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In 1985 I was persevering to get an education at the Union Academy Senior Secondary School in New Delhi.

I say persevering because I was 14 and I was trying to come to terms with the fact that Maths and Science were really interesting subjects to people who were not me.

I was also realizing that temptation was the least of the problems for a 14-year-old boy trapped in an All-boys school, flanked by an All-girls school with three co-ed schools and another All-girls school within a radius of three kilometers.

And, to compound it all, I had a bunch of friends who were very committed to exploring the restlessness of 14-year-olds.

It did not help that Union Academy was located in Gole Market, which was a brisk walk from Connaught Place, where one could find two of the very few cinema halls in Delhi that ran English movies with ‘A’ certificates in their morning shows – a tragic scheduling error that was not lost on a 14-year-old attending morning school.

If this was not temptation enough, there was the matter of two broken window bars in the groundfloor classroom – the window opened into the adjacent dhobi-ghat (a dhobi ghat is … well, let’s just call it a grand open-air laundromat).

And so, one fine day, in spite of our diligence and dedication to the cause of education, six of us bunked class, squeezed through the window with the missing bars, and ran all the way from the dhobi-ghat to Connaught Place, just in time for the 9.30 morning show at Regal.

The poster at the theatre was all the sign we needed that we had found our own corner of paradise. The poster had a blonde woman, some sort of a map and the title : “Incident at Map Grid”.  The decisive conversation about the decison to spend hard-earned pocket money went like this:
“It’s English,” grinned Ghosh. Everybody nodded appreciatively.
“Story achcha hoga - looks serious,” piped in Ashish.

“Blonde heroine,” Ghosh grinned wider. Everybody nodded appreciatively again. 
Khurana and Vineet started collecting the money for the tickets. I kept looking towards the route to school, convinced the history teacher was following us. Deba looked cool as usual.

At 9.30 we were in our seats.

By 9.45, we had only seen water, air, and men talking in Russian.

By 10.15 am, we finally understood what Milton was lamenting about in Paradise Lost.

And by the end of the movie, we were swearing at the bloody censor board – the blonde woman on the poster had been snipped out of the movie.

“It was in Russian! Not one scene!” Ghosh was livid.

“Hanh yaar, story bhi samajh mein nahin aya,” rued Ashish.
“That’s the last time you get to choose what we see,” Khurana told Ghosh. Vineet was laughing his head off. Deba continued to look cool.
As for me, I had finally started relaxing, but then I started worrying about how we were going to get back into school.

In July 1984, I found myself on the last bench of an eighth standard classroom in the Union Academy School in Delhi. It was quite a fall from the fourth row bench in St. Joseph’s High School in Juhu, Mumbai. But I had little choice – my dad had just been transferred to Delhi and the last bench was all that was available.
The world looked very hazy from the last bench in the class. I could see the blackboard, but I couldn’t see what was written on it. Then, of course, there was that matter of the tall boys who sat on the benches in the rows ahead. So I usually saw the teacher only when she was towering over my head and asking: “Why are you looking out of the window?”
The window was my only solace for the first two months. And it wasn’t much of a solace because all I could see outside was a desolate road coming from somewhere and going off somewhere else. It was dry, it was dusty, and it looked depressing. I could also see a few rundown buildings.

The window was at the backend of the classroom, so it went very well with last bench. And when I say last bench, I mean that it was the last bench in the last row in the classroom. Sadly – as fate would have it – I wasn’t the last man sitting. I had to sit in the middle of the bench since the aisle and the window seats were taken.

So as I was saying, the world looked pretty hazy from that last bench. And it continued to be hazy when I stepped out into the world as well. There was a nice mist all around, always, and the leaves on trees never looked as sharp as they did in the text book pictures.

It didn’t take me long to take control and get things into focus. I began with the window without the view. I started imagining that there was green grass along the sides of the road and that there were all kinds of people walking up and down that road. While a teacher was in class, I usually had to look in the general direction of the hazy blackboard.

The sound of a bullock cart or a jangling bicycle creaking past the window was enough to get me smiling as I looked ahead at the teacher but saw a lanky man on a Hero cycle raising dust on the road below. Most teachers punished me for smiling a lot in class and not responding to questions.

Outside, in the world, I didn’t have to imagine much except when I was playing football. I was a goalkeeper and it was rare that I could see the forwards till they were about to score. I eventually decided I couldn’t wait for them to be that close before making my move. So I started studying the blurry images, imagining their precise movements and predicting where they would turn or strike. I never thought twice about flying off the ground in spectacular dives to save goals since the ground was a blur anyway.

Then one day, my English teacher called my mom to school and subsequently my parents took me to this building where a guy led me into a dark room, sat me down on a stool, pointed to something on the wall in front, and asked me: “Can you read the last line?” I could barely make out the wall. So I told him: “No”.
“Can you read the second last line?”
“No.”
“Can you read the third last line?”
“No.”
“Can you read the fourth last line?”
“No”.
Apparently, that meant something to him. So, he put a metal frame on my eyes, slid some glasses in and I went “Whoa!”
I could now clearly see a rectangular board on the wall in front of me.
“I can see the wall!”
“Good. Can you read the last line?”
“I can see the board – it’s got an orange glow!”
“Yes yes, but can you read the last line?” 
To cut a long story short, I got my first pair of spectacles in class eight and it was powered at minus two point seven five. Basically, without the glasses I was quite blind for long shots. It hadn’t mattered much till then since most of my time had been spent playing or reading books, and I used to sit on a fourth row bench in Mumbai. And frankly, I thought that was how the world was – a bit hazy with no sharp edges.

So that’s how I gained clearer eyesight. But I am quite sure that the lack of clarity up until then did wonders for my imagination. I am also quite sure that without the imagination, I would have found myself woefully wanting. The way I see it, imagination is the key to creation, the key to going beyond intelligence. In fact, imagination and intelligence complete each other. Imagination is the power to visualize what can be (the possibility), while intelligence is the power to create what has already been visualized (making it happen).

Of course, in my case, imagination rules the roost. So most of the time I smile silly smiles and wait for someone with intelligence to make things happen…

If you ever think you are a tough guy or gal, try being tough with a baby. They’ll set your thinking straight.

We have a son, who’s about yae high (yae being my hand pointing to somewhere around my knee). And since he doesn’t know that he’s just yae high, nothing stops him from pulling his weight in the world.

Most of the time he’s an amiable creature, crawling about pulling clothes out of the cupboard – clothes that his mom meticulously folded and neatly stacked just about a minute ago. Or he pulls drawers out of closets. Or he is climbing the sofa and trying to dive out the back end …. it’s your regular peaceful day.

Now one thing he doesn’t like is a cap on his head or some rubber band keeping his hair together. Anonyma (my wife) and I both know this and we try a couple of times and then let him be. Then one day a few weeks ago, Anonyma decided to let him know who’s boss and the next 16 minutes went something like this:

Yobo (that’s his screen name for this blog) was playing as usual when Anonyma put a cap on his head. He stopped, sat on his knees, smiled at her and took th cap off and went back to his play. Anonyma picked up the cap and put it back on his head. Yobo smiled at her, didn’t even pause his play this time and took the cap off. Anonyma smiled and put the cap back on his head. “I have patience – I’m your mopther” she told him. There, now he would know. He just went on playing and taking the cap off.

To cut a long story short, after 16 minutes and 60-odd attempts, Anonyma gave up, exhausted, her hair all awry, her nerves jangling, and her smile just about hanging in there.

Yobo? Well, he just kept playing right through it. Whoever said kids have short attention spans should get their attention spans checked.

 Hey buddy, how are you? As you can see, I have finally gotten around to writing you a letter. And I must thank you for the four hundred and sixty one letters that you have written to me in the last six years. It’s been a long time since we last met, and if it wasn’t for your letters I wouldn’t have known that you now have a son, a daughter and wonder of wonders, a wife too! And from the photographs you sent me in the last letter, I notice that you need more investment in hair.
By the way, did you know that I had to go to the post office to pick up the parcel you sent me? And that there was nothing in it? You idiot! If you wanted me to write you a letter, all you had to do was ask. And could you please open an email account now that I have finally written to you? I can’t seem to hold the pen for too long these days… my fingers are out of practice. 
I will write again in a couple of years once I have recuperated from the acute cramps in my right hand because of writing this 271 word letter. I may never write again and it will all be your fault. If you have any home remedies for writer’s cramps please write to me… and don’t expect a reply! Next time I am going to call you up.
My regards to your wife and children.
PS: Why don’t you move to Pune? That way we won’t have to write letters.
This is more or the less the letter that I wrote recently to an old friend, Chintamani. He is a man of words and his letters are cherished by all who know him.
 
Now Chintamani has refused to let the ravages of email destroy his language. In fact, he has valiantly fought off pressure from all quarters to join the world wide web citizenry. He insists that the email is a mockery of language. And so, for the last six years he has been writing letters to all his friends, painstakingly keeping them updated on his life with his beautiful penmanship. That is how I know about the broken leg on his third dining table chair – his son sawed it off so he could test if superglue is really strong enough to fix anything. Chintoo (his son) had seen something similar on television and wanted to be sure. As you can imagine, Chintoo was disappointed and he wrote me a two-paragraph letter expressing his outrage.
Now I am an idiot myself. I have never bothered to reply to any of Chintamani’s letters nor that of Chintoo’s; or anyone’s letters for that matter. Of course, I have called everybody on and off, or have been emailing them thrice a day. But it isn’t the same.
I have all the letters that anybody has ever written to me. All the cards, postcards, drawings, poems, photographs… it’s all there in several cardboard files. And once in a while, I sit down on a rainy day or a winter night and go through the letters. And laugh. Or choke. Or smile.
I can’t do all that with an email – and I am a hard-core fan of email, mind you.
I am glad I have Chintamani for a friend. It is because of him that I recently realised that if I were to give an exam today, I would fail. Simply because I wouldn’t be able to write more than 15 minutes… my hand would ache till I was blue in the face, and miserable. And my doctor would not be too thrilled if I were blue in the face, I can tell you that.
I think I shall visit the post office one of these days. And meet the man who brings me my letters and parcels. I think I shall also write a letter a month to each of my friends. I think a letter is the simplest way to tell them I care; that I have the time to write to them. Call it snail mail, but I think a letter is a letter is a letter.

A few months ago, I was in the middle of an after-lunch meeting when my cell-phone rang. I picked it up absent-mindedly and someone cooed into my ear: “Sir, you have been pre-approved for a personal loan from our bank.”
“Really?” I asked her because I get very skeptical when someone wants to give me money. In my experience so far, if it’s free, it’s going to cost you a bomb.
“Yes sir.”
“You are going to give me money, just like that?”
“Actually sir, it’s a loan,”
“But I don’t want a loan,” I told her. This conversation had the potential to be far more interesting than the meeting I was in. So I waited to see what logic the salesperson would use to persuade me.
“Okay sir, I am sorry to bother you,” she said and hung up, just like that. Can you believe it? I was expecting more of a resistance. I was really miffed, irritated even.

A few weeks after that, I got my next call from a bank – again from a telesales person (telemarketing is a real misnomer).
“Hello is that Mr Mukherjee?” a very polite and hesitant voice wondered in a whispering tone.
“Yes, how can I help you?” I replied cordially.
“Would you want a credit card from our company?”
“Why?” Very few telesales professionals have an idea how to tackle the “Why” from a customer.
“We are offering free credit cards to select customers,” she tried.
“Why? Won’t that affect your business? I don’t want a credit card unless you tell me why you are giving away free credit cards to people.”
“Okay sir,” she said and hung up. What is this country coming to? Where is the persistence? Where is the commitment to making a sale? Where is the entertainment value for the consumer? I demand satisfaction.

On an average,I receive around seven to 10 calls everyday from various banks wanting to give me an assortment of privileges as a ‘chosen’ customer: home loan, auto loan, personal loan, credit card, gold credit card, silver credit card, classic credit card, add-on cards, investment advice, relationship managers, deposit services, withdrawwal servies, and the like. All these offers are either free or at a ‘special’ rate of interest or price. I enjoy taking these calls. It livens up my otherwise drab day. It’s especially amusing to go through similar conversations about the same product with four different sales executives from the same bank. In fact, there are days I get up in the morning and ask myself: Are you feeling lucky today? Will you get a call from a bank today? Yessss, you will!”

How did I get to be so cynical about banking services? Well, it’s been a long and hard road but I have successfully evolved into this stage of my consumership after years of sincerely answering all questions and then waiting for that loan or credit card to appear. Some banks have this habit of getting forms filled, conducting verifications and then disappearing into thin air.

And while banks may want your business, they don’t necessarily want to meet you. Like, a phone banking executive from a prominent bank told me that if I have any problems with my credit card I should either email them or write to them or call them – there isn’t any person I can meet at any branch for queries or problems.

A colleague of mine applied for a personal loan with a bank and after all the papers were submitted, verification done – it took the bank six months to process the loan. Can you imagine that? Six months to process a personal loan of one lakh.

Then there’s this other bank which promised to deliver a home loan in seven days, took four months to process the loan, and finally left the customer no choice but to withdraw the application and go with another bank.

There are several such stories. I also have stories of great service from banks but they are few and most of those stories are from nationalized banks. But good service is exactly what is expected in this professional age. Efficient and personalized service is the least I expect when a bank runs ad campaigns portraying itself as a caring bank, as a professional bank, and as a dependable bank. I am going to take their brand image at face value and I am going to expect that they live up to it. And that is because banking is a matter of trust.

Meanwhile, I am expecting that telesales people from banks will continue to call me and make my day.

Shubho: you work with a bank – so what’s your side of the story?

 There’s a lot to be said about not knowing how to cook. Or better still, knowing how to cook and keeping that knowledge to yourself. Why? Well for starters, there’s this friend I have who recently got married. He happens to be a real dude in the kitchen … which was great while he was dating and stuff. But then his wife found out. And nowadays whenever I drop in to his house hoping for some home-cooked food, I find him running from fridge to cabinet, with masala dabbas. Yep, if you know how to cook, keep it to yourself.

In this regard, my maternal uncle (endearingly called Maamaa in Bengali and many other Indian languages) is a real smart man: He never learnt how to cook. But being the philanthropic gentleman that he is, he goes about inviting people over to his house for breakfast, lunch, dinner, evening snack, tea, after-dinner munch, mid-afternoon post-lunch-pre-tea chomp … whatever. As a result, my Maami (you guessed it, my maternal uncle’s wife) starts cooking from morning tea time. And she’s gotten into the habit of asking you very ten minutes: “Why don’t you eat something? I’ll make you a chicken roll.”

Twenty four hours in their house, and I go nuts.
My uncle looooves non-vegetarian food or rather the idea of it. And so every morning the fishmonger, the mutton-seller and the chicken-seller dutifully come to their house first.
Lunch is a small affair for them. Just one chicken curry, a fish curry, daal, one vegetable, rice, roti and pickle. How many people in the house? Three – Mama, Maami and my cousin. Geez!