Monday, February 25, 2008

Waking up in someone else's bed

Inspite of the slightly dodgy title, I have no intention of writing anything remotely romantic or spicy, so this would be a good time to realign your expectations. Its just that after sleeping over at a friend's place this Saturday, it came to me how much I enjoyed waking up to a new surrounding than the familiar view of my own room. I don't think its the most natural thing to feel this way. I am sure most of my friends and relatives go to a lot of pains to make sure they get back home at night. I know a few people who swear that they cant go to sleep anywhere instead of their own bed. I have had friends who have stubbornly insisted on driving 25 km to home at 1 or 2 in the night instead of staying over. And no I don't snore so thats definitely not an explanation. I guess most people are like birds - they want to get back to their nest after dark but then may be birds do that because they don't really have an option of staying over in a motel or at a relatives'.

But me, I just love spending my night away from home. I seem to get a deeper sleep in an unfamiliar bed. I have fewer incidents of waking up to a bad dream. I invariably sleep less and wake up more refreshed. I like it even better when I wake up. As my eyes open and my brain reconcile to different surrounding, I feel a sense of adventure. Something that doesn't happen everyday. I dearly love the different way in which the morning light fills the room. The different noises that filter through - sometimes its the heavy traffic on the road, sometimes the over enthusiastic maid going about her morning chores, news headlines from the TV, even someone putting on Bhajans or romantic Ghazals on CD player. I feel good getting up, folding my bedding in case I am in mood, or leaving it for my poor friend who had sheltered me.

Till a couple of years back my favorite night haunt used to be a friends place, who was my batchmate in college. As it turned out his rented place was quite near to my office but I don't think that really mattered. He lived on the first floor of a decently sized house with his younger brother, who happened to be working in my office and another friend who was in his office. There was also another common friend who lived on the second floor of the house with his two sisters. This friend also happened to be our batchmate in college, worked for the same company as me, and used to live downstairs before his sisters moved into the same city.

Well amidst all this confusion the point I am trying to make is that I was related to the house in more ways than one and felt quite comfortable with everyone there . Infact I am not even sure whom I started visiting initally, my first batchmate or the second one who was also my peer at office. But pretty soon, I was in more endearing terms with my batchmate's colleague, who I hadn't known earlier but who shared my interest in ghazals and classical music. Pretty soon I was staying over atleast once a week. I would get there after work and would usually be the last. We would sit in the living room in front of TV, call the one living upstairs, and chat for hours. Our favorite source of entertainment was to listen to the one living upstairs talk about his numerous encounters with his female colleagues and his boss. The encounters were no different than what happens with everyone in a day's work, but his take on the whole thing and his detailed narration of all the events, supplemented with thousands of circumstantial evidences, made the stories a must hear for everyone. I used to sleep in the living room initially but then I had started putting my bedding in my new friend's room, because we loved talking and hearing to latest collection of Ghazals as we slept.

Often I was the last one to wake up, but that too would be quite early compared to my usual routine. The first thing I used to do was to to get to my favorite part of the house - the huge balcony. I loved that balcony, I had spent countless hours sitting on the narrow ledge looking at the few trees that were planted below, observing the people as they passed on rickshaws, cars, buses or simply on foot. It was a fairly busy road and even early in the morning there would be a fair amount of traffic. Usually I hate traffic, but looking at it from above was different. I was not a part of it, stuck in it. Rather I was just an observer sitting on the ledge just like that crow sitting on a branch of the nearby tree. Even on that narrow ledge I managed to sit comfortably enough with my legs stretched out together in front of me, my weight balanced a little bit away from the 20 feet fall. It used to make my friends nervous but then they got used to it. My friend used to make tea for me, this was something he never missed, and I never offered to do it instead, even once. He would take a chair and we will sip the tea in early morning sun. If it was a weekday, we will all go to office one by one, otherwise I would stay a little longer, sometimes even till lunch.

They shifted to their own apartments, which is quite far away now, closer to their new office. The new place is quite far away from all the hustle bustle of a city, but I still continue to go over once in a while. I like the quiet surroundings but I miss the balcony. Its very small and there isn't anything to see below. Now their place wasn't the only one that I used to sleep around. Their is another batchmate and now colleague who didn't mind letting me stay at his place whenever we had to go for an early morning cricket practice. "Didn't mind", I have chosen my words carefully, for I don't think he was ever excited at my visit. But then he never gets excited at anything. He is the most simple person you are ever likely to meet. I am avoiding the term boring even when to most people he would seem that, but I used to feel comfortable with him. We never talked much and it never seemed necessary. His rented two room apartment reflected his simplicity. There was no furniture of any kind, no show-pieces - I am sure he could have easily left the house unlocked coz there wasn't anything to steal. He only had what he needed - and all he needed was a pair of clothes, a bedding, one pair of old shoes, few kitchen items. TV was the only thing valuable in the house which otherwise looked like an empty apartment. I actually liked the emptiness, there was so much space to move around. We could have easily played cricket inside with all the space and nothing to break. I don't remember if we ever did. There were a lot of books though, stacked one on top of other and he used to read a lot. There was a huge terrace in front of the rooms that I really liked. I paced to and fro, for hours, talking on phone to someone or simply gazed at the stars. In the morning we used to get up at 5 in the morning, when it was still dark and make our way towards the stadium. Those were the few times I saw the sun rising and each of them is a wonderful memory.

In the initial years of my office, I became friends with a new colleague. Besides from the fact that he looked as thin as I do, we had little in common. He kept everything organized at home, was sincere at his work, always looking for ways to help others, always bought gifts for everyone when he visited home and was popular with everyone at work and home. And I don't think he ever played any sport or went traveling in his life. But we did share a common interest and, most of the times, taste of movies and were perfect company for each other. Since we saw the night show most of the time, and he lived alone, I used to stay back at his place after the movie. For a bachelors place, his house was always too clean and organized. Coming back from the movie, we would talk and watch TV till late in the night. He was always worried about making me feel comfortable. He would try to get me to change into his pajamas, would take out new bedsheets, and worry about whether it was too cold or hot in the room. I always tried to convince him that I didn't need much to get comfortable. I always slept in my jeans. In the morning he would try to make a breakfast, but I was fresh out of college and not used to having breakfast in those days. We spent a lot of time together, saw uncountable movies, shared a few secrets, sought advice on problems. I am not sure if we were good friends at that time. Looking back, I think he was too nice to be my friend really. Not that I was the worst person on earth, but I was more concerned about immediate fun than long term plans. Like a responsible son, he got married at an age, when I wasn't sure if it was even legal. Seeing him with his wife at the wedding, the thought of child marriage kept coming in my mind, but before long he had a lovely baby girl of his own. Needless to say, he got too busy, and since our world were a lot different now, we hardly met any more.

So it was a pleasant surprise to bump into him at office after a long time. We started to talk and he told me that his wife and kid were away for a week. We decided to meet in the weekend and I ended up driving towards his home on Saturday night after a dinner with another friend. Even with the wife missing, his home was as clean and tidy. No scattered newspapers, no sign of any shoes, nothing on the table, all bedsheets and blankets folded tidily - it was difficult to imagine that someone actually lived there. On a typical day, on my bed you would found atleast following items - a pillow, bedsheet or blanket or quilt or all of them, my laptop, internet modem, my office bag, 4-5 books, couple of CDs, few clothes, a bottle of water, some eatables and a few other things I am expecting to be useful in near future. He had a rocking chair in his living room and I was quick to plant myself on it. To and fro, I went, and we talked. We talked about his family, about office, about colleagues, about gossips. We talked about my marriage plans, when you are single at 30, it would be a wonder if anyone doesn't raise the subject of your marriage. He tried his best to convince me the virtues of a married life, but by now I am an expert at fending off all such arguments. Now as I remember, I am amazed that we didn't talk about cricket. What sort of Indians are we - but then he never had an iota of interest in sports of any kind. Before I realized, it was 2 in the morning. Its not an unusual thing for me to be awake at that time, but he is an early sleeper, and so we shifted to the bedroom. He took out a pair of shorts for me, but I felt too lazy to change. He put a new blanket for me but the room was already too warm.

As I opened my eyes in the morning, I realized that I was not in my own bed. I had drifted to sleep rather quickly at night, and had an undisturbed sleep. I felt fresh. I checked the time on my mobile, it was only 8, but I didn't feel like sleeping anymore. The other side of bed was already empty. I got up and went to the living room to find him reading the newspaper. I borrowed some pages and again occupied the rocking chair - I think I will get one for my room as well. I was also just in time to see the first ball of the India - Australia match being bowled. We saw Indian bowlers getting hammered all over the park but I was the only one whose hurt was getting broken into pieces. Not able to take it anymore, I suggested we go to a nearby place for a South Indian breakfast. He wanted to take the car, but I was feeling energetic and somehow convinced him to walk instead. Mind you it isn't as easy to convince people to walk nowadays. The Dosa was lovely and I couldn't stop myself from ordering a plate of Idli, so by the end I was so full that I was glad we were walking. We had booked movie tickets for the afternoon show. When it was finally time to say good-bye, I felt happy about the day. It was nice to revive an old friendship but I also knew that pretty soon his family would be back and he would be too busy again.


Monday, February 18, 2008

Tryst with Men in Uniform

I don't know whats with these Government offices but my previous visits to any thing Government - banks, electricity departments... have always left me with a sour experience. So when I was entrusted with a seemingly harmless job of sending a registered post from the post office, I was immediately concerned. Long queues, rude staff, unnecessary delays - I had so many worries on my mind as I made my way towards the nearest post-office. But somewhere I had also been hoping that things would have changed for the better somewhat, with competition from all the private players. I would have myself preferred to pay more to some courier company, except that I wasn't sure if they catered to such small destination. Needless to say I wasn't disappointed and the old reputation was preserved with complete proficiency.

I was somewhat relieved to see only 2 persons in the queue ahead of me. From the small barred window, I leaned to catch glimpse of a man in his early fifties, bespectacled and balding with gray hair. He must be the postmaster, I assumed. He had a kind face and was busy filling out details from a form in front of him into a computer. I was impressed to see for myself that our post-offices were now computerized. I watched as he repeated the motion of looking at the form, then trying to locate the corresponding alphabet in the keyboard. Everytime he was successful his eyes would lit up and he would lift his right hand and take his leftmost finger towards the keyboard and press the key ever so gently. Looking at the concentration that he was working with gave the impression that he was a member of Delhi Police Bomb squad trying to diffuse a deadly bomb that could go off any second if he was even a little careless. Anyways I can't be too critical of this. Surely he was forced in his retirement days to make use of the advancement in technology when he pretty much preferred the old way of managing everything on paper.

I waited patiently for him to finish typing or for the computer to blow-up, whichever happens first. Finally he finished typing and I was thrilled to find myself second in the list. The person in front of me was there to send a money order. Post-master ji took his money-order form and immediately started shouting that the whole form has been messed up and needs to be filled up again. The person expressed his inability to read/write and requested him to fill the form on his behalf. At this masterji stated in clear terms that it was not his job to fill the form for him. Even on repeated requests he refused to budge from his stand. Made me think about that postman I used to see in Doordarshan serials who will happily ride a bicycle from village to village delivering letters. He would great each person cheerfully as he delivers the letter and would be too glad to read out the letter to the village damsel, anxious to hear from her spouse or the aging father worried about his son's welfare in the big city. He would even take dictation for a letter from behind a veil or over a puff of hookah.

Anyways, this postmaster was clearly different and believed in the sanctity of his job, lest he ended up doing something that was not required of him. I offered to fill up the form for the person. As I scratched my brains over the form which always have to be too cryptic for the commoners, postmasterji quietly made his escape. Clearly typing in one complete form and shouting on another was too much for his tiring bones. As we waited and expressed our discontent in hushed tones, postmasterji was replaced by a younger person, and we were glad that this post-office was not being run by a single person. The younger person unfortunately turned out to be in equally bad mood - I guess it has to do with those caged counters because every person behind them seem to be in a mood which is a mixture of anger, annoyance and frustration. He declared that the destination address for the money order was wrong and there was no way such an address could exist in India. When the sender insisted that he has been sending money on the same address for last 3 years, he gave up with a look that said its your money, so do whatever you want with it.

It was my turn next, and I suddenly found myself in the spotlight. Luckily I was let off cheaply except for an instruction to remove the stapler pins and glue the envelope instead. I hurriedly carried out the instruction, and got myself in the queue behind the person who had replaced me at the front. The same procedure of entering details was repeated without any further incidents, and I was handed a printed receipt of my registry. I was actually glad - although unpleasant - I had actually managed to complete my mission in a single attempt. Now only if the letter reaches its destination, all this might be worth it. And its only once in a few months that you are tested by such encounters. Little did I realize that the same day I would be heading off to a police station next.

What happened was that a colleague lost his wallet. He wasn't sure whether it was stolen or he dropped it - the only thing certain was that he had it in his pocket when he started off for work in the morning. He had little hope of its recovery, although there have been miracles where in a person has received his wallet in his mailbox after dropping it somewhere. He quickly got his credit cards disabled. Besides 2500 Rs, he had also lost his Driving License, and needed a police verification to apply for a new one. Obviously none of us were expecting police to really find the wallet.

Anyways at the police station we were asked to submit an application written in Hindi. Now its our turn to feel ashamed but writing an application in hindi proved a real Herculean task for the two engineers. First glimpse at the application and it was immediately rejected. We had mentioned that the wallet was stolen and the police-wala refused to accept such a blemish on the criminal records of his area. Didn't we know that things like robbery and theft no longer occur in Noida (or they are not registered) and if anyone lost something he must have definitely dropped it somewhere. So we re-wrote the application to correct our little mistake after being laughed at by the people present there over our ignorance.

On receiving the application, the police-wala told us that the application needs to be printed on a stamp paper, and either we can get that done, or we can pay him 160 Rs for the stamp paper and he will buy it for us. On first look the offer seemed really kind - he was saving us all the trouble of buying a stamp paper and printing the letter on it. But coming from police the kindness was immediately under suspect. I called up a friend to find out if such a stamp-paper is needed and he confirmed that it wasn't. I tried to argue with the policewala but he handed the application back and asked us to get it printed on a stamp paper. Finally he asked for 100 Rs and we saw no other option to get that verification letter. Its sad though to realize that having lost 2500 Rs, his DL and cards, my colleague had to bribe the police-wala to get a verification letter without even a false hope that police can actually make an effort to trace the wallet.

So often I have heard incidents when police have flatly refused to lodge a complaint of a theft or a robbery simply to maintain a better record. My own mobile was stolen from my house in banglore but the police there too refused to file an FIR. When as a kid my bicycle was stolen from our verandah, I was heart-broken. I loved my bike and I was hopeful that if we report it to the police they would find it. Don't they have so many resources, forensics. But my father wouldn't agree to register a complaint and I was really mad at him for that. Now I know he was just being wise - no one in the police has time to solve such petty cases. I wish I could have the satisfaction of knowing that they are doing a better job of solving the apparently bigger cases. Evidently its impossible to register even a complaint unless you find some contacts.

I know there must be several ways in which I benefit daily from our law and order system. The fact that I am able to work and live peacefully in an environment where more and more people are developing an attitude to snatch what doesn't belong to them and to exploit anyone they can, means that there is some system out there protecting me. But as for all my direct contacts with the police, I would have preferred that they never existed. As a citizen I don't view a police-wala as someone who is out there for my safety. Rather my experiences have taught me that most police-walas simply try to show-off their power, talk rudely and never miss a chance to extort money out of helpless people. They drive around on bikes without helmets, to demand bribes from other traffic violators. I know all of us have seen all this for ourselves. For now I dont know of any means to get our police to do something for me or even worse to save myself if ever I happen to get on the bad side of some policewala, except to call on someone who knows someone in police or someone important enough to exert some influence. Till I find such contact, I would do well to avoid any contact with any unlawful entity and even more importantly our beloved police.