PERSPECTIVES FROM DIFFERENT FATHERS

DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVES FROM TWO JESUIT FATHERS ...

AND SUPPORT FROM MY OWN FATHER:

Loyola, Madras,1964.

There was a Jesuit father by name George Thottangal who taught us English, common to all majors (Physics, Chemistry, Maths, Biology etc.) and the class was full with over 80 students in a large classroom of several rows of seats.

He was teaching us Shakespeare’s “As You Like it­” and it was interesting. Mr. Thottangal had a powerful voice and perfect articulation. He could keep reeling off to our amazement with no full stop in sight. In one of those moments I said “God bless him” to Ramki who was sitting next to me and for added impact I traced a cross across my shoulders, forehead and chest. George Thottangal noticed it from such a distance (I was sitting in the 12^th row!) stopped in the middle of his sentence, pointed a finger at me and asked me to please stand up. I stood up, unaware of how he will proceed next and getting prepared for the worst. He knew I was not a Christian. I always had a small spot of Vibhuthi (sacred ash) on my forehead - and I felt that my gesture could have offended him. He just said with a smile “Please see me at the end of the class”­ waved me to sit down and effortlessly continued from where he left off in “As You Like it”­.

In a few minutes the class was over. I waited for all students to clear off and slowly walked towards Father Thottangal mentally rehearsing what I would say to him if he asked for an explanation. It was always better to tell the truth and so I thought I would tell him about my request to God, to bless him for his amazing flow of language.

Father Thottangal just said hello and smiled at me saying that I could drop in at his residence in the campus at the end of the day and chat with him if I liked. He didn’t seem angry at all. He also mentioned that he would give me a ticket to a play which was to be staged that weekend in the Museum Theatre.

Later I visited him at his residence. He gave me tea and biscuits and asked me about my interests. When I mentioned that my hobby was painting he asked me whether I could do perspective drawing. At that time I didn’t even know what perspective drawing was and I told him so, adding that I painted flowers, butterflies etc. and I had not seriously attempted portraits or caricature. He spent the next 30 minutes showing me some perspectives of trees and buildings and how the lines appeared to meet at a point far away, although they were supposed to be parallel to each other, in reality.

He pointed towards the door to his room and asked me to look at the top and bottom edges of the door. I said they were parallel. He told me to watch them and slowly opened the door about half way. I could now see that the top and bottom edges were no more parallel to each other but appeared to converge to a distant point.

It was so simple when he explained it and I wondered why I didn’t think about this earlier.

I had done machine drawing and geometrical drawing at school and we always drew isometric views with parallel lines. We were not taught architectural drawing and so it had never occurred to me that things could be different when viewed from a larger theme.

Before I left Father Thottangal, I inherited a deep desire to learn perspective and use it in my paintings. I also had a ticket in my hand for the weekend play.

What I could not forget about the whole thing was his kindness and magnanimity in not mentioning even a single word about what I did in his class that day. He could have easily interpreted it as a distraction or disturbance, putting me in the defensive but he didn’t. It was indeed very rare to come across such a gentle person of high intrinsic worth. My regard and esteem for Fr. George Thottangal remained very high through out my years at Loyola.

As a counter point to this I must mention another incident with another member of the Jesuit Fatherhood during the final year of my study, which resulted in my suspension from the college just a few months before the university examinations. And it was on such a trivial matter that anybody would laugh now, on hearing about it, although it wasn’t so funny to me at that time.

It was in connection with an English composition. Every week we had an afternoon devoted to English composition which was done in the Bertram Hall which had the capacity to house hundreds of students. Each week we had to write an essay or composition on a topic specified to us in the hall. We were allowed the use of a dictionary. It was in fact compulsory to have a dictionary at hand.

The compositions were done in a note book and handed in at the end of the session to the tutor who would correct the same and give a mark for each essay. We were required to carry out any instruction written at the end by the tutor for the last essay before proceeding to write the essay for that day.

In my earlier essay I had made a spelling mistake in the use of the word “acquaintance”­. I had written it as “aquaintance”­. Our tutor had circled it and I found an instruction at the end of the essay to write it with correct spelling 10 times. He did not give me any mark for the essay.

I was infuriated, particularly because I was expecting a very high mark for what I considered to be one of my best essays.

I wrote a note below his note- “You can not take away the entire mark just for one spelling mistake­” and then proceeded with my correction and the next essay.

2 days later I got a note from the Principal Rev. Fr. T. N. Sequeira that I was not to attend any more classes for that day and was suspended from the college. No reasons were given.

I went to see the Principal. He made me wait until the end of the day in the outer office. When he saw me he said I was suspended for misconduct and he had nothing to discuss with me. He asked me to inform my father to meet him the next morning. I told him that it was unfair to make such a ruling without even giving me an opportunity to present my side of the case. I said I believed that the ‘Society of Jesus’ which ran that college was a fair institution which stood for correct principles. What had been done to me was unfair considering that I had always been a good student with a clean track record.

The only response from the Principal was “I have nothing to discuss with you. I can discuss your case only with your father. You may go”.

I had no other alternative than to go home. I didn’t know how I could make my father meet my Principal. I was not sure how my father would react. I waited until after dinner so that he would be less angry with me. Then I told him the whole story and indicated that the Principal was unwilling to discuss it with me. To my surprise and utter relief my father was full of laughter and said that the Principal should have praised me for my courage in pointing out the unfair treatment instead of awarding a suspension. He was having some urgent business the next morning so he asked my elder brother to go with me and sort it out with the Principal.

The next morning my brother was luckily free and he took me in his Enfield Bullet motorbike for a ride to my college. I usually pedalled the 3 km on my bicycle but this day I was spared the same.

We reached the Principal’s office well before commencement of classes. Mr. Sequeira seemed to be in a good mood. When I entered with my brother he asked us to sit down. Then he suddenly remembered that he had asked me to bring my father and the person accompanying me didn’t look like my father. To be sure he asked him “Are you his father?”­ My brother said “No sir, I am his brother. Our father couldn’t make it due to urgent business and he had asked me to resolve the matter with you on his behalf”.

The Principal was very rude. He said he didn’t have anything to discuss with my brother . If my father was too busy it was unfortunate and nothing could be done until he found time to meet him.

We didn’t expect such a rude reaction from a member of the Society of Jesus (He always signed with the letters S.J. after his name). So we went back. I had another day of uncertainty. I couldn’t even concentrate on my preparation for the university exams due next month.

My mother sensed that I was worried and she told me that it was a small thing which will be resolved and not to brood over it.  She said if I believed I didn’t do anything wrong, there was nothing to worry about.

Later that evening my father was more encouraging to me when he heard of the Principal’s refusal to meet any one else. He told me not to worry and he would sort it out with the Principal next day.

He said the worst that could happen was that I might be required to apologize to the Principal, in case he continued to be hostile. He had no right to send me out of the college for such a trivial matter which couldn’t even qualify to be classified as a misconduct.

I felt much better. How nice it is to have sympathy and reassurance from one’s own parent at a time of need!

Next morning my father came to meet the Principal. He was in full white as usual and so was the Principal in his frock. He entered the Principal’s office after a knock on the door. I followed him in. My father said hello to the Principal, shook hands with him, asked him how his health was, said that he admitted me to Loyola mainly because he believed that it was an institution with a good name and excellent staff. He was surprised that such a trivial matter should warrant a suspension. While he agreed that discipline was very important, in this particular instance he didn’t see any indiscipline. In any case the matter could have been resolved after calling the student and the tutor together to prevent a misunderstanding from being blown out of proportion. He thanked the Principal for giving him a chance to meet him and discuss about the issue and said that he didn’t expect any such incidents in future…..all in one go!

Rev. Fr. Sequeira was spell bound . He didn’t probably expect this. He was used to parents agreeing with him and profoundly apologizing, without contesting the stand taken by the college and usually accepting that their children could be at fault. He said that in view of my father’s request he would pardon me this time if I bought him a note from the tutor that he excused me. My father thanked him for his kindness, directed me to go to the tutor and obtain a note.

We came out of the Principal’s office and I thanked my father when he got into his car. Just then I saw the tutor proceeding towards the main gate of the college in his bike, apparently going out of the campus. With a quick sprint I caught hold of him and took him to my father for an introduction. He was apologetic for what happened and said that he didn’t have anything against me. His only concern was that discipline must be maintained and he readily gave me a note of excuse for the so called misconduct, allowing me to proceed to my class.

When I looked back about the whole episode I couldn’t help wondering why God created such diametrically opposite personalities. Here was Fr. George Thottangal who didn’t say a word about what he saw me doing in his class but instead made me feel a kinship with him by sharing with me his appreciation of ‘perspective’. In the case of the Tutor his petty mind overpowered him into taking offence at being questioned by a student. Only the tutor could write a note on the notebook to instruct the student. It was inappropriate for a student to write a note to the tutor. In the name of discipline these so called educators remained dictators, so narrow minded and arrogantly insensitive to the feelings of the students. If the objective of education was to kill freedom of expression, this tutor and this Principal deserved awards for their dedication to this objective.

But thankfully there were also some ‘Thottangal’s at hand, who made college days a likable experience as a whole.

stunning lessons from life's little moments: Rags to Riches

stunning lessons from life's little moments: Rags to Riches

Rags to Riches

RAGS TO RICHES:

UNINTELLIGENT RAGGING
MIT,MADRAS,Class of 1964

University entry is already a major turning point in the life of a student who has to keep his scores at reasonably top levels if he aims to have some degrees to decorate his name in later years. The tensions of maintaining such grades are well known. To add to this situation there is something called Ragging that makes it even more difficult for the novice undergraduate.
We had our fill of ‘Raggers’ too…..
One of them was known by name “Glaxo Baby” which was his nick name. He was a fat guy with chubby cheeks like the baby in Glaxo Ads and came from a rich family. He asked me to utter some lewd abusive words. I was a very timid bloke not capable of either abusive or lewd language, thanks to careful upbringing by conservative parents. I have never seen or heard my mother or elder brothers using abusive language. I have seen my father shouting at some of the office workers when they made some mistakes but even that was only on rare occasions.
So the only abusive words I could mutter at that moment when I was called upon to do so were “Madaya (fool), Muttal (idiot) and Porukki (loafer)”.
He laughed at me. “Is this what you call abuse and lewd? Where do you come from?”
I said “from Royapettah”. He told me that I should go to Washermenpet or Kothwal Chawadi to really learn abusive language. I had never been to either and told him so.
He was quite disappointed with my lack of exposure to such important aspects of life. However he was not ready to dismiss me without asking yet another question to establish my ignorance.
He asked me whether Madras was wet or dry.
It was raining at that time and so it was an easy question to answer. Wondering why anyone would ask such a silly question I answered “Wet, of course”.
He said “No! You don’t even know the difference between wet and dry. How on earth did you manage to graduate?”
I responded “I am sorry, I don’t get you. What has it got to do with my graduation?”
He said “You had been in college for 4 years and you don’t even know Madras is dry. OK. Get lost”.
I had been told that I was to say “Thank You, Sir” when a Senior dismisses a newcomer. But since he told me to get lost I felt he didn’t deserve to be thanked and just walked away from his room.
He called me back, “Hey ignoramus, didn’t you forget something?”
I looked around to see whether I left my slippers or my umbrella, but remembered that I didn’t have an umbrella and my slippers were on my feet. There was nothing missing. I said “No, I didn’t forget anything”.
He said “It is bad manners to leave a senior without saying “Thank you”. How can you expect us to help you if you don’t respect us?”
I was too timid to mobilize enough courage to punch him on his bulging face. I said “Thank you for what? I don’t appreciate what you did to me. I don’t want your help”. With that I left, hoping that he wouldn’t consider it worth his while to pursue me any further. Luckily, he didn’t.
Later that day when I narrated this to Krish, a friend of mine who was also in similar circumstances, he laughed merrily and said I did respond well. He told me that they were all spineless and brainless. They could do nothing.
I asked him whether he knew Madras was dry. He said yes. I was surprised. I asked him how come it was dry when it was raining?
That was when I learnt for the first time in my life that dry referred to prohibition. Madras was under prohibition from sale of alcoholic drinks. Pondicherry was wet and people used to go there to drink. So it was, that I had to learn such bits of wisdom thanks to our Seniors like “Glaxo Baby”. I came to know later he used to go with friends to Pondicherry for some weekends of drinking and floating.
After a couple of days I was called by another Senior. I went to his room at the appointed time, wondering what it was going to be like this time, since he would have already come to know about my uncooperative response to “Glaxo Baby”.
Only thing I can remember about him is his French beard. I don’t recollect his name. He made me stand at the entrance for some time as he pretended to be busy with God-knew-what. Then, as if he suddenly remembered he called me and offered me a seat. That was an unexpected kind gesture.
He told me that most of the new students were morons and we were going to find it difficult to manage the subjects in the first semester which was short.
Then all of a sudden he asked “Where is your brain?” I couldn’t understand any connection. I was fairly sure that I didn’t leave my brain in my room. I pointed my forefinger at the rough location of where I thought my brain was, hoping that it continued to be there although I knew he had no way of finding out whether I did have any, with whatever little he himself had at his disposal.
He then asked me “Where is your anus?”
“My God. This man goes very fast form one end to the other” I thought. I obediently showed him my rear end as a nursery school child does when such intelligent questions are asked.
He said “You stupid. I am not interested in your ass. I asked about U-R-A-N-U-S-- URANUS. Don’t you know where the planet Uranus is?” With this he started laughing as if he had achieved a great victory in proving my ignorance.
Why did all these great guys have to prove their superiority by indirect methods of trying to expose the ignorance of lesser mortals?
If he had shown a map of all planets and asked me where Uranus was, I would still have not managed to locate it, since Geography was not one of my strong subjects and I had never cared much about Uranus anyway. I had heard that it was very very far away. It didn’t even figure in my astrological charts, to have any influence on me.
I laughed with him as if his intelligent joke had impressed me.
He seemed pleased now and softened a little. He asked me which faculty (major) I had opted for and I told him “Instrument Technology”. He said he was in “Automobile Engineering”.
Then he asked me “Is a piston male or female?”
I had done machine drawing during my high school days and I had some idea about pistons and cylinders.
I said “Male”
He asked “Why is male called a male?”
I wondered why. I had never thought about such important engineering concepts and I was almost sure that he was going to prove to me that I was not suitable to study engineering with such a poor knowledge of the basics.
I tried to think of some possible explanation but nothing sensible came to my mind.
There was no use saying “A male is called a male because it is not a female”, but I said it, anyway.
He responded with his pearls of wisdom “No. A male is called a male because male is always on TOP. It is derived form the Tamil word ‘male’ which means top”.
I had to laugh, pretending again as if he had made a great discovery in the roots of English language. With such linguistic abilities at his command I wondered why he was wasting his time in the study of automobile engineering.
I wanted to ask him “If that was so, then by the same logic the Tamil word for bottom was “Keezhe” and the word “female” didn’t seem to have even a remote connection to that word. Why was that so?”
I didn’t ask him this question because I thought it was too much of an exercise for his tender brain which might collapse if forced to handle such complicated logic.
He asked a few more intelligent questions of similar nature presumably with the object of proving my ignorance and found that it was more interesting to go for dinner (as it was dinner time) than to question an ignoramus on empty stomach. He graciously left me at that. I didn’t mind thanking him as he was much more polite than most others with his parting words “see you later”.
Soon after that I applied to the Director to allow me to be a day scholar. I didn’t like the hostel atmosphere even though the food was quite good and I had quite a few friends to spend time with. I had never been away from home before and the home-sickness was aggravated by the ragging.
Within a month I left the hostel and so did some of my friends. We had to travel daily by bike and train to reach our professional school of learning, the one and only MIT in Chromepet, on of the suburbs of Madras. But we didn’t mind that to the alternative of living in the hostels that housed such self proclaimed ‘Seniors’ who didn’t know that they were lacking in so many areas including academics. What is the use of education on such unfit individuals whose main aim in life seemed to be to harass other lesser mortals, to prove their not existent superiority. What a waste of life.
Perhaps from those beginnings of 'RAGS' they hope to achieve the 'Riches' of better-than-thow attitude to hide their inferiority complex.
Ragging is a curse on our educational system. The sooner it is done away with, the better it will be.

Bed of Nails

JERRY TAKES A DIG:

Jerry used to jog with me when we were in a workout program 3 evenings a week. I introduced some breathing techniques from Yoga to the group to help them expand their lungs and increase their oxygen intake.

The next day when he met me at work he was appreciative of the techniques. He said he had read about Yoga but did not have any idea that breathing techniques were part of Yoga.

He then asked me "I read that Yogis always sleep on a bed of nails. Do you sleep on nails too?"

I was not shocked by his question because many people in the west have only a vague idea about Yoga because of what they read and the magazines highlight only odd bits such as sleeping on the nails.

If I have to undertake the formidable task of changing such public opinion one life time would not be enough and even then I might end up wasting my time because people only believe what they want to believe.

To them ‘India = Snake Charmers + Elephants’ and ‘Yoga = Standing upside down, sleeping on a bed of nails.’

But Jerry needed an answer, much as he would have liked to believe that I might one day teach him to sleep on a nail bed. I had to politely and firmly dispel such misconceptions for the good of both of us.

I said "One day not long ago when I went to bed there was something that disturbed my sleep and yet I didn’t know exactly what was wrong. I turned this way and that way, adjusted the pillow. Then everything seemed OK, but after sleeping for a few minutes I woke up again. There was something biting me at my back. I switched the light on and without disturbing my wife I tried to see what it was. There seemed to be something below the sheets. I moved the sheets. There indeed was the culprit- a hairpin. After I removed it I had no problem with my sleep.

So tell me if a small hairpin can be so uncomfortable to sleep on, how can I ever sleep on a bed of nails?

There may indeed be some yogis who have achieved complete control and detachment from feelings and for them it is immaterial whether they sleep on a mattress or a nail bed. The rest of us have to be happy with normal beds since nail beds are expensive.

One more important point should be taken into consideration before you entertain such temptations. The gaps between the nails will invariably provide free accommodation to bed bugs to whom biting humans is an endless source of pleasure and protein”.

He started laughing, amused that bug bites could make any difference to a person who is unaffected by nail pricks.

TIME MACHINE

WATCH FOR TIME

Many times our buying decisions are based on impulse or the craving to possess what others have, rather than on need or logic.

For instance I brought a digital Casio watch with built in calculator about 15 years back. At that time it was a novel item and a couple of my friends had it. It was so fascinating to have a calculator handy and the watch also had other features such as alarm, stop watch etc.

In the first few days I had used the calculator a couple of times. The buttons were so cramped it was not very convenient to use it. I have rarely used the calculator-function since then.

It is not as if I am the only fool around. There are many persons who sport a calculator-watch and rarely have I seen even one of them using it for calculation. May be they are shy to use it in front of me.

There is a friend who never failed to let me know that the gold that glittered on his wrist was a Rado for which he had paid $500 because it had a special hardened cut glass face which is “scratch proof”­ and “break-proof”­. He demonstrated to me the truth of this claim by rubbing the watch on the wall, on the table top and once even with a pen knife. The glass was still perfect, in immaculate condition after all the abuse. He said the watch was guaranteed scratch proof for 50 years at the least.

The other day he was very upset and I asked him what was wrong. He said he left his watch on the table when he went for his prayers, but when he came back his watch was missing. He moved around asking everybody whether they had seen his watch. He couldn’t trace it.

His loyalty to Rado is unbelievable. It is almost as if he is addicted to this brand for some reason. He brought another Rado thereafter, although for a comparatively lower price but still with a scratch proof glass.

He was all praise for Rado and even took a jibe at me for being so tight on my spending. He said I should throw away my old watch and buy a stylish Rado.

I had to politely turn down his suggestion by saying that in my mind a watch was to show me the time and the watch I was wearing was good enough and very dependable. It had shown the time - all the time- fairly accurately. It looked decent enough to me. I needed to change the strap every year or so but otherwise it did not demand anything more.

The brand names such as Corum, Rado and Cartier did carry a snob value and people wore them more to show their status than to see the time. I was not disturbed by the ordinary name of Casio on my watch.

He laughed at my ignorance and my lack of appreciation for a masterpiece like his Rado. I had to correct him that I did appreciate the excellence of his watch. It fitted so well on his robust wrist. But it didn’t make me run for a Rado to replace my ‘old’ Casio, just for the heck of it.

On a rainy day, not long afterwards I was in a hurry to get to work. I parked my car in the parking lot, took my heavy yellow raincoat from the boot, squeezed into it and sprinted to my office. I removed the raincoat and hung it on the coat stand in a corner of my office. When I sat down at my desk I noticed that I couldn’t see the time because there was no watch on my wrist. I recollected having worn it, so I searched my rain coat, the floor, the corridor and later (when the rain subsided) I went all the way upto my car, but there was no trace of my watch. It was gone.

I told myself that it was not the end of life, I had a standby watch which was a wedding present to me. It was older but still running OK. So I started using that (a Favre Leuba) and my Rado friend was shocked. He couldn’t believe that I would go from an old one to an older one. He branded me a miser.

In order to keep up his friendship and also to experience the freedom to choose and be liberated form my own self imposed restrictions, I went to the watch shops and came out with a Seiko. It was still a simple watch reasonably priced at $30.

The next day when he saw me wearing a different watch my friend was curious to find out what make it was. I said it was a Rado. He said it was not - a Rado had a distinct look which he could know from miles away.

I let him see the watch. He was unable to read the name since he didn’t have his reading glasses on hand. He still maintained that it couldn’t possibly be a Rado.

I told him that it was one of a new range from Rado which was meant for simple people. It didn’t have an expensive scratch - proof glass but otherwise it had all the good attributes of Rado. Handicapped as he was without his reading glasses, it was beyond him to disprove my statement.

Later that day I managed to lift the name Rado from a watch advertisement (from an Airline inflight magazine) and carefully stuck it on the dial of my Seiko.

Next day this Rado fan was equipped with his reading glasses and insisted on reinspecting my watch to make sure of its identity. I said it didn’t matter to me what make it was, as long as it showed correct time. He didn’t leave me until I showed the watch again but I was enjoying the unbelieving look on his face. He said it was a duplicate and I had been cheated.

I said I bought it in good faith. Because he was singing the praise for Rado so much, I wanted to give it a fair try. So far the watch was keeping the time accurate to the second and I had nothing to complain.

How else do you deal with people who refuse to believe that there can be other ways different form their own.

I haven’t bothered to remove the Rado label form my watch since it didn’t matter to me, one way or the other.

As Marilyn Ferguson observed, “No one can persuade another to change. Each of us guards a gate of change that can only be opened from the inside. We cannot open the gate of another, either by argument or by emotional appeal”.

MY NEPHEW IS A GENIUS

A CLASSIC DISCOVERY

My nephew is a genius.

The other day when I visited him, I was impressed with the way he had organized his living space, with comfort as the main theme.

He had a remote controlled stereo music system which he could operate without getting up from his comfortable sofa, which doubled as his bed at the appropriate times whenever his body moved from semi vertical to horizontal position.

The curtains could be opened and closed by the touch of a button in his hand and so also were the lights and the fan. He didn’t have an AC but he had a plan to buy it next year and for sure it would be a unit with remote control.

He brushes his teeth with a Braun Automatic tooth brush with a built in motor. It is a cute little thing and I should say that it does full justice to his teeth, considering the rate at which his teeth are engaged in grinding the spicy food that he is so fond of.

His mother was complaining to me that with all the remote controls at his command he was still so lazy that he doesn’t even switch off his music system when he goes to sleep. It vibrates the entire apartment with the heavy metal noise he claims to be music to his ears and she can’t catch even a minute’s peaceful sleep in the night. The only way she manages to remain sane is by sleeping after he leaves for work in the morning.

I took pity on her and assured her that I will talk to him about it.

My own line of thinking was that my nephew could be persuaded to add another voice activated remote control which could operate the push buttons of the remote control of his music system. I have seen some of these voice activated things. They can be programmed to take instructions exclusively from the specific person’s voice. They ignore all other voices/noises and even heavy metal.

So when I next met him I found him to be in excellent mood and I took the opportunity to browse the subject.

What he told me took me by surprise. He said he did it only for the benefit of the people cohabiting in that apartment, and in particular for the welfare of his mother who had always been very kind to him in looking after his needs although he was grown up enough to take care of himself. He said that the music system was kept “on” through the night not because he was lazy to switch it off, but on purpose.

I asked him “what purpose could it serve if everyone wants to sleep and the music system is pumping music (or noise) full blast?”­

He said “You are not going to believe it but music keeps the mosquitoes away. Actually I discovered it by accident. As soon as I arrived home from work I used to switch on the mosquito repellent as otherwise it was so annoying to be surrounded by a swarm of mosquitoes which had the habit of biting different parts of the body at the same time.” I thought perhaps they had learnt this technique from the British who were famous for their multipronged attack of the Germans during the World War II.

He continued “One evening however I had forgotten to switch ‘on’ the mosquito repellent and went ahead as usual to play a new CD on the music system. After enjoying the music for over half an hour I noticed that the mosquito repellent was not ON. I thought the red lamp might have been fused or may be there was a loose connection in the plug. I was too fixed to fix it at that time but what amazed me was the total absence of mosquitoes. Not a single one was visible around. All of them had taken a vacation! Was something wrong with my blood?

It was time to go for my shower, so I switched off the music system and proceeded to pick up my towel. That was when I noticed the swarm of my friendly mosquitoes which returned from their vacation to feast on my body with such ferocity.

Suddenly my mind sensed a connection. I rushed to the remote control and switched the music ‘on’.

‘Lo & behold! The surprise of my life! The mosquitoes scrambled for escape routes like robbers running at the sound of the police siren. And to realize that this miracle was an innocent and unintended side effect of the heavy metal music was one of the rare moments in my life.

I tested this again a couple of times. The result was unmistakable. I then tried switching to other types of music like classical. Nothing else could match heavy metal in scaring the mosquitoes away.

From that day I have successfully used this discovery to protect my body and save my blood form these ungrateful mosquitoes which have bitten me mercilessly.

I know that it is difficult for you to believe what I am saying. That is why I didn’t mention it to anyone including my mother.”

I was still spell bound by the impact of his words. Perhaps he could sense that I was nevertheless skeptical. So he invited me to see it with my own eyes.

He switched the music off. And the mosquitoes came in as if from nowhere. Until then I didn’t realize the presence of the music. Only in the sudden quietness I could feel the absence of it. By now there were so many mosquitoes around that I begged him to switch the music back, ON. And they ran away.

Impressed as I was with his scientific discovery I was still not sure how he could sleep with the music penetrating the eardrums and reaching every corner of his brain. He said “It takes only 4 or 5 nights to get used to the music and you will sleep even better because no other sounds around will disturb your sleep such as the neighbour’s child crying or the dogs barking”.

­While I write this to make this rare discovery available for the benefit of the common man, I also have doubts as to whether he will be fortunate enough to see it in print since my publisher may be wary of possible law suits form the heavy metal group who may sue him for printing such findings which may affect their reputation. On the other hand it may perhaps be of benefit even to the music makers since they can claim royalty for this new use. Their albums will sell like hot cakes.

Try it yourself. You may agree with this remarkable finding of a homegrown genius.

cookies for a grass eater

Libya – Azzawiya Refinery Coffee Shop….

At coffee break this morning I saw Amal at the coffee shop helping herself to several pieces of sandwich and kossum bread ( a kind of soft bread like croissants)…. a plateful of them. As I complimented her for her voracious appetite, Jerry, our coffee room in-charge started laughing.  He said Amal was his best customer.  She took almost half of all the stuff he had for sale, he said.

Amal offered me a piece of meat filled sandwich knowing very well that I was a vegetarian and wouldn’t eat it.  She is very clever.  When I said “No, thank you”, as I have done in the past, she asked me “Mr. Raman, why don’t you eat meat?”

I said, “Who said that I didn’t?  I do eat meat.”

“Then why don’t you accept this sandwich”, Amal asked.

“Oh! I don’t eat this kind.” I replied.

“What kind do you eat?”

I said “Well, I eat the meat from plants.”

“What plants?”

“You know, plants like spinach, lettuce, tomato, potato, carrot, orange, apple.  There are plenty to feed me”

“Oh!  Mr. Raman, come on.  These are vegetables and fruits.  You can’t call them meat.”

“What is meat?”  I questioned.

“Meat is the flesh of animals like cow and sheep, camel and rabbit”, Amal responded.

“That is animal meat.  What I mentioned are plant meats.”

“So if you can eat plant meat why can’t you eat animal meat?”

I asked her, “Please permit me to ask you a difficult question.  This is not to offend you but to just make a point of discussion.”

“Go ahead”, she said.

“Tell me, if you can eat animal meat, why can’t you eat human meat?”

“What?!”

“Human meat ... the flesh from human body?”

“You don’t think that I am a cannibal do you?”

“Well, I don’t”, I said, “But just as it puts you off even to think about it, animal flesh is something which cannot find passage through my throat.”

“Oh, Mr. Raman, you are too complicated”, Amal said.

“Amal, I am not complicated.  Don’t be afraid to face logic.  You don’t have to believe in what I say or agree with my point of view.  Just try to understand that a person’s food is personal, just like your thoughts and feelings.  Anyway, thanks for offering the sandwich.  Someday I hope that you will offer cakes, cookies or chocolates which I relish.  I will readily accept them.”

A few days after that encounter Amal brought me a plateful of cookies, homemade and delicious.  I asked her what was the occasion and without waiting for her answer I said “Happy birthday to you!”.

She said it was not her birthday.  She had mentioned to her mother about a peculiar Indian who doesn’t eat animals and is surviving only on cabbages and carrots.  Her mother was not surprised.  She had heard of such creatures and even met some.  She developed a soft corner for me and sent some cookies to keep me alive.