, tips for inner governance and changing life’s agenda.

As it turned out, she got a rude introduction to the place. The flight from Delhi was delayed by half an hour and heavy rainfall and traffic Increased the time taken to get out of Pune town by another hour. It rained all the way to Panchagani and it was quarter past ten when we finally reached our destination.

Luckily the management had taken care to keep a hot case in our room with a delightful fare of dishes. The room was warm and welcoming. We had a leisurely meal and then fell into deep sleep.

Raj attended our training sittings  in the next few days and found them quite absorbing. The major theme of our sessions on inner governance proceeds to expound the central thesis advocated by Buchman, the founder of MRA. It is simply put thus: “Be the change you want to see in the world.”

The teachers at Panchagani are all volunteers, trying to transform the world as per their heart’s desire. The training methodology is quite different, replete with incidents from their own lives, songs by large groups of international interns, short video films, interesting management games and so on.

There was a short visit to Grampari, a village development project, where the Director’s wife Jaishree runs various programmes of rural arts and crafts, teaching the villagers to take clean drinking water, give up drinking and to respect their womenfolk. I have been there quite often, so I let Raj go to the village, along with the other ladies who had accompanied their spouses.

She showed me the knickknacks she had bought at the craft centre, mostly bags and purses to be distributed as gifts to her many nieces.

That evening we had a talent nite of the trainees where they presented a variety entertainment programme. At dinner we had met Asma, a Kashmiri Muslim girl who has married a Gujarati boy. I asked her whether she could sing a Kashmiri song. One thing led to another and the result of this casual conversation was the presentation of a duet by Raj and Asma. Later I sang a Ghazal by Ghalib “Dil-e-nadaan tujhe hua kya hai” . And on a special request Raj and I sang on old duet “Mohe bhool gaye sanwariya “, which is a favourite of ours from our Himachal days.

Next day, we had a lecture by Anil Swarup, the Secretary (Coal) who explained how he had successfully handled the coal auctions. It was an electrifying presentation. Anil is a powerful speaker and brings both personalities and problems alive to his audience.

There was a trip to Mahabaleshwar temple on the programme. The trainees went separately and we had a car for two members of the faculty and their wives. Although it stated to rain we did not pay much attention to it, this being the season for rain. But when we reached the temple, there was a sudden and sustained downpour which made the ascent to the temple impossible. We waited for half an hour ,but Lord Shiva not showing any indication of relenting, we had to reluctantly withdraw.

On the way back we paid a visit to Maypore, an enterprise run by a Vohra, where strawberries are grown on a large scale and then converted into numerous products. In their restaurant we had a pizza and strawberry ice cream and coffee. It was yummy.

Thus the programme progressed as per schedule. We had a brain storming session with the Secretary Personnel, who had brought all his senior officers. The discussions centred mainly on two issues—performance assessment and citizen-centric system of governance. The discussions were very instructive and satisfying, with some novel suggestions coming up. Only time will tell whether any of the ideas would see the light of the day.

Soon it was time to leave. We left Panchagani with some regret in our hearts. But one thing was for sure. The holiday was a good break for Raj. Let us see when we can leave our Kaw Aul (Crows’ Nest) at Pamposh next.

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MAALISH KERALA STYLE

Kawcaw

                        Maalish-Kerala style

When I had a bout of low grade fever a few months back, I didn’t take it seriously. No one knew why I was running fever.

In the good old days they called it “P.U.O”. When, in the early sixties of the last century, my disease was diagnosed as PUO, I thought I had contracted one of those unmentionable, incurable ailments that was only whispered or aspirated, never put into words. Gingerly I broached the subject to the doctor. He looked at my face frozen in fear and trepidation and laughed outright.

I was aghast. Imagine a doctor deriving merriment from his patient’s predicament!.

“What is funny, Doctor Saab?” I asked, a trifle petulantly.

He saw that his response had hurt my sentiments.   “No, no. Believe me, I was just laughing at us doctors and the games we play.”

“Games? What games? ”

“Look here, my dear young man. PUO is no disease. It stands for Pyrexia of Unknown Origin. When the doctor finds a fever without understanding its origin, he writes P.U.O. He doesn’t wish to admit his ignorance.”

The doctors of today do not possess this brand of self-deprecatory humour. They call everything they do not understand as ‘viral fever,’ as if it is a diagnosis.

So officially I had viral. My platelet count went down. Whenever the thermometer crossed 100 degrees, I had a tablet of Crocin. I drank plenty of fluids, hoping to flush the febrile elements out of the system. After ten days, the fever subsided and stayed down. I was declared cured, but I was told not to overstrain myself as it might bring on a relapse.

This fever gave me a certain weakness in the legs, which made it difficult to walk normally. I exercised the muscles, I drank coconut water and juice, and ate apples and pomegranates and drank Protinex with my milk, but the weakness persisted.

One day, when we discussed the matter in a family council, my wife suggested we try out the Kerala Massage. We did some exploration and then located the Santhagiri Ayurveda and Siddha clinic at Saket Family Courts Complex. We had some previous experience of the Kerala system and knew that they relied almost totally on a set of massages by different names.

Very soon I had embarked on a seven day course of massages on the entire body. I had three masseurs with some bottles of oils which were heated to boiling point. Then two of the hefty ones vigorously attacked my body as if it was an object to be revamped and redeemed from its primordial state of weakness. First I lay on my back and the fearsome twosome rubbed the boiling scented oils into me through the pores of my skin. Then I was asked to lie down on my sides and then on my belly, and they did some more of the same.

The rubbing went on for nearly one hour. The warmth and the tactile sensation and the  scent of far off herbs drawn from God’s Own Country was so powerful a soporific that once or twice I caught myself snoring away to glory unaware that I lay on a plastic sheet on a bed carved out of a tree-trunk, in the ferocious grasp of muscled masseurs unknown to me.

After the massage came the bath and then the teeka on my forehead and on the crown of the head. Soon I had put on my clothes and been reunited with my wife who had waited in the anteroom. We met the doctor and he prescribed medicines, elixirs, pastes and capsules, He also suggested a diet chart which depended heavily on red poha and such other delicacies of Kerala.

After a week of this, I was shifted to rice potli treatment, in which after the oil massage, my body was subjected to momentary touches of fomentation by potlis of cloth containing boiled rice and milk.

To cut a long story short, I undertook fourteen days of Kerala Massage. I wonder whether there was any impact of the treatment, but certainly it burnt a hole in my pocket. The only satisfaction was that the cost would have been four times higher if we had gone to Kerala for the treatment. I have also noticed that wives are duly impressed if you undergo an expensive line of treatment. It shows that you are serious in getting rid of the problem.

No use telling the poor things that there is no cure for old age, as it gently creeps on one, unbidden and uninvited.

As the poet  Ibne-Insha has sung,

“Qamar bandhe hue chalne ko, yaan sab yaar baithhe hain

Bahut aage gaye baqi, jo hain taiyar baithhe hain.”

TALE OF A TREE

Kaw Caw

Tale of a tree

It all started with Mr. Khazanchi deciding to plant a neem tree at the edge of his plot some thirty years ago. Pamposh was coming up and no one could foresee the shape this Kashmiri Colony would take in due course. There were 150 plots and each was allotted to a Kashmiri Pandit. The optimists thought it would always stay that way.

With Batta neighbours on all sides, one could make believe that one was still in Malla Pora, Bana Mohalla, 2/3 bridge, Srinagar, Kashmir.

 The years passed. The neem tree grew and it developed a huge trunk. Mr. Khazanchi had its branches lopped from time to time. Naturally, he tried to save his own house from the arboreal invasion. The tree was allowed free play across the road and it slowly and gradually developed a definite tilt towards us. To the extent that it crossed the service road and started wafting scented breezes into our drawing room.

At first, we did not mind. A neem tree is, by all accounts, a useful neighbour to have. Its tiny twigs can be made into daatuns. Its leaves are bitter to taste and can be used as an antidote to diabetes.  Ayurveda recommends that its leaves be chewed and digested every morning.

But you can have too much of a good thing. When the branches enter your bedrooms and the tree drops its leaves every day, it adds to the litter in the house and makes a mess of your interiors. So whenever the inroads became too intrusive, we called the horticulture wallahs, gave them something as chaipaani and had light pruning done.

Thus historical events led ultimately to the survival of a sole fat low-level branch, with which the horticultural department was not prepared to tinker. I suppose even chaipaani has its limitations. When we found the bottom line of horticultural honesty, we made out a case for lopping of the obtrusive branch and had it forwarded to the Forest Department.

This low level branch proved to be a great hazard to life, limb and property. Because it was low, no truck which had stacked material in it, could cross. Suddenly, at the most sensitive point in the Sunday afternoon siesta, the bell would ring its shrill summons. Both I from the ground floor and my son from the first floor would come out running, dishevelled and sleepy. The truck driver would express his apologies but could we please move the car parked on the side of the road, so that the truck could bypass the low-lying branch?  After the tenth such interruption of the holiday siesta, we decided to photograph the branch from various angles and made out    a forceful case for  lopping   off the branch.

I was told that an official of the Forest Department had inspected the spot but he was not convinced.

Soon thereafter, the matter became more serious. One day, there was a huge turbulence in the air. The trees shook up and down, as if acted upon by a veritable tsunami. As my son took out his car, the neem tree lost one of its huge members, missing my son’s car by millimetres. We were shaken up by the incident, which could have had serious repercussions.

And now the coup d’ grace! A water crisis hit Pamposh, with the motors conking out every  second day. The Jal Board sent out its tankers. One such tanker, filled to the brim and thus made much heavier, took the detour and     raced its engine while standing on     our ramp. When it left a few minutes later, the ramp had collapsed and been converted into a deep ditch. We engaged the services of Mange Ram contractor and he presented an estimate for the repairs. Several rounds of negotiations later, the tanker’s momentary romp on the ramp had   cost us a hefty sum of Rs. 13,500.

Now the Lakshmi Rekha had   been well and truly crossed. I spoke to my neighbour Shri Shakdher who also happens to     be the General Secretary of the Residents’ Welfare Association. We motored up to the Shooting Range where the Forest Department is located. We were lucky to have an audience with the Deputy Commissioner (Forests), who promptly permitted the lopping of the low-lying branch so guilty of misbehaviour.

What tilted the balance in our favour? Was it the tale of woe I narrated  to the officer?  Or the story of how we had,  in the Fifth Central Pay Commission, equated the Indian Forest Service to the Indian Police Service in all respects?

Or   was it my visiting card which was a proof of my past? 

Whatever the reason,    the tree is no longer a menace to our life, limb and happiness.

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