Epiphany

 In my novel Empire, I have drawn a character called Emma Macmillan. I have made her a liberated woman who is far away from the stereotype of the indolent memsahib. Emma establishes a school for native girls in Calcutta and then, after her marriage, takes to promoting Indian textiles to improve the lot of highly skilled Indian weavers, impoverished due to cheap Manchester piece goods.

I made Emma travel to different parts of northern and central India in search of special textiles and I have also shown that after a visit to England, Emma gets a brain wave of making standard readymade frocks and dresses for women who otherwise must stitch their garments on their own or get them made which was expensive. The year is 1886.

Emma's character is rooted in history so far as her school is concerned. After that, it was only my imagination.

Imagine my surprise when I came to read something similar that actually happened in 1889.

It is described in Outliers, the story of success by Malcolm Gladwell, Little, Brown and Company, 2008.

In chapter 5, lesson 3: The garment industry and meaningful work, Gladwell describes the journey of Louis and Regina Borgenicht, Polish immigrants to America in 1889. Louis has worked in a garment shop and Regina is a skilled seamstress. When they come to New York with one child and one more on its way, they have money to last for just a few weeks. Louis starts looking for work and notices that readymade garments of all types are available in abundance there. He realizes that they greatly add to the convenience of customers and are easy on their pockets. Readymade garments are the most important commodity he says to himself. He finds that readymade aprons are not available. So he and his wife start making them and selling them. One thing leads to another and both become manufacturers and suppliers of garments in due course of time.

Gladwell states that theirs was not an isolated story. There were many other Jewish immigrants who were similarly skilled and who became successful in American garment industry at around the turn of the 20th century. Being there at that time was the essential ingredient in their success.

What Gladwell has said about success and its prerequisites is riveting read of course.

Let me however, right now, gloat over how close my ideas about garments were to what actually happened. Of course, I had imagined India and Great Britain. Gladwell wrote about East Europe and USA. Still, the common thread made my day!

DVD

 Quite late in my British Library membership days, I stumbled upon a collection of old DVDs. They were much borrowed and viewed repeatedly. Yet the quality of most was alright.

I started with Bergerac - a police detective in the Jersey island. He is in and out of the police force and has a powerful local magnate for a father-in-law. John Nettles played the detective. He has two loyal buddies in the force and his chief is against him but Bergerac manages to crack cases. I must have watched seven seasons of the series with each season 7 or 8 episodes. The series is old but was wildly popular on BBC TV in the 1990s.

Then there was John Mortimer's Rumpole. Again old Bailey world by itself. All these DVDs had subtitles. Without them I was lost. 

There were a few hit movies. Goodbye Mr. Chips had Peter O'Toole in the movie I had watched in theatre. This one was older, longer and more charming.

Then inevitably Agatha Christie's Miss Marple series.

There were others too. When Corona began, our library was shut down and a year later, I had to shift to digital membership. It is better in many ways. Two old DVDs remain with me as there was no way to return them when my old membership was over. So I gather that the stock of DVDs does not survive anymore. That makes me nostalgic. Even in these days of OTT and web series and streaming, I would love to go back to those DVDs.

My possessions

 Hi,

Can you scroll down to the bottom of the blog and see the photo there? Some of my possessions are seen in it.

Let us start from the right. My hat is hung over my big handbag. Next to them are two velvet coat hangers. All the three objects are from U.S.A. Hangers? Yes, why not? They fitted into our capacious bag. I had not seen good hangers like this here. Since then I have and have instantly marveled at my stupidity.

The hat is regularly used as protection against the Sun. The handbag can hold a lot of things and hide them really well. It has a big pocket on the outside besides several inside ones.

These three things are hung against the backdrop of a favourite quilt made of home-made fabric rolls. I prepare four separate rectangles and then joined them together. I had only a very basic, rough plan in mind about distributing the colours and patterns of fabrics. No perfect symmetry here but the overall arrangement is pleasing to the eye. The four panels were glued on paper and the paper was later removed.

Then there is an electric heating pad. It is indispensable to my mother in winter or when she develops a body-ache. However, initially she was very reluctant to use it.

Then there is my helmet in magenta colour. It has been sparingly used. The Corona epidemic has made me a home-bound person and my outings are few now. This helmet is tight and I have to wear it first and then wear my spectacles and so its use is even more restricted.

The big wooden dome is of our 55-year old Singer sewing machine. It won't be retired, come what may. The workman who had come to repair it a few months ago, was not impressed with the life of the machine as he has seen Singer machines that are more than a century old and still working well.

Every day when I sit down on a sofa with a cup of morning coffee, I look at these objects. They are a part of my life.

True story

 Newspapers reported it a few years ago.

A family of poor migrants went to Sangli. They found a comparatively deserted spot and put up a small hut there. Next day, mother and daughter in the family went to the river bank to wash clothes. Men in the family had gone in search of work. The son, hardly 11 or 12 years old, wandered a little away from them, found a nice spot and put his feet in water there. So much water was undreamt of luxury to them.

Suddenly a big crocodile sprang up and pulled the boy in the water with half his body in its fearsome jaw. The boy, the mother and daughter cried and shouted. The croc kept coming back to the bank and it flogged the body of the boy repeatedly. Only after some time, the croc's fury abated and it withdrew.

The horrified women ran and brought some nearby people with them. The boy was dead and his corpse had vanished. They were told that there were crocodiles in the river; it was their mating, breeding time and they were awfully aggressive during this period.

What misfortune! What an end to an upcoming, innocent young man!

Have I ever pondered over this aspect of poverty? Migration is necessary as your own place cannot support you. Some word of mouth from known persons takes you to a strange place. You know nobody there. Everything is alien. The place, topography, seasons, daily temperatures - nothing is known to you. You have no money, no contacts. You will just get by and eke out a living. Or you won't because of accidents like this one.

The news may or may not reach others. In any case, how much time will be given to the death - howsoever gruesome - of a stranger?

Everything is stacked against the poor.

Old age home

 Full five years into retirement. Covid has forced a change in lifestyle. Home-bound, sedentary life. The world has changed and how!

Well-meaning relatives are suggesting that I book a flat in a senior living facility. Many of them are coming up now and are quite popular too. "You don't have to move in immediately. Get the flat now. It may be difficult later." I am told. Sound logic and there is also the possibility that after ten years or so, I may not be able to handle property transactions properly.

So I got down from my high horse and paid a visit to one facility. It was a part of a gated community that was coming up over a very large area nestling in the hills. The eleven storey tall towers looked incongruous. Signs of prosperity everywhere. Inhabitants were well-off, educated and cultured people. But my reaction was entirely negative. I just cannot summon enough enthusiasm to go forward even an inch with this proposal.

Why?

My personality. Company of others is largely superfluous now.

Cannot bear the idea of leaving my present house. From acquiring it, furnishing it and habitating it - I have done everything here. The house reflects my personality and I am familiar, comfortable with each inch of its space. How can I leave it? How much time will I take to get acquainted with the new place? Will I breathe easy in it?

I guess I am the type of person who draws comfort from familiar surroundings, set patterns and old things. New things remain alien for a long time. The surroundings of the house are also so familiar. That includes all the landmarks and the people who live here. I am not friends with them but I know they are around. I am in thrall to nature - the rising and setting of Sun and Moon, the large army campus in the front of my flat, the tiny wood at the back, their trees and their seasons, the terrace garden and the time spent each evening just gazing at things - the sky, the breeze, lights from the road and nearby buildings. This is my world. How can I just abandon it?

It would be far better to have a companion here during the day time and may be a cook. They should be available provided they are paid adequately.

And the best would be a peaceful death at the age of 80 or so. No bed-ridden existence, no loss of memory or mind, no dependence on others.

Having played around with life to actualize all my wishes, the only wish now is for a dignified exit.

Hilarious

 I have a public provident fund - ppf - account. For saving income tax, it has proved to be very convenient. I opened it in 1990 and continue to use it. An account runs for 15 years and after that, extension for 5 more years is possible. There is no upper limit to the number of extensions.

I transferred the account to my bank from State Bank of India to make operating it even more convenient.

My bank's staff has always had some trouble over this account, I don't know why. I have been able to persuade them to paper things over because there is nothing wrong from my side.

A few months ago, I had this bright idea of withdrawing funds from this account and investing them in shares for getting better returns. PPF currently pays 7.9% annual interest and bank fixed deposit rates hover around 5.4%.

Regular withdrawal from ppf is possible and there is a formula that is used to work out the withdrawal amount. I went to the bank two months ago and found out how much I could withdraw.

Recently, on a trip to the bank, I enquired about a withdrawal form. They did not know and told me to use the ordinary withdrawal slip for regular bank accounts. I filled it in but on presenting it, I was told to wait. They made enquiries with the zonal office, were told there was a separate form but they did not have any. I was asked to go again the next day. To my relief, the concerned officer phoned me to say that the form had arrived.

I trooped down with revenue stamps and my passbook. I was told to withdraw a small sum, a round amount.

"There is some problem with your account. In one of the years, you did not make any payment."

"Not possible. I have been religiously using the account for depositing money."

"Our computer says it is so."

"Is there some problem? Withdrawals are common."

"This is the first case of partial withdrawal I am handling."

I rolled my eyes.

"Because of the alert on our screen, you will have to close down your account."

"Look, I have checked with my investment advisor and he has confirmed that an account can be extended any number of times. There is no ceiling."

"No, that is not correct."

"Who says so?"

"I am saying so. You just wait."

I did and I could see two officers consulting each other gravely. After a while I was told to submit my completed withdrawal form. Had it been account closure, the amount would have been double of my withdrawal. So the officer had tacitly taken back his words. He said he would carry out the transaction.

"Thank you. When will I get my passbook back?"

"It will stay with us." He punched it and filed it.

"How come? I still have a large amount of money in the account. The passbook is my record."

I came back home. After 4 hours, there was a message and a phone call saying that the withdrawal had gone through and I could collect the updated passbook. I promptly pocketed it.

It is my hard-earned money but the bank appears to have some claims over it!!

Gardener

 He is punctual. He comes once a week. Any change in his schedule - these are frequent - is notified in advance. In the old but stylish T-shirts of one of his bosses, he cuts a smart figure. He used to come on a motorbike. It has now been claimed by a son. He uses a ladies bicycle. As soon as his work in our house is done, he goes to the common toilet on the ground floor. He usually has his earphones on then. They are attached to his mobile phone. Many a time, they are in place while he is at work in our tiny balcony garden. While leaving our premises, he cheerfully waves out to the watchman. If the maid is in, he invariably talks to her. Proper gupshup. Unfortunately, their timings do not coincide. Once out of the yellow arch, he turns to the right and stops. The wine shop beckons. He quickly picks up a small bottle. It is wrapped in black plastic. He puts it inside his trouser pocket and is off.

The work rarely lasts beyond 15 minutes. He likes to prune the foliage and water the plants. Once in 3 weeks, he digs up the soil at the bottom. Anything more must be explained to him carefully. He hates it when we suggest rather drastic pruning. It sometimes involves chopping off branches which bear buds and then he is distraught but has now learnt to curb himself. On his own, this is all that he does. In the past, he used to take out the soil from the large cement pots and rearrange it. That is now stopped. He does not buy new saplings because he does not go to nurseries. He used to but not anymore. He follows our instructions and on his own, he applies manure once in a year, sprays pesticides about 4 or 6 times in a year and colours the pots in a dark shade of maroon brown before the rains come.

"I should have retired long ago. My children keep asking me to stop the work." He has told us more than once. His manner is that of a long suffering fellow who is doing us a great favour. I once asked him to plant the saplings I had bought in the society garden. He made a face and said, it was not his work. "Society finds it difficult to get a gardener. You only have to plant the saplings and the society will pay you." I told him and then he reluctantly did the job.

He is fond of stretching the achievements of his children and their possessions. I don't need anything now, his manner suggests and then quickly he asks my mother for an advance against his wage for his visit to his village.

I once picked up a nice orange dahlia bush in an exhibition. At home it did not grow properly. It bore just flowers and then it wilted away. After the plant died, the gardener showed me a small plastic cup that had been put under it in the pot. That cup had prevented any growth or root formation.

"This is what big nurseries do nowadays."

"I did not know. It was an expensive plant. Why did you not tell me before?" I was angry.

He became evasive.

"It is your job to attend to these matters. Why did you not take it out from its pot and plant it in one of ours? Or at least, you could have taken out the small cup from its pot." I elaborated in anger.

No reply, no reaction. He was completely unruffled.