SILENT SOUNDS

(I had published originally this to a group of friends around March 2008...posting a revised version here....)

A significant part of my childhood was spent among the Santhals (an ancient group of tribes inhabiting the Chhota Nagpur plateau region of eastern India and mentioned in the Vedic texts and epics) – I used to visit their strikingly clean villages, have some of their food, play with a special set of bows and arrows they had made for me, and of course, listen to the numerous stories of how they could predict the weather and future seasons by simply observing nature….

Those were the days when most houses were not for the humans’ exclusive use, they were shared to a fair measure, by the flora and fauna of the immediate vicinity: frogs, snails, lizards, insects, butterflies, bees were our constant companions both inside and around the house, and many a happy childhood hour was spent simply watching their antics.

I distinctly remember watching long lines of ants scurrying from one place to another and my Santhal gardener telling me that heavy rains were in the offing. If there was a heavy cloud build-up and the frogs started croaking, he said the rain would be heavy, while if the frogs remained silent, then there would be a storm and light rain….I used to be surprised at his confidence, but do not remember now how many of his predictions ultimately came true or not. They also told me how wild animals and dogs howled and cats became restless before a flood or any natural calamity, how you could predict the rain by looking at the moon the previous night, and many such things…

Many decades have passed in between – I do not know if those villages exist today, or, if the “Murmu” and “Tirki” uncles of my childhood are still alive or not, or if their knowledge of nature has been passed on to their progeny. Forget the frogs and butterflies, you do not get to see many ants in and around the house either, in these “fertiliser – pesticide – Lizol” – infested days…..

These thoughts came to me as I was reading some very interesting articles recently, about which I will talk now….  (I have deliberately retained some hyperlinks along the way for background reference.)

*****

The Tsunami of 2004

It is a well known fact that long before that great tsunami arrived from the Indian Ocean on 26^th December 2004, all the animals living along the coast lines had fled the area….

This was a report published in a Sri Lankan newspaper on 30^th Dec. 2004 : Reports after Sunday's tsunami say that despite the enormous number of human casualties—116,000 deaths and rising, at last count—many animals seem to have survived the tidal wave unscathed. At Sri Lanka's national wildlife park at Yala, which houses elephants, buffalo, monkeys, and wild cats, no animal corpses were found on Wednesday.

In Phuket, Thailand, where the north-bound tsunami wave first struck land, an elephant was seen to trumpet wildly, break off the chains that tied it to a tree, and rush to higher ground, quite some minutes before the disaster struck.

How did they know ? Science, perhaps, has an answer, or perhaps, two answers – infrasound and / or electromagnetic waves.

****

History is littered with tales about animals acting weirdly before natural disasters, but the phenomenon has been hard for scientists to pin down. Sometimes animals get crazy before a quake, sometimes they don't. Here's what we know: Animals have sensory abilities different from our own, and they might have been tipped off to that Sunday's disaster. Do they listen to silent sounds ?

First, it's possible that the animals may have heard the quake before the tsunami hit land. The underwater rupture likely generated sound waves known as infrasound or infrasonic sound. These low tones can be created by hugely energetic events, like meteor strikes, volcanic eruptions, avalanches, and earthquakes. Humans can't hear infrasound—the lowest key on a piano is about the lowest tone the human ear can detect.

A second early-warning sign the animals might have sensed is ground vibration. In addition to spawning the tsunamis, that Sunday's quake generated massive vibration waves that spread out from the epicentre on the floor of the Indian Ocean to the Bay of Bengal and travelled through the surface of the Earth. Known as Rayleigh waves (for Lord Rayleigh, who predicted their existence in 1885), these vibrations move through the ground like waves move on the surface of the ocean. They travel at 10 times the speed of sound. The waves would have reached Sri Lanka hours before the water hit.

Mammals, birds, insects, and spiders can detect Rayleigh waves. Most can feel the movement in their bodies, although some, like snakes and salamanders, put their ears to the ground in order to perceive it. The animals at Yala might have felt the Rayleigh waves and run for higher ground.

*****

We all understand the “electromagnetic waves” part to some extent. Let us talk about the other piece : Infrasound.

Infrasound is sound with a frequency too low to be heard by the human ear. The study of such sound waves is sometimes referred to as infrasonics, covering sounds beneath the lowest limits of human hearing – 16 hertz down to 0.001 hertz. This frequency range is utilized by seismographs for monitoring earthquakes. Infrasound is characterized by an ability to cover long distances and get around obstacles with little dissipation.

Volcanoes produce low-frequency sounds : Possibly the first observation of naturally occurring infrasound was in the aftermath of the Krakatoa eruption in 1883, when concussive acoustic waves circled the globe seven times or more and were recorded on barometers worldwide.

Although volcanic eruptions are frequently reported with audible observations such as 'booms', 'roars', 'gunshots', or 'jets', these sounds form only the tip of the iceberg in terms of the total radiated sound energy.  Volcanoes are much more prolific radiators of intense sound in the infrasonic bandwidth (i.e., below 20 Hz), which is below the threshold of human audibility. 

Our selective hearing is perhaps fortunate because even small eruptions can produce ~1 Hz infrasound which exceeds 100 Pa at several kilometers from the vent.  If our ears were as sensitive to this low frequency energy as they are to audible sounds (e.g., at 1000 Hz), the equivalent sound pressure level (SPL) of 140 dB would be loud enough to cause pain.

Infrasound was also used by Allied forces in World War I to locate artillery; the frequency of the muzzle blast from firing was noticeably different than that produced by the explosion, allowing the two sources to be discriminated.

Infrasound sometimes results naturally from severe weather, surf, lee waves, avalanches, earthquakes, bolides, waterfalls, calving of icebergs, aurora, lightning and sprites. Nonlinear ocean wave interactions in ocean storms produce pervasive infrasound around 0.2 Hertz known as microbaroms.

Scientists accidentally discovered that the spinning core or vortex of a tornado creates infrasonic waves. When the vortices are large, the frequencies are lower; smaller vortices have higher frequencies. These infrasonic sound waves can be detected up to 100 miles away, and are used to provide early warning of tornadoes.

Infrasound can also be generated by man-made processes such as sonic booms, explosions (both chemical and nuclear), by machinery such as diesel engines and wind turbines and by specially designed mechanical transducers (industrial vibration tables) and large-scale subwoofer loudspeakers. The Comprehensive Nuclear-Test-Ban Treaty Organization uses infrasound as one of its monitoring technologies (along with seismic, hydro-acoustic, and atmospheric radionuclide monitoring).

Whales, elephants, hippopotamuses, rhinoceros, giraffes, okapi, and alligators are known to use infrasound to communicate over distances up to hundreds of miles. It has also been suggested that migrating birds use naturally generated infrasound, from sources such as turbulent airflow over mountain ranges, as a navigational aid. Elephants, in particular, produce infrasound waves that travel through solid ground and are sensed by other herds using their feet (although they may be separated by hundreds of kilometers).

While we now know that animals can detect infrasonic sound, how do humans react ?

Infrasound has been known to cause feelings of awe or fear in humans. Since it is not consciously perceived, it can make people feel vaguely that supernatural events are taking place.

Horror movie makers have used this for years. Irréversible is one such movie by Gaspar Noé. Alfred Hitchcock used infrasound to produce unease or disorientation in the audience in some of his film soundtracks.

Is that why when we watch horror films on television these days we are either bored or sadly amused, because the amplifiers at the broadcasting station or the TV set would have filtered out the infrasonic sounds in the sound track ?

The Infrasonic 17 Hz tone experiment

On May 31, 2003, a team of UK researchers held a mass experiment where they exposed some 700 people to music laced with soft 17 Hz sine waves played at a level described as "near the edge of hearing", produced by an extra-long stroke sub-woofer mounted two-thirds of the way from the end of a seven-meter-long plastic sewer pipe.

The experimental concert (entitled Infrasonic) took place in the Purcell Room over the course of two performances each consisting of four musical pieces. Two of the pieces in each concert had 17 Hz tones played underneath. In the second concert, the pieces that were to carry a 17 Hz undertone were swapped so that test results wouldn't focus on any specific musical piece.

The participants were not told which pieces included the low-level 17 Hz near-infrasonic tone. The presence of the tone resulted in a significant number (22%) of respondents reporting anxiety, uneasiness, extreme sorrow, nervous feelings of revulsion or fear, chills down the spine and feelings of pressure on the chest.

In presenting the evidence to the British Association for the Advancement of Science (known simply as the BA), the scientists responsible said: "These results suggest that low frequency sound can cause people to have unusual experiences even though they cannot consciously detect infrasound.”

*****

The Ghost in the Machine

Research by the late Vic Tandy, a lecturer at Coventry University, suggested that the frequency 19 hertz was responsible for many ghost sightings. He was working late one night alone in a supposedly haunted laboratory at Warwick, when he felt something was watching over him, his anxiety was growing, and could detect a grey blob out of the corner of his eye. When he turned to face it, there was nothing.

The following day, he was working on his fencing foil, with the handle held in a vice. Although there was nothing touching it, it started to vibrate wildly. Further investigation led him to discover that a newly installed extraction fan was emitting a frequency of 18.98 Hz, very close to the resonant frequency of the eye (given as 18 Hz in NASA Technical Report 19770013810).

He deduced that this was why he saw a ghostly figure — it was an optical illusion caused by his eyeballs resonating. The room was exactly half a wavelength in length, and the desk was in the centre, thus causing a standing wave which caused the foil to vibrate.

Vic investigated this phenomenon further, and wrote a paper entitled The Ghost in the Machine. He carried out a number of investigations at various sites, believed to be haunted, including the basement of the Tourist Information Bureau next to Coventry Cathedral and Edinburgh Castle.

*****

The “Flying Dutchmen”

This term loosely refers to the phenomenon of abandoned ships found at sea. The most publicised case was that of the “Maria Celesta” where investigators found the ship completely abandoned, as if all on a sudden. There was unfinished food at the dinner table, and there were the captain’s log entries right up to the end, which showed everything to be perfectly normal. Not only had the crew disappeared, they were never found.

Scientists surmise that perhaps the infrasound from the ocean was responsible. The deep ocean, under certain conditions, emits sound waves at 7 Hz. Apparently this matches with the natural frequency of the human brain and the resonance can drive people mad, even to commit suicide. But I guess this is yet to be proven under simulated lab conditions…..

*****

While reading and thinking about this, a thought struck me – could this also be the reason for the famous Bermuda Triangle mystery ?

If you think about it, most ghost stories are around empty houses, or tunnel-like structures – structures that could typically resonate at low frequencies.

Ancient ceremonial burial sites were commonly designed as a large room with a long, narrow tunnel leading to the outside – was it by coincidence, or calculations based on some ancient wisdom, that this design was adopted – one that could resonate at infrasound frequencies and strike a sense of fear and awe among the living who dared to enter ?

Is it possible to theorise that when life emanated from some primordial soup, all creatures had more or less the same faculties of sense, which got modified over time to suit the particular immediate environment ? Mankind too, had the same aural faculties as other animals ? And then, at some point in our evolutionary history, our aural faculties moved into a higher frequency range to adapt to our immediate surroundings for reasons of simple survival ? And then, the skills of the ancestors in listening to these “silent sounds” passed into folklore ?

Is there a science behind the ancient folklore of different communities of the world – from the aborigines of Australia to the Santhals of India and the Red Indians of North America ? All these communities possessed (and perhaps still do) the capability to “read” Nature – and predict natural occurrences.

Can the so-called “paranormal phenomena” be explained by these “silent sounds” ?

You decide – and let us know….

Compiled & collated from these sources :

http://www.ees.nmt.edu/johnson_j/INFRAVOLC/infravolc.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infrasound

http://pubs.usgs.gov/pinatubo/tahira/index.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Standing_wave

http://www.slate.com/id/2111608

http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/animalspredict/

http://www.ghostvillage.com/ghostcommunity/blog/ghost_hunter_1954/index.php?showentry=345

http://ghosts.monstrous.com/infrasound.htm

Mistri - uncle

(For the uninitiated : “Mistri” is a generic word in most north-Indian languages for the common artisan – be it a mason, carpenter, plumber, technician, mechanic, watch maker or any such calling where a certain amount of experience, skill & dexterity are required to perform tasks…)

Sandeep was an electrical engineer in charge of commissioning a new breed of electronic elevators that had been introduced in the Indian market. He had never studied electronics  properly in college, and now had to make up for lost time by working hard throughout the day and poring over those college text books at night. (He had in fact, bought those books only after he graduated.)  After all, he had an image to maintain – a façade of invincibility – the company he worked for looked upon him as the last resort whenever it faced problems with those new fangled inventions. It was, indeed, a far, far cry from the days when Boolean algebra and the difference between a thyristor and a transistor flummoxed him completely.

Poor planner that he was, he compounded his problems by enrolling for an evening MBA course. Very early in the three-year ordeal, he wished there were forty hours to a day – there was simply not enough time to study electronics and management subjects. Somewhere along the way he realised that he had begun to think and talk differently – his dream of conquering the world with his engineering prowess had begun to vaporise, lost in the haze created by Economics, Accounting and Law. His mind was one big mess, with Schmitt triggers, debits, credits, flip-flops, economic laws and Companies Act rolling around always in one ungodly heap……

In the midst of all this, his boss called him one day and asked him to commission an elevator on an emergency basis at the private residence of a filthy rich businessman – the fellow’s mother was in hospital and he had to finish the work before she was released. These were assignments he hated – working in office buildings and hotels was OK, but private residences ??? They were an absolute no-no as far as he was concerned….. The boss explained that he was aware of Sandeep’s revulsion for installing elevators in private residences, but this was an emergency with a deadline, and he was the one person who could be relied upon.

He landed at the assigned site and found the installation team had done a very good job indeed. He started his work. There were about seven kids in the house all between six and ten years of age, all terribly excited over the fact that very soon they would have a lift of their own…. As soon as they returned from school they crowded around the installation area, asking questions and passing comments.

“Mistri-ji, itni lambi taar kahan lagega ?” (Where will you use these long wires ?)

“Mistri-ji, yeh lift kab chalega ?” (When will this lift run ?) and so on…. They bothered the installation team no end…. And then it was Sandeep’s turn to become the focus of their attention.

Late in the afternoon on the first day itself, Sandeep was busy testing out the connections on top of the lift car with the children watching and chatting animatedly, when he heard a loud male voice ask, “Lift ka bada mistri aya ?” (Has the head mechanic for the lift come ?) And all the kids chorused, “Haan aya, idhar hai.” (Yes, he is here..”)

Sandeep braced himself for a barrage of questions, but then heard the voice say, “Chalo, thik hai.”(OK…) and move away.

At home that night, he could not sleep. “Mistri ???” “Bada Mistri ???” “MISTRI ???” the words kept ringing loudly in his head…. From childhood he had associated that word with masons, plumbers and carpenters – people who used primitive tools for their trade. And here was he, a graduate engineer working with oscilloscopes and digital probes, in addition to being a management student…. being called a “mistri” ?

The next day, he wore a tie to the site. The installation team was very appreciative – told him he looked different, and they kept working quietly and fast… till the kids came home from school. The first to break the silence was a six-year-old girl, “Mistri-uncle aaj humko lift chadhayenge ?” (Mistri-uncle, will you take me for a ride on the lift ?)

Sandeep stopped working. “Mistri-uncle.” With a wry smile he took the little girl into the lift car and gave her a ride from one floor to the next. She squealed so loud in glee that the rest of the kids simply rushed over and wanted a ride too….. “Mistri-uncle, mistri-uncle…” was the chant… if they did say something else, it did not register…..

The tie, instead of adding to his sartorial elegance, had only managed to add one more epithet.

A day later, his work was done. He gave the lady of the house a ride and asked her to sign-off on the handover document. “To aap-hi hai mistri-uncle ?” (So you are the Mistri-uncle ?) was her appreciative question. Sandeep nodded in grim agreement.

He found a new mission in life… to shed the “mistri” image completely and comprehensively.

*****

More than a quarter of a century later, Sandeep found himself working as a grey-haired, bespectacled project manager of a large multi-component, multi-vendor, multi-phased IT project in a foreign land. Technical issues, people issues, cash flow issues, logistics issues, delivery issues, quality issues, vendor issues, in addition to customer demands, all came together almost everyday – a never-ending set of challenges that changed its hues by the hour.

Most of the problems needed to be solved by somebody else – there were very few that he could address himself. Hectic days slipped into cool evenings over a shot of Scotch…

One evening, he was in one of the Scotch sessions with a few members of the vendor team, most of whom were in the first few years of their respective careers… After a couple of pegs, when the ties, shoelaces and tongues had become quite loose, and they were having an animated conversation about deadlines and delivery challenges, one of the fellows suddenly looked at Sandeep and said, “I have decided something today.”

“What ?” asked Sandeep.

“I have decided to become a manager like you.”

“Why ?”

“Your work is so easy. You write a mail and people appreciate. You conduct a meeting and people rush to finish off what you assign. And then they appreciate you once again for telling them what to do. Look at us. There is no respect for engineers. We are like “mistri-s”. Nobody appreciates the technical work we actually do.”

“Have another peg,” said Sandeep.

*****

A bear and bull story

It took Sandeep almost half of his service life to pay off all the loans he had taken to obtain a decent flat in the city and a car. And then he started dreaming about enjoying the fruits of his toil – a steady job, a decent bank balance, one that was large enough to see through any expense spikes that come with unfailing regularity, a clutch of insurance policies for his family and himself – he had them all.

And then they called. Two relationship managers from the two banks that he did business with. The first one was a very attractive lady, the other, a suave gentleman. They talked about how the raging inflation would eat up the gain through interest from bank deposits, and the need to invest in the stock market. The stock market, they said, made people rich much faster than the damage from inflation. The best way was to buy unit-linked insurance policies, whose returns would be manifold and tax-free. They sent large documents that promised to place the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow right in Sandeep’s hands…….

Sandeep took his advice from the lady and invested in mutual funds and insurance. In six months she became a vice-president at her bank. The suave gentleman at the other bank quit the job and joined a theatre group, never to be heard of again.

One year later, when the first reports came in, he discovered that his investments were doing extremely well, but given the deductions by the bank, the total fund value was just about the same. He called up the bank and wanted to withdraw. The vice president explained that he was being foolish, and introduced him to two new animals – the bear and the bull. “The bull is running,” she said, “wait for it to stop”. Sandeep stopped, and waited for the bull.

That winter the stock market plummeted. He called up the vice president. “It is just a market correction”, she said. The bull was apparently taking a breather. Then she got married and quit the bank, before the bull could start running again.

A month later, suave gentleman # 2 replaced her. He requested for a two hour meeting. Sandeep met him at the bank and was treated to coffee and cakes, while he demonstrated a new software tool that told you exactly how well you would live thirty years on. Fortune–telling in a new avatar. He asked Sandeep some questions, and entered the data. Poom !!! The software told him that he needed a corpus of some thirty million in fifteen years’ time to even begin to emulate his current life-style. And then G2 said, “Let me build that corpus for you”.

Sandeep had already gone down that road once. He was wary. He explained how his funds had not grown and blamed the bank. G2 flashed a knowing smile and said, “Sir, all investment decisions are your own, and you need to read documents carefully”. He showed him one document where it was written: “Insurance policies are a matter of solicitation. Unit linked insurance policies are subject to market risks.” Just like that. In miniature font.

“But please do not worry Sir”, said G2, “I will set things right.” He fished out a large document and said that it needed to be filled. Government regulations. It contained all sorts of personal questions about income and expenditure patterns. The bank had added some more. What is your favourite colour ? What is your favourite flower ? Sandeep asked why they needed to know. G2 explained that the document was called KYC, or “know your customer”. Then why those personal questions, he persisted. G2 explained that some economist somewhere in the world (or perhaps from Andromeda galaxy) had deduced that people’s lifestyle was based on their preferences and therefore influenced their investment decisions.

The KYC had him wrapped in brown paper. Like sliced bread. It helped the bank reach to the conclusion that Sandeep would need thirty million in his twilight years to remain attached to his favourite colour and flower.

The discussion moved back to investing and stock market behaviour. He proceeded to explain that FDIs go to China only while FIIs come to India. Which is why the Indian bulls take a breather periodically. Else they would have been running and foaming at the mouth. Forever. The global recession notwithstanding. One way to circumvent the global recession was to invest in infrastructure bonds. The US of A had done just that to get out of the 1930’s depression. 

Sandeep was convinced. The rainbow would get brighter, and therefore, nearer. He invested in infrastructure bonds, and a new ULIP. G2 helped him out of a couple of past investments and re-directed the funds to the new ones.

And then he too, became a vice president at the bank.

By and by the bulls ran out of steam and foam. The bears took over. They first caught his investments in a bear-hug. And then locked their jaws on them. And then started floating to the ground with their feet up in the air. Like autumn leaves.

Last winter they were actually planning to go underground to hibernate. The cock-and-bull stories of his childhood came back to haunt Sandeep with the cock replaced.

He called up the bank. VP G2 had quit his job and was due to join another investment bank. “Why do you need to pull out the money, Sir ?” he asked. “You do not need it so long as you are working”, he explained.

There was only one colour in Sandeep’s rainbow. Even his evening peg of Scotch had that colour. Red.

The other evening he received another phone call from his bank. Someone had replaced G2 and was extremely worried about Sandeep’s investments – they had tanked and needed to be re-invested elsewhere. And he promised to take care of it.

Naughty.

***

VISA FREE TRAVEL

There are only two things that Indians do not take permission for :- one, to be born and two, to die. For the rest we need permission. From “higher authorities”. It is a DNA thing for us Indians.

The Indian government’s propensity to issue visas to each and every individual who comes to India from abroad is a reflection of this mentality. Visas, being bilateral fly-swatters, are therefore issued to any Indian going to any country, by all the countries of the world.

Nepal, which prides on eating buffaloes, is an exception – but then Nepal does not give one the “feel” of being in a “foreign country”. Their roads and infrastructure are just as bad as ours and perhaps, that is why we do not need visas – they do eat buffaloes, but that does not count, I guess.

The passport of the average Indian traveler therefore gets filled up with visas; then booklets have to be added, till the passport roughly resembles the British encyclopedia. Frequent travelers from India have been known to look for a cart for their passports. Visa-free travel is a novel experience for Indians. All Indians. Including me.

Now, as luck would have it, I had to go to Philippines. Checked out all places on the internet for the visa requirements. Some travel agency sites said we could get visa on arrival (VOA), some said we need to get the visa stamped from the Philippine Embassy at N. Delhi. The Embassy’s web-site said that if the Indian passport had any valid visa from US, Canada, Singapore, Schengen, and some other countries, then no visa would be needed to enter Philippines. Pretty odd, I thought for a country to ride piggy-back on others in this fashion, but in absence of any other information and the presence of the confusing items of information all over the place, I downloaded and printed the PDF document. It had nothing on it to say that it was from the Embassy.

Armed with that document and the fact that my friend & I did have valid visas from those listed countries, we set sail – or rather set afloat in the skies. Our trip plan was to go to Manila from Jakarta.

The thought at the back of the mind, like swishing tail of the cow, kept hovering around the thought that we might not be able to make it to those P-islands. But travel plans being what they are, we landed at Jakarta airport at about ten-thirty on the planned night to take the night-long flight out to Manila. There was a young kid at the airline counter, possibly his first job and most likely in the first month itself.  We told him we did not have a Philippine visa. He checked our passports and said, “No problem, Sir.” He then checked us in, gave our boarding passes while our baggage lumbered on into the black hole behind him. We heaved a sigh of relief. Went to a shop to buy water. Our throats were parched.

Within a few minutes, he called us. “Excuse me Sir, can I have your passports, please ?” We did as he asked. Drank some more water. He went over to the flight supervisor sitting at another counter. We slowly walked over.

“Any problem ?”

“No Sir… but you do not have Filipino visa.”

I fished out the downloaded document and gave it to him. He read it with interest and then asked, “But where does this prove that it is from the Filipino Embassy ?” I agreed with him that it did not.

I said,” Why don’t you go to the website ? You can see it.”

He was not interested. Asked the young counter fellow to photocopy our passports and the relevant visas. While he was gone, the supervisor explained, “You see Sir, I am not sure. Two weeks ago we had four Indians deported from Manila Immigration back to Jakarta. I had to stay back at the airport all night to send them back to India.”

“So ? Can we go or not ?”

“Please go Sir, but try your luck”, came the reply. Small comfort, that. The young fellow came back with an armful of photocopies. He had apparently made copies of all the pages of each of the passports. Gave it back to us and said, “You may proceed to the immigration counter.”

“Step 1 completed”, we thought as we cleared Indonesian immigration. We boarded the plane and the thought of what awaited us at the Philippine Immigration at Manila kept nagging us. The swishing tail got furious. Dozed off to sleep after two large glasses of wine.

We landed in Manila at day break. Had to walk almost a kilometer from the aircraft to immigration counters. “This is it”, we thought as we queued up. My friend asked me to go first.

A pretty stern-looking lady officer was at the counter. She looked at my passport of five volumes, flipped thought the pages, and asked ,”Where is your Filipino visa ?”

“I do not have one. But I have a Canadian visa. Please check the second booklet.”

She asked me to dig it out. I did, and handed the passport to her. She studied it for an agonizing while, then held it under the different lights she had around her, then scanned it.

I was sweating. Deportation was not an activity I was familiar with. It did not fall into the group of activities I normally seek permission for.

The officer quietly put a little red stamp on the passport and said, “OK, go.” I looked at the stamp carefully. It was a stay permit for thirty days. “Phew !!”

My friend had a smile on his face. After he cleared immigration he said that the moment he saw my passport being stamped, a weight lifted off his mind.

Before we picked up the baggage from the belt, we went to pee. Had to. Visa-free travel makes you do that. No permission from “higher authorities” is the cause.

***

Jolted in Jakarta

I have been travelling in and around South-east Asia for close to twenty years now, and have a fair idea of what to expect in each of the cities I keep visiting. Nevertheless, life sometimes takes unexpected twists and turns leaving you in stupefied silence with your jaws apart, like a fish on a slab of ice. This is one such incident.

As a normal practice, I book my hotel at the airport of the city I am visiting – a practice that has stayed with me from the days before the internet changed everything. (I am actually a dinosaur when it comes to technology).  This time too, I booked my hotel at Jakarta Airport before proceeding to the city. The agent asked me to pay the full amount for the three days to him and gave me a slip to be presented to the hotel.

I happily took the slip and went off into the wonderful city of Jakarta, with its wide, tree-lined boulevards and glitzy high-rise buildings, and the stop now – start now traffic that can try the patience of even the magnificent statues you find at every major crossing.

The hotel was wonderful – I gave the slip at the reception and asked if I could extend my stay if needed. They said that the tariff would be thirty per cent higher for the extension period as the rate I had got, could be had from an agent only. Interesting, I thought.

Well I decided to move to another hotel after the third day. Got it booked over the internet. On day three, went down to the reception to check out. They returned the deposit I had made and said, “Thank you, Sir”.

“What ? A checkout bill for the three days ?” was my startled query.

“Sorry, Sir, we cannot give you a bill for that rate. You need to get the bill from the agent.” To say I was stunned, would be an understatement. This had never happened before.

The agent had given me his business card. I called him up. He heard the story and said, “No problem. You can collect a receipt from my counter at the airport.”

“How long will you be at the counter ?” I asked. “Three p.m.”, he said. It was already twelve-thirty.

Had a quick lunch at a restaurant, packed my bags into a taxi, went to the next hotel, dropped off the bags with the concierge there, and headed out for the airport. It took us more than an hour through the trundling pace of Jakarta traffic and was past two-thirty when we reached there.

Then came the most challenging part. The taxi had dropped me off at the departure area, saying he did not have permission to go to the arrival area. Waited for a while, then walked through an automatic no-entry door as people were coming out. Asked an airport employee the way to the arrival area. He showed a staircase to go down.

Went down to the international arrival area, then walked out. The Agent’s counter was in the domestic arrival area. Walked the hundred meters or so to that part and then again walked through an automatic no-entry door as people were coming out. 

The agent’s counter at last.

Found two different people sitting there. Showed one of them the card I had been given and asked about him – the fellow who had done my booking. “He will come at three p.m., his duty starts then”, came the reply.  Talk about language barriers !!!

I braced myself for the worst. Slowly I explained everything to these two gentlemen and my need for a receipt. Showed them the passport, gave them the name of the hotel and relevant dates. They peered into their computer for an agonizing while. Then came the smile. It could mean anything – experience has taught me that.

One of them said, “OK Sir, we have it.” A few minutes later I had the receipt in my hands.

Phew !!! Heaved a sigh of relief. And noted that it was one more lesson learnt.

On the way back was enjoying the latest cars on Jakarta roads…

***

Of doctors and medical exams…

I am not sure about you readers, but I am really afraid of doctors. Really. And mortally. If they are private practitioners, they have this something about their smiles as you enter their chambers, that immediately rings alarm bells in your brain. No - that’s old-fashioned, these alarm bells… My brain goes “Gunka – bleep”, “Gunka–bleep”…. like my son’s toy flying saucer.

And if they are in a government hospital, their bored expressions (Sh** !! Yet another patient !!!) and their “one-prescription-fits-all” approach can make you lose faith, among other things, in God…. (I assume you lost faith in the government too long ago to matter…)

I have this habit of visiting my dentist with clockwork regularity every fifteen years or so. The last time I had a terrible toothache and could barely eat, was also the last time my wife dragged me to the fellow in pretty much the same way my mom had dragged me to kindergarten many years earlier. I was bawling on both occasions…

This guy stuck a steel prop into my mouth and looked around. I could see his eyes positively begin to shine at the thought of all that lucre in there, waiting to be excavated… He gave me an injection on the gums, then said “Excuse me,” and walked away to make a call… I could not hear the conversation, but I am dead sure he was calling his wife to tell her, “Darling, I can now buy all the sarees you wanted for this Puja and the next.”

In the meantime there I sat, my steel-strutted mouth wide open, with saliva slowly starting to drool out as I gradually became jaw-less … Then he returned, the smile on his face was a wide grin now, as he extracted two of my teeth…. The medication followed, and the pain went away….

He had asked me to return two weeks later for the other set of teeth.  But like you all, I do love my teeth, and his wife does not need all those sarees any way…..

Then take the case of this medical check-up I had to undergo a couple of decades ago when I once qualified for a government job by mistake. There were fifteen of us who were hired, then sent off to this government hospital for the medicals. They took all our available body fluids for examination, asking us to deliver the solids the next day. They then told us to return on the third day. There they took each one of us to separate rooms, stripped us down to our birthday suits, and poked and prodded more than my mother ever did since I was this high….

The last doctor had a frown, and I asked, “Is everything alright ?” He looked at me and said, “You guys are all job applicants, right ?” To my nod, he said, “Yes, everything is alright.”

“And what if I do not take the job ?” I asked again, and regretted it immediately, looking at the deeper frown on his face. “Then too, you are fine !!” was his retort, as he muttered to himself, “Why do they keep sending these healthy young fellows to me ?”

Today I sympathise with him – he would not have had much of a medical practice, if all he got to see were healthy young fellows….

Last winter I went to my local physician for a check-up and there was this lovely young thing in the waiting hall. I got to observe her for quite a while before the doctor called me in. He checked me up, commented on my racing heartbeat, and recommended an ECG, which of course, came out all normal because the PYT was no longer in sight and the technician was a tall moustached fellow with the build of a wilted asparagus. There is a thing about these pretty young things, you know, particularly as one approaches middle age….

The most terrible of these physical examinations was the one I had undergo to obtain a work permit for another country…. In addition to all those things mentioned before, I had a separate session with the proctologist, who, though very professional, stuck a fibre-optic cable based torch and camera into you-know-where and displayed the results on a large TV screen for all the lady nurses behind the partition to see…. (I guess he was taking a class at the same time…)

Oh !!! I could have died a thousand deaths if only that TV went kaput…. It did not. All I did was blush, lying there, while he went about it with the gusto of an archaeologist looking for the Dead Sea scrolls.

***

Doctors, like lawyers, call their vocation a “practice”. 

I understand “practice” being a valid description for lawyers because they relieve you of your money without any tangible output, with practiced ease. But doctors ? They are supposed to “practise” on you ??? And are their waiting halls an integral part of their “practice” ? Delayed appointments and unending waits are all part of a grand design by these fellows so that you end up being as resistant to suggestions as a sponge…

What would happen if engineers “practised” too ? Imagine a bridge or a dam being built as a “practice”……. The entire civilisation would be up in arms over it. No, no, that would never do.

Engineers are required to be precise – even if they are wrong. Unlike doctors – right ?

***

75 minutes

Our son, all of fifteen years, wanted to watch a cricket match live, at the Eden Gardens Stadium, Kolkata. He said all of his friends had been there at least once, while he was yet to start. We initially said no, but had to give in to his persuasion. He organised the ticket, a couple of his friends, and decided to go. He wanted to carry a cell-phone, to which we said “no” again, and he relented, thinking it was the lesser of the battles. The other two boys who went with him were perhaps, a couple of years older, and both had cell-phones.

About an hour after he left home that Saturday afternoon, the skies darkened and let loose a violent rain-and-thunder squall. We were worried that he would reach Eden Gardens drenched to the skin. We sat down to watch the match on TV. The match started more than an hour late, after the rain had stopped and the field had been mopped up.

We kept watching the match on TV in the fervent hope that we would be able to see our son during one of the many camera sweeps of the crowd, but that was not to be. Around the middle of second innings, the rain came down with renewed vigour causing the match to be abandoned altogether and forcing a decision based on the now famous Duckworth-Lewis rule….

We could see the crowd slowly making its way towards the exits, when suddenly the channel switched over to the other match in Mumbai, which was just starting. That was when my wife called up one of the friends who were with our son. He said, “Auntie, we are now on our way out of the stadium, but I cannot find him, we got separated in the crowd.” I could hear my wife’s voice rising hysterically as she asked for clarifications – when did they get separated, where were they now, how did this happen, et al…. I guess she got disconnected shortly thereafter because the conversation ended abruptly.

I tried to pacify her, asked to give them some more time to come out of the stadium and try to re-group. She bit her lip and sat dumb-founded. Our daughter tried to ring up someone she knew who was a regular visitor to Eden Gardens, but that fellow had not gone for this match. Then my wife started contemplating taking a taxi and going there – an idea that was as crazy as the rapid developments that were taking place.

We called up his friends again after about twenty minutes – they said they were waiting for him at one of the gates and it was still raining heavily. Some relief there. Some twenty minutes later the fellow called up to say that our son had still not joined them and that they would be leaving for home as their parents would now start getting worried.

I always had faith that at fifteen, our son would be able to find his way around, although we had come to know that he had already spent whatever money we had given him on cold drinks and snacks and was left with only ten rupees. It was the lack of money that worried me. And it was the lack of information that made his mother almost sick.

She suddenly remembered an acquaintance who was a big shot in the management of the Eden Gardens Stadium. She called him up. He said that the stadium was empty now except for the players, and then said not to worry, he would inform the police. He called back a few minutes later to say that the police control room had been informed and they had spread the message across to all the policemen on duty to identify a fifteen year-old boy wearing the jersey of one of the teams, if he was found wandering and lost…

The rain had stopped. I was contemplating my next course of action, when the phone rang. It was from the Maidan Control Room of Kolkata Police. They took the full details and description of my son and said that they would be on the lookout.

The phone rang again. It was my son’s friends enquiring if we had heard anything. We said no, and they said they were on a bus returning home, and there was a possibility that he too had taken a bus. Then the gentleman who had informed the police, called up. He said that if our son did not return home within the next half-hour or so, we should lodge a formal diary with the police. We agreed, but deep in our hearts, there was that sinking feeling.

It is at times like these that one tends to think of the most ludicrous possibilities, and when sanity returns, think of some logical steps, only to go back to worrying about absurd things once more. For the better part of the following hour, we swung like a pendulum between a deep, gnawing regret at not having given him that cell-phone and a fervent hope that he would be intelligent enough to find his way home..

I was sitting out on the balcony, observing the rain-washed streets and the people who were passing by, thinking about the next steps, while his mother paced up and down, her cell phone clutched tightly in her hands.

The three street dogs who live in front of our house suddenly jumped up and rushed forward, and I heard my son’s voice talking to them. “He’s home”, I screamed.

He walked up the stairs and into the arms of his mother…. “I have realised today that one does not need a cell phone to survive,” was his first comment.

He then explained how, after being separated from his friends, he waited at the spot outside the stadium gates where they had planned to meet, and then, when his friends did not show up, walked up to the Esplanade Metro station, asking all the policemen on duty there, the way. At the station he asked a senior police officer for a detailed step-by-step direction to take the Metro, get off at Tollygunge station, and find his way home. The police officer was more than helpful, and thus he came home.

We called up the Maidan Control Room to inform them that the wait was over and our son was home. They said, “OK, thank you.”

I looked at the watch – we had gone through roughly seventy-five minutes of ordeal – not knowing where he was, how would he come home since he did not have enough money on him, what would he do if he was lost, since this was the first time he had gone out alone in the city, and what would we do in case he was lost….  Our son too, was shaken by the experience of trying to find his way home through that crowd. We realised it would be some considerable amount of time before he got over it, when he said that it was much better and more comfortable to watch cricket matches in the comfort of a living room, on TV.

75 minutes. We would remember that for a very long time indeed. 

THE MAID

(Note : This story was first published privately to my alumni group circa Aug. 2006.... Posting here for the first time..)

THE MAID

She was only nineteen when it happened. She met the man from her dreams, at a small nightclub on the outskirts of Manila. He said he was twenty-four, but looked slightly older. The first meeting, a second one the following week, and then she was caught in a whirlwind…. They met every evening, spent hours moving around the shopping malls, parks, holding hands, talking, caught in a time warp of their own, while the city whizzed by - a bubble-like ethereal existence, where eyes met eyes, hearts kept pounding so hard, it was difficult to breathe…

The first night together, in a small hotel room on the beach, was even more beautiful…. The moonlight streaming into the dark room, covering the satin bed-sheets with a gentle glow, the deep kiss, so deep that she gasped for breath, and then she was transformed into a woman, leaving her girlhood behind forever…. It was both painful and exhilarating, an extremely passionate moment, extremely fulfilling, something to be remembered for life.

Dreams brought more dreams with them, breaking apart and melting into each other, like billowing clouds on a windy afternoon. Or the unmindful strokes of a master painter’s brush. Everything around was so pleasant and beautiful to look at.

Then three months later, he was gone. Just that. Gone. No inkling of the impending separation, no forwarding address, no numbers to call. It tore her tender heart apart. She was pregnant.

A numbing pain only served to steel her resolve to go ahead and have the baby. It would be something to live for, something to look forward to. The economics could be taken care of later.

Her parents struggled to run the family with earnings from a small road-side restaurant with four rickety tables and a dozen aluminium chairs. They were god-fearing Roman Catholics, steeped in tradition, trying to bring up their four daughters the Catholic way. Money and food were always limited, although the place was never short of customers throughout the day. She was the eldest daughter.

Her parents were shocked, but supportive. They were always with her throughout her confinement, and very practical about things. Money was important, if the child was to be brought up properly. The desire to provide a good life to her baby and start dreaming again, helped her through the repeated waves of despondency during the long months of her wait.

One year later, she was in Brunei on a job contract, having left her three-month old baby back home in her mother’s care. She would be there for two years before she could return home for a month’s break. She had been hired to take care of a young couple’s three-month-old baby. Both had the same smile. They took to each other as if they were related. She did all the chores for the baby lovingly and dreamt her mother was doing the same for hers.

The couple was just two years into their marriage. Whenever they were at home, they would get lost in each other – a gentle caress, a soft kiss, exchanging smiles, cooking together, quite unmindful that there was someone else in the house. Someone with feelings, as well. Then there were those muted shrieks of passion from the bedroom at night. Her sleep would be disturbed.

She felt a searing pain in her chest sometimes, a few uncontrolled tears would lighten the burden. The baby was always there beside her. She hugged it and felt pacified, and then it would come back like a sledgehammer – this one was her job, she had left half her heart back home.

No man had ever touched her since that fateful day. The anger, the revulsion against the betrayal, had begun to mellow over time. She was still very young, and started to long for a man once again. Afraid to move forward, she was reluctant to hold back. Sometimes, on a lonely night, on a lonely bed, she would hug the pillow, imagining it to be the man she wanted to love. The image, always, had no face. The searing pain and the tears would return. She would fall back to sleep.

They held parties, there were many single young men around, but she was always busy with the baby. His smile made her smile, his cry made her desperate, he demanded complete attention. Always. At fourteen months, she taught the baby its first word, and wept…. She asked for permission to call home. She did. Her Mom answered. Her baby, she was informed, had already learnt quite a few words. But she could not speak to him. He was not interested.

Yet again, on a single, windswept, rainy day, her world changed. Her employer would have to return to his country, his visa had not been renewed. The baby was more comfortable with her than with its own mother. They would have to part.

***

The body wracking sobs woke her up. In the dim night-light of the room, this little baby girl was sleeping peacefully beside her. Her new employers were quite gentle – but she would have to wait another two months before she could go home to see her two-year old boy. Her pillow was wet with her tears, and she was sweating. The dream had drained her completely.

Would it always be like this ? Another household, another baby to take care of, with people leading normal lives and she lurking in the background, with a smile on her face and suppressed emotions, fractured dreams ? The past continuously fading into a hazy chiaroscuro of shapeless images ? She wanted to cry again, but the tears refused to come.

The baby woke up with a start as babies always do, and began crying. She picked her up, held her close with the intent to sing the soft tune she always had for moments like this. No sound came from her. She felt her heart, like a lump, choking her throat.

The baby fell back to sleep in her embrace. She put her gently back in her cot, and moved to the window. It was a quiet night, with the pale glow of a sinking half-moon over the horizon. In the distance, the odd car silently whizzed by on the highway. The trees outside, an ageless assembly of sentient beings, were waiting, she felt, to hear her voice. All she could do was gulp.

Two months later, she would have to start all over again to get close to her child – her own flesh and blood. She would have to laugh and sing and cry with him. And she would have only one month to do it.

She looked out of the window again. It was pitch-dark now. It was the hour before dawn.

***