An officer and a Gentleman..

An Officer and A Gentleman. ..

By

Vivek Hande

 

The story dates back to the late fifties.  My father was a young officer (and a gentleman) in the Indian Army. Those were the days of train travel. First class coaches had independent compartments with attached toilets. Journeys were long and criss- crossed the length and breadth of the country. But one traveled in style as befitting an officer. This included being served tea and meals in porcelain crockery. It also involved changing into a night suit; of course one had to be in silk dressing gown when stepping out of the compartment.  One usually sank into the upholstery and enjoyed the countryside passing by in style. There were no smart phones or laptops to distract you; so one indulged in catching up with ones’ reading. 

 

My father was travelling between Madras(Chennai now)  and Calcutta(Kolkata now). It was to be a rather long journey and he was travelling along with a course mate in a first class coupe. The reading material had been exhausted and most of the problems of the world had been sorted out over animated conversation between the course mates. The train stopped at Bizwada( Vijaywada now) around eleven at night and my father was pleasantly surprised to see the AH Wheeler book stall open  through the window. He got off, rather jauntily attired in his black silk dressing-gown to arm himself with some books for the rather long journey yet to go. Engrossed in selecting books, he was alerted, a little late in the day (or night) by the rather bored vendor that the train was half way out of platform one! The young officer threw the books and sprinted not so jauntily to catch the fast departing train.

  

He managed to get onto the railings of the last coach which was the unreserved one. Barely clinging onto the foot board and holding on for dear life as the train hurtled into the darkness of the night. He could see the coach was packed with passengers stuffed like sardines but all seemingly oblivious to the world and definitely unable to hear his shouts for assistance. The train gathered speed and the steam engine roared into the night and was sending billowing gusts of soot into the air. The dressing gown was flapping wildly with the wind; soot and dust was settling into every pore on the face and eyes. He was fighting sleep; the winds and the momentum of the lurching train and quite literally, blowing in the wind (Bob Dylan would have approved!).

It was a terrible nightmare by any standards and at the end of two hours when the train rolled onto the next station, the young man had numb hands and wobbly legs and a very black face and a very very tattered dressing –gown. He managed to make his way back to the coupe on very unsteady legs. The course mate emerged from deep slumber oblivious to the excitement. He asked, “Where have you been? What happened?”  The young officer replied,”I had stepped out. I think I need a new dressing –gown!”  The officer and gentleman was ready for more adventures…

When the going gets tough, the tough get going!!

When the going gets tough, the tough get going!!

By

Vivek Hande

Stay fit; Burn fat. Kill the calories. Eat less, exercise more. I am a staunch believer in fitness and one has to strive hard to be fit. But, there is no point overdoing things. I am also a believer in the principle of moderation. Everything is good in small portions and good measure.  I agree with some proponents who say mental fitness is more important than physical fitness. In fact , there are some who also say that running late should be considered exercise. There may be something to it.

But living in an environment, where everybody is so fitness conscious and burning calories as if there is no tomorrow, one does get swept away. There are two very well appointed gyms close to where I stay. They are teeming with folks sweating away, pumping iron and what have you. One of the gyms is called “Serendipity”.  I ventured into the gym deciding I needed to emerge after a couple of hours with a set of six packs and a well toned physique. The trainer swooped down on me and prescribed a set of warm up exercises.  After fifteen minutes of warm –up, I would have liked to gulp down a glass of chilled beer along with some roasted peanuts perhaps. The trainer had different ideas. After pushing me onto what he called were graded exercise sets on a series of equipment that seemed to have emerged from “Star Wars”, he seemed to have an unbecoming smirk on his face. Because of my mental toughness, I was somehow surviving and managed to keep my heart within my chest cage and was not asking for an oxygen cylinder. It is to my credit that I stumbled through some more time on the “fly” and the “lat pull down machine” without needing a stretcher and inspite of the trainer’s diabolical intent to see me erupt in flames!

An hour seemed like an eternity. I staggered out of the gym with a solitary thought in mind. Why have they called the gym “Serendipity”? I am good with the etymology of words and in my oxygen starved state I recollected the origin of the word. First used by Horace Walpole in 1754 in a book titled “The three princes of Serendip”, old name for Sri Lanka. In the book, the heroes are making discoveries by accident or sagacity of things they were not in quest. Serendipity;  noun. Luck that takes the form of finding pleasant things that are not looked for. The occurrence or development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

 Well, my bursting lungs and stiff back and muscles and wobbly knees and hypoxic brain were certainly not pleasant things I had found by chance. There seemed nothing serendipitous about the whole thing. I slowly dragged myself home, crossing the other gym on the way. By the way, the other gym is called “Utopia”. Utopia, noun.  An imagined place or state of things in which everything is perfect.

 I suppose in a utopian world everybody will go to the gym and stumble across the great benefits of torturing oneself serendipitously!! Each one to his own....

Tulu Stories

Tulu stories

By

Vivek Hande

Tulu is a language /dialect spoken in a very small part of India. The language is spoken mainly by the natives of Southwest Karnataka – primarily the Udipi and Dakshina Kanara districts to be precise. That is really a small part of the huge country that India is. Tulu has a large body of literature written in the traditional Kannada script and earlier works are found in the Tilagari script of Sanskrit origins. It has a rich body of oral literature and there are about a dozen variants of the spoken language as one travels across this part of Karnataka. It does have a sweet ring to it and I do agree with many who say that is the Bengali of the Dravidians!!

 If you go by census figures, Tulu is spoken by approximately two million people today. Most of the Tulu speakers are largely confined to this geographical belt. You could find a few Tulu speaking cohorts in parts of Mumbai and Kerala. It would be rather extremely rare to find Tulu speaking natives in significant numbers out of these geographical boundaries.

This preamble is necessary to establish the background of the story. It was way back in the mid sixties. My parents, still in early years of their marriage, were traveling by a first class railways coach between Calcutta (of yore) and Ranchi. They had only one confirmed berth of the two- berther coupe and were hopeful that the person occupying the other berth would miss the train or be severely indisposed or forget that he was to travel so that they could have the berth to themselves. But that was not to be.

 A portly gentleman made himself comfortable in the upper berth and he seemed in no mood for conversation. My parents knew it would be safe to converse in Tulu and were discussing diabolical plans to throw him off the train or plans generally in that direction. My father took it upon himself to impress his newly acquired wife and spoke in emphatic Tulu to convey that he intended to roll up the “intruder” into a ball and throw him out of the train at the next station. While they did not have the luxury of the additional berth, these imaginary plans certainly added to the mirth and they continued to amuse themselves. They told themselves that thanks to Tulu, they could discuss safely whatever they wanted to do to the gentleman, who was most certainly from Bihar or Bengal and was oblivious to their plans for him.

 My mother remarked, “Tulu is probably the safest language to converse in this part of the country!” The journey rolled on and it was time to alight at Ranchi.

While they were getting off, the gentleman spoke almost for the first time- in chaste Tulu!! He asked if he could help them with their luggage. He went onto apologize for having made the journey uncomfortable for them by occupying his own berth- all in glorious Tulu.  He laughed heartily and said he was grateful for all the imaginative plans being discussed – he said it had made his journey memorable!

 My parents went into an apology overdrive. Well, at the end of it three Tulu speaking strangers became friends in a remote corner of this vast country and the friendship has survived four decades, notwithstanding the diabolical plans!!

 

Bitten By The Spelling Bee

 Bitten by the Spelling Bee!!

                   By

             Vivek Hande

I cannot say my spellings are always perfect, but I do try. Nothing irritates me more than seeing a word spelled (not spelt) incorrectly on the Television screen or hoardings or advertisements or banners or in power-point presentations of my residents. I get an irrestible urge to take a brush or a pen or a mouse and do the necessary corrections every time a ghastly mistake pops up-it is a reflex thing.

In research brought out by BBC in 2011, it was highlighted that nearly 70% of people lost faith in the quality of a website and doubted the honesty of its content if it was riddled with spelling mistakes. They took their business or queries to another website. Some years ago, Chile lost huge amounts in revenue when their 50-peso currency came out with the spelling “Chiie” instead of Chile. The whole process of minting had to be repeated and lots of people in quality control lost their jobs – all because of a spelling error!

Oxford Dictionary lists the 250 commonly made spelling mistakes the world over. Respect the words in the italics and remember that very often we have spelled them incorrectly as well. I don’t wish to exaggerate but the most conscientious speller could also land up embarrassing oneself with the silliest spelling mistakes. Someone once remarked that a synonym is a word you use when you cannot spell the other one.

 At times, spelling mistakes could result in humourous situations and at other times could unknowingly be mischievous!  For instance, a man sent a SMS message to his neighbour apologizing for using his wife through the day without obtaining his permission. While the neighbour was still recovering from the shock, he got another message apologizing for the wrong spelling –he meant WIFI and not WIFE!  Another man who wrote to his wife about a grand holiday he was having. “I am having a wonderful time. Wish you were her.” He meant “here”. Just in jest but it almost sent the neighbour and the holidaying husband to the cemetery!!

I have the list of these common bloopers in my possession and I don’t want to lose it and I am not writing loosely when I say that almost each one of us would have to be careful when one attempted to successfully spell some of these very common words. 

The government should probably definitely set up a committee to correct the disastrous spellings floating on various signboards and hoardings – if you have to use a language, let us do it well and let there be a noticeable absence of these eyesores! 

Whether you agree with me or not is another matter, but the problem of these errors happens through all seasons and all kinds of weather. Thoughts of personally correcting these mistakes have occurred to me on more than one occasion. This is honestly not a very bizarre idea or a personal idiosyncrasy. I feel we should be aggressive about correcting these errors and we could be successful if we liaised with the correct authorities in pursuing this matter.

English is a beautiful language and if we were to use it, we ought to with care and diligence and with an effort to at least spell correctly. As Marilyn vos Savant remarked, “When our spelling is perfect, it is invisible. But when it is flawed, it prompts strong negative associations.” But then Mark Twain had another perspective, “Anyone who can only think of one way to spell a word obviously lacks imagination!”

Hair -Raising stuff!!

Hair –Raising stuff!!

By

Vivek Hande

I needed a haircut rather urgently. My usual neighbourhood Barber (origin Latin, Barba, beard) being closed, I ventured into a rather fancy setup. I was welcomed by someone of indeterminate gender who asked me to state my requirement. I said I needed a chop – he looked down at me as if I was from some other planet.

 He asked me to fill a questionnaire which was two pages long. I said I was not seeking employment at their establishment- the person told me either I fill out or file out!

I plodded through the form which required me to state my personal details; allergies; ailments, afflictions and an extra page for additional remarks. For good measure, I let them know my favorite ice-cream flavor; the color of my son’s eyes and my shoe size and the movie I saw last night on the page for “additional remarks”.

I asked the person could I see the barber now – he glared at me with a look of disdain. He said that the concerned “Trichology Consultant” would see me in a while! Where I had landed, I asked myself.

I was ushered through a passage which looked like straight out of a Star Wars movie with strobes and fluorescent lights and some kind of UV lights and some trance music playing in the background. I decided to be a man and get through with it.

The “Tricholgy Consultant”, Andy, had a rich, luxuriant seemingly unruly mop of hair himself. It had a careful carelessness kind of feel about it. I told him I would like a chop- he asked me to tick my choice or combination of choices on another form – the list of choices included : “Butch; Quarter Butch:; Buzz; Business; Brush; Comb – over; Crew; Half Crew; Crown – Half or Full; Faux-Hawk; Mullet; Mop-Top; Mohawk; Surfer; Spike ;Taper cut; Quiff “. I implored him to give me a regular, normal, standard hair cut and let me escape.

He told me,”At your age, you still have hair. Be grateful and appreciate the fact. This is not a saloon- this is the Hair Temple! Don’t treat this exercise like a routine matter-this is a sublime experience.” I surrendered and devoutly asked him to proceed with the ritual. I asked for what I thought was a safe bet-“Business”. For the next forty minutes he used all kinds of instruments and clips and combs and appliances and creams and at the end of it, asked me to admire myself in the life size mirrors. I was aghast –I looked much the same and had seen no change from my appearance forty minutes earlier. I tried to protest but he told me in no uncertain terms that this was the best Business cut money could buy!

I returned through the Star Wars passage and the receptionist of uncertain gender presented me with my bill which made my hair rise phenomenally. The bill settled, I was presented with my own privilege card and flashed a smile and told “Do come again. We are always hair for you!!”

I staggered out, got into my car and was trying to regain my composure after this “hairy” experience. I saw a vaguely familiar face getting out of the saloon – Andy , my Trichology Consultant of Hair Temple fame , out of his work clothes and lo and behold , without his wig of luxuriant unruly hair!! Bald like the moon – he gave me a cheery wave and walked away briskly. I sat in the car, trying to tear my hair out!! Hair today , gone tomorrow…

All Eggs In One Bangchung( Basket)!!!

             All Eggs In One Bangchung( Basket)!!

                             By

                       Vivek Hande

I have fond memories of Bhutan, where I was stationed in the early nineties. Bhutan is a landlocked country in the eastern fringe of the Himalayas.  It is a spectacularly beautiful country with hills, valleys, small rivulets and mountain streams and some glorious snow capped mountains. More beautiful than the natural bounty are perhaps the people who make this lovely country.

The people are simple and honest and intricately linked to the nature. It was only in 1999 that internet and mobile telephony started making inroads into the land. The people are rugged and fond of sports – basketball and archery being the main passion. They are fond of Hindi movies. This is the only country which has adopted the “global happiness index” as a measure of its economic development and very rightly it is rated as the happiest Asian and the eight happiest country in the world!!

I was part of a team which provided medical care to the locals as part of a goodwill process. There would be serpentine queues of the residents lined up with varying ailments. They were extremely grateful for the medicare provided in that far flung and remote corner of Bhutan. They would smile appreciatively and beam with happiness on being dispensed with the medicines after a medical consultation. It was a social visit and a convenient meeting point and often they would be in animated discussion about something or the other soaking in the sun on the hospital lawns. Many of them became friends and would encourage my fledgling efforts at trying to converse with them in Dzonkha, the local language. They would come on mule-back or walk miles to reach the facility.

At the end of my first day, my medical assistant asked me to come to the dispensary. I was amazed, surprised and touched to see scores of small beautifully woven small bamboo baskets with intricate geometric designs. Each one capable of being closed with a lid- the local Bhutanese Tupperware-the hand woven Bangchung. Each one containing one to two fresh eggs. They wanted to show their gratitude, and this was their gift to me. The Bangchung is used by them to store dry meat, Yak cheese and also serves as a plate for eating rice and used on the move.

I collected several of the Bangchung . Refusing them was not an option-the local interpreter made that very clear.  I gifted them to many friends and relatives-they make very attractive decorative pieces. I was not much of an egg -eater and the eggs found their way to the homes of my colleagues in the station. Many of them did not buy eggs as long as I was around – such was the generosity of the Bhutanese. It was a different thing that whenever I visited my colleagues, their wives would serve me egg dishes of all shapes and sizes-it was assumed I am very fond of eggs and hence I was collecting them, quite literally, by the baskets!!

Those Were The Best Days...

Those Were The Best Days Of My Life…

By

Vivek Hande

Of late, I seem to be often going down memory lane and meandering along the nostalgia road.  Something recently triggered it and I started thinking about the several schools I had the opportunity to attend. Being an Army child, I moved from place to place, wherever my father was posted. Small stations (some which we needed to mark on the atlas after receiving posting orders-those days there were no Google maps!); overgrown villages and occasionally a metropolis as well. Consequently, one went to whichever school was available at the cantonment or somewhere close to it. I had the “pleasure” of attending nine schools in twelve schooling years.

 There was at most times, no choice really and the selection of the school was dictated by the fact that the school existed at that particular location. I have had my share of Public Schools, Convent schools and for the largest part of my academic career Government aided Central Schools- the entire spectrum and what a rollercoaster ride it was. Schooling, in retrospect was a great experience and helped me cope in later life with all kinds of situations.

 

While in an obscure station in Punjab, the closest decent school was some 20 kilometers away. There were just four school -going kids and a school bus was not available. Consequently, the four of us would catch a Punjab Roadways bus on the highway. The bus used to be packed like a tin of sardines, and we would be told to haul ourselves on top of the bus. We had, for company, milk sellers and vegetable sellers with fresh produce heading from the villages to the slightly bigger town where we were headed as well.  They became friends and very often in the bitter winter, they would throw a blanket across us. We would reach school nearly half frozen and with blue noses but what an exhilarating ride it was. The rest of the day at school was a damp squib compared to the excitement of the journey to and fro.

I must tell you about a school I studied in another corner of Punjab during a subsequent tenure. A school bus existed; there were quite a few of us who went together singing songs en route the fifteen odd kilometers to school. The school principal was a farmer at heart and each of the classes had a patch of ground allocated. I was in the fifth grade, and we had a carrot patch allotted to us. Different classes grew cabbage, potatoes, and tomatoes and so on. Immediately after assembly, we would head to our patches and work as farmers. We became proficient cultivators-our notebooks would often be smudged with mud; our curriculum progressed slowly but what an education it was. It is a different matter, the Principal was subsequently sacked and farming was stopped but the bond formed between fellow –farmers of the fifth grade still hold strong today!!

Yet another of my schools in the Northeast was usually conducted in the open air because the construction was kind of make- shift and the roof would just blow off with the heavy winds in the valley where it was located. But I honestly think we learnt just as much as anywhere else but we enjoyed the fresh air and the sunshine far more than any stuffy air-conditioned class!

I studied briefly in an elite convent and some well-known public schools as well. The number of schools I saw, the myriad personalities I encountered, the vastly different kinds of teachers I studied under, the huge numbers of friends I made in all these schools, the treasure trove of memories I have and the experiences that I enjoyed and sometimes did not make me the person I am today. I would not recommend it as an ideal way of education, but I must definitely say I enjoyed every bit of the roller –coaster ride!!

Learn one , Teach one ...

Learn one, Teach one …

By

Vivek Hande

">The time honored dictum, in medical practice and especially in the case of surgical skills is to “learn one, teach one”.  It essentially implies that the best way to learn a new technique or skill or hone your own abilities in a particular expertise is to teach another one the same and how true it is for any other branch of teaching or even life, for that matter…

05 September is traditionally commemorated as “Teacher’s Day” in India. As an Army brat, I had the opportunity to move wherever my father got posted and consequently I saw nine schools in twelve years of my schooling. Later, getting through Medical School and getting a little more “educated’, I met and was influenced by several who taught me.

Teachers are a different breed altogether and as Joyce Meyer remarked, “Teachers can change lives with just the right mix of chalk and challenges”. I remember with such clarity the oddities and idiosyncrasies of teachers; what they wore, how they talked and how they conducted themselves but more importantly what they represented and what they meant to me in my very impressionable years.

Some of them were friends; some were a shoulder to lean upon when things did not seem to be going well; some others were a sounding board with whom I could discuss things which I was reluctant to talk about at home. Some were examples of what I ought not to become or how I ought not to behave in life When I was confused about career choices and which way I was headed, a Biology teacher (who was also the prettiest teacher who ever taught me) showed me my strengths and made me think about Medicine as an option. In large measure I joined Medical School thanks to the confidence she inspired in me! Much later, a Professor in Medical school exposed me to the pleasures of using a good fountain pen and high quality ink- he did not really teach me how to go about it. But I would see his daily ritual of meticulously filling up his pens with ink and follow it up with exquisite penmanship. My handwriting is not as good as his but my love for pens and ink and writing has not diminished over the last nearly three decades. I agree so strongly with Henry Adams when he remarked, “A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell when his influence stops”.

For many years now, I have been a teacher as well and I have had many medicine residents pass through my hands. I realize how my own teaching styles and methods are so strongly influenced by my own professors and teachers. I realize how fortunate I was to learn from them; I realize what a privilege it is to learn under the wings of great teachers. I cannot probably thank them enough. It would be special if even one student of mine remembered me twenty years down the line warmly and if I may be optimistic, appreciatively!

The art of teaching is truly the art of assisting discovery. It is perhaps the greatest of arts since the medium is not water colors or oil or charcoal but the human mind and spirit!! It could not have been put better than this and to quote Christa McAulife,”I touch the future. I teach”.