The many moods of the Prime Minister

A photographer from Plus Ultra visited Parliament when it was in session and managed to capture the Prime Minister, Dr.Manmohan Singh in a variety of moods and different facial expressions.

From left to right and top to bottom :

Ecstatic........ Crestfallen ...........Pensive ..........Suspicious

Withdrawn ..... Assertive .......... Submissive.... ..... Boisterous...... ....

Calculative...... Manipulative.... Euphoric........ Appreciative

The eternal bachelor

Among the many hundreds of people who frequent the Marina Beach for their morning walk, there is a particular group of walkers referred to by others simply as ‘the Walkie-Talkies’. As the name suggests, they are a pretty garrulous bunch and known for their ruthlessness in dissecting any subject under the sun and examining it with a critical eye. They can cover an awesome range of topics, from the waist size of the girl who just passed them by to more cerebral discussions on how Nostradamus had predicted two thousand years back that humankind would be knocked out of existence by mobile phones.

One morning, the Walkie-Talkies had settled down into their rhythm when a Nike-Shorts brought up the topic of TV serials and how most of the stories revolved around mothers-in-law and how they were being projected as much-feared, larger-than-life figures. To which observation, a Polo T-Shirt added that it was a well-established rule that the mother-in-law was the central and dominant character in Indian society and her writ ran large and unchallenged . An Adidas Track-Pants concurred and cited the example of his own household where his mother ran roughshod over his wife. Bata Thatha, who had been uncharacteristically quiet so far, interjected at this point, “Gentlemen, what you say is substantially true, but there are some exceptions. Let me tell you the story of my cousin’s son, Ashok”

“My nephew Ashok (said Bata Thatha) was a mama’s boy, if ever there was one. Right from the day he was born she kept him under her thumb and refused to let him out of her grip. He was brought up as a timid boy and not allowed to mingle or play with other children in his school or his neighbourhood. He was, understandably, an object of much ridicule.

But, as was the case with all male members of my family, he grew up to be a tall and handsome young man and attracted the attention of many young girls. Ashok may have been timid, but his hormones soon started to assert themselves and he concluded, quite rightly,that he needed to get married at the earliest. An arranged marriage was out of the question, as his mother would never put in a serious effort at match-making and would even sabotage any attempt by others. So, he had to find a girl himself and somehow convince his mother to accept her. He went about this task with vigour.

The first girl that Ashok brought home was Malini, who was wheat-complexioned, long-haired and strikingly pretty. After she was introduced to his mother, they sat down in the living room, where Ashok hoped that pleasantries would be exchanged and the mother won over. At this point, his mother whispered to him “Ashok, can I have a word with you alone?” He followed her, nervously, into the kitchen, where she told him clearly, “Ashok, that girl must simply go. I don’t approve of her hair. Far too long and unnaturally black. Must have been dyed.” Ashok, though disheartened, knew that it was futile to argue with his mother, as she was known to cling to her position for ever once she had made up her mind. So, he had to reluctantly lead Malini out of the house and let her go.

The next one to come home was Shalini, who was tall, slender and with short, brownish hair. She had hardly removed her slippers and walked into the house when his mother nudged Ashok on his ribs and said, “Ashok, can I have a word with you alone?” So, off to the kitchen they went, where Ashok was ticked off sharply, “Are you mad? Can’t you see that she is terribly underweight and malnourished? Even her hair is falling off. She must, most certainly, go.” So, sadly for Ashok again, Shalini went out of his life.

The third one was Dharini, small-made, bright-eyed and curly-haired. She lasted a little longer. In fact, they had got past the introduction, exchanged small talk at the living room and had now moved to the dining room for lunch. Just when Ashok was beginning to entertain some hopes, his mother uttered the dreaded words, “Ashok, can I have a word with you alone?” So, the kitchen it was once again, where Ashok was severely rebuked, “Ashok, that girl must go, pronto. She is so short that she doesn’t even reach the top of the dining table”. Ashok again reconciled himself to his fate and had to drag Dharini out of the house and into the street. He had, to use his mother’s words, let her go.

A broken-hearted Ashok met me (continued Bata Thatha) six months back and narrated his tale of woe. He told me that he was terrified of taking any girl home and mortally scared of the sentence, “Ashok, can I have a word with you alone?” that his mother would bring up ominously as a prelude to rejecting any girl on the slightest pretext.

Though Ashok is a spineless imbecile, I felt that I couldn’t let a relative down, especially one who was in such serious trouble. Blood, as they say, is thicker than water. So, I thought it over and came up with a typically brilliant suggestion, a sure remedy for his painful malady. “Ashok,” I told him, “the mistake you have made in each case is to allow your mother to find some reason, some trivial excuse or other, to reject the girl. What you must endeavour to do is find a girl who is an exact replica of your mother in every way and bring her home. Your mother will not be able to find any cause for rejecting her”

All male members on my father’s side of the family can think on their feet and Ashok, astounded by my idea, set out immediately, in single-minded pursuit of such a girl. And, he found her! Harini was her name.

Harini was exactly like his mother in every detail- shape of eyes, height, colour of hair, complexion, you name it. She dressed like his mother did, in a traditional sari. She talked just the way his mother did- in that measured, slow, manner. Even, most of the mannerisms- raising the eyebrows, scratching the nose, etc- were similar. When she got up and walked, her gait matched his mother’s step for step.

And it worked! Ashok’s mother was cornered and overpowered at last. She could not come out with a single flaw or a single reason for rejecting the girl. Not once during the evening did she ask Ashok, “Ashok, can I have a word with you alone?”

Bata Thatha paused at this point to tie his shoelaces. The others pounced on him. Nike- Shorts said, “Your story and the happy ending only corroborate our point that the mother-in-law was the most dominant character in our society”.

Bata Thatha finished tying his shoelaces and implored the other Walkie-Talkies to be patient, “Wait, the story is not yet over. Let me complete”.

It is true (resumed Bata Thatha), that Harini by bearing an amazing similarity to his mother in looks, mannerisms, gait, etc managed to get past the ordeal. Ashok’s mother, for the first time, did not raise any objections, as rejecting Harini would tantamount to a rejection of her own self. She had to give Harini her stamp of approval”

But, at this point, Ashok’s father who had never had a meaningful conversation with him at any point in his life, tapped Ashok on his shoulders and said, “ Ashok, can I have a word with you alone ? That girl, Harini, must go. She is too much like your mother.

The bacterial warfare

Unable to fathom how a bunch of second-rate English cricketers could crush the Indian team and inflict such a humiliating defeat at home, I caught up with former Indian test cricketer, Vijay Ghanekar (name changed to protect identity) to get to the bottom of the mystery.

Out of the 46 test matches that Vijay figured in, between 1974 and 1986, India won 28 – all of them on home soil. So Vijay has impressive credentials to speak on this subject and do an incisive analysis. What did they do right then? What are we missing now?

“Quite simply, all we did was to make sure that the visiting Englishmen drank plenty of water”. said Vijay sipping his beer that I was paying for.

“What do you mean, drink plenty of water?” I asked, scratching my head .

“Yes, as soon as any English team arrived at the Bombay airport and got past the Customs, we would line up to give them a traditional welcome and offer them a glass of water each, drawn from a well close by. Before they reached their hotels, the bacteria in the water would have the desired effect on their sensitive stomachs and they would head straight for the bathrooms. The “Delhi-belly’ would ensure that they were kept in safe custody in these bathrooms for the remainder of their tour, rather than at the nets. When they came on to bat occasionally, they would be in no condition to face our bowlers- even one as pot-bellied as Prasanna or as big-bottomed as Bedi. Some Englishmen wanted to shed their white flannels for brown pants”

Vijay recalled an incident. One of the English cricketers, Phil Edmunds, returning home after a two-month tour of India, uttered these memorable words “ You know what I am looking forward to, back in England? A dry fart”.

“I can’t forget”, Vijay continued, “ the sight of Richard Hadlee, the New Zealand fast bowler, in a Test match in 1976, starting his run-up and collapsing on the ground just before he reached the bowling crease. He had to be removed on a stretcher. The Indian batsmen in the middle exchanged high-fives, pleased that the team’s bacterial move was working. India went on to win the test match by a huge margin”

“So, what ended this winning streak?” I asked innocently

“ The advent of mineral water in the ‘90s triggered a sharp decline in our fortunes. Now, every visiting cricketer is offered bottled, ozonised, ultra-pure, mineral water and the famous Indian bacteria is simply not allowed to work its patriotic magic and do its bit for the country. What a shame”, he lamented.

“ In cricket, as in war, love and business one has to identify one’s competitive advantage get one’s strategy right, and deploy the right resources as early in the process as appropriate. Our strategy then was to dehydrate the Englishmen, using water-borne bacteria as soon as they set foot on Indian soil. Our real heroes were Vibrio cholerae, Campylobacter, Salmonella, Shigella, and the diarrheogenic Escherichia coli. Ah, they don't make 'em like that any more....

The Pontiff.......

President Kalam is, no doubt, an erudite scholar, a scientist of distinction and a man of unquestionable integrity. But the President’s pronounced propensity to pontificate for prolonged periods can arouse as much anger as my annoying alliterations. He seems to be convinced that God brought him into this world, planted him purposefully in the Rashtrapati Bhavan and placed on his broad shoulders the onerous task of educating every single Indian who comes within his striking distance. He takes this role seriously and performs persistently. No person is spared his tedious lectures, no subject is outside his grasp and no occasion finds him at a loss for words. Unwary people are converted into unwilling pupils at the slightest provocation.

If he is tiring, the media can be quite exasperating. How many times have we been told that the “President stunned the visiting dignitary by making a PowerPoint presentation”, when all it takes to do that is to press a button with one’s forefinger – a task that is not beyond the capability of even an one-eyed, one-armed, bow-legged, imbecile. It is certainly not rocket science.

Yesterday, my attention was drawn to a news item, headlined, “President wears his scientist cap as plane hits air pocket”. I am not able to find it in the online edition, but I will give you the gist. It started by saying that when the President was returning from Mauritius and having a mid-air chat with the members of the media at 1.30 am, the plane suddenly became very bumpy and bouncy, causing some nervousness among the media persons. Pausing at this point and reflecting on the headlines, I thought to myself that the news item would go on to say that the President had launched into an explanation of the phenomenon of air pockets, how turbulence is created when bodies of air moving at different speeds meet at high altitudes, how the changes can cause the lift of the plane’s wings to vary quickly and unpredictably or some such funda.

Instead, the awestruck correspondent goes on to report that the President remained calm and unruffled in the face of such adversity and pacified the media thus, “ This is a normal geographical feature. When a plane hits a cloud, it will bounce”

The sycophantic correspondent ends the report unable to contain his admiration at the President’s repertoire of knowledge, his amazing understanding of the actions of all the physical forces in the Universe and the breathtaking insights he is able to provide on the most complex of subjects.

Whaaaaaaa?

Don't worry, be happy

The root cause of most of the problems that we face as adults is that, somewhere down the line, we jettison the cheery disposition and unfettered exuberance that characterize our teens. As teenagers, we would have laughed our guts out on seeing the Maths teacher trip over a banana skin and fracture his ribs. Served the old man right, we would have told ourselves. ‘Guy ought to be happy that he wasn’t knocked down by a truck’ we would have commented in a careless manner and carried on with whatever youthful activity we were engaged in at that moment.

At some pre-ordained moment soon after our teens, we metamorphose into morose morons. Sliding into adulthood, we lose our bearings and our sense of humour completely. When a colleague trips over his shoelace and rolls down a flight of stairs, rather than assessing the situation as one pregnant with comical possibilities we reach out to help that person to his feet, overpowered by a misguided sense of sympathy and concern. A 14-year old would have remarked that the fellow who rolled down from the third floor ought to be thankful that it wasn’t the sixth floor he started his roll from, so why the unnecessary fuss?

It is all a matter of perspective - as my daughter has been trying to impress upon me for years. Consider these conversational nuggets.

Daughter (when she is 5 years old): Can I take four of these chocolate éclairs?

Me: Four éclairs!

Daughter: Am I asking you for the whole box? Be thankful I want only four of those.

Five years later, same parent, same offspring:

Daughter: Can I invite thirty of my friends to my birthday party?

Me: Thirty friends!!

Daughter: I have forty classmates. I am being extremely considerate to you and inviting only thirty of them. You ought to be thankful, you know.

Five more years roll on:

Daughter: I need to go to the beauty parlour. To colour my hair

Me: And I am expected to sponsor the event. How much?

Daughter: Five hundred rupees.

Me: Five hundred for your burgundy hair!!!

Daughter: Listen; some of my friends spend two thousand rupees on hair smoothening and a massage. I am merely colouring my hair and it sets you back by a measly five hundred rupees. Be grateful, you stingy Scrooge.

You follow the pattern. Any situation, however grim, can be made to appear rosy, by invoking an image of an even graver situation, thereby placing the original problem in a new perspective and a favourable setting. You end up thanking your stars that you had averted a major calamity and that you had actually gotten away lightly. As in this letter written, from a boarding school, by a daughter to her mom and dad. Or those good-news, bad news jokes we keep reading.

Why not apply this technique in some typical situations? :

Doctor: I have the scan reports. You have brain tumour.

Patient: Brain tumour!!!

Doctor: It is far better than being diagnosed with meningomonosi calmnia, a rare disease that attacks the middle toe and can prevent you from wearing shoes. believe me. Be thankful, it is just your brain that has been affected.

Boss: We are downsizing. You are fired!

Employee: Fired!!!!

Boss: We had to gun down a few of your other colleagues. Believe me, you are a lucky devil!

Wife: You have been glued to that stupid computer for two hours now. Why don’t you stop your silly blogging and do some useful work for a change?

Me: There are some incurable addicts in the blogosphere who cannot get off the computer and who need to post some stuff or other for 22 hours every day. You are lucky to have as your life partner, an amazingly responsible and incredibly sensible person who strikes such a wonderful balance and exercises such remarkable restraint. Be happy, woman.

The Brahmastra

The historic Indo-US nuclear deal was signed after several rounds of hectic negotiations. While dozens of scientists, diplomats and bureaucrats participated in these talks, the public is not aware that the deal almost fell through, but was made possible by the single-handed effort of one man. A senior correspondent from Plus Ultra reports from behind the scenes and provides the hour-by-hour sequence of events that unfolded on March 2nd 2006.


8.00 am: Indian team consisting of Ronan Sen, India’s Ambassador to USA, Shyam Saran, Foreign Secretary and Mr.Narayanan, National Security Advisor admit to Prime Minister Manmohan Singh that no headway was made during the discussions that went on till early hours of the morning

9.00 am: US Secretary of State, Ms Condoleeza Rice, says that US will insist on safeguards

10.00 am: Indian scientists offer to wear pads, gloves and abdomen guards while testing nuclear bombs

11.00 am: US rejects these safety measures as “short of adequate”

12.00 Noon : PM calls up US President George W Bush and says that India will now have to play its last trump card that afternoon. President Bush is still clueless what this is all about. PM issues instructions to launch Operation Brahmastra

2.00 pm:. President Bush visits Rashtrapathi Bhavan. Warmly welcomed by President Abdul Kalam.

3.00 pm: President Kalam begins his powerpoint presentation on his “Grand Vision 2025”

4.00 pm: President Kalam on his 10th slide and beginning to explain vision to President Bush, in his thick Tamil accent

5.00 pm: President Kalam on his 25th slide and warming to the theme. President Bush seen getting restless.

( Photo : President Bush seen in state of growing restlessness as President Kalam is transiting to his 42nd Powerpoint slide)

6.00 pm: President Kalam on his 45th slide, about to elaborate on his theme. President Bush seen getting extremely fidgety

7.00 pm: President Kalam on his 62nd slide, dwelling on his idea of power-generation by a mini-grid of microturbines running on methane released by Indian cattle. President Bush seen in extreme state of agitation.

8.00 pm: President Kalam on his 87th slide, and nearing the half-way mark of his presentation.

8.12 pm: President Bush throws up his hands in despair, capitulates and begs to be let out

8.14 pm: Indian negotiatiors with pen in hand ask Bush to sign the nuclear deal, if he wants to be put out of his misery. President Kalam stands menacingly with finger on the PgDn button of his laptop.

8.15 pm : President Bush inks the deal. PM sticks to his end of bargain and prevails upon President Kalam to stop his presentation.

8.17 pm: President Bush rushes to the safety of his Air Force One aircraft and takes off.

Operation Brahmastra was a complete success.

Fly Indian

On reading media reports on the rebranding of ‘Indian Airlines’ as “Indian”, Plus Ultra caught up with the Civil Aviation Minister, Mr.Praful Patel, as he was just about to board a Jet Airways flight and sought more details. Excerpts from this exclusive interview :


Plus Ultra: Mr. Praful Patel, what was the inspiration behind the change of name to “Indian”? Is it meant to appeal to the sense of patriotism and therefore put some moral pressure on Indians to patronize the national carrier?

Praful Patel : Contrary to the general opinion that “Indian” is a shortened form of “Indian Airlines” or is meant to convey “something belonging to India”, the word Indian is actually derived from “ Incredibly dissatisfied avian”. Yes, that’s what it stands for and aims to achieve.

Plus Ultra: When the entire corporate world seeks to increase customer satisfaction, why is Indian harping on ‘dissatisfaction”?

Praful Patel: I need to give you some background. Some time back, we had appointed Mckinsey as our consultants to help us formulate our new business strategy. They brought with them a battery of suited, booted MBAs who studied the whole operations threadbare on their laptops and made the startling discovery that there was an inverse correlation between customer satisfaction and our own market share.

Above graph presented by Mckinsey clearly shows a downward trend in market share with drop in customer dissatisfaction.

From the graph, you will see that in 1986, when IA customer dissatisfaction was 100%, our market share was 100%. Today, the percentage of dissatisfied customers has dropped to 60% and our market share has slipped to 40%. So, the obvious thing to do is to target 100% dissatisfaction again, so that we get our 100% market share back.

Plus Ultra: Somehow, the idea of targeting customer dissatisfaction doesn’t sound right.

Praful Patel: Look, you have been brainwashed by the likes of Peter Drucker, Deming and Tom Peters into thinking that customer satisfaction is the sole mantra for success of an organization. But, Mckinsey presented an entire body of evidence to convince us that customer satisfaction is an elusive, unattainable goal as customers constantly revise their benchmarks. Take the punctuality of flights. Back in the 1970s, if a Monday morning 6 am flight took off before the evening of Friday the same week, it left the customer delighted, In the impatient 1980s, the Monday 6 am flight was expected to take off latest by Tuesday morning 6am. In the decadent 1990s, the 6 am flight had to take off by 7 am, to avoid customer satisfaction. In the restless first decade of the third millennium, flight delays are measured in minutes. By the next decade, a delay of a few seconds will invite the wrath of the greedy passenger. So, where’s the end?

Plus Ultra: Do all your employees feel that way?

Praful Patel: We asked Mckinsey to present them some gory stories. For instance, a train reached Tokyo station exactly 8 seconds after the scheduled time, The irate passengers pulled out the train driver and jumped on him samurai style and crushed him into pieces. So, we asked our employees, do they want to face a similar fate? No, they chorused, better to peg customer’s expectation down. We also showed them some medical reports of over-worked employees of competitor and this proved to be the clinching argument.

(Above) ECG of an IA employee responding to a customer complaint. Note the perfect P-Q-R-S rhythm reflecting his equanimity .

(Below) ECG of an harassed over-worked Jet Airways employee under constant stress in quest of customer satisfaction.

Plus Ultra: So, how do you go about ensuring dissatisfaction?

Praful Patel: Believe me, it is hard work. It requires teamwork and wholehearted cooperation of all the divisions, departments and employees. . Whether it is the ticketing person digging into her nose, or the check-in staff involved in a juicy gossip when a big queue is waiting, or the air-hostess maintaining a BMI > 50 and a waist size > 50”, or the handler of the luggage tossing the brown suitcase marked “fragile” on to the conveyor belt from a height of six feet – everyone must play his or her part to perfection. It just requires one bad employee – one weak link in the chain- to throw the spanner into the works. We had a case last week where two consecutive flights took off on time, which caused a slight drop in dissatisfaction levels. We suspended both the pilots for the misguided exuberance. You see, we need to quell this menace and crush the rebellion before it reaches dangerous levels.

Plus Ultra : What do dissatisfied passengers do ? How do they react?

Praful Patel : We have convenient exit options available for passengers who are about to blow their fuses

Photo above shows dissatisfied passengers exercising easy exit option. Note 'Indian' parachutes use national tricolour.

Plus Ultra: Do you have any back-up plans to be implemented, in case a passenger has managed to board the aircraft, without being suitably dissatisfied already?

Praful Patel: Sure, one can’t take any chances. We always have contingency plans. In January, a 7 am flight was taking off at 6 pm, when one of our alert flight attendants noticed that a passenger in seat no 17 A did not appear adequately dissatisfied. Discrete enquiries showed that he had not had anything to eat and was looking forward to the meal that was going to be served. We had to do some quick troubleshooting and bring matters under control

Photo above shows what hungry, salivating passenger was expecting to be served and was drooling for.

Photo below shows what he was actually served.


l

Plus Ultra: Would you like to share any other insights with our readers?

Praful Patel: Yes, we would be obliged if any of your readers brings to our attention any specific cases where they experienced satisfaction while flying Indian. We will act on this feedback immediately and correct the situation.

Plus Ultra: Thank you, Mr. Patel. Our best wishes on your journey of Total Customer Dissatisfaction.

Raj Singh

When we keep hearing the grim prognosis on the institution of marriage, why it is facing extinction and how the rate of separation of couples exceeds the rate of marriage of singles, it is gratifying to report that my marriage has stood the test of time. Thanks to some sagely advice I received on the day of our wedding.

Many decades back, , after we had exchanged our wedding vows (I agreeing to take her under my protection and she pledging total and passive subservience to me), my wife and I came down the steps and sought the blessings of a Sikh Guru.

“Take my advice, my boy”, he told me, “from now on, stop being the timid TamBram that you are and learn to be a toughie like some of us Sikhs are. You must assert yourself and insist that you take all the major decisions. Brook no interference whatsoever. And don’t waste your time on minor decisions. Leave that to your wife. If you stick to these simple rules, trust me, your marriage will be as smooth as butter on a baby’s bum”. Thus spoke the Sikh Guru, incidentally the maternal grandfather of Navjot Singh Sidhu and from whom the latter inherited his colourful language.

Photo, from author’s wedding album, shows Giani Banta Singh proceeding to the Dining Hall, for a well-earned lunch, after dispensing sagely advice to author and wife

So, all these years, my wife and I have treated these words as gospel, divided the responsibilities as major and minor and shared the burden as suggested by Guruji.

My wife takes decisions on petty and minor matters such as- which school my daughters must go to, which house we should buy or rent, where and what we eat, where we must invest our money or what we must spend it on, where we should holiday, the career paths that we should follow, and so on – all the small things in life.

But on real major issues such as – “Should US bomb Iran, should Britain abandon the pound sterling and change over to Euro, should India be elected a permanent member at the UN, what should the world do to reduce greenhouse gas emissions by 20% before 2050, should the RBI increase the prime lending rate by 0.5%, etc, should FDI be allowed in the retail sector - my views prevail clearly, emphatically and unequivocally.

(Okay, okay, this is an old Sardar joke and you have heard it before. But now you know how and where it originated)

So, in short, I have always enjoyed the position of a roaring lion whose authority to take decisions on major issues has been unchallenged, as this recent photo will illustrate.

Photo shows author (on the left and with the imposing mane) delivering his verdict to wife on a major issue, in no uncertain terms and with telling effect)

That’s why, when I got this sms from my wife last week, “Come home early. No fooling around in office today. Major decision needs to be taken at home”- I was a little puzzled.

Driving back home, I thought of various possibilities. What was the major thing that had come up? Had Kofi Annan (the elder brother of Tea Thambi) contacted my residence to take my views on whether the UN must intervene in the Danish cartoon crisis? With the Union Budget to be presented soon, did P.Chidambaram send a SOS message to get my opinion on whether he should introduce a service tax on blogging? Maybe the US Secretary of State wanted some tips from me on how to correct the anagrammatical error in the 'Indo-US unclear deal' and change it to 'Indo-US nuclear deal'. Or perhaps the BCCI Selection Committee was desperate to reach me, wanting some inscrutable yet ingenious logic to retain Ajit Agarkar in the team. My mind kept whirling….

When I reached home, it turned out to be a complete anti-climax. The “major issue” pertained to my daughter who is in her 10th standard and we had to decide which of the subjects- Bio-tech, Biology, Computer Science or Commerce- she had to pursue next year. Apparently, this decision was irreversible and could have far-reaching implications on my daughter’s future.

I was shocked. Had my wife dragged me away from office to discuss such a minor matter? I had been in the midst of some serious discussions on an HR initiative- “Should we measure the deliverables of the employees and then deliver the measurables or the other way round?” I left this midway and came rushing home on getting her sms, only to be presented with a trivial and inconsequential issue. Why was she abdicating her responsibility and rocking the foundation of our marriage, by inflicting such a minor issue on me?

Luckily, my daughter cut short the proceedings and informed us that she had already taken the decision. Following the principles of reductio ad absurdum, she had ruled out bio-tech (“the teacher is horrible”), biology (“the labs stink”) and computer science (““bah, programming and suchlike”). That left only Commerce, a subject she knew nothing about and therefore could not be eliminated. So, Commerce it would be, she informed us cheerfully.

Photo shows the author getting an affectionate hug from his daughter after helping her take the first major decision of her life.

Our marriage survived the test, but it was a close call. Phew!

Dinner Tag.

Sowmya has tagged me . I am supposed to invite 6 people for dinner and then pass the baton on to 3 more bloggers to play host.

The first decision I made was that all six guests would have to be girls. I am not going to fritter away this rare opportunity to be the sole male among seven diners. I am certainly not going to call Thennavan who, apart from being a bachelor, will simply sweep the girls off their feet with his ability to wax forth on subjects ranging from Thai Poosam to Java to Penguins to Vaikunta Ekadasi. Most certainly not Kiruba Shankar whose idea of a relaxed evening is to jog 40 km with his blistered heel and plastered toes. The sight of Kiruba heroically running to the dinner venue will send girls into raptures and draw the attention away from me. Yes, better to keep these competitors away. So, girls it will be.

Having feasted on her cream of potato soup, Aloo parathas, Urulaikizhangu Podimas and a dessert of sweet potatoes, washed down with cold coffee made in her dishwasher, it would be ungentlemanly on my part not to invite Sowmya . Besides, she being a Science afficionado, will regale the IGF2R-mutated guests with trivia and minutae such as the bacterial action involved in the digestion process, the radon gas that is absorbed in the bloodstream when you are exposed to radiation from a light bulb, the calories consumed by super bowels during the Super Bowl , the resultant strain on the bathrooms and how titanium dioxide can clean up the mess. Sowmya loves her veggies and I must make sure that she gets plenty of those. Incidentally, if a vegetarian is one who eats only vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat ? Which brings me to the second guest, Mother Teresa.

No, not the beatified missionary. I know she has reached her heavenly abode. My guest is Mother Teresa 2.0. You know that for the last 40 years, every aspirant to the Miss World title when asked the question, “ If you were to be re-born, who would you like to born as?” almost always answered, “As Mother Teresa”. So, there must be a Mother Teresa 2.0 re-born somewhere and whose personality is an aggregate of several Miss Worlds. She would be some woman.!

There is one girl who gave me my first big break in the blogosphere by linking one of my blog posts in Desipundit. Yes, Neha helped increase the readership of my blogs by 400% ( from 1 to 4) overnight. Her CV shows that she is involved in hundreds of activities, that she is a contributor to about two dozen blogsites, tsunami/quake help groups, that she has traveled extensively- at least from Hyderabad to Delhi to London. I naturally assumed that she must be of my aunt’s age. Then I find she is all of 23 years old. The kids these days!. At 23, I had just about learnt to brush my own teeth and tie my own shoelaces and here’s this precocious kid multi-tasking with effortless ease. Must get her to the dinner table and make her act her age by eating one of those ‘children’s thalis” that they serve at half the price.

Shruthi. This is the girl who made me lose a multi-crore deal by getting my mind engaged in one of her problems- how to keep her favourite driver and save 40 minutes of commuting time to work. She also wants to stay rooted in one place and travel back in time, with or without her favourite driver. She argues that it makes more sense for a person in Bangalore to travel to Mysore for a facial or to watch a movie and provides exhaustive comparisons of cost to support her point. So, I guess that the dinner venue will have to be the Lalit Mahal at Mysore.

Kool Girl, my ten year old daughter will be invited to share details of her new enterprise which boasts of the best profit model tempered with social responsibility. Not since Enron folded up has there been such an ingenious business idea. Quite simply, what she has done is to collect downpayment of Rs 10/- each from twenty friends promising to deliver a 20-page booklet containing some interesting articles downloaded from the web. The proceeds will go to a charitable organization carefully identified by her. She will print out one original and photostat the 20 copies at the nearby shop. Brilliant. She gets brownie points from God for charity, her friends get an informative booklet each for Rs 10/- , the Blue Cross gets a contribution of Rs 200/- from her and the Xerox shop gets Rs 200 worth of business. All the stakeholders are happy. Except me. I had to pay Rs 200/- for the photostat copies!

Finally, I think I will ask my wife ( yes, the homicidal bibliophile) to join. After all, someone's got to pay for the dinner

An epitache to my moustaph

The first ever indication that I was no longer in the full flush of my youth came to me in a rather subtle manner. A neighbour’s child addressed me as ‘Uncle”. Soon, the word spread insidiously, as these things tend to do, and a multitude of children began to “Uncle” me. The second and rude reminder that I had left my youth far behind came when I found, as Bob Hope did, that the “candles on my birthday cake cost me more than the cake itself”.

But, the final and defining moment of truth was when I spotted the first grey hair on my moustache. This irreversible greying process assumed epidemic proportions and now, unless the day is exceptionally sunny, I am hard pressed to spot a single black hair.

I have come to the painful conclusion that the grey moustache must go. I must put an end to its misery. Mercy killing is the only sensible option. Like Amol Palekar in Gol Maal or Rajnikanth in Thillu Mullu, I must ceremoniously bid goodbye to this accessory that has stayed with me for so long.

To those of you in the blogosphere wondering what the fuss is all about, I must explain the special bond that exists between a Tamil male and his moustache and place it in a historical perspective.

As early as the 2nd century AD, the celebrated Tamil poet, Thiruvalluvar, extolled the virtue of a moustache in these immortal words:

Meesai Ulla Aanukku Mattume
Dosai Niraya Kidaikum

Translation: Blessed is the man sporting a moustache, for it is only he that will be lavished with Dosas. Implying, in case you didn’t follow the sub-text, that those males without the moustache were doomed to subsist on a diet of idlis for the rest of their lives.

Aside: The fact that Thiruvalluvar placed this couplet in the Kaamathu Paal section- the one dealing with aspects of romance and sex- shows that he viewed the moustache as a piece of erotica and integral to a healthy man-woman relationship.

In the 10th century AD, the clean-shaven Chola king, Raja Raja Chola was trying desperately to get himself a queen, but without much success. Now, many in my generation have been led to believe,thanks to an overdose of Sivaji Ganesan movies, that Raja Raja Chola was an imposing figure who towered over his subjects, in all his majesty. As a historian however, I must state the plain truth. The fact was that the average Tamilian in the 10th century was 4’6” tall and Raja Raja Chola was elected the king by virtue of being 4’7” tall. Tall enough to be king, but, alas, not tall enough to inspire awe in local women. He tried to draw attention by constructing huge temples with 300 feet high gopurams and eighty ton, monolithic stones, but these exploits were met with derisive laughter and pooh-poohed as mere gimmicks. The poetess Avvaiyar I, who lived in that era, sang:

Manna, Kovil katti enna payan?
Meesai illaa nee verum chinna payyan

Translation: Of what practical use, O foolish king, are your temples and towers? Without a moustache on your face, you are but a juvenile.

Happy ending to the story. Taking the hint from Avvai I, Raja Raja Chola grew a thick moustache and soon his harem swelled with women of assorted shapes and sizes. The king gave pots of gold to Avvai who went on to write English rhymes such as :

"Twinkle, Twinkle little star

Avvai wonder what you are"

In more recent times, cine-actors have helped keep this rich Tamil moustache tradition alive. A piece of local folklore will illustrate this point. The late actor MGR was known for his fur-cap fetish, sunglass fixation and his wristwatch obsession. He refused to be photographed without these. However, a paparazzo did manage to capture his photograph without any of these accessories on his person. But, even after relentless shadowing, he could never catch MGR without the pencil-line moustache, painstakingly drawn on his upper lip every morning by trusted lieutenants of his. Some of these pencils are displayed in the MGR Museum along with other memorabilia.

Th Salman Khans and Saif Ali Khans, who are looked upon as Greek Gods in the rest of the country hardly cause any flutter in these parts. Not surprisingly, they don’t get to act in Tamil movies. They may have rippling, bulging muscles that suggest that these guys are filled with testosterone up to their Adam’s apples, but their clean-shaven looks put paid to their macho aspirations and mercilessly consign them to the dustbins of Kollywood. ( Salman, Saif- don’t lose hope however. You can fancy your chances of making it big as heroines here. We like fair women without moustaches)

Thus, every self-respecting Tamil male, who values his honour, strongly feels that, without a moustache, he is practically walking around naked. But he is flexible. He is not finicky about the shape, style or texture. The moustache can be of the handlebar variety, the drooping Walrus form, the toothbrush bristle type or the pencil-line drawing. The broad principle is that some moustache is better than no moustache. And a cardinal rule is that it must be black, not grey.

So it is that I must resort to euthanasia and remove the terminally-ill, greyed appendage from my person. I will spare no expense, of course. Nothing less than a new Mach III razor and Gillette’s deluxe shaving foam will be put to use.

Adieu, my beloved ‘stache. Your absence will create a void hard to fill. Especially between the nose and the upper lip.

Gourmets and Gluttons

Away on a business trip and seated alone at the corner table of the swanky restaurant of the 5-star hotel, with the customary bowl of salad in front of me, I find that I am at a vantage point to observe the feeding habits of some typical representatives of the human species. There is a lavish buffet spread and there is much movement of people. hither and thither, as in Brownian motion of molecules. The place is teeming with epicures, gourmets, gourmands, gluttons and trenchermen engaged in the ritual of ensuring ‘beast-like satisfaction of their bellies”.

Over at the table near the entrance, a man has just gone off on a reconnoiter trip to check out the menu. This man is clearly a pro. Many a customer would start filling the plate with the first dish that he or she can lay the hands on, only to realize that that they had wasted valuable ‘belly space’ when more interesting items awaited them downstream. But not our entrance-table man. Having scanned the entire spectrum, he goes about the task of prioritizing and picking out those items which in his assessment would have cost the hotel more to prepare.

In the adjacent table, the waiter is asking the guest if he would prefer mineral water and the man says ‘yes’ readily. Clearly, this man must be charging this lunch to his corporate account. No sane man who is paying for the meal out of his personal income would choose to order mineral water at Rs 80/per bottle. The cost of the mineral water is disproportionate to the claimed hygiene value.

Two tables away, there is a young and boisterous lot, bent on getting its money’s worth. A woman of fairly large proportions ( “hey, round is a shape”) settles down into the chair with great difficulty, wishing that the hotel management had the foresight to provide long handle shoe horns, along with forks and knives, to tuck herself in. Or ( as Wodehouse described a character) as if she had been poured into her clothes and had forgotten to say when. Her idea of a balanced diet is to carry back two equally filled, large plates, one in each hand. One of her table-mates is so engrossed in his meal that he doesn’t even pause to wish her “Bon Appetit”. Conversation at this table languishes, unless you want to count Don Martinese sounds like “chomp chomp”, “ burp burp”, etc as social banter.

In yet another table, the main course is over and the members of this pack are inspecting the debris and asking the waiter to clear the deck preparatory to the imminent launch of “Operation Dessert Storm”. As someone said, “ Inside each one of us is a thin person struggling to get out, but who can be silenced with a few pieces of chocolate cake”. Presently these dessert foxes return from their foray, plates overflowing with puddings, pastries, mousse and milk sweets. No ice creams yet. There will be an exclusive round for that.

What do I see in that table over there? The family has finally finished the meal and the members resemble beached whales in their posture and in their inability to move. Eat what you want, as Mark twain said, and let the food fight it out inside. The waiter is getting their check. What! The head of the family is paying for the meal in cash. In these enlightened times when credit cards and debit cards have liberated us from the tyranny of carrying wads of cash, who goes around with bundles of banknotes in his pockets? There can be only one explanation. This fellow is one of those corrupt Govt officials, loaded with ill-gotten cash. A meal at a 5-star hotel provides a good outlet for the booty. I wish I had my camera. Could have carried out a sting operation right here.

Kipling wrote about the jungle laws that decreed that all animals must hunt only when hungry and never to satisfy their greed. These laws obviously don’t apply to Man who is on top of the food chain, I reflect, as I leave the restaurant sipping my mineral water and asking for my bill to be debited to my company.

Operation Bushfire

Osama Bin Laden stroked his flowing beard in a contented manner and smiled that famous half-smile of his. He had good reasons to be satisfied. “Operation Bush-fire" had been carried out flawlessly. Both George W Bush, the President of the USA and his father, George Bush Sr, had been kidnapped early that week and brought to his cave on the Afghan- Pak border. They were now in his custody.

Taking George W Bush had been easy. Osama’s fourth wife and trusted lieutenant, Masao had nonchalantly and daringly walked into the White House disguised as Condoleeza Rice and asked the President if he would like to take a look at the newly-discovered tenth planet, Xena, that was clearly visible to the naked eye in bright sunlight. Believing that she wanted to show him something naked, the President had put on his sunglasses and walked into the lawn, when ‘Rice’ suggested that he should get into the plane parked there, so that they could have a closer view of the planet. The unsuspecting Bush obliged and, as was his habit when he got onto a plane, fell into a deep slumber. When he awoke, he realised he had been taken by Bin Laden..

The senior George Bush was a more formidable entity. He had just returned from his power-jogging and bungi-jumping and was getting ready for para-sailing in his Texan ranch, when four men in cow's clothing attracted his attention by displaying their udders. When he came over for a closer look at the bovine beauties, they managed to chloroform him and push him into a waiting plane which soon sped towards Kabul.

Now that his worst enemies had been overpowered, Osama was contented all right. He decided to unwind that evening and watch the cricket match that was being relayed live on his TV. Not many outside the Taliban know that Osama is a great lover of cricket and doesn’t miss a single match, especially the Indo-Pak encounters. Naturally, he was a die-hard supporter of Pakistan,

So, today he switched on the TV and remained engrossed thus for a few hours. Suddenly, his cronies noticed that something was wrong. Osama was clearly upset about something. His facial expression had turned into a frown and his eyes shone with fury. Here was the crucial fifth one-day match going on in Lahore. The series was tied 2-2 and the winner of this match would go home with the Cup. India had batted first and scored just 198 runs. Pakistan was cruising along at 128-2 with Inzamam in full flow, when a ball from Irfan Pathan took the inner-edge of the bat and hit Inzamam on the pads. There was a loud appeal and, horror of horrors, umpire Dickie Bird declared Inzi out lbw. Pakistan's batting collapsed from then on and they lost the match..

Osama was not one to take this injustice lightly. A bad umpiring decision had cost his team their rightful victory. He must teach the culprit a lesson.

Enraged and swearing revenge, Osama ordered his men to proceed pronto to Lahore and get back Dickie Bird, dead or alive,complete with sharp beak, white coat and panama hat.

"But, we need to keep an eye here on George W Bush and the old man, George Bush Sr.. What do we do with them?” asked Osama’s cronies.

"Just forget about them ‘ said Osama with contempt, “ Don’t you guys know by now that a Bird in hand is worth two Bushes?”

Piety personified

Sachin Tendulkar turned the ball down to square-leg for a single to complete his 35th Test hundred and surpass Sunil Gavaskar's record for the most number of Test centuries. Even before he completed the run he leapt up, punched the air in delight, kissed his bat and pointed it towards heaven to thank his father and shed some emotional tears….

Later, addressing the press, he said, “ What is important is that the team must win. I have never been after personal records”.

The hell he wasn’t. Then, why the wild punching in the air and the tears and the bat pointing upward?

Not to take anything away from the great man, but surely a guy who has scored 35 centuries will not be accused of blowing his own trumpet if he were to simply say, “ I did it. I am proud of myself”? The problem is that heroes like Tendulkar are expected to make pious proclamations. They feel compelled to state only what they think they ought to say, rather than what they really want to say. Result: Politically correct, motherhood statements smelling of apple pie and dripping with honey and false modesty.

Of course, politicians have made 'false modesty' such a fine art. If you ask L.K.Advani if he has aspirations of becoming the next Prime Minister of India, he will not say truthfully, “Do I want to be the PM? You bet. I have waited long enough”. He will instead tell you “that in his long political career he has never sought any higher posting, but he has never shirked any responsibility either and that he would view the assignment as yet another opportunity to serve the people”. Yawn. And it will get faithfully reported. Verbatim. And consumed.

The CEO of a company who says, “ We want to delight our customers. After all they are the ones who pay our salaries” is actually muttering internally that “ these slimy bloodsuckers who masquerade as our customers not only squeeze us on price, they also delay our payment and, on top of that, expect 24 x 7 service from us. The nerve! What they need is a sound kick on the backside”. Obviously, he can’t state this; he can’t even admit to his wife or his psychiatrist that he entertains such thoughts, but it’s there at the back of his mind. Constantly.

I just read a statement attributed to a Tamil actor by name Vijay. Reacting to a news item that some fans had erected an idol of the actor and had worshipped it by pouring 100 litres of milk over it, he pontificated, “ When so many Tamil mothers languish and struggle to find the money to buy a single glass of milk for their infants, it is not proper to waste so much money and milk on my idol .If you are really my fans, please don’t do it”. Touching. Makes one’s hair stand on its end. What he must have been actually thinking was “ I care a damn if you build an idol or pour tanker-loads of milk over it, so long as you morons muster up just enough sense to queue up at the theatres and patronize my shows”.

Some years back, Mad magazine used to carry a feature, “ When they say this, they actually mean this “ and give the subtext and behind-the-scenes- facts on some of the statements made by politicians, businessmen, etc. I don’t know if the magazine is still around and if it still carries this feature. But, it would be a good idea to start a desi edition. There won’t be any dearth of ‘statements’ to dissect and bring to view the real intent. The nation could do with a generous dose of humour.

Update : More pious statements coming into the studio.

Sachin, in an interview to India Today : "It is not correct to say that I spend more time shooting for my commercials than on the cricket ground. Life of a cricketer is short. Money is not that important. Runs are.

Amitabh Bachchan, to Prannoy Roy on being elected Indian of the Year by NDTV viewers : I am quite self-conscious . I feel very humble. I don't know what to say.....

Kapil dev, in Outlook magazine, on who his heroes are : Nelson Mandela; he spent 27 years in prison...

More piety , 24-01-06: Rahul Gandhi at the Congress plenary session at Hyderabad when party workers went down on their knees, prostrated before him and pleaded with him to join the CWC :, " No, I am not ready yet. I want to work hard and earn the position."

Also, by Rahul Gandhi at same session, " The national flag is my religion". Hear, hear.

The Indian cricket cycle

Headlines that appear in newspapers, as Indian cricket passes through four distinct phases of a never-ending cycle.

Phase 1 : ( after India has lost a couple of matches)

Indian Cricket at the crossroads. An introspection

Phase 2 : ( after India has lost two more matches)

What ails Indian cricket? An analysis

Phase 3 : ( after India has won a match at last)

Indian Cricket : Back on rail . A report

Phase 4 : ( after India miraculously wins second match in a row)

Indians never had it so good . A tribute.

Who am I ? Where am I ?

There I was at the lounge of the Mumbai airport, happily gorging on the beetroot cutlets and lazily sipping the fresh lime soda, when that short, bespectacled, bearded guy walked in and greeted me cheerfully. Sensing that I couldn’t place him at all and had no idea who he was, he gently reminded me that we had met at the CII seminar the previous week.

After he was gone, I reflected on this incident. How could I forget a person who I had met just a few days back. ? The only explanation was that I was in a fairly advanced stage of Alzheimer’s disease and rapidly losing my memory.

Neuroscientists say that there are four distinct stages of senility. In the first stage, you forget a person’s name, though you may remember his face; in the second stage, you forget the person’s face as well as his name; in the third stage you forget to zip up your pants and in the fourth stage- you forget to zip down your pants when you need to.

I looked down. I had zipped up my pants. That meant I was somewhere between the second and third stages of senility and unless I acted fast would slip to the terminal stages pretty soon.

Important thing was not to panic. But to get hold of myself. I remembered the story of the ace race driver (alas, I had forgotten his name) who met with an accident and was completely paralysed from his jaw downward. Lying down on his bed, he was agonizing over the fact that he could never drive a car again, never play the guitar, never jog in the park, etc. Never ever again Then he told himself that he should look at the positive side and not sink into such abysmal depths of depression. He ought to look at the things that he could do, rather than things that he couldn’t. He started counting. He could lift his eyebrow, he could move one of his ears, he could wink with his right eye, he could curl his upper lip. Thus, he counted 47 small things that he could actually do, which made him feel a lot better.

So, I thought, let me see how many things that I could remember, rather than worry about things that I could not.

Could I remember the locations of the toilets in each of the schools that I had attended ? Yes, I could. Some of those places were quite creepy too.

Did I remember the names of my teachers who taught me from classes 1 to 5 ? Yes, I could reel out all the names. I wondered what had happened to Sheila Miss in the years since.

Could I recall how many runs G.R.Vishwanath scored in the fifth test match at Chepauk, against the West Indies in 1975? Yes. 97 not out. One of the best knocks ever.

Did I remember my wife’s birthday ? Of course I did. As the piece of wisdom goes, the best way to remember your wife’s birthday is by forgetting it once. I had failed to wish my wife on her birthday in 1993. I haven’t been allowed to forget the date after that. It is etched in my memory. Alzeimer's or no Alzeimer's.

What was the name of the customer I had met this morning ? God. My mind was a complete blank . Yes, now the pattern was painfully clear and the evidence irrefutable. I could remember everything that had transpired 15 years back, but my brain would not retain anything that had happened in the more recent past. Fat lot of good it did to me. I couldn’t subsist on childhood memory for the rest of my life.

A friend of mine had told me about his brother-in-law who had fallen on his head and lost consciousness when his scooter skidded. When he came round finally, he couldn’t remember a thing. But slowly his memory returned. He could recognize his mother after a month, his father after two months and his brother after a year. When he was shown the photographs of his grandparents who had been dead for more than 20 years, he had no difficulty in identifying them. But he simply could not recognize his wife who he had been living with for five years before the accident. The doctors had consoled the wife that memory could play such strange tricks and this behaviour did not mean that he did not care for her. The wife is patiently waiting and constantly meditating –as only a devoted Indian wife can- for the day when her husband would regain his full memory and show some sign of recognition so that she can then smash his skull and send him back to his amnesiac state. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as they say.

But I digress. The explanation was that my brain , though able to recollect all that had happened in the distant past, forgot whatever had happened in the immediate past- like that morning, for instance. What to do ? I must think, think. The stupid sound system and the constant announcements at the airport lounge were disturbing my flow of thought. A last and final call was being issued to an irresponsible passenger asking him to present himself, pronto, at the boarding gate. Such guys must be hounded out and shot at sunrise, I cursed,. for being so inconsiderate to fellow passengers and for making such announcements necessary and causing such noise pollution. And the passenger’s name was vaguely familiar. Hell, it was my name. No wonder it was familiar. I had to drop the beetroot cutlets and rush to catch the plane……….

The Superweb

It had finally happened in the year 2034. Orwell had been off by 50 years.

All the PCs in this world- with the exception of P.Chidambaram – had been interconnected.. The geeks and the freaks had worked tirelessly to get this going wirelessly.

Whatever the human sense organs or the man-made instruments and sensors could observe, smell, hear or feel had been decoded, digitalized and disaggregated into little bits of data that could be transmitted at speeds of several million terabits per second.

All available data bases ( or data basii) known to mankind had been strung together in a seamless fashion, to create multidimensional access to knowledge in real time, irrespective of location, distance, language or sex.

In a final feat of convergence, cybertechnologists had collaborated with nanotechnologists and neuroscientists to achieve the ultimate breakthrough : the permeable interface between electrons and neurons, between man and machine. Human brains could now be hardwired and made to directly communicate with the web..

There was now just one, unified, Omnipresent, Omnipotent Superweb with access to all that has been known or will ever be known.

This was the moment that Humankind had been waiting for . The opportunity to find the answer to that one question that had been haunting humans since time immemorial, namely, “ Is there life after death ?”

Collectively - for all brains and storage devices had a common thought process now- the question was typed out on the virtual keyboard .

The answer came in a few seconds

“ Fatal error has occurred. Windows 2034 will now shutdown. All data will be lost”


(Adapted from a short story I remember reading many years ago)

The Agony Aunt Column

Following the success of the "Ask our doctor" column, Plus Ultra is pleased to re-publish an "Agony Aunt" column, which provides instant solutions to readers' problems of any nature.

Q : I am an 18-year old, bubbly, attractive young girl. I overheard my parents, yesterday, plotting to get me married to a bald, pot-bellied man who is twice my age. This man has inherited a vast fortune and my parents feel that I would be financially secure. I hate the very idea. I am desperate. Please advise. Yours, etc Harried half-his-age, Hyderabad

Dr. Plus Ultra : Dear Harassed Half-His-Age, pre-marriage counselling was what I specialized in, when I did my masters in Psychology and therefore can claim correct credentials to counsel. Though it is not clear, from your question, if your apprehensions about marrying this man pertain to his baldness, his pot-bellied-ness or the fact of his being twice your age, let me tackle all three. Baldness should actually lift your spirits as it is well-established that a receding hair line is due to increased hormonal activity and is reflective of the man’s virility. A whole body of research material is available to provide conclusive evidence that pot-bellied men make better fathers, more competent cooks and have a keener sense of humour. About his age, let me disabuse you of the notion that you will continue to be half his age for ever. When he is 100 years old, you will not be 50, as you seem to presume in your childish innocence ; you will be a doddering, toothless, octogenarian yourself. So, all your concerns are baseless. Don’t give it a second thought. Plunge right ahead and splurge his riches .

Q : My grandfather died last year, leaving behind a will which bequeathed 1/3 of his property to the first son born to his first wife, another 1/3 of his property to the second daughter born to his second wife and balance 1/3 to his third wife, who is issueless. I am the second son born to the third daughter of his second wife. Can I stake a claim at all to a share of the property ?
Yours,etc, Will-wrecker, Warangal

Dr. Plus Ultra : Dear Will –Wrecker of Warangal, fortunately for you, my wife’s uncle was the Chief Justice of the A.P High Court and I happen to be well-versed with the legal nuances of such cases. My advice to you would be to file an appeal before the Hon’ High Court, contesting the will and pleading for DNA tests to be carried out on each of the wives, sons and daughters. This may not get you any share of the property but, at least, it will ensure that the intended beneficiaries do not enjoy theirs for some time. As the saying goes, "It is not enough if we succeed. Others must fail."

Q : I am a 15-year old girl with a terrible malady. I have a huge pimple right on my nose and it is spoiling my otherwise blemishless looks. I have applied all kinds of skin lotions on the pimple, but nothing seems to work. Please help. Yours, Pimpled-princess, Pune

Dr. Plus Ultra : Dear Pimpled- Princesss : Peculiar Problem, but I have the Right Remedy. My grand-uncle was a practitioner of Ayurvedic therapy from the Kottakkal school and I have observed his methods closely. The thing about pimples is that , in a blemishless skin, they stand out and get noticed. What one needs to do is not attack the pimple directly, but concentrate on making the rest of the face blemishful, thereby making the pimple less conspicuous. Try this method. Mix two spoons of raw mango juice with lime pickle, add some green chillies and mustard and fry over a high flame for a few minutes. Apply the paste on all parts of the face except the pimple. Magically, you will find that nobody will notice or comment on the pimple any more. Simple.

Q : I am a 27-year old bachelor. I am a born loser. The girl I loved has married my cousin. My parents have disowned me . I have been fired from my job. To top it all, as I was trying to hang myself from the ceiling yesterday , the rope broke . What do I do ? Suicidal Subbu ,Sulurpet

Dr. Plus Ultra : Dear Suicidal Subbu, I am related on my father’s side to Yogi Deveshwar, on my mother’s side to Yogi Berra and therefore have inherited some yogic techniques. What you need to do is meditate and deceive your troubled mind into believing that everything is hunky dory. Lie flat on your back, close your eyes and try this gentle, thought-experiment guaranteed to give you much-needed peace of mind. .

Imagine you are in a scenic park, surrounded by trees.
You are standing near a pond
The sky above is blue.
The birds are chirping.
Lotus flowers spring majestically out of the pond.
All is calm. All is quiet.
The whole ambience is serene.
The water in the pond is crystal clear.
So clear that you can see the wrinkles on the face of the person,whose head you are holding under water……

There, aren’t you feeling rejuvenated already ?

New Year Eavesdropping....

I keep my ears on ‘high alert” when I go for a walk in the morning .so that I don’t miss out on the juicy gossip, profound philosophies and profane criticisms tossed around by groups of other walkers chatting with each other. I walk alone and with my brisk stride usually manage to outpace the talkie-walkers. As I go past these groups, I invariably snatch some interesting nuggets from their animated conversations. You could accuse me of eavesdropping, but I plead “not guilty” on the technical grounds that the property of sound waves and the Doppler effect make it impossible for me not to hear what’s being discussed. So, here then is a verbatim reproduction of what I heard today. Translated from Tamil, of course.

Man, in his mid-forties, with a scarf around his neck to protect himself from the harsh Chennai winter, discussing Zubin Mehta’s recent concert in Chennai before an invited audience (and peeved that he was not invited): “ I can’t understand why, of all people, Amartya Sen should be invited to this program. Can’t he attend the program in London, America or wherever he lives? Don’t tell me that he can’t afford it. He has got lakhs from the Nobel Prize. Must he come all the way to Chennai just because it is a free program and he got an invitation? I tell you, there must be a rule that invitations must be given only to local people. How else will we get to attend?

Scarfed man’s friend: In any case, what’s the big fuss? All Zubin Mehta does is wave his arms and flash a big stick, throughout the evening, when the orchestra is playing. I can swing my arms for you free of charge, at my house, if you bring a stick with you.

Slightly ahead, another man has latched on to a couple, but is now talking on the mobile phone to his wife: “ Yes, yes, the brinjals. Don’t cut them into smaller pieces. Take the full brinjals and put some masala stuffing in. Pack them in a separate box; don’t mix it with the rice. Use the Tupperware set “. Disconnects mobile phone.

Female half of couple: “What, sir, giving instructions for your packed lunch?”

Brinjal man: “Yes. Yes. I like these stuffed brinjals. What time do you people have lunch? I will have some stuffed brinjals sent over. My wife makes it really well. You will really like them”.

Male half of couple: “ No, no, don’t trouble your wife. She won’t let you come out on your walk again”

Brinjal man: “ Nonsense. Why should she object? I was the one who went to the market last evening and selected the brinjals”

Further ahead, a group of four middle-aged men are walking at a leisurely pace, almost blocking the road. The topic of their discussion is Amitabh’s recent visit to Tirupathi.

Middle-aged man 1: “Reliance has arranged a special plane, saar, to bring Amitabh to Tirupati. Amar Singh accompanied him and ensured he got an exclusive darshan. All the papers have carried some photographs of the visit, as if there is no other news worth reporting..”

Middle-aged man 2: “ These newspapers will even carry a report of Amitabh sneezing. Did you see, one of the papers had a big photo of him on the day of his surgery and showed a cutout view of his stomach and the intestines? I ask you, what cutout would they have published if he had been operated on for prostate or piles, instead of the intestines? Can’t they respect his privacy?. Disgusting.

Middle-aged man 3: Now, he has been elected ‘Indian of the year’ by urban India. At least he is an Indian. What I can’t accept is Sonia Gandhi being elected the Indian of the year, by rural India. 1 billion Indians around and they had to find an Italian to be the Indian of the year. Our people have gone completely mad, I tell you.

Middle-aged man 4: Forget Sonia and Amitabh, sir. Tell me what are you planning to do on New Year eve? Going to some hotel to celebrate?

Middle-aged man 2: “ No way, sir. Last year, my son-in-law took us all out to a 5-star hotel. I tell you, these hotels simply loot us. As soon as we sat down at the table, a waiter in a black suit and tie came over and asked us if we wanted mineral water and I nodded my head. They charged us Rs 60 for one bottle, sir. Can you believe it? Plus taxes. If they tried this trick with the chicken tikka or some such dish, we won’t know the real cost. But, mineral water? I could have picked up the bottle from the paan shop across the road for Rs 10.

Middle-aged man 1: Why, at Saravana Stores, you can get it for Rs 9/- a bottle.

Middle-aged man 2: When I go to a star hotel, the least I expect is to be served clean water free of cost. These blighters charge us ten times the normal rate for a basic item and push it down our throats. Never will I step into that place again. This New Year, I stay at home.

Finally, a couple in their sixties, their children obviously settled in the USA (evident from the man’s T-shirt and sneakers) are taking a stroll with their dog.

Wife: Sowmya says that they are not going anywhere this week. They have lots of things to do at home. She is going to varnish the house…………

Husband: I hope she knows that she can’t varnish the walls. Only the wooden doors and almirahs...

Wife: As if she won’t know that. You always have to say something critical.

Husband: Tell me, when has she done any work here? She wouldn’t even put the cap back on her pen….

Wife: In America, one automatically learns to do everything. You can’t depend on anybody else. She is managing quite well on her own. Ashwin is traveling most of the time…

Husband: I hope he doesn’t come back from tour and sees all the walls varnished…….

And so, yet another day unfolds…….

Dear Doctor.....

So many magazines publish a “Ask our doctor” page where they claim to provide answers to medical questions sent in by their readers. I am convinced that this is a complete rip-off and that all questions are fabricated by the writers & editors. I plan to introduce this feature on this blogsite too. Here are some samples

Q: Dear Doctor,

Ever since I reached adulthood, I have experienced daily bouts of throbbing and excruciating headache. I have had my eyes tested, my ears dewaxed, my dental cavities filled, skull x-rayed for sinusitis, spinal cords checked for spondylitis, nasal septum operated to correct deflection, blood pressure brought to optimal levels and brain scanned for tumours, but to no avail. The headache continues to haunt me. Help me doc. Yours, etc. Migrained & Miserable.

A : Dear M&M,

One of Sherlock Holmes’ favourite maxims of detection was that when you have eliminated all that is impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth. In your case you have eliminated all possible causes for the headache – such as defective eyes, brain tumour, blood pressure, deflected septum, etc. The only explanation left is that, ever since you attained adulthood, you have continued to go around in undersized underwear that you used to wear as a child. This has been exerting pressure on the hipbone and, in sequence, on the vertebra and the cranium resulting in the headache. Try on an XL size jocks and the headache will vanish.


Q: Dear Doctor,

My concern is not so much about my illness as about the unscrupulous methods adopted by my doctor. I went to him complaining of mild indigestion and that my rumblings abdominal, as the limerick goes, are quite phenomenal. He made me undergo an endoscopy, ultrasound scan of the abdomen, a CT scan of the liver and colonoscopy, in that order. After this gamut of tests, my indigestion still continues and my doctor prescribed Gelusil tablets, charging me a stiff Rs 500/- as consultation fees. Do you think I should report this malpractice to the Medical Council? Yours, etc Constipated and Confused.

A: Dear C&C:

The Chinese had an excellent system before they too fell prey to Western methods. They would pay their doctor a fixed amount at the end of every month, provided they had experienced no illness even on a single day. If they had fallen sick even once that month, no money was paid to the doctor. So, the doctor was paid to keep the patient well and out of illness and not for correcting an illness. Believe me, it worked out cheaper for the patients and incentivised the doctors to ensure the good health of the patient, rather than taking advantage of the illness. So, re-negotiate the terms with your doctor and change the default setting. to “monthly payment when not ill” and see how this dramatically improves your health.


Q: Dear Doctor :

In the last 6 hours, I have felt severe muscular stiffness and rigidity; it started with my facial muscles and then spread slowly to the rest of the body. What do you think is wrong? Yours, etc Stiff and Still

A: Dear S&S

I don’t have sufficient data to arrive at a definite conclusion but, prima facie, your body seems to exhibit symptoms of something that we doctors refer to, in hushed tones, as rigor mortis. The policy of this website is to entertain questions only from live, bonafide readers and not from dead cadavers; so please refrain from corresponding with us any further.

Q: Dear Doctor:

I have been shuttling from one doctor to another, for the last 6 months, to find a cure for my asthma. As my lungs expand and contract, the sounds that emanate resemble the winds that blow determinedly through mountains and valleys. Each doctor puts me on a different line of treatment and ensures that I don’t get out of the medical circuit. I am turning out to be a doctor’s delight. Please help. Yours, etc, Wheezing and Whining

A: Dear W&W

George Bernard Shaw wrote a short story about the king of a country called Half-Mad. The king took ill and all the doctors of the kingdom attended on him and tried out different remedies to cure him. Nothing worked. Till a wise old man suggested that the king should go to a sea resort, “ Is it because you feel that the salt-laden air of the sea will have a therapeutic effect on him?’ the people ask him. “No”, the wise man replies, “ It will get him away from the doctors and cure him”.

I can offer no better advice than Shaw’s. Get away from the doctors.