Nellore Fish Pulusu

With a side of Aadhaar Card

a story by Madhusudhan Nagiri

 

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I ENJOY MY early morning sleep the most. When all the other grownups are wasting time with their heads buried in the newspapers, learning about news, politics, scams, national events and world affairs – like they somehow mattered – I spend my early mornings in a manner known to be the most important for the health and fitness of a man – sleeping like a baby. Losing sleep over what is happening in this world is not a hobby of mine. It never was. Ignorance has always been my bliss. So I did not like it one bit when the alarm went off so early in the morning, at 9 O'clock. I rolled over in my bed trying to locate the gadget that wanted to wake me up. When I grabbed it and did what was needed to borrow a few more minutes of sleep, I couldn't help cursing the way technology has progressed in recent times to make life less exciting. I miss the good old days when we could forcefully bang the alarm clock on its head to snooze it. That classic method had a display of emotion and power to it. With these smart phones, you have to do it very delicately using just one finger – like you were asked by your girlfriend to adjust the lipstick on her pretty shaped lips, because you are already at the party venue and she forgot to bring a mirror. At any rate, I need this alarm only when I am in Hyderabad, not when visiting my parents in Tirupati. I should remember to turn it off before my next visit, I told myself. People from all over the country come to Tirupati to drench themselves in spirituality. Not me. I come here to eat homemade food to my heart's content. And to sleep happily through nights and mornings until my internal alarms start raising their ugly heads. Over the next 30 minutes, I must have adjusted the lipstick on my annoying little Android-based South Korean girlfriend at least four or five times, each time forgetting that stopping the alarm is just as easy as snoozing it. Clear proof that I was not designed by my Maker to think straight at such an early hour of the day, and that I should sleep some more. So I was just following God's wishes when my mother walked into the room and said, "Raghu, get up." I pretended I never heard her and turned the other way to face the wall, eyes still closed. "Raghu, will you get up now?" her voice changed a bit. I did not move one inch. A few seconds passed. There was total silence, but I knew she was still around – my body's built-in sensors were constantly detecting waves of motherly love coming from her. In a case of unfortunate timing, the alarm buzzed loudly once again. And I promptly exercised my snoozing rights on it. "Raghuram, if you don't wake up to the alarm that you set yourself, what do you wake up to??" she almost shouted this time. My mother does not call me “Raghuram” unless she is serious, so I realized I could not go on easily any longer. "To your shouting, mom! I cannot not wake up when you are shouting at me."

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She smiled. I got up, put my feet on the floor but was still sitting on the bed. I waited for a minute to see if she would leave the room so I could go back to sleep some more. She wouldn't – she is too familiar with some of my tactics now. Parenting me has taught her many lessons in life. Left with no other options, I got off the bed completely and stood on the floor. My body was telling me that all it got for some 10-plus hours was just some disturbed sleep. The bed looked as if Prabhudeva and Michael Jackson had spent the whole night dancing on it Gangnam style. No doubt, it wasn't the ideal sleep. So I shall return to get some real sound sleep at the earliest, after lunch if not after the breakfast, I told myself. "Can I get you the coffee now?" she asked. "As soon as you tidy up the bed, mom," I said and walked into the restroom. I always like my bed neat, especially when I don't have to make it myself. WHEN I STEPPED out of the restroom, she was in the living room talking on the phone. I heard things like "Kashi and Prayag," "Only forty thousand rupees?" "Special discount," and "Yes, your house is safe, nobody stole it," but there was no sign of coffee. She sensed my disappointment. "Just two minutes," she signaled with her face and hand. I thought I would at least get some early morning fresh air in the meantime and walked over to the front porch of our house. On one end of the porch we have the staircase that goes down to the ground floor and up to the open terrace. On the other end is my father's favorite post-retirement open-air corner office – with exactly one plastic chair and one plastic stool of matching color. A place for him to sit down and spend hours and hours reading his newspapers. It also gave him a near 270-degrees view around the house. When I sat down on the staircase, he was near the end of the second re-read of the second of the two newspapers we subscribed to, and having his second tea of the day. He always consumed this second tea in a relatively quiet mode. His first tea of the day is usually around 7:30AM. He savors it while reading the newspapers and yelling mouthfuls of expletives at the politicians, and sometimes Team India players, as if he is having a Skype call with them through the newspapers' pages. He enjoys his first and only coffee of the day at 5:45AM. He typically does it while brisk-walking from one end of the porch to the other and back, waiting impatiently for the newspapers to arrive and cussing the paperboy using vocabulary that should have been banned in a holy place like Tirupati long ago, if we lived in an ideal world. On really bad mornings he is known to use phrases that seriously call into question the character of the paperboy's mother, whoever she maybe, around the time she conceived her lazy dolt of a son. He has his third tea of the day around 10:30AM at a roadside tea stall during the so-called "morning walk" that he and his fellow retired comrades from the colony undertake. This walk is supposed to ease the news-induced stress that starts building up from the minute

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they wake up in the morning. He also picks up two more newspapers – the selection varies every day – from the same tea stall, to feast on for the rest of the day. As I wait for my mother to get me the coffee, he finishes reading the last news item, folds the paper neatly and looks at me for the first time that morning. With the paper in his hand, he makes a mild movement asking me with his expressions if I would like to read it by any chance. Thus arrives the first of the daily quota of our special father-son moments. I say nothing but we exchange looks and subtle gestures that could easily be mistaken by others for smiles and greetings. "No, dad. I haven't changed much since yesterday – still don't care for your news." "I know, son. You want to forever remain stupid and ignorant. What a shame!" "Thanks for your understanding, dad. I love you, you are the best!" Not a single thing is said verbally. But every message is decoded correctly and acknowledged promptly. "You know, son, it is said that those who don't read have no advantage over those who can't." "True, dad. But it doesn't apply to your stupid news stuff!" "Oh, really? Why don't you find out if there is a therapy to treat your disorder in America? I will pay for it by selling all of our lands in the village. And some of your mother's jewelry too, if that is what it takes." WE WOULD HAVE exchanged more of these if my mother did not come interrupting us. "That was Bharathi calling from Kashi, they reached there safely this morning," updating us on Bharathi aunty's package tour to Kashi. "She says the tour operator has one more trip planned for June and the bookings are closing very fast. It's a 14-day trip, two days longer than Bharathi's. Covers Kashi, Prayag and a few other North Indian temples. I have always wanted to go to Kashi," she then turned to my father, "I know you will never want to visit Kashi, but I really, really feel like going this time." I wanted to proactively grant myself an exemption before anything bizarre is proposed. "Did you say June, mom? Sorry, that won't work for me," I said. "In the office, we have a major release planned for June and I cannot take any time off. In fact, I am going to be very busy through the December of..." She cut me off before I had to decide December of which year. "Oh, no, Raghu! Why would I want you to go to Kashi at this age?" I felt relieved.

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"I can go alone; it is only for two weeks and I won't really be alone, there will be so many others in the group, right?" she said and turned to my father. “Can I go?” I could discern a feeling of uneasiness in my father's face. I knew what must have been going on in his mind: "Two full weeks, what the hell? Having to eat out for that long would be a huge pain. Bharathi's cooking is not that great either. What about the money? It could easily cost me a month or two's worth of pension. And then a bunch of her relatives will come here to give the send off, who wants to entertain them? More bunches will keep on coming later to listen to her stories about the trip. No way, I must kill this thought right here." That much was easy to read for me. The hard part is guessing how he would spin it in such a way that my mother is instantly persuaded to drop the idea. For good. Somehow he seems to pull it off every time. He got up from his chair and lit a cigarette. No, we don't keep track of his daily cigarette count – it is not practical. He took the first puff. A somewhat quick one. Very little smoke left his mouth. "Jaanoo," he started. My mother's name is Janaki. He uses her short name whenever he wants to sound extra-affectionate. "There are a few things you need to know. Kashi is the second holiest town in India," Okay, I seem to learn something useless everyday even if I avoid reading newspapers, I thought. He continued, "Some say second, others say third, there is some disagreement there." A strategically inserted pause came next. He then had his second puff – a deeper one than the first. There is something very fascinating about a smoker taking a deep puff, releasing several rings of smoke into the air, casually looking up to check – in total silence – how high those rings went, and then looking at you to say something. It automatically lends him an air of insightfulness and authenticity. And a philosophical high ground that could even inspire non-smokers, like myself, to become smokers. Because the words that come out of his mouth next – before more smoke follows – are taken very seriously by everybody. Even when it is a load of absolutely nonsensical crap. Any smoker can look classy doing this. But my father has elevated it into an art form. I don't think my mother blinked once the whole time. I started looking at him like he's a batsman on 99 and on strike. He could easily boast of a better conversion rate than Sachin Tendulkar. He seemed confident enough to face the next delivery without making any annoying demands for sight-screen adjustments.

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"Jaanoo, second, third, that's not important. What is important is to recognize – and remember – the simple fact that people living in the number one holiest town in India, like us, do not have to care about those number two and number three places… we just don't!" And BOOM, the hundred was reached with a majestic cover drive. My mother's mouth was agape in total awe of the enlightenment she received. "What the …," I swallowed my expression mid-sentence, but couldn't help shaking my head in disbelief. There he was, standing in the middle, looking up, raising both his arms slowly in a Master-like fashion, and whispering something to God. With one hand he was thanking God for giving him such a trusting wife. With the other, he was praying to make sure she stayed a low-information woman forever. Or so I thought. In reality, he was just silently gesturing to a couple of his buddies, who had gathered at the street corner, that he would be there in a moment. And without waiting for my mother's mental applause to fully subside, he left the place to join them on their walk. "He is right, what can be there in Kashi that we don't have here?" she said, "Why didn't I think of that myself? He is so right – he knows everything! And he also explains everything so well. Right, Raghu?" "What can I say, mom? I am happy if you are happy. Now, where is my coffee?" "Oh, sorry; will get that ready in two minutes," she got up to go to the kitchen. I followed her till the living room and parked myself there on the couch. I FINISHED ALL my "do it on your couch" body and muscle stretch exercises – I recently learnt them, thanks to youtube – in the two minutes she took to prepare my coffee. I was back in my normal position when the hot coffee was handed to me in a tall steel glass, capacity 450ml. I took one sip and silently thanked God for creating coffee. Another sip, and I thought I should thank God for creating mothers as well. Because without mothers, you would have to make the coffee yourself and I know firsthand what a huge pain that is. For the next few moments, I wondered if God created mothers first, or coffee. Coffee comes from coffee plants. And mothers came from, well, grandmothers. All the eighth class Biology texts seem to suggest that the evolution of plants was complete before the wedding ceremony of the first ever grandmother known to the human race. Could that be wrong? Who knows! Facts and thoughts like these overwhelmed me and started paining my brain. After an involuntary shaking of the head, I quickly decided that the relative order of creation was totally irrelevant; what is important is that I am having both, and without any effort on my part. After thus regaining my perspective, I proceeded to enjoy the rest of my coffee. But not for long, as it turned out.

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"Your father and I are always worried about you. You live alone in Hyderabad, and we are stuck here," said my mother. "And you don't know how to take good care of yourself." "Mom, can I get a few minutes of quiet, please?" I said, which she ignored. "Bhargavi, your maid in Hyderabad, is a very cunning girl. She is stealing all the utensils and cutlery from the kitchen, one by one." I had a hunch that the next 350ml of my coffee was not going to be very enjoyable. "What do you want me to do, mom? Hire another person to keep a close watch on the maid?" I asked. Even the lamest of my jokes usually amuse her, but not this time. "No, all I am asking you is, be awake in the mornings when she is on duty. The last time I was there, I noticed that even the steel coffee glass, which was just like the one you have in your hand right now, is missing. When I asked her about it, she acted all innocent." I looked at the steel glass in my hand. "Sorry, buddy! I never noticed you had an identical twin that is dead now," I shouldn't have said it aloud, but I did. And that was a mistake. "You don't know how important these things are to me. Those two glasses were gifted by your uncle Simha when you were born. I was very careful with them all these years," she paused to wipe some tears off her moist eyes. "I should have never left that one with you in Hyderabad." More tears and more wiping followed. Uncle Simhachalam – God bless his soul, he passed away some years ago – was my mother's younger brother, her only sibling and a man of many parts. The most striking of those parts was the fact that he knew how to get all kinds of help from my father and me, and at the same time get on our nerves. He also had the knack for spending a dime in situations that demanded a dollar and somehow make it seem extravagant – at least to the eyes of my mother. No other man could think of, and get away with, gifting his only sister a pair of steel glasses when she gave him a wonderful nephew like myself. "He used to like you a lot, you know that, right?" she asked. To me, the question felt like a good candidate for a corporate-style "that's a very good question," or "both yes and no" type of answer. But you don't do that to housewives and mothers, so I just kept quiet. She was not really waiting for an answer anyway. "Yes, he liked you a lot. He liked all of us a lot," she continued but I was not paying attention. My mind drifted back to the years that have gone by.

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UNCLE SIMHA LIVED in the same street as us, just three houses away, for as long as I could remember. Bharathi aunty, his widow and the aforementioned Kashi pilgrim, still lives in that same house. Sweetie, his only daughter, and I practically grew up together. My father liked Sweetie a lot despite the sometimes-frosty relationship he had with uncle Simha. My mother just loved her; what woman doesn't love her only niece? And I surely liked her as a cousin. Except when she forced me to join her and the other girls from our street to play girlie games. I had a simple middle class upbringing. I was not the first in the family to go to college. Or even to become a software engineer and taste the reheated food of Air India over the Atlantic, for that matter. But I was the first in our family and among the relatives – there are like a train full of them in Tirupati alone – to own and operate a digital camera. A state-of-the-art Kodak that I picked up from an outlet mall in the Chicago area. It was not the world's first digital camera, just the finest. I remember this one Saturday when Uncle Simha came to our house, barged into my bedroom and woke me up. At 9 O'clock in the morning. I was to take some professional-looking pictures of Sweetie using my camera and expertise as they decided to start looking for suitable marriage alliances for her. Clearly it was going to be an unpaid job but I agreed to do it as it was for Sweetie. Exactly one hour later, I was ready with my camera and all my expertise. Uncle Simha was ready with Sweetie dressed impressively in a maroon chudidar that highlighted her fair complexion. Bharathi aunty was ready too, with a plastic bag that packed a beautiful sari of Sweetie, to be used during the part-2 of the photo session. And my mother was ready with Idli, Upma, Sambar and two types of nut chutney's: groundnut and coconut – if coconut is indeed a nut. All favorites of uncle Simha. For some unknown reason, she always felt the need to feed him heavily every time he came to our house. And that was a ton of times, given that he lived just three houses away. My father was reading the district edition of his newspaper, mumbling something about people generally using professional photographers for this kind of pictures. Nobody seemed particularly interested in his viewpoint. I finished eating well before uncle Simha did and proceeded to our open terrace with Sweetie and Bharathi aunty, who were fasting that morning. After a brief location survey, I began taking pictures of Sweetie. Uncle Simha joined us leisurely but started giving me some instructions right away. He lectured about how important it is to keep the camera's flash light on, even if our Tirupati outdoors are typically burning bright at 10:30AM on summer days. I ended up re-clicking several of the poses with the flash option on. If it weren't for my mother calling him down for snacks and tea, he would have caused even more rework.

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A few snaps later, we were satisfied with the part-1 of the shoot and went downstairs. Sweetie entered the bedroom to change into her sari. She was duly joined by Bharathi aunty, whose job it was to provide the much needed logistical support. I turned the TV on and browsed all 90 channels in under four minutes. As usual, there was nothing interesting going on in the world. I was a bit disappointed but repeated the whole cycle some four or five times anyway. Then I switched it off and turned to my father to see if I can strike a conversation. But he was busy, this time reading his beloved newspaper's cute little Sunday magazine booklet from six days before. I was convinced, after watching his lips closely, that he was not murmuring anything. Uncle Simha had finished his snacks and tea but was still at the dining table and chatting with my mother, explaining her how he had to explain me the virtues of using the flash feature of the camera. She was nodding her head in total agreement. I began feeling used and under-appreciated. Wanted to wrap it up quickly and knocked on the bedroom door to check if Sweetie was ready in her sari. "Yeah, ready, just five more minutes," the reply from inside came in chorus. And before I could say anything, it was revised to 10 minutes. 15 minutes later she was ready and they came out. We went to the terrace again and started the part-2 of the shoot. I remember being a bit moody – not that anyone cared. But uncle Simha did me a favor by not joining us immediately. We covered all the regular poses and angles, plus the Tirupati special of the girl on the terrace with the famous Govindaraja Swamy Temple Tower (gopuram) and the spectacular Seven Hills in the background. The creative people of Tirupati designed this pose to fool the potential in-laws into thinking that the girl is Goddess Lakshmi herself, ready to join them with all her Swiss Bank accounts and Khazana jewelry, as soon as they said “Yes.” Surprisingly it worked even when those in-laws were longtime residents of Tirupati themselves. We were nearly done by the time uncle Simha arrived on the terrace with both my parents. Apparently they waited until my father ran out of news material to read for the day. After ascertaining that I had the flash option enabled the whole time, uncle Simha instructed me on the last but most crucial elements of the portfolio: the girl with the parents, the girl with parents plus any available aunts and uncles. All permutations of sitting and standing were covered. And when the camera was about to run out of battery, uncle Simha officially declared the photo shoot over. When we got down, Sweetie and aunty took farewell from us and started walking towards their house. Uncle Simha then began talking about how the rest of the day would go.

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"Our section head in the Secretariat has a daughter and he recently married her off to a software engineer," he said. "The guy works in Hitec city, just like you, Raghu!" I was not sure where he was going with that. "This section head is a very powerful person." I still had no clue. "So this son-in-law is coming here today from Hyderabad. With family. Somebody needs to receive them and accompany them to Tirumala. For the darshan and the standard stuff, you know." I know the 'standard stuff'; what I don't know is why you are telling us all this. I didn't let my thoughts out. God, please don't make me a Tirupati area temple tour guide. No offense, but that job is for losers, my first silent prayer of the day to Lord Balaji. "This section head is a really powerful person." "You already said that; can you come to the point now?" my father couldn't hide his impatience anymore. "If this son-in-law fellow doesn't leave Tirupati with a smile on his face and at least 20 prasadam laddus in the bag, I will never get my promotion. So I have to go now." He's not asking me to be the tour helper – he would do it himself. Yay! I breathed a sigh of relief. God is great, He doesn't muscle His true believers into visiting temples against their wishes, I thought. Did my father's timely intervention force him to change his plans? We will never know. My mother was full of sympathy for him. My father and I stood there waiting, trying to guess what might come next. "So I want Raghu to go to the studio and get these pictures printed today. Ask for the 1-hour special processing." "No problem, Simha! You go ahead. Raghu, you go and take care of that now," my mother jumped in. If there was one thing in life that he could always count on, it was her support. My father quietly walked into the living room and started working the TV remote through the news channels.

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"Okay, I got to go now," said uncle Simha as he prepared to leave. "Three sets. Make sure you ask for the 1-hour special, they will do in at least three hours," he laughed at his own joke. "And just wait there until they are ready for pickup." He left. I was pissed off that he didn't even fake-offer me anything towards the expenses. But I figured the day could have been a lot worse, so decided to chill. My mother was a little disappointed that he could not stay back for lunch. THINGS MOVED REALLY fast over the next few days. The very first party to get their hands on Sweetie's pictures wanted to come see her in person at the earliest; why wouldn't they, when my Kodak made her look as gorgeous as Genelia in Bommarillu? The family was Tirupati-based too, and had political connections and ambitions. The boy was educated and running a profit-making business of his own. He also had the three essential non-qualities – non-smoking, non-drinking and non-vegetarian – that Sweetie and family had in mind. Or at least that is how he was being advertised. An auspicious date was set for their visit, which I had to miss as it fell on a Wednesday and I was needed at work in Hyderabad. The event turned out to be a huge success. Everybody liked everybody like crazy. The wedding date was fixed. My mother asked me to reach Tirupati a week before the wedding and unconditionally surrender myself to uncle Simha. He had been authorized to use me as he pleased. I was everywhere doing everything that a guy with two hands and two legs – but no decision making powers – could do. Somehow I did not mind it at all. The day of the wedding arrived. Sweetie became a bride. Surya Chandra, the businessman from the political family, became the groom. I almost became the official photographer from this side but my father persuaded uncle Simha in the last minute to get a professional crew instead. He didn't want his MNC-employed software son to be mistaken for some "photo studio guy" at the wedding. The Computer Science degree and the dazzling business card stapled to the pay stub are the things to show off, not the camera or the photography skills, was the argument he made to us in private. My mother and I concurred. The wedding was an unforgettable event for everybody. More so for me because it was the only time in my whole life that I had to be up by 4AM. Sweetie soon left to start her new life in her new home across the town. A large house with many folks to keep company with the new couple: the parents-in-law, an older brother-in-law who was considered a rising star on the local political scene, his wife and two kids with a third on the way, two younger brothers-in-law who were twins and still in the high school. The twins were said to be the undesired outcome of Sweetie's father-in-law trying for a daughter at a rather late age. An admirable effort in a society that badly needs more girls, but one that went horribly wrong in this particular case. Needless to

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say, my relatives circle in the town grew tremendously overnight; it could now pack the entire Railway Station of Tirupati. Bharathi aunty, actively aided and abetted by my mother, pushed the START button on the stopwatch to see how quickly Sweetie would produce a grandkid for them. JUST A FEW months later, on a cold Hyderabad evening, as I was about to leave work for home, there was a phone call from Tirupati with some good news. No, it was not related to any potential headcount addition to Sweetie's family – she and her husband were still said to be in the "trying" mode – but uncle Simha got his promotion, at long last! Maybe the new son-in-law brought some luck. Or maybe somebody in the Secretariat was impressed with the way their Tirupati trip went, I thought. But the promotion was not coming alone. It was bringing with it an unwelcome guest – the transfer. To a far away place that nobody seemed to want to go – Adilabad. The final orders were expected in a couple of days and uncle Simha was already on the Volvo bus to Hyderabad, on a mission to influence the powers that be. It was clear that some folks in the Secretariat were getting richer the next day, but that was not all. The ammunition unique to the arsenal of a Tirupati man was also on the way, and in large quantity. "I am bringing 50 prasadam laddus, because they all like it a lot, you know," whispered uncle Simha, to avoid making his next seat passenger unnecessarily jealous. "Come and pick me up at the MG Bus station. 6:30AM sharp. With my vision problems, I cannot easily spot you in a crowd, so you start waving your hand as soon as you see me." You know who else likes those prasadam laddus? all of my friends and colleagues!, I thought. I quickly negotiated a deal to get 10 of those laddus for me in return for the inconvenience of the 6:30AM pickup duty. 15 laddus, if he liked a Hyundai Santro pickup better than a Hero Honda Splendor pickup. He was too excited to see the naked opportunism on my part. Either that, or it was just the vision problems. A selfish man would have done it for himself, but I was doing it for my people – so I didn't see anything wrong with it. After I hung up the phone, I felt a huge thrill in anticipation of the laddus. Because history showed that every time I took them to the office, my image among colleagues experienced a significant, if temporary, boost. But all that thrill had dissipated by the time I was ready to go to bed that night. I was torn between the obligation to go receive him at such an obscenely early hour in the morning, and the desire to sleep till my usual time. To resolve it, I took the time-tested approach – coin toss. Heads I sleep, Tails I suffer. When it didn't go my way the first time, I felt that it should at least be a best-of-three. When it read "T-T", I changed the rules again to make it a best-of-five. The third one went my way, giving me some hope. But the fourth one sealed it in favor of uncle Simha: "T-T-H-T." I then figured that that's not how a wise man should be making decisions in the 21st century and called the whole thing off.

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I was determined to do what felt right in the heart of my hearts – sleep heartily at least until the stock market starts. I was sleeping in the fifth gear when the doorbell rang repeatedly around 7:15AM. When I opened the door, uncle Simha was fuming. Somehow I had the presence of mind to not start waving my hand like an idiot. He walked in without saying a word and went straight into the guest bedroom. "Sorry mama, sorry!" I probably said it a dozen times in one minute as I followed him. He still wouldn't talk. His first order of business was to change into that crown prince of comfort clothing for the South Indian men – the lungi. "Why did you keep your cell phone switched off?" he finally spoke. "If I knew you were not coming, I would have at least taken the auto as soon as I got down without wasting 20 minutes waiting for you." I didn't remember switching my cell phone off. But apparently my hand did it some time in the middle of my sleep. That must be one flavor of the body, mind and spirit acting in unison! I regretted what I had done with so many prasadam laddus at stake. I also knew that my mother would give me an earful over the phone before the end of the day. But more than all of that, I felt genuinely sorry for the trouble I caused him. That did not stop me from going back to bed before he even went to the restroom. When I finally got out of bed, the Sensex was up, the Nifty was down and uncle Simha was gone. I knew he had a busy day ahead at the Secretariat, so it was understandable. But I was pleasantly surprised to see a plastic bag on the dining table, fully loaded with the laddus. The note next to it said, "20 laddus, for your friends and colleagues!" And that right there was the other side of his personality – caring and helping, loving and forgiving. Unfortunately the pushy side overshadowed it far too often. If I had the slightest clue that it was going to be my last time seeing him, I would have been a very different person that morning. THE HONEST OFFICERS in the Secretariat did full justice to every penny that they took in bribes and uncle Simha was spared the transfer. But he had hardly spent a month in his new position in the same Tirupati office before tragedy struck in the form of a sudden cardiac arrest. He collapsed and died within minutes. Everybody was shocked and saddened. Sweetie was devastated. My visits to Tirupati were never the same again.

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But it is amazing how time heals and changes so many things in life. It took a while for Sweetie, Bharathi aunty and my mother to recover from the trauma, but recover they did. My father started playing the de facto father role to Sweetie on everything from the festival formalities to the first pregnancy. Bharathi aunty became even closer to us. Whenever my father and I think back, we miss uncle Simha a lot. When he was around, there was never a dull moment. You don't realize how special some people are until they are gone from your life. Just as amazing is how time transforms and dilutes some other things. The "Warner Brothers" who had delivered a serious warning to you because you were trying to get too close to their sister – fondly dubbed "The Colony Aish" by seasoned commentators – now greet you with a smile whenever they see you. The cricket rivals who tried to beat you to death with bats and stumps right in the ground after discovering that you were winning every time by doctoring the score sheet, do start ignoring you even when they spot you without your gang. And the thickest of friends can, over time, become just Facebook friends. TIME CAN ALSO turn your perfect-tasting hot coffee into a cold and tasteless liquid, if you have been holding it in your hand for too long just replaying life's flashbacks in your mind. Which is exactly what happened to me. I did not realize it until the doorbell rang and jolted me back into the present. My mother was in the kitchen. "I got the door, mom!" I said to make sure she didn't step out and watch me pour the remainder of the coffee down in the sink. I did that quickly and ran the tap until no traces of the liquid could be seen. Because when she serves something and we are unable to finish it – for whatever reason – we cannot throw it away just like that. Not without consequences. So destroying the evidence was the least I could do. And then I proceeded to open the door. "Hi," I said to the stranger. "Cable bill," was the reply I got. No Hi, no Hello, no Nothing. "How much?" "It's 250 rupees for others. For you, it's 200 after the special discount," he said. Then he opened the bill book, put a carbon paper under a blank page and started scribbling like a doctor writing a prescription. "Every customer of yours is a special one, isn't it?" I asked. He gave me a puzzled look. "Come on in," I asked him to follow me into the living room. My mother was already there from the kitchen. It looked like he was no stranger to her.

  15  

"Not paying now. You people won't come here if there is any repair, but for the bill you are here promptly at the start of the month," she sounded harsh. "Ma'am, that problem was beyond our control." "No, go away, come later. We didn't even get the pension so far this month," she said. I don't think that would have passed a lie-detector test. He stood there for a while, staring at both our faces repeatedly in a round-robin fashion. Then he said, "Ma'am, today is the 10th, not the start of the month." But his looks said, "Alright, your husband didn't get the pension, but what about this software son of yours? Isn't he man enough to chip in a couple of hundred rupees towards the family expenses?" I couldn't take it anymore and started begging her with my eyes to let me pay him. "Don't even think about it!" was the message she sent back with her angry eyes. "Then come back around the 15th, we will pay you," her words sounded final. The poor guy took a long walk back to the front door and out. I shut the door after him and went back to the living room. "Yeah, we also know how to make them wait, let him come back!" she was saying to nobody in particular, but with a certain sense of satisfaction. "Why do you have to do this, mom? What does it save us?" I got mad at her. "You don't know anything about these people." "What is there to know about these people?" "When there is a repair, they won't come no matter how many times we call. Last month, your father had to go to their office twice to get a person here. Do you know how many days I had to miss all my serials?" I felt a strong urge to turn back, run and catch the guy before he left the street to offer him a thousand rupees per month if he could keep the connection dead forever. I am one of those who firmly believe that God lives among us. And that every home can be a heaven on earth. If we could somehow get the newspapers and the cable channels out of our system, that is. It is my conviction that they add nothing worthwhile to our lives. In fact, they make our lives worse. So much worse!

  16  

"Go have your bath and come for the breakfast; it is almost 11 now," she said. "Dosa with chutney and karam. How many egg dosa's shall I make?" THE DOORBELL RANG again and this time it was my father. First, he put down the two "today's special" newspapers on the coffee table. As carefully as you would put a newborn baby back in the crib after holding her in your hands for a while. And then he handed to my mother a small sheet of paper that looked like some utility bill. "The receipt for the cable bill," he said. "I saw the guy at our gate as I was coming." "What?" she was furious. "He asked you and so you paid him, just like that, huh? Why do you think I didn't do that?" "Becaaaaaause the pension did not come?" I said slowly and cautiously. I knew she was not asking me, but why should that stop me from having some fun? "What?" my father looked perplexed for a second. But only for a second. "Just go get my tea," he said to my mother. He didn't ask why she was upset. Business as usual for him. In fact, that is a hallmark of his personality. Doesn't show curiosity about stuff that doesn't matter. Unless it happens to be in the news. "He is right, he is so right, he knows everything…," my mocking of my mother was not perfect audio-wise but it was, timing-wise. I don't think she liked it at all. She looked angry as she walked into the kitchen. He ignored my words as well as her reaction. "And you haven't had your bath or breakfast yet, have you?" he asked me knowing the answer full well. Sometimes people ask questions not to get answers but to make a point. "I was about to." "Oh, one more thing, I saw Sweetie and Surya near the market. I told them you are here and they want you to visit them today, for lunch." "Go to their place, for lunch?" I was not excited. My preference has always been to see Sweetie right in our street, whenever she visited Bharathi aunty. Surya would come here for pickups and drop-off's and I usually have a quick chat with him then. That's all. I don't remember seeing her whole extended family outside of special occasions. "Yeah, she won't be coming here for a while," he lowered his voice. "Bharathi is not here, right?" he was careful enough to avoid any mention of the word "Kashi."

  17  

"She also said her daughter's exams are approaching fast," he continued. "Poorna's kids are also having exams this month. It seems the whole family is unhappy with their preparation levels. Surya wants you to give some tips and general advice to them. They said they are going to call you and talk." Poorna Chandra is Surya's older brother and the rising political star. He has three kids now. There were only two at the time Sweetie got married; the third one was born just a few months later. "I want you to go and meet them, especially Poorna. I'm sure he has some connections to help you with getting the Aadhaar card fast. Life is going to become harder and harder without the Aadhaar card," he paused for a second. "You do know what an Aadhaar card is, right?" His voice suggested that he won't be surprised if I said I never heard the term. I knew the implications of giving an honest "No" answer – I would get an hour-long lecture about why it is important to have general awareness about what is going on in this world. In other words, start reading news. "Of course, I know what an Aadhaar card is. Who doesn't know about it these days?" "Good! With your talent and patience, I know you will never be able to get it in Hyderabad. So we will do it here for you. Just ask Poorna, he must be knowing all the short cuts. I will also talk to him soon." I had no say in the lunch decision. Damn, the whole afternoon would be wasted talking to some school kids about their stupid exams, I thought. Plus, starting anytime now, there would be those instructions to call Sweetie in a totally artificial way: using her official name “Vyjayanthi,” as a different protocol kicks in when her "family" is around. My mother didn't miss a single thing even though she was in the kitchen. She came over to the living room with the tea my father had asked for, and some advice that I never asked for. "Going to Sweetie's place for lunch?" she asked. "Remember to call her by her real name all the time. Nobody likes their daughter-in-law being called using nicknames." "Yes, son, don't forget where you are, even for a second," my father joined her. I was beginning to hate the whole thing. First of all, I was being forced to go there. And then they forbid me from calling her “Sweetie.” What is this? Both my parents still call her that way no matter the surroundings. So does Bharathi aunty. Even her husband Surya, who was nowhere in the picture when we were growing up and has recently been pronounced diabetic, gets to call her “Sweetie.” Only I am not supposed to call her that way.

  18  

"Of course, I will call her ‘Vyjayanthi’, why would I use any other name?" I said, wanting to get them off my back at the earliest. "Good, because Sweetie is not a little girl anymore. She is married and has her own 'Sweetie' now," said my mother, referring to Sweetie's 5-year-old daughter. "We should always keep that in mind." By “we”, she clearly meant me. "And don't forget that the main reason you are going there is the Aadhaar card," said my father as he walked out to the front porch with the tea in one hand and the newspapers in the other. "Yes, Aadhaar card is very important," said my mother and walked into the kitchen. WITHIN A FEW minutes, the phone rang. I picked up, it was from Sweetie. "Yello!" I greeted. "Hi, Raghu! How are you?" "Hi!" "Hi, what?" "I'm good, how is everything?" "Oh, come on, go ahead and say it." "Say what?" "Shut up, you know what…" "That's okay, I guess." "What do you mean that's okay, call me the way you have always called me." "Aah, how is everybody, Vyjayanthi?" "What's wrong with you today? Is aunty sitting next to you?" My mother was not by my side. She was in the kitchen but keeping an eye on how I was conducting myself. "No, Vyjayanthi!"

  19  

"Then, is she watching you from the kitchen?" "You got that one right." "OK, I will play along then." "So sweet of you!" She giggled. "How is life in Hyderabad? When are they declaring the separate state of Telangana? I am really getting tired of watching it in the news." People sometimes forget the real me when they are on the phone with me, just because they can't see my face. And that forces me to startle them by saying something drastic. "What do you mean, they didn't create it already? I thought they did it a while ago." The shocked silence from the other side was the sound of Sweetie coming back to her senses. "How stupid of me to think that you care about these things," she said after a few seconds. "You have the awareness of a typical 5-year-old." "Good, now keep that in mind, always. Will ya?" "Actually, what I said is unfair to all the 5-year-olds in the world. At least they have a lot of curiosity -- unlike you!" "Do you really think I had a lot of curiosity when I was a 5-year-old?" She realized a change of topic was in order. "Alright, let us not get into circular arguments now. We want you to come here for lunch today. We spoke to uncle at the market earlier." "Yeah, he told me about it." "So you are coming, right?" she wanted a definitive answer. I saw an opportunity to sound non-committal and find out if that gets me anything I wouldn't get otherwise. "I might, I might not. It depends. What's on the menu?" "I knew you would ask. Chicken curry. I am making it."

  20  

"Is that all? I'm not impressed!" Actually, that would do it for me. But then I wanted to apply some techniques learnt from those salary negotiation experiences. "That's not all; Radhika akka is making Fish – both Pulusu and Fry!" My taste buds experienced an instant arousal at the mention of Radhika's Fish dishes. She is the wife of Surya's politician brother Poorna. Or Sweetie's "co-sister", so to speak. Radhika's Nellore Fish Pulusu – she was born and raised in a town called "Kavali" in Nellore district, before marriage brought her to Tirupati – is everything that the world famous "Nellore Fish Pulusu" promises to be, and more. There is something to be said about the way these Nellore women make it – their hands have a divine touch that conspires with the perfect blend of spices and tamarind sauce to give the Fish Pulusu its signature aroma and the heavenly taste. The homegrown women of Tirupati, as good as they are with chicken and mutton, are no match to the Nellore women when it comes to fish. Not even close. Generally speaking, I am a very coward fellow, but on this one, I am willing to bet my life. I had the good fortune of tasting Radhika's Fish varieties a few times in the past – when Sweetie brought them in a box while visiting Bharathi aunty, if I happened to be in Tirupati on those days. Clearly a lot of stars had to align for that to happen. And the quantities were limited, obviously. This time I get to be the guest of honor. And that means unlimited quantities, hopefully. Thoughts of this injected some excitement into my day. You know how some men, correction, how all men keep a mental list of the women they would have wanted to marry, had they been lucky enough to be born a few years earlier. My distinguished list does include Radhika. Purely for seafood-related reasons though. "So you will be coming, right?" Sweetie interrupted my thoughts. "Invitation accepted," I said. And after a brief pause, "she is making fish fry also, right?" I asked. Sometimes the candidate needs the manager's verbal confirmation about the sign-on bonus, even after seeing it written neatly in the offer letter. "Yes, I am preparing chicken, she is making Fish Pulusu and Fry. Listen, the kids' exams are about to start. We want you to give them some …" I didn't let her finish it. "Yeah, my father told about it; will do. Bye, Vyjayanthi!" I saw no value in extending the conversation. "Alright, be here by 1:30. Poorna bava will also be home by then. Bye, Raghu!" I met this Poorna some three or four times in the past but never for more than a couple of minutes. Chances are he doesn't even remember my face, I thought. My first time having lunch with a politician should be the last time too, I hoped.

  21  

I SPENT THE next couple of hours trying to prepare for the trip to Sweetie's place. The first part of the preparation was relatively easy – I had fewer dosa's than my normal to stay extra-hungry for the very special lunch. The second part was where I had trouble – a pep talk to a bunch of school kids, motivating them to do better in exams. Whoever came up with this crazy idea deserves a special commendation, I thought. Because I don't know of any techniques other than what my father applied on me when I was a student. He used to take me to places like the railway station, bus station and temples, show me the beggars there and tell me that my future would be "exact-same-to-same-and-ditto," if I didn't study well and succeed. Picturing myself in those pitiable getups had a chilling effect on my psyche. That was the only "motivational" method he knew. He started it around the time I started going to school and repeated it as and when he saw the need for it. My mother still thinks I'm joking when I tell her why he took me to the Govindaraja Swamy temple on the day before the campus selections started in my final year of Engineering. Whether such a crude method could be effective in this digital age is debatable – people can try it on their own kids and find out for themselves. But as the chief guest at a special lunch hosted by a well-to-do family, I have got to look more sophisticated than that and act like somebody with a head full of smart ideas. Exactly how to pull it off, I had no idea. I WAS ALL dressed up and ready to go when my mother started coaching me for the trip yet again. "Don't call her 'Sweetie' even by mistake." "Relax, mom! I will not do that." "Don't get into any arguments with anybody over anything. Because you don't know anything." "I don't know anything? What do you mean?" "I don't know. That's what your father says – you know about computers but nothing else." "Nobody will discuss computers there, we will talk about other topics." "I don't know. Just eat and get that Aadhaar card and come back." My father walked into the scene with a bag full of bananas and apples.

  22  

"Okay, don't forget the primary purpose – Aadhaar card. Remember, no speeches on anything. Nobody likes your speeches," he started without wasting a minute. My mind had gone numb by then, so I didn't say anything. My mother took a good look at the bag of fruits. Once she was certain that the bananas outnumbered the apples by a 4-to-1 ratio, she passed it to me along with some fruity advice. "Don't hand this to anybody other than Sweetie's mother-in-law," she said. "How does it matter who I give this to? They are all one family, isn't it?" "It matters because she is the mother-in-law in that family. It is very important that she knows you brought something." "You people are out of your minds! Old ladies in the house have bigger things to worry about." "No, they don't!" My father intervened. "This is exactly the kind of stuff they live for." "I don't care!" I was cocky. He didn't like it. "Son, the problem with you is that you don't put any effort trying to become aware of the world around you. And yet, you start meaningless arguments with everybody on everything, without provocation!" I felt a strong urge to fire back with some data points and counter his theory. But I saw the trap he laid there for me: If I don't say anything, I accept his assertion. If I start telling him why he was wrong, then I might just end up making his point for him. In other words, "Heads I win, Tails you lose!" After some careful consideration, I decided to let it go. "Not today, dad," I told myself. Not when Radhika's Nellore Fish Pulusu is awaiting me on the other side of the town. "One more thing, Poorna is trying for his party's ticket for MLA in the elections next year. He might ask you to donate some money to his campaign fund. Don't say yes," he warned. "That's right, don't promise you will give any money," my mother joined. "But don't say no either!" he said with a smile. "Don't say yes, don't say no? What am I supposed to say?" I asked as my head started spinning. "Just don't commit to anything!" he offered his words of wisdom.

  23  

"Yes, don't commit to anything!" my mother repeated his words. "Mom, dad, even kids going to school for the first time in life do not get these many DON'Ts from their parents!" My attempt to lighten things up didn't go very well with my mother. "Don't you dare compare us with any other parents. How did we raise you?" "Alright, alright, I will take that back. Anything else before I start?" "DON'T forget anything we said!" THE 10-MINUTE RIDE to Sweetie's place by auto-rickshaw was quite bumpy because of the pathetic state of Tirupati's roads. The auto driver could not have been more than 20 years old – unless he somehow inherited the same genes as Aamir Khan, in which case he could easily be a 50-year-old man using a really expensive hair dye product. Within the first few minutes, he tried to show the customer-friendly side of his personality by engaging me in small talk. Apparently the roads wouldn't be so awful if the World Bank quickly approved the local MLA's loan requests to build great new infrastructure in the town. Smooth, clean and wide roads, like we are America or something. The news junkie in him was sharp enough to name a slew of places around the globe that got a facelift with the World Bank's generosity. I did not need this education, I thought. Somehow nobody seemed to understand that if I remained an uninformed person, it was by choice. If I really wanted to know this stuff I would pick up that district edition and read it myself, won't I? So I decided to give him something he won't forget for a while. "Why should the World Bank give anything?" I asked. "Why can't the MLA get the loans from local banks, like State Bank of India, or the Dhanlaxmi bank that have branches everywhere? The World Bank doesn't even have a branch here in Tirupati." He turned his head to give me a dirty look that I won't forget for a while. I immediately regretted messing with him. Maybe my parents were right after all. I should try to keep my lips zipped as much as possible. At least for the next few minutes, I thought. He made my job easier by not starting another conversation until the auto reached Sweetie's place. He got off before I did to help me with unloading the bag of fruits. And then he quickly drove off. The fare amount of 40 rupees – after the special discount

  24  

applicable just for our family, I'm sure – had already been paid by my father at the beginning of the ride, during the official send-off ceremony performed by both my parents with the whole street watching. Some of those people, because they were new to the area, must have gotten the impression that I was leaving for an IAS interview or something like that. All the rest of them knew better. I WAS RECEIVED at the gate by Surya and his younger twin brothers. I suddenly remembered that these guys were college students about to give their exams and probably looking for a motivation injection, just like their school-going nephews and nieces. And that meant I had to tailor my non-existent speech to the needs of different demographics. "Forget it," I thought. Just enjoy the lunch, maybe get some info about that Aadhaar card, then pretend like you need some rest because you didn't sleep well last night and get out of here at the earliest, I told myself. Surya was happy to see me. He re-introduced the twins along with their names as I was meeting them after a long time. They offered me help with carrying the bag of fruits, which I politely declined. You know why. "Did you have any trouble locating the place?" asked Surya. "Not at all, Surya Chandra! The auto driver seemed to know everything in this world," I replied with a laugh. The twin brothers laughed too, as if they knew why I said that. "Oh, please, just call me Surya!" Sorry, bro! I have been instructed not to use any short names, I wanted to say but didn't. Sweetie greeted me at the front door and we all walked into the living room together. "Where is the little girl?" I asked about her daughter. But my eyes were looking around for the mother-in-law as I wanted to free up my hands first. "She is studying upstairs. They are all studying as they heard you were coming here to talk about studies," she replied with a smile. The twins laughed loudly. Why are these two guys here, shouldn't they be studying too? I quietly wondered. "Where are uncle and aunty?" I asked about her in-laws. "They are upstairs too, having a nap," she replied. "Let me get that," she said, pointing to the bag of fruits I was still holding in my hand. "That's okay, Vyjayanthi," I said, changing it from one hand to the other to move it farther from her.

  25  

"Oh, come on, Raghu!" she just grabbed the bag from my hand. "Don't worry, I will tell aunty that you handed it to my mother-in-law!" she almost whispered in my ears, making me uneasy. The twin brothers laughed one more time. These guys seem to laugh at everything even when they know nothing about the background, I thought. Surya had disappeared from there already and his loud voice could be heard from the next room. He was on his cell phone, yelling at somebody about some pending payments, etc. I suppose that is how most businessmen spend their Sunday afternoons. Radhika stepped out from the kitchen to make a brief appearance. "Sorry, Raghu, I am in the middle of making the Fish Fry," she said, wiping her hand with a napkin. "How are you doing?" Good thing she didn't offer a handshake. Because I'm sure I would have taken her hand and tried to smell it to get some of that Fish Fry aroma into my nostrils, and embarrassed myself and her in front of everybody. "Sweetie, go and bring the kids down to see Raghu," she said. Sweetie went upstairs. "It will be some more time," Radhika said to me. "Did you have something to drink?" she asked. And without waiting, she turned to the twins and asked, "Did you give a Pepsi to Raghu?" They both laughed again and said, "No." "What are you two doing here, laughing for everything? Get him a Pepsi first," she said, rushing back to the kitchen. Four kids – Sweetie's girl, and Radhika's two boys and a girl, all in the 5-12 age group – started coming down the stairs in a silent parade. Sweetie was leading them from behind. There was none of the liveliness or noisy bustle that you typically see when that many kids are at one place. The oldest boy even carried a book in his hand. A clear sense of anxiety, if not fear, was visible in all their faces. Sweetie's daughter knew me very well but she joined the others as they gave their short self-intro's. Intro's that included not just their names and classes but the 'sections' as well. As in 6th 'C', 4th 'B' and so on. It's always fun to watch kids doing that. "Alright, kids! You can back to what you were doing. We will discuss your studies and exams later," I said to them. They were happy to leave.

  26  

"You haven't spent any time thinking about what to say to them, isn't it?" Sweetie asked me in a low voice. I don't know how she reads my mind, just like that. "Why don't you wait and see?" Surya came back to the living room, having finished his over-the-phone yelling business. The twins handed me a Pepsi and started watching me again. Waiting for the next opportunity to laugh without a reason, I guess. Surya started talking about various things ranging from the poor ethics of his customers, to why IPL is bad for Test cricket, to how the Income Tax department tries to snatch a share of his hard-earned money, to why nobody should give their daughter to Salman Khan. I didn't forget my parents' words about not getting into debates on anything. So I just tried to focus on the sounds coming from the kitchen to estimate an approximate start time for the lunch. I agree it's not an exact science, but it stimulated my mind in a way no science could ever do. He was not done listing all the problems he saw in the world when we heard the watchman opening the gate at the main entrance. A Toyota Innova made its way into the compound. I followed Surya and the twins as they walked to the front porch. The driver got out first and opened the door for Poorna, who was on the cell phone with somebody. "You get the money ready by tomorrow morning, I will talk to that Commissioner, we will see who is going to stop us," were the last words he said before hanging up and walking into the house. The driver stayed back. POORNA NICELY FITS the description of an ambitious politician in modern India: significant wealth from all kinds of sources, friends in important places, a general disregard for the rule of law and no educational qualifications worth mentioning. Sweetie never told me anything about police cases, but I won't be surprised if there are some. His father was never directly in politics, but a maternal uncle that once served as an MLC was the "family background" that is mandatory. Maintains good contacts with all the big shots – both in power and in prison. At the moment he wears the ruling party uniform and they gave him a nominated post. But won't mind jumping the ship before the next election, if the situation demands. And at 43, he is very much considered "youth" in his profession. A tag like that could cut both ways when a party decides on its tickets for elections, so nothing is guaranteed. But if somebody calls me "youth" when I'm that old, I don't think I will complain too much. "My cousin Raghu, software engineer in Hyderabad," Sweetie started the introduction. He nodded his head without even looking at me once. I wanted to give him a few minutes to settle down before rushing to judge his manners.

  27  

"Works for a big American multinational company there, we invited him to lunch so he can give some tips to the kids for their exams," Surya did his part in introducing me. Poorna kept nodding his head, looking around the room in random directions. He probably smiled a bit, but there was no way to tell it was for me because he never looked straight at me. He had been home for several minutes by then but the sunglasses were still on. Have you ever wondered why the cut-outs and pictures of these politicians always show them wearing sunglasses? I think I know why. Because they never take them off. "It is really hot out there," he said as he gulped down a full glass of water that Sweetie gave him, and switched on the TV for the latest news. I know, but that is no reason to have the sunglasses on even after coming home, I thought. TV9 was showing ghastly close-up images of some road accident victims at that time, which didn't turn him on. He kept flipping channels until he found one with a "Breaking News" item about some mega mining scam just uncovered near Bellary, in our neighboring state of Karnataka. He started watching it with great interest. Radhika came out from the kitchen and tried to say something to him but he angrily sshh'd her, pointing to the TV. She went back in silence. Someone of Radhika's caliber surely deserved a better husband than this, was the first thought that came to my mind. Another observation I had was that learning about scams truly exhilarated politicians like Poorna. Where all others saw evil and scoundrels, these men found inspiration and role models. He sat glued to the TV screen for the next several minutes, letting two phone calls go unanswered and even ignoring the kids who had come down to see their dad. It went on until the anchor lady announced a commercial break and asked us to keep watching, like we had nothing better to do. She promised to be back after the break with the juicy details of a catfight between a Tollywood heroine and a top director's wife. That's when he finally decided to switch it off. "I am glad you could join us for lunch," he said. Presumably to me, because he was looking at the missed calls list on his phone when he said it. "The pleasure is all mine, sir!" I said, but he still wouldn't look at me. It was becoming clearer by the minute that making eye contact during interactions was only for corporate types like myself. Out in the real world, nobody gives a damn to that concept. So forget about projecting the full force of your personality through your eyes when speaking to somebody – that's just a fantasy world created for you by the high-paid leadership trainer that your company flew in from some other city. Oh, that Pune guy, I

  28  

have his email id somewhere, I should write to him a strong paragraph or two once I get back to Hyderabad, I told myself. "Check with your mom if everything is ready," he dispatched his daughter to Radhika. Based on the sounds from the kitchen I had been tracking, it was going to be a few more minutes, but I didn't say anything. "Are you the one who doesn't read any newspapers?" he asked, looking directly into my eyes for the first time. I reciprocated the gesture by looking straight into his Ray-Ban, and said, "sir, it is not really like that." Whoever said "honesty is the best policy" had never been in situations like this one, I thought. "Yes, he is the one. He also doesn't watch any news channels on the TV or even read stuff from the news websites," Sweetie resumed the introduction. "Don't believe every good thing she says about me, sir!" I said, but was not sure if anybody noted the sarcasm. "He is in software, maybe he doesn't need to follow news," Surya came to my defense. "By the way, Bharathi aunty said that you were not always like this. Was there a time when you used to follow the news?" he asked. "Only the financial news. Stock markets, etc. Nothing else," I revealed reluctantly. I don't like it when I'm reminded of my experiments in the financial markets. "That was way back in the past. I stopped it, it is history now." "What happened? Did you sell all your stocks and take the money out?" asked Poorna. "Let us just say I don't have anything there anymore," I said. They all understood what I meant. A two-minute silence was observed for my portfolio that was killed in the stock market crash. "Sweetie, and I think even her mother, mentioned something about you giving speeches. What is that about?" Poorna resumed talking. "Not really, sir. I speak very, very slowly compared to others. I mean really, really slowly. So even when I say only two or three sentences, it feels like a speech to some people." I may have intentionally slowed down the delivery of my words there, to look authentic.

  29  

"And also he waves his hands a lot when he speaks," said Sweetie. She was in no mood to stop describing my qualities. Maybe she was getting some kick out of it but I did not like it. "Oh, no, that is not at all true," I said. "Actually, the thing is," I noticed that my hands were already up in the air for some reason and quickly brought them down to the normal resting position. In that process I forgot what "the thing" was and couldn't finish my sentence. The whole room burst into laughter. Even the twins laughed, their first time since Poorna's entry. "No, Raghu is trying to be modest here. I'm sure he must be good at speeches because he is good at research," said Surya, looking at me. "I know Bharathi aunty won't say somebody is good unless he is really good." Thank you, Surya! Now let us drop this subject right here, I hoped silently. "Alright, listen, we are trying to get the party ticket for the elections next year. If that works out, I might need a help from you," Poorna started again. Oh, dear God! Not money, please, not so soon! I began praying quietly. I knew Radhika was still in the kitchen, so whatever "non-committal" reply I was going to give, I wanted to make sure she didn't hear it; I didn't want my answer to affect the quantity of fish served to me. "Anything in my capacity, sir; please tell me," I said. This is exactly why I hate myself when meeting people. Somehow the nice guy on the exterior doesn't listen to the selfish but realistic man inside. And as a result I end up over-promising. "Can you prepare some good speeches for the campaign?" I was surprised. Preparing speeches is better than giving money, but how can I do it without knowing much about politics? "Speeches? Me? Are you sure?" I asked. "What does he know about elections to come up with speeches?" Sweetie was surprised too. I was glad she stopped there without saying something like, "No speeches, let us just take some money from him for the campaign fund." "You just have to write them, I will deliver. Because I will be the candidate, not you," he assured me. "Sir, I know, but I will have to really study your field a lot before I can do that." "Don't worry, people don't care much about what is in the speeches anyway, we will still have to spend a lot of money to get their votes."

  30  

Either he must be joking or he chose a clever way to get to the subject of money, I thought. Luckily Radhika, my savior, arrived just at the right time. "Everything is ready, we can start now. Sweetie, prepare the table," she said. "Sorry it took so long, Raghu. One servant is on leave and the other went to her village today on some emergency. So we had to do everything ourselves." "Oh, that's okay, I am not at all hungry," I replied as I got up promptly and walked to the hand wash. WITHIN MINUTES THE dishes were all ready on the table and we were seated. I asked about Sweetie's in-laws one more time and was told that they would have it later. Radhika and Sweetie began serving. I ignored the chicken and went straight to taste the two fish varieties first. As expected, both of them were just out of this world. "Nobody can beat your Nellore Fish Pulusu and Fry, these are just too good," I complimented Radhika. She blushed. "You should write a book with these recipes," I added. A little buttering up goes a long way. I knew she would keep reloading my plate until I start begging her to stop. "Book? Me? I don't know, Raghu! All these recipes are on the internet already, anybody can make them easily," she replied with the utmost humility. "Believe me, anybody can do it." If only, I thought. I proceeded to enjoy the meal but also felt I should put my multitasking skills to work, and decided to start the Aadhaar card discussion. To save me time and also to steer clear of the topic of money for the election. "So, sir, my father told me about this Aadhaar card. Should everybody get it?" I asked Poorna, who was seated diagonally across the table from me. I noticed that his sunglasses were missing and his eyes were directly exposed to the world. I also noticed that his 6-year-old son, seated next to him, was wearing those sunglasses. The little boy was making funny faces and not eating his food. "Why? Didn't you get your Aadhaar card yet?" asked Poorna. "That is kind of the point, isn't it?" I thought. I made sure I didn't say it. If I already had it, why would I be talking about it? For example, you don't see me talking about a passport or a driving license, do you? I tried to control my thoughts. Because I knew that is how I launch into the debates that my parents want me to stay away from.

  31  

"Maybe I will apply. But before that, I want to understand what it is all about," I said, as Radhika added more rice to my plate and moved the Fish Pulusu closer. If my lack of awareness surprised him, he certainly didn't show it on his face. "Well, over the years people used several different documents to get identified by the government authorities. Ration cards, PAN cards, Driving licenses, even passports. It was not working very well. So we decided to have a single mechanism that will uniquely identify every person. That is why we set up the UIDAI and hired Nandan Nilekani from your software field to lead it," he started. It was a decent introduction, although I didn't like it that he used 'we' as if he was a member of the central cabinet that approved this program. "We told him that we wanted to use the very best of the technologies and that we were ready to allocate a huge budget. We think he did a very good job," he continued. I understood he was not going to stop using 'we' and decided to ignore it. "We issued the first Aadhaar card towards the end of 2010, in Maharashtra. After that we expanded it to all the other states." He paused briefly to remove the fish bone from the fillets. That reminded me of the empty plate before me. I turned my head and Radhika quickly reloaded my plate. Surya ordered Sweetie to take care of the 'deboning' part for me so I could concentrate on eating. Excellent, this is all going perfectly, I thought. "Okay, if I don't want it, can I safely ignore this whole thing?" I asked. "I already have all those other things you mentioned, so I can live without this Aadhaar card, right?" Poorna smiled, took a sip of water and started again. "It is not so simple, Raghu. We didn't spend so much money on it to keep it optional for people. If you don't have the Aadhaar card, you won't be able to do certain things." "Like what, sir?" "For example, you can not file a request under the RTI act of the Government of India," said Poorna. "This is probably new to you, RTI stands for Right To Information," Sweetie clarified. She was right, I never knew any government-given RTI. All these days, I have been happily exercising my very personal RTI – Right To Ignorance. Maybe it came with an expiry date that I was too ignorant to check.

  32  

"If you want the details, Surya can explain it better," she added and looked at Surya. He cleared his throat and got ready to speak. I raised my hand to stop him. "I don't think I want to know about that now, let me focus on this Aadhaar card first," I said. "Without the Aadhaar Card, you cannot conduct any Provident Fund transactions – like opening a new account, changing, withdrawing," Poorna took a certain perverse pleasure in explaining how they were going to play with the lives of ordinary people. "This is so unfair," I said. My tone wasn't as polite as it was before. "PAN card used to suffice for all these things. Now you are asking us to get a new document just to be able to do the old things!" He didn't say anything. I continued, "Whatever! I have no plans to change or withdraw from my PF account. So I don't think I will apply for it." I was unhappy that the Aadhaar card discussion was ruining an otherwise perfect lunch. A minute or two must have passed before I emptied my Fish Fry plate and got some serious hiccups. Everybody surrounded me. Someone handed the water glass, which was right within my reach, and made sure I took a few quick gulps and calmed down. Radhika gave me a paper napkin for my watery eyes. Then the table unanimously concluded that I should eat slowly and talk less. I resumed eating. Everybody was silent for the next few minutes. "You still want to discuss Aadhaar card?" asked Poorna, breaking the silence. "Sir, what more is there to discuss? Looks like I don't need to apply," I was firm. "Oh, by the way, if you want to keep getting the subsidized cooking gas cylinders from the government, starting next month, Aadhaar card is going to be compulsory," said Poorna with a vicious smile. That sent chills down my spine. If my Indane gas dealer throws me out, I'd be forced to buy the cylinders from a private agency at a much higher cost. When my mother finds out that it happened because I was too lazy to apply for the Aadhaar card, she's going to kill me. My father won't do anything to stop her. But he might go buy more newspapers the next day, just to see how the item was covered by different reporters. So it became clear that I had no escape from this Aadhaar card. "Okay, I change my mind then. Will apply. If I submit everything this coming week, can I get it by the first of next month?" I asked.

  33  

Poorna had a hearty laugh. Everybody joined him. "It's not that easy, Raghu," he said. "We opened a lot of processing centers to take the applications, biometrics, etc., but we may need more. It's going to take some time. Surely more than a few days, or weeks." "But you have already set deadlines for everything starting from PF transactions to gas cylinders. How is that right?" He didn't expect questions like this. Took a few seconds to respond. "Well, maybe you are familiar only with your software world. Things work differently with government. Do you have any idea how many people are in this country? It takes time to process the applications. Remember, these are not SIM cards for your cell phones, we cannot issue them to people just like that," he said with an arrogant tone and looked at Sweetie. Maybe that look signaled something to her. "Raghu, the government has many problems and very few resources; they cannot do everything perfectly," she tried to explain it to me, but I was not even looking at her. I was thinking about our country's fate, but may have been staring at my empty plate. Which made Radhika serve me the last remaining fish pieces from the bowl. "Don't worry, there's more in the kitchen, Sweetie will go and bring," she said with a smile. When Sweetie returned from the kitchen, there was still an uneasy silence at the table. Even Radhika was beginning to feel it. She decided it's best to start another topic. "Raghu, you should really say something to these," pointing to her children. "Rahul is not doing well in Maths. He scored 98% this time, that means he missed two marks," she said. Rahul is the 6-year-old boy. She went on to list the "poor" performances – 97% in Sciences, 96% in English, only 90% in Hindi – of her other two kids in the most recent exams. "Rahul got 97% in Maths last time. We wanted him to do better this time but he still missed two marks. I don't know when he will get to 100%," Poorna also started showing his disappointment in the kid. "Our girl is also not doing well, we will tell you her marks," started Surya. "Sweetie, go and get her progress card." "You should tell them how to do better," said Radhika. "Yes, you should," Poorna and Surya joined.

  34  

But I was still thinking about the Aadhaar card. "Why can't the government open more processing centers, hire more staff and issue these cards fast?" I asked Poorna as calmly as I could. "You don't seem to get it," the irritation in Poorna's voice was easy to see. "Our resources are not infinite." "Then why these artificial deadlines? I don't think Nandan Nilekani managed Infosys this way when he was the big boss there. Is he really running this program, or is it some politicians?" I was surely a bit agitated. "Nilekani is not in charge of everything," he said. "There are others – officers, ministers, politicians – that make decisions. We can't give people like Nilekani a free hand. There are a lot of things that they don't know. Politicians have to run the show, and that's what we are doing. In fact, that is the beauty of democracy," he said with some pride. And then he looked at Sweetie one more time. "Raghu, you don't read newspapers, you don't know anything about these matters. Why can't you just accept it?" said Sweetie. In other words, why don't you finish lunch, have a good time and just go home? "I don't think so, Sweetie," I said. Damn, I called her “Sweetie” before everybody. I was very careful until that point, but somehow my tongue slipped. I just hoped that it wouldn't distract anybody from what I was about to say. "This has got nothing to do with watching the news everyday, let me tell you why," I continued. "The government wants this Aadhaar card to be the sole and singular people identification mechanism for the future. Fine. My questions are: When does that future start? How are we transitioning to that future? You cannot just cut off my current services from a certain date when you know that your own limitations keep me from getting the card by that date. Why can't you keep accepting the old identity cards until you can issue this new card? This is like, you have built a 10-floor structure but haven't put an elevator or the staircase. Because you have some "limitations." And then you force everybody to go start living on the open terrace of that structure, because you are setting all their houses on fire tomorrow. How are they supposed to get there? Either you should provide a means to reach the terrace by tomorrow, or if that is not possible, wait for however long it takes to do it before burning down our houses. How is it that so many experienced ministers and administrators fail to understand such a simple thing? Forget about democracy and leadership, where is the common sense in this country? When our kids come home with 98% scores in their exams, that is not good enough for us. We want more, we expect 100%. We demand absolute perfection from these 5, 6 and 7-year-old's, but accept utter mediocrity from the 50, 60 and 70-year-old's in our government. We don't care how badly they are screwing the nation. Heck, we even seem to support them. Is this what our society has come to? We should all be ashamed of ourselves!"

  35  

I stopped there. And brought my hands down. A stunned silence stretched across the room. My glass was empty. I poured some water into it myself as I realized nobody was going to do it for me. Took a few sips and started reflecting on what I had just done. That was the "speech" that my parents had so strongly warned me against. I don't see it as a speech or lecture; it was just an honest expression of some simple thoughts. I may not be reading the newspapers and watching those 24-hour news channels everyday. Or ever. But I'd like to think that I'm a rational person. I’m surely a productive, tax-paying member of the society, and above all, a law-abiding citizen of India. I don't expect any medals for that – just some sensible treatment from my government. And I should be able to get it without having to take it to the streets. Or, am I just another immature adult who needs to work on the social skills? Did I overreact and offend my hosts? Or perhaps more importantly, did I permanently blow my chances of getting another invitation to savor Radhika's ultimate Nellore Fish Pulusu? I don't know. You tell me!

Thank you very much for taking the time to read this story. I would love to hear your feedback. Please drop me a few lines at my gmail id: nmadhu Sincerely, Madhusudhan Nagiri, 1st April 2013.