Monday 15 July 2013

Two lines down the memory lane....

I too joined the millions of Indians in mourning the death of the of the telegram. Don't get me wrong. I have never received even a single telegram in my life time. Nor have I sent one. Yet I couldn't help but mourn when the usually eccentric radio jockey mellowed down, informing me about the death of the telegram. 

The first time I happened to see a telegram was after my father's death. No, it was not the one informing me about his death. Telephone was much faster by that time, even in the remote project site that my father used to work, telegram was the last thing that his friends would have thought of when they had the choice of booking a phone call.

All through my life, till the time my father died, he worked in that same remote but beautiful project site. The charms of the community life was still with me even after I shifted back to my hometown, along with my mother for my higher education. One fateful evening, a few years after we had relocated to our home town, we were informed that he had passed away. One of his friends rang us up to inform about his death. Telegram had become too slow by that time.

A week or so after his death we received all his stuff, neatly packed and sent to us by his beloved colleagues and friends. As I unpacked one memory after another I chanced upon a very old diary of his. In it were 3 or 4 of blue coloured inland letters. Along with those was a small white piece of paper folded into two.  It was dated 10-03-1979 and it read 

"Dearest brother,
Sameera gave birth to a baby boy today at 6.30 am. Both the mother and baby are fine."

I don't think I had been so struck after reading just two lines up until then. It was a telegram sent by my uncle informing my father about my birth.
Can words justify the emotions that I had when I saw that?
Two lines changed the way I remember my father. Ever since that time the lasting memory that I have of my father is of a face that lit up reading those two lines, even though I was not a witness to it.
Hearing to the radio jockey going through lot of stuff about the history of the telegram, the same face with the spontaneous joy in it comes to my mind. If my father were hearing the radio today, I am sure that he would be imagining me as a cute newborn lying beside my mother, who he was not fortunate enough to see while he was reading those two lines.

"Long live the telegram", the RJ declared. 

"Long live the E-mail" might be just around the corner. I wonder if someone will have stories of smiles to tell.


Fully knowing that it is not going to happen, I too join the millions in declaring
LONG LIVE THE TELEGRAM!!!!

Thursday 4 April 2013

My Plan


I don't remember when I was able to sleep as peacefully as I did last night. Sixteen years or probably more than that. Sixteen years is a lot of time to spend on a plan. I remember my father sitting in his old arm chair and discussing it with Amma. He had lots of plans. Every new day brought with it a new plan, a new discussion. But the enthusiasm never changed. His animated explanation, the urge to explain his plans to Amma made me feel as if he had just discovered north pole and was trying to make Amma understand that such a place exists on earth. For Amma it was just another day, just another plan.



One fine day, the plans stopped. He died. The explorer had left us and neither of us had the drive to explore and see for ourselves if the north pole was actually there. The plan ended before it could start. That was sixteen years ago. I was a child at that time and had no idea how and what to do. Amma knew the plan but had no means to execute it. I was too busy studying to even seriously think about it. Occasionally Amma would mention about the plan that my father had and then on realising that it was useless to be still talking about the plan, she would behave as if nothing had been mentioned. I was never bothered about the plan in the first place and that meant that we never discussed this at home. Amma had probably stopped thinking about it or at least didn't mention about it. It was not till Amma fell sick some years back that I overheard Amma mention the plan to her brother. When the doctors confirmed that all is not well with her 65 year old heart, I slowly started thinking about it before it got too late.

I didn't know where to start. It was my father’s plan passed on to Amma and now suddenly it was starting to look as if it was my plan. I went through all though my father’s stuff, for the first time in many, many years. No trace of the plan could be found. Before Amma could return from hospital I made sure that every bit of paper in our house was scanned. But still I was not able to find any trace of the plan. I even asked her casually once if we had disposed some of our old stuff when we shifted from our rented house. I couldn't get anything useful out of her. All that was required was for me to ask her “Amma, what was the plan?" But for some reason, I couldn’t. My frustration grew as time passed by. Finally I decided to throw out Amma’s plan and work on something else entirely new. I could make a new plan, I thought, “My plan”. I would pass it on to Amma as my plan and she would at least be happy that a plan had taken shape even if it was not the one in her dreams.

After meeting a lot of planners and after spending a lot of money and time, I still was not able to come up with a plan that was good enough to be called mine. One fine morning for reasons that I didn't understand, I shredded all the plans that I had spent money and time to make. I decided to make my own plan from scratch and that too without any help. Since my experience on making plans was limited to the shredded pieces of paper in the trashcan, I decided to to keep it as simple as possible. That same day the first draft of my plan was ready. It took me a further one month to get the final draft that I was happy with. At last the plan was in front of my eyes that I believed was worth the effort.

The difficult part was over. Implementing it was not as difficult. I hired a friend of mine to implement the plan for me. It took a lot of time and effort on my part as well. I used to revisit the details of my plan every day with my friend, he too was meticulous in his calculations and work. This was my first plan and I underestimated the work required. I fell sick and had to be admitted in a hospital. The doctors told me it was due to the stress I was taking. But I knew it was just a few more days and things will be back to normal. Back from the hospital, I went back to same schedule. My finances were stretched to their barest limits and I had to make sure that I could save all that I could, and that was not possible if I left the plan in someone else’s hands. That meant lot of work again, and even more stress especially with regards to the finances.I fell sick again, visited the doctor. He advised me a week’s treatment, complete bed rest during that time, after which I would be perfectly alright. I told him I needed another month’s time, within which I was sure to complete the pending work.


Yesterday was the day when the plan had been finally completed. One year of work, without rest, without sleep, without health. But the plan was finally complete. Still doubts lingered if Amma would like my version of the plan. After all this was my plan. Yesterday evening, after a lot of thought, with a lot of courage I decided to ask her the details of her plan, but I wanted to do it in a way that didn’t hurt her. Her 65 year old heart was weak and even weaker was my tolerance for anything that would hurt her.


I had an idea. I made fun of her, saying that she was getting old. I challenged her to remember something of the days when father was still alive. I felt disappointed and sadwhen she tried but failed to recollect some of the details that were vivid in my memory. I persisted this time directly asking her if she remembered the plans that father discussed with her. She took her time and then replied ‘’Three steps were there, which would then lead to a spacious veranda, covered on two sides by wooden railings. There would be an old fashioned armchair on the corner of the veranda. On the left side of the chair would be the main entrance to the house, with a single big door made of teak, which would lead to a spacious living room. Four doors would open to the living room that led to ….”. I could sense my father’s vigor in that frail body of hers. She continued explaining the minute details of the house as if she had made it the day before. I went and sat by her side and allowed her to brush my hair even as she continued. After some time I found her asleep with her hands still on my hair and tears in her eyes. Strangely my eyes were also wet. Late that evening a strong urge took hold of me and I found myself driving to the  new house that I had built. Taking a deep breath I took small steps and proceeded to the main door. It might have been the emotion of the evening, I don't know but I was unable to open the door. I went back and sat on the armchair that was fittingly placed on one side of the veranda. Sitting there and observing the door I realised why the house felt so different. In front of me were three steps that I just took. On my left side was the main door made of teak. Behind the door was a spacious living room. Four other doors opened to the living room. One on the left led to the kitchen..... Almost everything behind the door seemed to match perfectly to what Amma had described. I didn't know why, but ‘My Plan’ suddenly looked a lot less mine. I rang up my friend, told him that I want to plan the surprise to Amma in a week’s time. I asked him to join me in the house in the morning to plan every thing out. I was left smiling as I slept, sitting on the arm chair.  I don't remember when I was able to sleep as peacefully as I did last night.

I woke up to the voice of my friend even as he was shaking me up. I could hear him asking "Can you hear me?’I opened my eyes to very bright sunlight. I couldn't see properly because of the glare. I could make out movements behind the light, which suddenly appeared too close to me. You don't have to worry, he said. "The sedation is slowly taking effect  and we are rushing you to the theater. I told you to get it treated long back. Fortunately it was a minor attack. A week's time in the hospital after the surgery and the docs have promised that your heart will be back to normal.  Your mother is waiting outside and she is taking this pretty well. Don't worry, I will take care of everything and everything will go as per plan".



The lights slowly faded as I went back to my sleep. A strange scene kept recurring in my mind even as the sedatives sucked me in. It was a picture of a house full of people. I was searching for someone in the crowd. It was not Amma. I could sense her sitting there with lots of pride at having seen the north pole at last. It was not my friend who built the house, not my uncle. As the light finally went out of my eyes I realised that I was in fact searching my myself in the crowd. I slept knowing that in a weeks time I will have to make it to be a part of the crowd.