I never really appreciated Mills and Boons while in school and college though read a few classics. A book worm since school days, I exhausted almost all books of Robin Cook, John Grisham, Daniel Steel and few others. But I enjoy watching a complete romantic movie. A true Sagittarian and hopelessly romantic, I so much believe in happy endings and fairy tales. I watched Wake Up Sid third time last weekend and realized that I can watch it any number of times.
Most of my friends and few in family have had love marriages. They clicked and it amazes me even today. In all their cases, one of the partners didn’t fit the “tall, dark, handsome” or “fair, slim, beautiful” bill. But everyone’s story borders on surrealism.
Beauty and the beast, dumb and intelligent, calm and noisy, pompous and modest. You may say opposites attract. But I guess, it’s the feeling of incompleteness that binds them together. My belief goes stronger whenever I see my uncle and aunt, the most odd couple, but married for 40 long years!
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Jail with a humane touch
.......I took a deep breath and stepped inside the compound. Advivaram Central Jail was a far cry from the sordid prisons I saw on TV. The 150-acre sprawling land overlooking the Ghats, was beautifully landscaped. The superintendent’s office was spacious with French window look-likes that gave a good view of the dormitories and nature. After exchanging pleasantries, he warned me not to move too close to the inmates. With three armed guards I was on my way to attend the Morning Prayer with the inmates. By the time I reached, they were done with their Sunday prayers and listening raptly to a discourse by one of the Brahma Kumari. The silence was broken by a moment of commotion among the audience. I felt their enquiring stares and heard their whispers. I greeted the speaker and stood in a corner.
The speech resumed in a few minutes, but Raju, who was sitting in the last row, looked distracted. I pretended oblivious when he stole a few stares at me. I knew whom to start with after the speech. I caught his eye this time and smiled. He was startled and looked embarrassed as if he was caught stealing. He didn’t move a bone in the rest of the session.
I introduced myself to Raju, he greeted me hesitantly and moved quickly to join his group of friends. I realized that it was the guards and not I who shooed him away. I asked the guards to wait, while I joined his group of friends. After the initial hiccups, the men opened up, talked about their village, job and family. I met others to know how they were finding the morning prayers. The prayers and discourses sure made a difference, when the Brahma Kumari told me that around 40% turned vegetarians after they started visiting Advivaram. Shifting to vegetarianism is just not a food habit change but a transition to calmer and peaceful lifestyle.
I met the vocational instructor who was training them to make almarahs, boxes, carpentry and wooden toys. When I asked the challenges he faced with his students, he was clearly offended. “There are many skilled artisans here. Just because they are here, it makes them no less than anyone. Will you ever know that they spent few years in jail if you had met them outside?” The middle-aged instructor annoyed me but it was his way of letting me know that I should not make his pupil feel “different”. I took a quick tour of the place where the shining tin boxes, almarahs and intricately carved toys were ready to be dispatched to the bazaars of Vizag and Vizianagaram. I had a renewed respect for the instructor who busied himself with his talented students.
I interacted with the gardener and his students in the sprawling gardens. “Few of them are so good that they can start their own nurseries,” said he. I spent time strolling, talking and laughing at the jokes cracked by the inmates. All this while, my temporary body guards never lost me out of their sight. It was time for me to head towards the kitchen to check out the Sunday lunch. I was pleasantly surprised to know that the chief and sous chefs are inmates! I got a welcoming smile from one of the cooks who was making “gongora chatni”. “We make more vegetarian food than non-vegetarian these days. Many have shifted to vegetarianism and the numbers are increasing faster,” he said. “Will you taste our food?” he asked hesitatingly. “Give me some rice with gongora chatni. It’s my favorite,” I said. The chatni was a bit sour to my liking. I walked into a dormitory which had 8 beds arranged in two rows. The inmates were relaxing after their morning work and waiting for the lunch bell. I was greeted by an inmate in his late 50’s. The cell looked lively as some were watching a movie on a portable color TV hung from the roof while the wining duo was noisy at a game of carom. Devudu, the oldest member of the cell, spent 15 years in the jail. “How many years left?” I asked. “I am here for double murder, so will be here for a while.” He stared at me a tad longer to note my reaction. He was relieved to see that I was nonchalant.
My next stop was the psychiatry cell, where a group of social workers, counselors, and psychiatrist deal with the most difficult part – helping the inmates to cope up with their new surroundings. “The first few months are the most difficult for a newbie. The newbie lives in denial and either gets depressed or hostile. We help him/her to come to terms with the situation.” Besides fighting the teething problem, the team is kept busy containing homosexuality and STDs.
It was late afternoon when I thanked the guards whose presence helped me to sail through the day. My perception towards the inmates changed. They were mere victims of a moment of weakness. Most of them regret for their actions and wished if they had been strong enough to withstand the testing times. But what bothered them was if they would be accepted in the free world. Families visit them often initially. Slowly the gap widens. Weekly visits turn to biweekly, then monthly, few months and subsequently once or twice in a year. They miss being at marriages, baby showers or festivals. Life outside the wall moves fast whereas inside it just stops.
The jail was thrown open for the public on Sundays for a month. “Are the inmates an object of amusement for the public to see?” I asked the jailer. “It is just an effort to let public change their perception about the inmates so that they get accepted once they go back,” he answered. This news was taken with mixed feels among the inmates. While some were happy that they get to interact with public, others were offended by their exhibition.
I went back to the free world with mixed feelings. I was glad that they live with more dignity than the ones languishing in other parts of the country. And sorry because no matter what freedom is priceless.
The speech resumed in a few minutes, but Raju, who was sitting in the last row, looked distracted. I pretended oblivious when he stole a few stares at me. I knew whom to start with after the speech. I caught his eye this time and smiled. He was startled and looked embarrassed as if he was caught stealing. He didn’t move a bone in the rest of the session.
I introduced myself to Raju, he greeted me hesitantly and moved quickly to join his group of friends. I realized that it was the guards and not I who shooed him away. I asked the guards to wait, while I joined his group of friends. After the initial hiccups, the men opened up, talked about their village, job and family. I met others to know how they were finding the morning prayers. The prayers and discourses sure made a difference, when the Brahma Kumari told me that around 40% turned vegetarians after they started visiting Advivaram. Shifting to vegetarianism is just not a food habit change but a transition to calmer and peaceful lifestyle.
I met the vocational instructor who was training them to make almarahs, boxes, carpentry and wooden toys. When I asked the challenges he faced with his students, he was clearly offended. “There are many skilled artisans here. Just because they are here, it makes them no less than anyone. Will you ever know that they spent few years in jail if you had met them outside?” The middle-aged instructor annoyed me but it was his way of letting me know that I should not make his pupil feel “different”. I took a quick tour of the place where the shining tin boxes, almarahs and intricately carved toys were ready to be dispatched to the bazaars of Vizag and Vizianagaram. I had a renewed respect for the instructor who busied himself with his talented students.
I interacted with the gardener and his students in the sprawling gardens. “Few of them are so good that they can start their own nurseries,” said he. I spent time strolling, talking and laughing at the jokes cracked by the inmates. All this while, my temporary body guards never lost me out of their sight. It was time for me to head towards the kitchen to check out the Sunday lunch. I was pleasantly surprised to know that the chief and sous chefs are inmates! I got a welcoming smile from one of the cooks who was making “gongora chatni”. “We make more vegetarian food than non-vegetarian these days. Many have shifted to vegetarianism and the numbers are increasing faster,” he said. “Will you taste our food?” he asked hesitatingly. “Give me some rice with gongora chatni. It’s my favorite,” I said. The chatni was a bit sour to my liking. I walked into a dormitory which had 8 beds arranged in two rows. The inmates were relaxing after their morning work and waiting for the lunch bell. I was greeted by an inmate in his late 50’s. The cell looked lively as some were watching a movie on a portable color TV hung from the roof while the wining duo was noisy at a game of carom. Devudu, the oldest member of the cell, spent 15 years in the jail. “How many years left?” I asked. “I am here for double murder, so will be here for a while.” He stared at me a tad longer to note my reaction. He was relieved to see that I was nonchalant.
My next stop was the psychiatry cell, where a group of social workers, counselors, and psychiatrist deal with the most difficult part – helping the inmates to cope up with their new surroundings. “The first few months are the most difficult for a newbie. The newbie lives in denial and either gets depressed or hostile. We help him/her to come to terms with the situation.” Besides fighting the teething problem, the team is kept busy containing homosexuality and STDs.
It was late afternoon when I thanked the guards whose presence helped me to sail through the day. My perception towards the inmates changed. They were mere victims of a moment of weakness. Most of them regret for their actions and wished if they had been strong enough to withstand the testing times. But what bothered them was if they would be accepted in the free world. Families visit them often initially. Slowly the gap widens. Weekly visits turn to biweekly, then monthly, few months and subsequently once or twice in a year. They miss being at marriages, baby showers or festivals. Life outside the wall moves fast whereas inside it just stops.
The jail was thrown open for the public on Sundays for a month. “Are the inmates an object of amusement for the public to see?” I asked the jailer. “It is just an effort to let public change their perception about the inmates so that they get accepted once they go back,” he answered. This news was taken with mixed feels among the inmates. While some were happy that they get to interact with public, others were offended by their exhibition.
I went back to the free world with mixed feelings. I was glad that they live with more dignity than the ones languishing in other parts of the country. And sorry because no matter what freedom is priceless.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
One fine morning...
Mother was surprised to see me up so early on a Sunday morning.
It was when I was a sub-editor with an English national daily. My day used to start at 10 am in the morning with a hot piping tea and three national dailies. Yes, it was expected of every journalist to make a comparison of how a piece of news is carried by the competitors. After reaching home around 1 am, I had the habit of watching movie, if interesting or read for a while before calling it a day.
I did the usual on Saturday and returned home in the wee hours of Sunday. I was restless rather tensed and couldn’t sleep. Mother was surprised to see me dressed up at the breakfast table.
“Are you going out,” she asked.
“Yes. I have an assignment.” I said. I was unusually quiet.
“Where?” she asked.
“To the central jail. I have to do a story on the inmates.” I said. I was in no mood to talk, wanted time for myself to calm down.
Father lifted his face from the newspaper, looked at me and resumed his reading.
Mother threw a fit. She expected a bit more from my father.
“How could your boss send a girl to the jail to meet a bunch of thugs? Isn’t there anyone else left in your office? Give me his number. I will talk to him.” She was fuming.
I asked her to calm down but deep within I wanted her to stop me from going. I can’t remember the last time I was this scared. I was going to spend the whole day with the inmates, definitely, not an exciting one to look forward to.
“Are you fine? Do you think you can do this assignment?” inquired papa before I left home.
“I think I can,” I replied.
I so badly wanted to say no. I wanted him to call my boss and cook up a story so that I can be saved.
As the huge gates opened, I was greeted by one of the bodyguards of the jailer.
“Sir is expecting you,” said he.
It was when I was a sub-editor with an English national daily. My day used to start at 10 am in the morning with a hot piping tea and three national dailies. Yes, it was expected of every journalist to make a comparison of how a piece of news is carried by the competitors. After reaching home around 1 am, I had the habit of watching movie, if interesting or read for a while before calling it a day.
I did the usual on Saturday and returned home in the wee hours of Sunday. I was restless rather tensed and couldn’t sleep. Mother was surprised to see me dressed up at the breakfast table.
“Are you going out,” she asked.
“Yes. I have an assignment.” I said. I was unusually quiet.
“Where?” she asked.
“To the central jail. I have to do a story on the inmates.” I said. I was in no mood to talk, wanted time for myself to calm down.
Father lifted his face from the newspaper, looked at me and resumed his reading.
Mother threw a fit. She expected a bit more from my father.
“How could your boss send a girl to the jail to meet a bunch of thugs? Isn’t there anyone else left in your office? Give me his number. I will talk to him.” She was fuming.
I asked her to calm down but deep within I wanted her to stop me from going. I can’t remember the last time I was this scared. I was going to spend the whole day with the inmates, definitely, not an exciting one to look forward to.
“Are you fine? Do you think you can do this assignment?” inquired papa before I left home.
“I think I can,” I replied.
I so badly wanted to say no. I wanted him to call my boss and cook up a story so that I can be saved.
As the huge gates opened, I was greeted by one of the bodyguards of the jailer.
“Sir is expecting you,” said he.
A dramatic monolog
After Andrea Del Sarto and My Last Duchess, if I enjoyed any dramatic monolog in a long time then it was by Sridevi, my co-passenger in train a month back. A casual chit chat ended up as an intense one-sided monolog. I kept listening amused by her intonation fired by emotions.
Sridevi was heavy built with a passable face, too matured for a 23-year old. Even her tall figure couldn’t hide the roundish contour. She had to give up a promising career to get married to somebody 8 years elder to her. Six months into marriage, she was caught up between conservative husband and orthodox in-laws. Her gregarious nature kept going back to a carefree life that was quelled by a life without love. As she spoke, I recalled a lecture on writing techniques by my professor in university. It’s called Stream of Consciousness with a slight difference - Sridevi was thinking loud.
I wondered and in fact, envied her for letting her emotions out with so much ease in front of strangers. She left her melancholic mood as if it was never there, and jumped on to a lighter topic. I listened. In between she kept calling her husband who was recovering from fever. She checked if he saw a doctor, took medicines and had food. She harped on her favorite topics, and unfinished discussions. I listened.
She looks out of the window and gets up without warning. “You know what, I will make this work. Time for me to go,” she said and left.
I was impressed by her optimism. With such an infectious nature, she can make anything happen her way. Wishing her all the luck in the world.
PS: She didn’t ask my name, which I really liked.
Sridevi was heavy built with a passable face, too matured for a 23-year old. Even her tall figure couldn’t hide the roundish contour. She had to give up a promising career to get married to somebody 8 years elder to her. Six months into marriage, she was caught up between conservative husband and orthodox in-laws. Her gregarious nature kept going back to a carefree life that was quelled by a life without love. As she spoke, I recalled a lecture on writing techniques by my professor in university. It’s called Stream of Consciousness with a slight difference - Sridevi was thinking loud.
I wondered and in fact, envied her for letting her emotions out with so much ease in front of strangers. She left her melancholic mood as if it was never there, and jumped on to a lighter topic. I listened. In between she kept calling her husband who was recovering from fever. She checked if he saw a doctor, took medicines and had food. She harped on her favorite topics, and unfinished discussions. I listened.
She looks out of the window and gets up without warning. “You know what, I will make this work. Time for me to go,” she said and left.
I was impressed by her optimism. With such an infectious nature, she can make anything happen her way. Wishing her all the luck in the world.
PS: She didn’t ask my name, which I really liked.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
An unfinished journey
For once Gayatri is not irritated waiting for the train. She dreamt of this journey many times, sure that it’s going to be a joyous one. Lost in her dreams, in harmony with the cacophony, she felt his arms around her. She smiled and looked at him. She kept staring at him, searched for that assurance. She couldn’t find it. Is he trying to convey her something? The quiet and shy Gautam, took her by surprise often with the innovative ways of expressing his affection. Ah! How much she savored every such moment.
She held him close oblivious to the disapproving stares. She felt his body stiffen. “Why is he tensed and uneasy?” She thought. “Didn’t we dream of this day together? But it’s natural to be apprehensive about a new journey, bigger responsibilities and unknown challenges.” She was talking to herself in her thoughts.
Her reverie was broken with the approaching train. She pushed back her thoughts, held him tight, ecstatic as a child looking at the roaring train.
He held her away from him; “it’s time for me to go,” he said.
“I’m sure I heard it wrong,” she thought looking at him.
He shrugged her looking at the stoned figure. Mouth parched, she whimpered, “but why?”
Silence was the answer.
“Can you ever forgive me?” He asked.
He couldn’t see her agony. He was already looking for salvation even though she hasn’t absorbed the news yet.
“Sorry,” he squeezed her hand one last time and boarded the serpentine train as it chugged its way out of the platform to its onward journey.
Day melted into dusk; perched on a marble bench she stared emptily at the sad and happy faces bidding adieu to their dear ones. With a numb mind and wounded heart, she wobbled towards the exit. Her frail body quivered as the tears of humiliation drenched her in shame.
Her once perfect world is shattered into pieces now. It’s for the time to decide if she can shape it up again and discard the useless parts.
“Didn’t we dream of this journey together? How could he take a decision on my behalf without taking my consent?” the thought irritated her.
“Show me your platform ticket please?” Asked the ticket collector at the exit.
She showed her train ticket.
“Oh! This train left in the morning. Did you miss it?” inquired the TC.
“I was never meant to be on that train,” she smiled feebly and moved on.
She held him close oblivious to the disapproving stares. She felt his body stiffen. “Why is he tensed and uneasy?” She thought. “Didn’t we dream of this day together? But it’s natural to be apprehensive about a new journey, bigger responsibilities and unknown challenges.” She was talking to herself in her thoughts.
Her reverie was broken with the approaching train. She pushed back her thoughts, held him tight, ecstatic as a child looking at the roaring train.
He held her away from him; “it’s time for me to go,” he said.
“I’m sure I heard it wrong,” she thought looking at him.
He shrugged her looking at the stoned figure. Mouth parched, she whimpered, “but why?”
Silence was the answer.
“Can you ever forgive me?” He asked.
He couldn’t see her agony. He was already looking for salvation even though she hasn’t absorbed the news yet.
“Sorry,” he squeezed her hand one last time and boarded the serpentine train as it chugged its way out of the platform to its onward journey.
Day melted into dusk; perched on a marble bench she stared emptily at the sad and happy faces bidding adieu to their dear ones. With a numb mind and wounded heart, she wobbled towards the exit. Her frail body quivered as the tears of humiliation drenched her in shame.
Her once perfect world is shattered into pieces now. It’s for the time to decide if she can shape it up again and discard the useless parts.
“Didn’t we dream of this journey together? How could he take a decision on my behalf without taking my consent?” the thought irritated her.
“Show me your platform ticket please?” Asked the ticket collector at the exit.
She showed her train ticket.
“Oh! This train left in the morning. Did you miss it?” inquired the TC.
“I was never meant to be on that train,” she smiled feebly and moved on.
Monday, August 3, 2009
The "P" Effect
It’s going to be two years in my present company soon but feels like yesterday. The first day went very fast and pleasant. Introductions, formal “hellos”, casual jokes, welcome mails and a joining lunch treat by one of the team members. I replied to the welcome mails that came from my manager, VP and the senior VP, Mr. P – his signature in office mails.
One of the team members enquired if I heard from P, to which I nodded. What followed after that was a 15 minutes introduction of P who is a demigod in the company. Sure he is - a prodigy, who knows how to run a show successfully. The India office witnesses a flurry of activities every time he visits, which is too frequent.
It is impressive to know that he acknowledges everyone by name and enquires about personal tidbits of oldies in the company, talks about cricket nonchalantly over a cup of coffee, pulls a fast one on others or entertains us by making himself the butt of jokes.
On the professional front, he talks about why the code is complicated, why the SQL query is unnecessarily lengthy, why is the architecture not scalable, where is the deployment going wrong, what requirements are missed in the FSDs, how can the user interface be improved and what should be the documentation approach.
He is awe-inspiring, but it also resulted in intellectual disparity between him and the rest of the organization. Even an intellectual is capable of making mistakes if he doesn’t have the check points regularly. The outcome could be monopoly and chaos, which can spell disaster. There were times when plans had to be altered at the 11th hour, his casual comments and feedback kept most on tenterhooks. Everyone is panting to meet his expectations round the clock. Ironically even I am one among them who is gasping for breath. Obviously, I can’t have my way and stay out to watch the whole act being enacted again and again! It was not surprising when P’s “foresight” took precedence over customer deliverables. There had been rumors that friends turned foe when they came to work for him and finally bowed out.
He is standing alone in the arena, with no real contenders to challenge him. If somebody of his caliber and intellect comes onboard then it would be no less than watching Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged unfold. Till then it’s going to be the “P” effect here.
One of the team members enquired if I heard from P, to which I nodded. What followed after that was a 15 minutes introduction of P who is a demigod in the company. Sure he is - a prodigy, who knows how to run a show successfully. The India office witnesses a flurry of activities every time he visits, which is too frequent.
It is impressive to know that he acknowledges everyone by name and enquires about personal tidbits of oldies in the company, talks about cricket nonchalantly over a cup of coffee, pulls a fast one on others or entertains us by making himself the butt of jokes.
On the professional front, he talks about why the code is complicated, why the SQL query is unnecessarily lengthy, why is the architecture not scalable, where is the deployment going wrong, what requirements are missed in the FSDs, how can the user interface be improved and what should be the documentation approach.
He is awe-inspiring, but it also resulted in intellectual disparity between him and the rest of the organization. Even an intellectual is capable of making mistakes if he doesn’t have the check points regularly. The outcome could be monopoly and chaos, which can spell disaster. There were times when plans had to be altered at the 11th hour, his casual comments and feedback kept most on tenterhooks. Everyone is panting to meet his expectations round the clock. Ironically even I am one among them who is gasping for breath. Obviously, I can’t have my way and stay out to watch the whole act being enacted again and again! It was not surprising when P’s “foresight” took precedence over customer deliverables. There had been rumors that friends turned foe when they came to work for him and finally bowed out.
He is standing alone in the arena, with no real contenders to challenge him. If somebody of his caliber and intellect comes onboard then it would be no less than watching Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged unfold. Till then it’s going to be the “P” effect here.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The slumdog millionaire
It was when we shifted to Bangalore and moved into our neighborhood in Kormangala. My father, who belongs to the old school, believes in friendly and helpful neighbors. Not even 10 days old in the city, he knew Mr. Joseph, our immediate neighbor and “the old couple” (this is how we refer them even today) in front of our house and few more in our street. His day starts with a half-an-hour walk followed by scanning the morning newspaper in the portico.
Next to the “old couple” house is an empty plot which is a bigger version of a kitchen garden. If you thought in 30 by 40 plot, one can hardly grow any plants, then you are wrong. A mango tree, plantain, papaya, bottle gaud, brinjal, and many more seasonal fruits and vegetables. Dressed in an old shirt and a lungi (Indian version of sherong), he comes everyday to remove weeds and water the plants. It is a sight to watch the gardener who nurses every plant, observes every leaf and bud, oblivious to his surroundings.
My father, out of curiosity, wanted to know the market value of the plot. So he asks, “Excuse me; where does the owner of this plot stay?”
The gardener: “Why?”
Father: “Well…just like that. Does he come anytime this side?”
The gardener: “What do you want to know sir? You can ask me.”
Father: “hmm…I wanted to know the price of this land?”
The gardener: “60 lakhs….I am the owner.”
Father: “Is it? There is one more plot at the beginning of this street. I saw you there too.”
The gardener: “Yes. Even that’s mine.”
Father walked into the house with nothing more to ask or say. By then, mother and I understood that the facts hit him hard and he is taking time to absorb them! He looked at us and what followed was a riot of laughter.
I was intrigued by this gardener, who is nothing less than a millionaire. What I am about to reveal is the facts about him which are no less than any shocker.
He has three other big plots in and around Kormangala, each costing a few crores. He is employed by a private firm as a grade 4 employee and takes home a salary of Rs 3,500. He has four daughters who are studying in a government school which hardly has any facilities. He doesn’t buy vegetables from the market. Whatever he grows in these two plots near our house is what they eat. Now you may ask, what happens when there are no vegetables in his kitchen gardens? I don’t have to answer that. You would have guessed it by now!
What’s special in the Sunday menu? Half a kilo of mutton cooked with papaya. Ever heard of that combination? By the way, papaya helps to cook the meat faster besides adding to the quantity that suffices a family of seven (including his mom. His father passed away)!
Most of us would not see that kind of money even if our two generations worked in an IT firm. I was tempted to ask him many times, “Why is he living a life of a pauper?”
Now you know why I have called him the Slumdog Millionaire.
Next to the “old couple” house is an empty plot which is a bigger version of a kitchen garden. If you thought in 30 by 40 plot, one can hardly grow any plants, then you are wrong. A mango tree, plantain, papaya, bottle gaud, brinjal, and many more seasonal fruits and vegetables. Dressed in an old shirt and a lungi (Indian version of sherong), he comes everyday to remove weeds and water the plants. It is a sight to watch the gardener who nurses every plant, observes every leaf and bud, oblivious to his surroundings.
My father, out of curiosity, wanted to know the market value of the plot. So he asks, “Excuse me; where does the owner of this plot stay?”
The gardener: “Why?”
Father: “Well…just like that. Does he come anytime this side?”
The gardener: “What do you want to know sir? You can ask me.”
Father: “hmm…I wanted to know the price of this land?”
The gardener: “60 lakhs….I am the owner.”
Father: “Is it? There is one more plot at the beginning of this street. I saw you there too.”
The gardener: “Yes. Even that’s mine.”
Father walked into the house with nothing more to ask or say. By then, mother and I understood that the facts hit him hard and he is taking time to absorb them! He looked at us and what followed was a riot of laughter.
I was intrigued by this gardener, who is nothing less than a millionaire. What I am about to reveal is the facts about him which are no less than any shocker.
He has three other big plots in and around Kormangala, each costing a few crores. He is employed by a private firm as a grade 4 employee and takes home a salary of Rs 3,500. He has four daughters who are studying in a government school which hardly has any facilities. He doesn’t buy vegetables from the market. Whatever he grows in these two plots near our house is what they eat. Now you may ask, what happens when there are no vegetables in his kitchen gardens? I don’t have to answer that. You would have guessed it by now!
What’s special in the Sunday menu? Half a kilo of mutton cooked with papaya. Ever heard of that combination? By the way, papaya helps to cook the meat faster besides adding to the quantity that suffices a family of seven (including his mom. His father passed away)!
Most of us would not see that kind of money even if our two generations worked in an IT firm. I was tempted to ask him many times, “Why is he living a life of a pauper?”
Now you know why I have called him the Slumdog Millionaire.
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