Chapter 9: Jeevan Deep Co-Operative housing Society.

It was a second life to me, beginning from scratch, new locality, new school and new subjects.

The building was great; as a matter of fact great would be an understatement. Agreed that it was a chawl, and chawls in Mumbai are considered to be hideouts of notorious criminals, this was unique, we had eight rooms in a row and of eight five were occupied by ppl speaking different languages.

I was brought up amidst Bhaiyyas from UP, Gujrathis, Maharashtrians, Malayalis and Mohammedans. So it was a communal harmony in a sense and we ended up celebrating every single festival from Ramzan, Chhat puja, Dandiya, Makar sankrant and Onam.

My dad never used to mix with people and kept his distance, that was his upbringing, but I never missed out a chance to enjoy shirkurma or for that matter karonji and puttu, my dad used to object at my sociability, but my mom would always pacify him.

Holi was one festival that I never got a chance to enjoy until I started working and was free from my dads supervision. This was one festival where he took his stand, and never let me get my face colored. As for the rationale behind it I never really knew, but just that he used to be amused with the people throwing colors on each other at the same time marinating a clean stand.

My mother used to tutor the kids in our building for one third the fees that was demanded by the qualified teachers, agreed that my mother was not qualified enough to teach higher class students, but she did start off on the kindergarten up to the fifth standard and was revered by the others in the building. For the only reason I am still given a royal treatment when ever I grace my presence to the building.

My dad was feared by others and he did derive a kick out of frightening children if they don’t study and the likes, overall, the people at the building considered him as a sergeant, strict to the core when needed and friendly otherwise. Much to the ire of my mother and me, My dad also used to derive his own kicks by pouring ice cold water on a winters day over the society dog… he used to be amused at the way it used to bark. He is one Sagittarian who seldom shows love to animals. (He has toned down now, but I know that he would never miss a chance to frighten a cat, or stone a dog).

Another amusing (amusing for the people but the dog involved did not find it funny) incident that happened during my stay at Chembur was that my neighbor got some petrol out from his bike and poured it on Moti’s (the society dog) nuts. It irritated the dog so much that it spent the entire day scratching its nuts on tarred pavements. Don’t believe me, try it out on your dog if you own one and let me know its reactions. The neighbor became my dads best friend, we actually sold our flat at a 10 % discount to the same guy before we vacated the place.

Yes there is one more move, but in the near future…

Would like to shift the focus on my academics next….

Chapter 8: Sibling Update

My cousin sister had the reputation of being known as an all time scholar whom no one could beat (at studies that is, physically she was frail then and would cry at being touched), she had the impeccable performance of scoring straight A’s throughout her school education.

No only was she talented in her studies but she also used to dance and sing well. She was one favorite cousin of mine, probably because of the fact that we spent most of our childhood together.

My cousin brother bettered my cousin sister, but his problem was that he was forced to study, he had a strict dad. His dad was my dads younger brother who was of the idea that you cannot achieve anything without studies and even went to the extent of putting ideas into my dads head. A result of which was whip lashing me with a belt if I failed to score ranks.

At least my dad was reasonable, he would belt me only if I did not get a rank (which seldom happened until I reached my 5^th standard) on the other hand my cousin would face the belt if he scored any rank below 1^st. Such was the ordeal that he had to face. So getting the first rank for my cousin brother was a matter of survival, whereas my sister did it out of her love for studies.

I am being so forthright about my cousins because I never made it to the premier ranks after I joined FHS, the reason was partly that the new building that I moved into had many children belonging to the same age group as mine and my inner child woke up and wanted to do things that it never did get a chance to, and partly because the teachers in this new school were all grumpy, no one bothered to find out if you really did understand something, they were all of the types “copy from the board and ask ur parents for help… and if you are rich enough hire a tutor”, there were a few exceptions to these, but I am classifying the vast majority.

Now my parents were of the idea that if you are smart and intelligent you should not be going to tuitions, the T-word was dreaded in my family and was regarded to as a shame equivalent to getting ones daughter gang raped. The fact that the teaching abilities of the teachers should be taken into account before drawing a conclusion never crossed their minds once, and my ranks took a beating. They forever believed that teacher is an all knowing guru who thinks its his prime responsibility to impart knowledge and shape tender minds, it is what a teacher should ideally be, but the naïve minds of my parents fails to accept the reality over idealism, and they still think the same.

My ranks did take a dip in FHS, and I was never the same person again personally. I had immatured (I know that this is not a word), people mature with time, but for once I immatured and enjoyed every single moment. Now that I look back at it I realize that I have had the best life to my siblings envy.

I will take this up in detail in my concluding chapters, for now its my Chembur residence that gets the spotlight.

Rain Check.

Had a query from one of my friends after reading yesterdays blog whether i still indulge myself in Panty Peeking, so to set the records straight, i do NOT.

There is a reason for the same, we used to indulge in it for the pure sense of adventure , thrill and the danger involved, (which some ppl derive out of hunting) but girls now-a-days readily flash theirs in full view that we end up with zero achievement factor whatsoever.

Its akin to a herd of tigers armed with AK-47's approaching a hunter and committing mass suicide. Wheres the fun for the hunter in that...

Disclaimer: My series is called "My researches with Legitimacy", so there has to be a fair amount of truth involved.

Chapter 7: Nayi Dishaayein… Nayi Aashayein…

I am in the first standard now; my life has just started to move.

I made a new friend called Rakesh, he was the boy of an industrialist and was the one who always had fancy rubber caps for his pencils. He always used to carry fresh new pencils every other day and used to show it off. He was popular with the guys and the chicks alike for his flamboyance whereas I was better off know to the class as the ‘Topper’.

Rakesh managed to get to me too, he was a nice person to know, his interests included apart from showing off expensive eraser tips, drawing, cricket and an occasional indulgence called Panty peeking (if the name isn’t suggestive enough, it was supposedly a game in which he used to take a sneak peek at the girls unmentionables without them getting to notice him) how he had inculcated such a refined art at such a tender age I don’t know. I for once tried it at his instigation and that was partly a reason for us to shift the second time.

I was a good student when in the first standard, reason being that I used to stay at my grammys and there were no children of my age to play with, so most of my days would be spent at school or doing homework or tending to roses and chatting up my grammy. That gave me a certificate of a scholar in the making and no one complained.

My grampa expired during the time I was at my grammys, it was a sad day. Don’t remember much, as I chose to forget it. But soon after my dad decided it was time to take a flat and to move on…

My dad bought a flat in Chembur, with the finances that were put together by his savings and a little help from his brother. We officially owned a home. We moved into the new home during my summer vacations.

My results were declared and I stood first in SIWS and passed on the second standard. Now that we were in Chembur, there was no way I could continue going to SIWS, so we started to look out for good schools around the area, and this was when I entered into Fatima. The school was called “Fatima High School” was set up in Vidyavihar and was a Prime catholic school, well renowned for its capacity to churn out state merit list holders, and it naturally became a choice for my parents to try for my admission there.

We filled the forms and I was groomed by my elder cousin who used to go to the same school for an interview. When my name was announced we went in hoping for a good grilling session with the “Father” of the school (Principal in school equivalent to Father in Catholic schools). The then reigning father was Rev. Oscar, he took one look at my results and asked my parents to pay my fees and get me admitted. Never before was admission such a breeze.

So I started my crucial journey in a single room kitchen, chawl in Chembur, and trudged along my education at FHS.

Never did I realize I would learn a valuable lesson of life here.

Chapter 6: South Indian Welfare School (S.I.W.S) & BEST route 9.

This was the school that I attended from Pre Kindergarten (or Nursery as some ppl know it) to the first standard.

The nursery phase was the one that I remember very vaguely, I was a good student then, used to stand right beside my teacher while all other students used to sit in their benches, my POV, I used to find faults in every single classmate of mine and the faults ranged from downright ugly to noserunner to smellycats.

By the time I finished my nursery, I did manage to make an army of enemies of which some were pissed out at the fact that I called them noserunners and smellycats and they couldn’t do anything about it, others for the fact that I ruled when it came to exams, and the last ones had problems controlling the bladders, those were the one referred to as “hoseleaks” in my vocabulary.

But the teacher was impressed, and I ended up having excellent calves. Thanks to my standing beside the teacher all day long. I used to get the homework done on time cause I feared that my teacher might actually make me sit with the other students as punishment in case I did not, which she never did, those were the times when teachers used less force and more love to teach students.

So vanity did run high in my earlier years at school, but hey... I am accepting the fact and not burying the hatchet.

We used to walk to the nursery, which was actually close to my grammys place, my mother would comedown daily to drop me off and to pick me up from school. And during the walk we kinda bonded.

Starting on my first standard, I had to travel to Wadala, for which we used to catch bus number 9, Which used to go from Antop hill to somewhere close to Nehru Planetaium. We used to board the bus from the first stop, but there was a catch, the bus was the one that was in most demand and also the one that had the least frequency.

For the first few days we stood all the way to my school, later the conductor offered to allow me to enter the bus when it was parked for refueling and secure a seat for myself. I used to enjoy it, entire bus for myself and I can take any seat I wanted to, was never given such a royal treatment by anyone. My mother accompanied me for a few more days, and then I was on my own. My routine used to be somewhat like this:

Stand at the depot opposite to the bus stop where the bus usually stops for refuelling, get into the bus and select the seat that has the largest window, and have a nice trip to school. While returning back there was no way I could get a seat since the buses used to be packed to capacity but that was ok… it helped me level out my expectations.

So it was actually the driver and the conductor of the double decked route 9 bus that I actually made friendship with without the permission of my parents, for the same reason I still have a sympathetic corner towards BEST employees.

So amazed was I with the way the driver maneuvered the red mammoth across winding streets, that deep down I began to harbor the inclination to mahout my own. I was downright expressive about it too, so when asked about our professional streams, my siblings would generally choose between an engineer and a doctor, I preferred to be the Driver, the least popular profession amongst Iyengars, and the most embarrassing moment for my parents. I was never questioned about my “profession” at a social gathering… EVER.

Come First standard and the number of subjects in school increased manifold, at least for a child. My challenges have just begun…and it’s tiring already.

Chapter 5: chi(n)tty chi(n)tty bang bang…

Now that I have touched upon our family shifting to my grammys residence, I realize that there were quite a few incidents that took place in sector VII that weren’t touched upon, a majority of them are covered here and ill try to fit in everything at sector VII so that we don’t keep revisiting the nightmare.

I was brought up in a conservative manner, my parents both staunch iyengars harbored the belief that if a child mixes with children from other background (essentially meaning religion) it might sow seeds of imperfection in their religious lineage (they have toned down… but not entirely). So it was my parents who chose my friends for me. It felt real bad as the saying “God gives us our relatives… but we get to choose our friends” didn’t really fit me. Here I was stuck between money crazy fanatic paternal relatives who’d give a damn unless money was involved and they were at the receiving end, A friend chosen for me because he used to top his class, bore neutral grounds, ate whatever was given to him without making a fuss, looked so shoddy that grass never grew on the path the tread and my maternal relatives who were extremely giving, forever had a listening ear and wouldn’t think twice before taking a loan to help a friend in need.

So I grew up with a balance knob on my life, similar to the ones we have on radios that is used to control the output to either of the speakers, but the label on my lifes balance knob read:

Paternal relations --- Chosen Friend --- Maternal relations

As you might have observed my maternal relations were always rightJ. For most of the time (in my control) the knob would have been positioned either in the middle or at the far right. Wasn’t too fond of my friend but I had no other way to vent out my feelings, that and his dad used to be a professor and get cool gadgets home. As for my friend he was naïve enough to believe that my dad owned the gateway of India and the government of India would pay him handsomely if he collected and mailed 5000 different license plate numbers.

The last link that binds me with Sector VII is the accidents that I have had there; I was hospitalized thrice for a cut in the chin, and once for scraping my tongue. At all times I kept the knob at the far right as I knew that they were the ones who would truly care. I still remember my maternal uncle running with me bleeding from my freshly cut tongue around 5 kilometers to our family doctor… I still don’t know if I would ever be in a position to repay him. My parents seem to have forgotten the debt, but all that matters is that I haven’t.

I guess that wraps up all of my ties with the sector under consideration, will bring up a mention in case something pops up later. For now… I am schooling…

Chapter 4: Grammy…

The moving was not what was on the plates, it was what was on the plate that caused the moving.

My parents were embarrassed by the fact that their child had given a feedback so accurate that no mortal would be able to better it, even though many a people congratulated me on being so direct, my parents decided it was time to move on.

My action had only triggered the exodus of my family, the other reason as I was informed later was the actual one as I came to know, My uncle whose quarters we used to share had long before vacated the same to move to his own apartment in the happening western suburbs, the neighbor (a government servant himself) was involved in the department that tracks the empty houses and allots the same to the next officer in line for a home. Though the guy did not have a spine what he did have was “enough of shit” and my contribution to the existing pile triggered his defensive mechanism and he threatened my parents vacate the place.

So much for voicing your true opinion in a Gandhian nation.

So we moved, we did not have a home to own, we moved to my Grammys’ (Late maternal grandmother… lovingly referred to grammy) place, It was a swell house… again a government quarter but with good neighbors who were ever welcoming and never boasted about their culinary abilities. I guess they heard the story.

We changed sectors, moved from VII to V and close to a good area in Guru Teg Bahadur Nagar (aka GTB Nagar, Harbour line). It was here that I spent a major portion of childhood, and started off with my schooling (actually I was in school by the time we vacated sector VII, but the knowledge gained was not substantial in comparison with the ones that were parted with).

It was here at my grammys place that I was taught the values about respecting people, voicing unsolicited opinions and the likes, I was also given a crash course on gardening, I still know a trick or two about grafting and creating cross bred multi colored roses.

My grammy was the most influential person in my life, for she was the person who by her kindness touched me and made me see light. She would accept my lies knowingly and would wait for me to come and confess… which I eventually did. She was also pious and was the one who introduced me to praying.

Her contribution amounts for more than 30 % for the kind of person I am. I still miss her some days… as I do right now… she used to resolve all the conflicts that I used to have with my parents and make the wrong one see light, and I wasn’t always wrong.

With emotions running an all time high, its time to move on to the next phase of my life…

Chapter 3: Segmentation Fault… Core Dumped.

The day after the birthday was back to normal, I had secretly wished that the partying would continue, but much to my dissatisfaction it did not… just when I was actually beginning to like all the publicity.

BTW I had forgotten to mention that I had started to run by the time I was 9 months old, was a gifted, hyperactive, “the ideal enemy’s neighbor” Kid. So to restrain me from leaving my home and causing mayhem at my neighbors, the society secretly ran a collection campaign and gifted what was called the “bloody door plank” (by me that is) and my naïve parents accepted and installed the gift graciously.

The “door plank” is actually a piece of timber that is about the same height as a year old baby and is installed at the door, it helps deter the baby from moving out of the door by blocking its way. Elders and grownups just jump over it as if it was just another day to day hurdle in their race and carry on with their life. It’s the baby that’s suffers the house arrest.

I had started to sprout my first tooth then, it was barely visible and the gums irritated like hell. I took to gnawing anything and every thing from metal chairs to cloth to newspapers.

I was totally into news papers from my 18^th month, not that I was fascinated by pictures, but because newsprint tasted swell, and it made my tongue go black which amused me a little, but none the less I got a thrashing when my father found out my kick. He wouldn’t have had I known how to recognize items of his interest.

I had accidentally derived my kick out of eating a small piece from the newspaper and was contented with it, however what I did not realize that the piece had the winning numbers of Maharashtra Rajya lottery that my dad had recently purchased to try his luck, which in turn ruined mine. I was given a verbal thrashing accompanied by hours of brushing and tongue cleaning and a domestic restraining order was imposed upon me which came into effect of me approaching within a 2 foot radius of any printed material.

That did deter me from getting close to news papers, and from that day have given up reading news papers, I don’t regret it entirely… the news that are carried now-a-days usually cater to political interests, and I keep myself restrained from politics. The only thing I really miss is “Hagar the horrible” “Garfield” and “Calvin and Hobbes”.

My neighbors’ wife was a swell cook, at least that’s what she portrayed herself to be.

And on her second daughters birthday (the first was the one that eloped) we were invited for the “Party” where she had made everything from the cake to the candles , without reading a book or attending a course or being taught by someone, “it came naturally to her” was her take on it. As for my take she was either multi talented or was having an affair with the local candle maker who wanted his involvement to be kept strictly under covers.

Juicy as it gets, I’ll get back to the party. The cake looked Ok, was a leper Mickey mouse with arthritis, and everybody sang “happy birthday to you… blah blah blah” and clapped to mark the end of the cake cutting ceremony. We were then made to sit with everyone on the table for the special meal that my neighbors’ multitalented wife had cooked.

I had one bite of the cake, and suddenly my body cried… segmentation fault… after which I coolly got upon the table walked to my neighbor who was eating without complaining (but by his face I could make out he wasn’t… if only he had a spine) and took a core dump in his plate… I couldn’t speak then, my vocabulary was limited to “Amma” and “Appa” the local equivalents for mummy and daddy, but this was a classic symbolic gesture that was supposed to mean…

“Eat this, for it might actually taste better”.

We moved out of Antop Hill.

Chapter 2: HOST Krishnaswamy DOMAIN IS alphamale ALIAS IS Anand.

The days went on…

Although an alpha male I was nowhere capable of doing what I was supposed to, i.e. eat solid food (bloody perverts … I was a baby) so I used to survive on semi solid food and amuse myself by beating the hell out of an empty tin of “Farex” , that drove some of my neighbors crazy and caused others to fail in their mid terms, but that did not deter my enthusiasm with the tin, until I realized I could create louder noise by running a spoon over the window bars, I guess deep down there was a musician in me… well the one who never grew up.

That did it; I got my first recorded thrashing. I did cry, was a bloody baby... and it hurt. Later I realized that, it was the neighbor who complained that his daughter wasn’t able to concentrate on her studies because of my affinity towards the window and the spoon. It hurt.

And two days later the neighbors’ daughter eloped. They found pictures of a guy inside her textbook and when her parents confronted her to reveal his identity she took to her heels, so I wasn’t entirely the reason for her flunking her midterms, true that I was a hindrance to her concentration, but the text in the book was not what she was concentrating upon. That leveled my tryst with my conscience.

I always trust my conscience, it never fails me, and I also believe to this day that education is one of the best gifts that could be given to mankind, and a gift that stays till u draw the last breath. So you would seldom see me selling off old books, I might donate them to library but never sell them, u see knowledge is to be given not sold. Some day when I am well off I might as well start a charitable education trust. A little that I could give back to the society.

Now its almost a year since I was born, as you might have rightly guessed there wasn’t much activity around me, just the general ones… my relatives smothering me with kisses, perverted neighbors running a hand down my tool and deriving a kick out of juggling my nuts, my parents getting me the best dresses, food and quality of life that they could afford without running a loan.

Soon before I could know it, it was the time when I was to be introduced to a ritual called “Birthday” which essentially was celebrating the day when you were born and to keep a tab on the number of years completed till date.

My dad got up early that day… and went to order a cake. As my families financial condition was not very great, he ordered a cake with a small diameter, actually a heart shaped one, and wanted my name to be written on the same.

But when spelled out on the cake, the name wasn’t legible leaving aside the fact that it completely filled the vanilla area of the cake to give it a chocolate monotone.

Now that was depressing, the vendor offered to shorten the name to “Krishna” (which reminded my dad of his arch enemy at office and was rejected) “KS” (which was plain unacceptable as it was a popular condom brand then too) “Swami” (my dad wasn’t a R.K.Narayan fan which he would have been if we had a TV back then). So with all the options run out, my dad was asked if I have an alias or as we know it back in India a “pet name” and out of nowhere sprung “Anand”.

As to why “Anand” was preferred over Ram, Allah, Jesus or for that matter Jhambuvant, is a secret guarded as closely as the Coke Formula, the fact being my dad forgot it long ago and is not open for retrieval.

So I was rechristened as Anand, but for all official purposes I still stick to the longer version of my name as that’s what my birth certificate reads J.

My birthday went fine, a few eyebrows were raised at the name written on the cake, including those of my mom, but after my dad narrated the incidence and his lifelong tribute to Hrishikesh Mukherjee (by naming me Anand that is), I was given green and the party ended.

Chapter 1: Identification Division.

21^st December 1980 : 0950 Hrs Matunga Mumbai.

That was when I first saw sunlight… (Well how is a newborn supposed to distinguish between halogen and sun any way?) and presumably made my parents happy.

There was a lot of celebration that day… my entire neighborhood feasted on sambhar rice and rasam flowed instead of water… (Well somehow my dad managed to fill the tanks of the building with rasam… much to the ire of my neighbors… who would have preferred whiskey instead). Some of them who survived the ordeal still swear that their sweat tastes like rasam… why they keep tasting their sweat… I don’t really know.

My parents used to live in a notorious neighborhood of Antop Hill, known for its cold blooded murders of senior citizens, dowry deaths and communal sensitivity. My dad worked for Morarjee mills and earned a meager salary just enough to take care of his new born son, wife and himself, and shared his brothers flat. (I would stick to my family for now, will introduce ppl as and when required).

My dads brother (now an Ex income tax additional commissioner) was provided a government quarters by the income tax department, that he was kind enough to share with my parents.

Most of my early days passed without me achieving much, not that I am accomplished in my field now… but it is much better now than what it used to be.

It was the day of my naming ceremony, I don’t remember the date though… the calendar was in English and this happened long before I started schooling. And as per South Indian rituals my ear would be pierced and I would be given a name… probably one that belonged to my ancestor who accomplished great tasks and was a delight to be remembered.

In my case the name that was chosen was that of my paternal grandfather, the real reason was never told to me, just a mention that he was the most influential figure in my fathers’ family and the name was open for taking. (The siblings that I had then, included just my cousin sister, my cousin brother was not yet born and I was the first alpha male amongst my “existing” siblings, so I guess it was all a matter of pride as to who get the fathers name).

I was named “Krishnaswamy” after the great “Krishnaswamy Iyengar”.

I could have retained the anonymity through out my blog, but there are many amusing incidents that would have been forsaken for they revolved around my name.

And nothings better than sharing a few laughs.

My researches with legitimacy…

By popular demand, here’s my autobiography…. I know it’s too soon to start on one... but I have nothing else to do on a perfect Saturday morning… and all my sportive colleagues have been accounted for already in the blog. So its time I penned down the parts of my life that were most amusing (to me that is… few of them embarrassed my parents so much that we ended up shifting thrice).

Following is a series of what I plan to call “My researches with legitimacy… “Well that might ring a bell, but I am not a very staunch supporter of Gandhian philosophies so what I term legitimacy he calls it truth.

The truth content in the write up is around 98%, so if you are not comfortable with reading my true opinions please feel free to log off. No compulsions what so ever.

Disclaimer: Not everything that has been mentioned in the passages that would follow are entirely factual, there is some amount of fiction involved. And the characters involved bear resemblances to people who might be dead or are still alive and kicking… This is my blog so I choose to include people who I feel are close to me and wouldn’t mind the exposure, however , if someone mentioned in the passages do feel uncomfortable feel free to let me know and ill rephrase passage, with all due respects.

Credits So Far: Everyone who managed to touch my life and have a line of mention in the passages that follow.

Without much ado… here goes nothing…