Tag: family

  • Music lessons

    I have never been formally instructed in music. Yet I constantly sing or whistle to myself. My ex-colleagues have long suffered this habit while we drove all over the United Kingdom on marine accident investigations. I once shared a flat with a friend in Southampton. When I was moving out, he said to me,

    “I will miss your 5 am singing!”

    As a young marine engineer, I lived with my parents in Mysore when I came home from the ships. One morning, as I observed the placid and sleepy world pass by from the comfort of an easy chair, someone opened the front gate. A man in the traditional South Indian garb of a spotlessly white dhoti and veshti across his bare upper body came through to the veranda. He had the characteristic marks of a scholar – three vertical lines in sandalwood paste on the forehead and an elegant kudumi at the back of his neatly tonsured head. He looked to be in his sixties and exuded an air of authority. Large brown eyes set in an instantly endearing face, commanded instant respect.

    “Namaskaram Sir, I’m a music teacher,” he announced, “If there are any children in the house, I give them some lessons?”

    I told him that I was the youngest of the household. At 26, I could not call myself a child. He was not dissuaded. He clearly read my mind or at least read the disappointment on my face.

    “Adults can learn music too. I’ll teach you if you like.”

    Now, I had never considered taking music lessons. My life being split between the sea and land, there was no opportunity to embark on such a learning project either. I replied,

    “Unfortunately, I work on ships. I have only 3 months before I rejoin.”

    “That’s plenty of time. Start tomorrow and you’ll be giving a concert before you leave.” He was persuasive and pulled all my strings. I always suspected there was a musician trapped somewhere inside me and here was my Guru come to let my talent loose.

    I didn’t need further encouragement. I agreed. He asked me to be ready the next day with a picture of Saraswati, a coconut and the other paraphernalia for conducting a Guru pooja. His fee of 3000 rupees was to be paid in advance. He could teach me instrumental or vocals. If I wanted to learn an instrument, I had to buy two violins- one for me and the other for him! At ten grand a piece, the violin option was expensive. I went for the cheaper alternative – singing. The Guru left with a smile, the morning sun eclipsed by the glow on his beaming face.

    My mother had only seen him leave and asked me who he was. I informed her that he was to be my music teacher and we were embarking on a project to turn me into a professional Karnatic music vocalist in three months. Could she please get everything ready for the Guru pooja while I run up to the bank and withdraw his fee.

    “Are you mad?”, she asked, her hand on her partly open mouth in the typical Indian gesture for incredulity.

    She couldn’t believe my naïveté and quickly convinced me that I was being had. As a young woman, she had been formally instructed in South Indian classical music for over a decade. I couldn’t argue with her.

    “I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” she reassured me.

    The teacher arrived early the next morning. The conversation between him and my mother was along these lines:

    “Sir, did you tell my son he would be giving a vocal performance in three months?”

    “Hmm, ah .. but .. actually. Yes.”

    “You know, after seven years of vocal training, my Guru told me my swaram was just coming under control. How can you train my son to give a public concert in three months?”

    “Amma, your son was very keen. I have six children to feed.”

    Mother gave him a fresh coconut, a brand new veshti and one hundred and one rupees. He left, a nimbus cloud darkening his amicable face. I emerged from behind the fridge. To this day, I remain an everywhere musician without an audience – an uncut, unpolished diamond.

  • Breakfast at Josie’s

    Our son Siddharth came home on Saturday with girlfriend Megan. It was a belated Mother’s Day visit. Sunday also happened to be St Patrick’s day. This morning Sid decided we’re all going out for breakfast, for a Mother’s Day treat. We drove to our local Josie’s in Chandler’s Ford. The place was heaving and people were queuing up like young club goers on a Friday night. We were told there’s approximately an hour’s wait for a table. The next one was in Romsey which was also full. Sid then decided we should go to the one in Alresford, a twenty minutes drive away. By the time we reached, it was nearly noon time and travelling empty stomach in the backseat of a car driven by an impatient 24 year old, both my wife and I were beginning to feel a bit queasy. But at last we reached, parked up and walked in to Josie’s.

    “We are not yet officially open,” the host told us, “today is a soft launch for friends and family.” The phrase soft launch was new to me. But I wanted some food and the enhancement of my vocabulary did not stop my head from spinning. With envy, I eyed the friends and family tucking into stacks of pancakes with strawberries, eggs benedict and fresh orange juice. I couldn’t bear it and so moved back towards the road looking for another place to eat, expecting the rest of the family to follow. But they were still in deep discussion with the host. I went back in just as the host was leading them to a table. Apparently Sid had told him how he had come down from Bristol to see us – his parents, how today’s breakfast was a Mother’s Day treat and how we had driven twenty minutes to get here and so on. I don’t know where he got his tact and powers of persuasion from. Not from me! I take No for an answer much too readily.

    To just say the breakfast was delicious would be to undermine the other qualities that make a meal enjoyable. The atmosphere, the service and the general bonhomie were beyond excellent. We were repeatedly offered more hot drinks and made to feel at home. Just as we were congratulating each other on our lucky day to have gained access to an exclusive event, a lady came to our table and introduced herself.

    “Good morning, I am Josie,” she said.

    I wasn’t sure I had heard her right. A silent question raged through my mind. You mean you are THE Josie? The four of us looked at one another and instantly recognised that we were all asking the same silent question. The lady, dressed in green in honour of St Patrick’s day, certainly didn’t act the boss. She was jovial, friendly and one with her staff, serving food and chatting to customers.

    What she said next to us not only confirmed her proprietorship but also made our day.

    “Everything is on the house today. Please ask if you need anything.” Thank you Josie, for your generosity. You just got yourself four loyal customers. Thank you Siddharth, your Mother’s Day gift was very much appreciated by your mother (and father), thank you Sujata for being the primary reason for our adventure, thank you Megan for the affection you bestow on our son. And thank you St Patrick for blessing us with so much joy on your special day.

  • Upper class travel

    There is a popular story in India about Sudha Murthy, the wife of the software billionaire Narayan Murthy and mother in law of ex British prime minister Rishi Sunak.

    The Murthys have retained their humility despite their immense wealth, endearing them to the Indian public. Once, Sudha was standing in line at the business class check-in for some international flight out of an Indian airport. As always, she was dressed in a plain, unassuming cotton saree. The person behind her is said to have told her,

    “Ma’m, the economy line is over there.”!

    So much for making assumptions and the symptoms of unconscious bias. But these things happen to everyone. It happened to me as well. My only excuse is that I was still a young lad of 19 at the time.

    I had gone to spend my Dusserah holidays with my sister in Kasaragod. Just like the students of today, the students of the 70s were also skint. We travelled third class and didn’t make a reservation just to save a few rupees. The journey lasting two nights and 3 days from Calcutta to Kasaragod in an unreserved third class compartment on an Indian train of the 70s was something else. If you were lucky, you could occupy the luggage rack and get some sleep. If not you perched with half a bum at the edge of a seat originally designed for three but usually occupied by six, sorry six and a half. If you got up you lost your seat. If you left your patch of luggage berth to use the toilet, someone else occupied it. The Railways went to great lengths to ensure the facilities were functional and devoid of any vestige of comfort. The seats were hard wood with no upholstery.

    So, imagine my delight when my brother in law surprised me by gifting me a first class ticket for the return journey to Calcutta. As I was boarding the empty compartment which proudly displayed my name among a printed list of privileged first class passengers, he advised me,

    “Don’t let all and sundry get into the first class.”

    First class and third class were like heaven and hell. As the inferior classes filled up, some people try to barge into the first class. My brother in law probably had this in mind when he advised me. But discretion is not an attribute associated with 19 year olds. I took his counsel to heart and decided to implement it without fear or favour.

    I was the only occupant in a coach that comprised some five or six spacious cabins with their own individual doors and plush cushioned interiors. Most cabins had four berths while some were coupés with two berths preferred by honeymooners and other amorous couples.

    The train arrived at Payyannur, approximately an hour later. I was walking the corridor determined to deny entry to anyone who tried. I noticed someone trying to open the rear door and promptly locked it from the inside using the heavy steel latches provided. A young gentleman with a very severe moustache looked quite puzzled and upset when he saw what I had done. He was accompanied by a whole bunch of soldiers in military green uniform and boots and all. Then he said with some urgency in his voice,

    “Please open the door.”

    The train was scheduled to stop there only for a short time. I simply shook my head. The conversation was monosyllabic.

    “No!”
    “No?” The soldiers joined their leader in a chorus of incredulity.
    “No.” I was firm.

    There was no time to argue. The gentleman and his platoon ran to the other end of the coach. They ran fast and in step. The sound of their boots on the concrete platform, loud and rhythmic, evoked visions of galloping wild stallions. I outran them but from the inside and locked the front door as well.

    “Open the bloody door,” the distressed passenger was red with all the running and uncontrolled fury. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t go to his own second or third class compartment. Nevertheless, I owed him an explanation, I thought. So I said,

    “Ayyoo, this is first class!”

    He replied,

    “Do you think only you can travel by first class? Open the door NOW!”

    The train was hooting, ready to depart. I let him in. He was a serving Captain travelling on a warrant issued by the Indian Army. He had more rights to first class travel than I did. He was traveling to Calcutta as well. We exchanged addresses before we parted.

    Only last week, my sister was traveling from London to Bangalore via Frankfurt. Her flight was late getting into Frankfurt and she was worried she was going to miss the connecting flight. She arrived at the departure gate and pushed through a large throng of people waiting at the counter.

    “Excuse me, excuse me,” she said as she inched her way frantically to the front of the crowd. Then someone in a wrinkled old kurta told her,

    “We’re all waiting for the same flight.”

    “But I am in business class,” my sister insisted.

    “We’re all business class,” said the kurta man! It transpired he was traveling with his wife, a famous Bollywood singer.

    So, the moral of the story is – I don’t know what it is, but I just love telling these funny stories! 😊