Fall in love if you want to lose weight: Guest Post by Asokan Ponnusamy

Fall in love if you want to lose weight: Guest Post by Asokan Ponnusamy

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Lost in the ‘pandal’ jungle of Kolkata during Durga Puja: Guest Post by Suryamouli Datta

It was a splendid night that would have made even Jeeves put on his dancing shoes. I was decked out in my finest outfit, ready to make a grand spectacle of myself. It was Navaratri, or as we Bengalis call it, Mahanavami. A time of joy, abundance, and piety. Unlike the Scots, who celebrate the autumn season with kilts and bagpipes, we in India observe it with a spiritual and cultural extravaganza. The festival of Mahanavami is a time for revelry, worship, and artistic expression.

Ah, what an evening it was! We Bengalis, being people of culture and taste, celebrate Navaratri with a tradition called “pandal hopping.” We erect temporary temples – pandals – all over the city, and people go from pandal to pandal, offering prayers and admiring the artwork. And let me tell you, my fellow readers, the artwork is simply something to die for.

The best part of pandal hopping, of course, is the company. I was with a group of seven friends, and a wizened elder to keep us on the straight and narrow. We were all in the ninth grade then, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, excited to explore the city and its many pandals. We did not have a care in the world. A rather reckless mood prevailed, much like that of Bertie Wooster and his pals on the night of the Boat Race night.

All of us were merrily going from one pandal to the next, wonderstruck at the kind of magnificent sculptures of the mighty Goddess on display and taking in the finery worn by the bhadra lok. Wherever the gaze went, one could spot the glittering jewellery put on by the members of the tribe of the so-called delicately nurtured, duly draped in that six-meter enigmatic wonder called saris, that too of a mind- boggling variety, like Baluchari, Gorod, Murshidabad silk, Tusser, Tangail, and Tant.

As and when our wizened elder was looking elsewhere, our eyes would invariably get busy casting some furtive glances at the many giggling and merry-making girls who happened to be in the immediate vicinity. After all, at such a tender age as that of ours then, who could miss a chance to indulge in what is euphemistically alluded to as birdwatching? 

However, my sense of wonder was brief as I realized after a couple of pandal hops that I was separated from my comrades. It was like a scene from the Odyssey, where the protagonist finds himself lost in a strange and unfamiliar land. It was as if I’d been spirited away to a strange, unknown land in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile, the other musketeers accompanying me were nowhere to be seen. Allow me to remind you that we lived in simpler times then. Internet had not been heard of. Mobile phones were yet to arrive on the scene.  

Now, most people in this situation might have panicked or given up hope entirely. But not me. We, the Dattas, are made of sterner stuff. Seldom do we panic or despair. Howsoever challenging the circumstances, we believe in maintaining sang froid.  We possess a chin up attitude. We are a spiritually enlightened lot. We believe in acceptance and surrender. I confess that unlike Bertie Wooster, I never won a prize in Scripture Knowledge while being at school. I simply accepted that I was lost, surrendered myself to a higher power, as it were, and that was that.

You see, there are two types of people in the world: one, those who search for lost things, and two, those who let lost things be. I fell into the latter category, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. What I needed was a little motivation to keep moving forward, even if it meant moving alone.

And so I found my motivation: food. I stumbled upon a shop and, being the intense budgeteer that I am, found I could only afford a bottle of Coke. I paid the restaurant owner and left, content with my meagre rations.

But oh, dear readers, what happened next was truly the stuff of legends. As I quaffed my Coke, I noticed a bus moving towards my destination at a pace slower than that of a funeral procession. It does not require one to be a Sherlock Holmes to realize what my next steps were, but dear readers, just to get the facts clear, I would like to inform that I first checked my pockets to ensure that I had sufficient funds for the ride. After all, one does not wish to deprive the government of the day of some revenue. Boarding the rickety bus which was bursting at the seams with people of all sizes and shapes was then the work of a moment. The ride was less comfortable than the milk train ride undertaken by Bertie Wooster to intercept a letter before it got delivered to Madeline Bassett, but I finally reached my destination on time and avoided the raised eyebrows of my parents. Soon, I had a sumptuous dinner prepared by my mom followed by a good night’s what-you-call-an-activity-that- knits-up-the-raven-sleeve-of-care. It had been a long day, after all.

But the real story unfolded the next day, my dear readers. As I sat at home, basking in the glow of my achieved objectives, and sipping from a cup of aromatic Darjeeling tea, my friends arrived, with a sheepish looking wizened elder in tow. They were all in a tizzy, recounting their spine-chilling ordeal of trying to locate me in the jostling crowds from the night before. The sudden disappearance of yours truly from amongst their midst had left them shaken up from the base of their toes to the top of their heads. You know what I mean. They were all baffled, bewildered, confounded, confused, fazed, flummoxed, mystified, puzzled, and stumped. The hair-raising mystery of my disappearance from their midst had led to sleepless nights for most of them. 

‘The august guardian’, having circumnavigated the sun some twenty-two times till then, appeared to have aged considerably overnight, what with the emergence of dark halos beneath his ocular organs. It did not require the supreme intelligence of a Reginald Jeeves to figure out that his soul had been in torment, primarily owing to the thoughts of facing the firing squad waiting at home to pounce upon him for dereliction of duty. He was tongue-tied, reminding one of Bertie Wooster being presented to Sir Watkyn Bassett in a court of law. His relief, upon being told that I had made it back home in one piece relieved him instantly. His brow ceased to be furrowed. His visage soon adorned a toothsome grin. He perked up like a flower which had just been watered after a gap of few days.

Indeed, the way they went about trying to trace me and the related incidents narrated by my friends invoked a feeling of being a part of an ‘edge of the seat thriller’ amongst all of us, even though I or my parents were not a part of it.

By Jove, the account of my chums’ efforts to trace my whereabouts was nothing short of a gripping thriller! Their narrative of the numerous challenges they encountered during the hunt kept us all on tenterhooks. Sure enough, their skills of narration were no match to the sparkling way Mr. Mulliner would recount the experiences of his nephews and nieces to his companions at the Angler’s Rest. But while my sister acted like the erudite Miss Postlethwaite, ensuring a steady supply of piping hot tea to all those assembled, we listened in rapt attention to the trials and tribulations of my friends when I went missing from amongst their midst. Apparently, they even sought the help of a rozzer to locate me. Unfortunately, he was busy taking his own family around the multitudes of the pandals so all they earned was a stern rebuke for distracting him from his familial ‘duties’. Although my parents and I were absent at the time, we felt like active participants in the dramatic turn of events!

I believe that the festival of Mahanavami is a wonderful reminder that culture and tradition can bring people together, even during difficult times. It is a time for us to celebrate our shared heritage, enrich our spiritual leanings, enjoy the fruits of artistic expression, and gorge on the delicacies on offer. And it is a time for us to remember that even when we feel lost or alone, there is always a way forward with a little bit of humour and ingenuity. Above all, festivals happen to be subtle reminders of the values that we cherish the most – values of togetherness, caring, compassion, and empathy. 

So, there you have it, my dear readers. A night to remember, a tale of adventure, and a bottle of Coke to make it all possible.

How’s that for a slice of life in Bengal?!

(Illustrations courtesy Suryamouli Datta)  

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The travails of enacting a romantic scene on stage: Guest Post by Suryamouli Datta

An experience that tried my soul occurred on the day of the cultural meet during the celebration of Durga Puja, the much-revered festival of my community. I was all of a twitter, plagued by the kind of anxieties that Gussie Fink-Nottle had felt in Right Ho, Jeeves when he was asked to deliver a speech at the Market Snodsbury Grammar School. In the absence of a jugful of orange juice, duly laced with a tissue restorative liberally added by such well-wishers as Reginald Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, dreadful thoughts consumed me. The brow was furrowed. The grey cells were abuzz with worries regarding the potential mishaps that could ruin not only my own performance but also the efforts of my fellow thespians while staging a play named Dampoti (Eng. Couple).

A Trauma of Titanic Proportions

It all began a few moons prior when I was somehow persuaded, against my better judgement, into playing a befuddled middle-aged man who strays from the straight and narrow path of a matrimonial alliance for a romantic tryst with his ex-girlfriend. Without question, this character could proudly proclaim to possess an impressive degree of superiority over many others from the tribe of the homo sapiens in matters of courage. All of us are aware that pulling off a feat of this nature needs not only nerves of chilled steel but also fortitude, aptitude, and an unwavering composure. For someone like me who has a strict moral code and is configured along the lines of a docile male rabbit, playing a role of the kind on offer was indeed an experience which left me shuddering from the base of my feet to the top of my head. My experience was akin to that of Bertie Wooster when Aunt Agatha was about to descend on his flat to retrieve her dog Bartholomew who had just been ‘gifted’ by Roberta Wickham to Kid Blumenfeld.

Picture further, if you will, the quagmire of complications that are bound to ensue when the said character finds himself caught by his on-stage-wife, red-handed, whilst basking in the sunlight on some picturesque sea beach with his ex., all the while blissfully unaware of his wife’s covert surveillance, duly facilitated by means of a pair of binoculars! The intense feelings of acute embarrassment, distress, shock and surprise this character would have felt in a situation like this would generate the kind of heat which would be sufficient to melt any nerves of chilled steel he might have boasted of. To someone like me whose nerves are merely made of wax, playing out a scene of that kind was bound to send a shiver down my spine of cottage cheese, inducing a veritable cascade of goose bumps upon my person.

An empathic reader would undoubtedly comprehend the titanic predicament I faced in enacting a role of this nature in the said play. Quite a tricky (if that is the term I am looking for) situation for the guy indeed! Initially, I did have reservations. But with no escape route in sight, I had little choice but to say ‘yes’ and embark upon tireless rehearsals to bolster my confidence for the impending performance.

The Challenge of Casting Romantic Glances

As things transpired on the dreaded “D-Day,” a snag emerged. Together with our director, we, the cast, conducted an extensive review of our rehearsals so far and surmised that a romantic exchange of glances between myself and my on-stage wife was conspicuous by its singular absence!

Now my dear chaps, those privy to my rather perplexing quirks and eccentricities would be acutely aware of the uneasiness that a person like me would feel when I come face to face with the daunting task of making eye contact with a lady with whom I am neither married nor romantically involved. We, the Dattas, are a chivalrous lot, you see. We have a code. Of course, like many of those who belong to the tribe of the so-called sterner sex, one is not averse to casting a surreptitious sideways glance or two at the curvaceous profile of a lady passing by. However, the prospect of making eye contact leaves one rather baffled, bewildered, confused, disoriented, fogged, flummoxed, mystified, nonplussed, perplexed, and puzzled.

The situation was further compounded by the presence of my better half and my on-stage-wife’s bitter half, both frolicking about in the same production. It was a predicament akin to the one faced by Aunt Dahlia when she was camping at Totleigh Towers. Either she could continue to avail the services of Anatole, God’s gift to our gastric juices, thereby keeping the lining of Uncle Tom’s intestines in the pink of health, or willy-nilly consent to a 30-days-without-the-option jail term for her nephew Bertie Wooster. A Hobson’s choice, indeed.

Regrettably, I had no recourse but to seriously ponder on the directorial demands of generating an ‘on stage chemistry’ with my on-stage-spouse, for it was much too late to summon a substitute.

So folks, this was the concatenation of circumstances leading to my real-life undertaking of a Gussie-like role, mired in trepidation and consternation. One of Jeeves’ trademark pick-me-ups might have been of some assistance, but alas, the opportunity never presented itself. What my ailing disposition also craved for was at least a few drops of Mulliner’s Buck-Uppo, which would have ensured my facing the impending doom with a jaunty sang froid. But an opportune moment for such indulgence never presented itself! Somehow, merely a couple of drops of a fruit-laden elixir found their way to my parched lips, though these did little to soothe my frayed nerves.

The Curtain Goes Up

Eventually, the gong was sounded, the curtain went up, and the show commenced. I set my foot on the stage with the eternal Shakespearean dilemma: ‘To be or not to be’ there. The prospect of rotten eggs and tomatoes being hurled at me by some familiar faces (I knew close to 80% of the audience which was from my own community) left me shuddering uncontrollably.

The parts that I knew well sprung forth from my person like cheese and coriander chutney from a sandwich, but the decisive moment rapidly approached, threatening to expose my inadequacies. My co-actor excelled with aplomb, executing her part with finesse, even dealing with the minor mishaps that normally accompany any live performance. However, the intriguing question of how to convey a romantic gaze still befuddled me. Of course, as a conscientious well-meaning person, I had made appropriate preparations after listening to my director’s demands (the reader might recollect that the issue was identified on the D-day itself). In the interim, I had practiced a number of facial manoeuvres before the mirror in my bedroom.

But my attempts at perfecting “love at first sight” were woefully inadequate. You know the lot — dreamy eyes, faint smiles, even excited hand-waving, et al. The harsh reality of being on stage ended up evaporating whatever self-confidence I had built up till then. My quest to develop a romantic connection (through glances) with someone of the opposite sex on stage seemed as challenging as learning a completely foreign language. Despite my fervent efforts, I found myself continuously circling around the idea of radiating the ‘perfect glance’, often getting reminded of a phrase from the ‘Holy Bible’:

Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.

Indeed, I must confess that I was badly in search of a George Bevan (Damsel in Distress) or Arthur Mifflin (A Gentleman of Leisure) to play the role of The Buddha who can show me the path to ‘enlightenment’ (if that is indeed the right term I am using here). In short, what I faced was a Himalayan challenge, that too in full view of the assembled patrons, scrutinizing my every single move with wide eyes.

But my Guardian Angels appeared to be in a benign mood. As the final act started playing out, my co-actor bestowed upon me a magnificent, scene-stealing ‘gesture’ that I yearned to applaud as a maestro would a stunning grand performance. This bolstered my confidence no end, and I was left with no option but to reciprocate the gesture in a similar vein. I felt like Esmond Haddock, who could eventually find the courage to stand up to his five overbearing aunts. Just as I was teetering on the brink of my ignominious debut as an untalented thespian, a startling revelation dawned upon me: I realized that my nerves, which were hitherto behaving as if made of wax, suddenly metamorphosed into the kind which comprise chilled steel instead. Galvanized by this newfound understanding, I swiftly took action to restore the esteemed reputation of the illustrious ‘Datta’ clan. Summoning all the courage of my illustrious ancestors, I let out a timely exhalation that could perhaps be described as a well-placed-sigh in response to the boiling anger and huffy demeanor of my on-stage-better-half. Apparently, this resonated most ardently with our esteemed spectators, particularly those of the masculine persuasion, who found solace in witnessing the so-called “most romantic” retort to a wrathful wife. The rest of the performance went along like a song rendered with effortless gusto and we succeeded in holding the audience spellbound till the time the curtain slowly descended. 

A Lesson Learnt the Hard Way

The audience reaction was positively spiffing, though it was not the only reason for my uplifted spirits. All said and done, I had managed to pull off another remarkable feat. I had managed not to ruffle the feathers of two most influential stakeholders in this production – my wife and my co-actor’s husband. Surely, a consummation devoutly to be wished for.

Had you been present on the occasion, you might have noticed my humming a tune from the Bollywood film Jugnu: 

A song sung to define the fact that a cluster of innocent children far surpasses the transient beauty of Diwali’s flickering lights. For a while, the latter may shimmer and shine, but the radiance is momentary, whereas the former’s charm lingers on – a melody that tugs at the heartstrings and evokes an enduring joy.

Likewise, theatre, a fleeting flicker in the grand performance called life! Like the ephemeral glow of festive crackers on a joyous occasion, these performances lit up the stage with brilliance. And when executed with precision, they etch indelible memories in our hearts, as everlasting as the laughter of children. In the words of Khushwant Singh, ‘Theatre is life; cinema is art; television is furniture.’ So let us relish the transient magic of theatre, for it brings us joy and keeps our sofas from feeling neglected!

All is well that ends well. It turned out to be a jolly good show, and I could not have pulled it off without my fellow actors and the entire team backing us up.

Many of us may deride and ridicule Bertie for his pumpkin-headedness. Jeeves may hold him to be someone of negligible intelligence. But there are indeed times when what he says turns out to be a precious lesson for life. Consider this:  

A short while ago, the air was congested with V-shaped depressions, but now one looks north, south, east, and west and discovers not a single cloud on the horizon…Well, this should certainly teach us, should it not, never to repine, never to despair, never to allow the upper lip to unstiffen, but always to remember that, no matter how dark the skies may be, the sun is shining somewhere and will eventually come smiling through.

Notes:

• Pictures courtesy Ankan Chakraborty.
• Reviewed and somewhat spruced up by yours truly.

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Why you should read “Summer Lightning” by P G Wodehouse – Robert Pimm

Why you should read “Summer Lightning” by P G Wodehouse — Robert Pimm: novels, short stories and more

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Some juicy quotes from ‘Full Moon’

Some juicy quotes from ‘Full Moon’

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Some Encounters of a Plummy Kind

 

What happens when Plum fans get to meet each other at a gig? Some may be known to one from the virtual world most of us inhabit these days. Others may be genial souls whom one meets for the first time, though some of them may soon assume the character of long-lost friends.

After all, Plum himself said somewhere that “There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.” It follows that if the term “literature” here covers his own oeuvre, a high degree of bonhomie and warmth soon fills one’s bosom. The excitement of discussing his works and discovering some hereto unknown facets of his characters soon surpasses the kind of inner satisfaction Aunt Dahlia would have felt after having managed to corner the much-coveted silver cow creamer for Uncle Tom, thereby brightening the chances of ensuring a fresh lease of life to Milady’s Boudoir.      

A feast of reason and flow of soul occurs. Over some browsing and sluicing, many issues get discussed. The myriad ways in which Bertie Wooster avoids many a walk down the aisle. The ethics of Rupert Psmith misleading Eve Halliday with a bunch of lies when on a boat ride in the lake at Blandings Castle. The curious case of Bingo Little who proves Charles Darwin’s Theory of Evolution wrong by undergoing a reverse metamorphosis -transforming from a butterfly during his pre-nuptial days into a caterpillar which is singularly devoted to Rosie M. Banks during his post-matrimony phase. The mystery of the disappearance of Psmith and Eve as a couple. Behavioural traits of not only the prominent loony doctors and ungentlemanly aunts but also of Batholomew, Augustus and Potato Chip come in for a detailed scrutiny.

On all such occasions, time invariably picks up speed, leaving many fans of Albert Einstein’s nodding in agreement. A duration of one hundred and twenty minutes, if spent in the enlightening company of Plum fans, sounds like a mere span of twenty minutes.

A concatenation of circumstances during the month of July 2023 led to yours truly having a couple of Plummy encounters. Here is a brief account of these.  

A Mind-bending Quiz at the UK Society Meeting in London   

Which breed of the canine species does Bartholomew (who, if you recall, biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder) belong to?!

Well, this was merely one of the twenty-five odd questions which got unleashed upon one at a recent meeting of the UK Society in London. Conducted with rare aplomb and felicity by Lasley Tapson, a committee member of the Society, the quiz helped all of us to assess the current level of our respective Pumpkin Quotients. I, for one, found mine to be higher than that of Gussie Fink-Nottle.

Besides the pleasure of meeting many other fans at the gig, I had the privilege of exchanging pleasantries with Tim Andrew, the Chairman of the Society, and Andrew Bishop, the Editor of Wooster Sauce.

Meeting a Fan from Across the Pond

It so happened that a fan of Plum’s from across the pond and yours truly were infesting the environs of London around the same time. Lia Marie Hansen, Doug, the Bingo Little of her life, and yours truly could meet for some time. Lia is a theatre professional who has worked in the past at Vanguard Lyceum Theatre and is currently a Professor at Vanguard University of Southern California.

Given her profession, the exploits of George Bevan were bound to come up for a mention. So was the fascination of Kid Blumenfeld, the dish-faced kid who, despite his tender age, controls the theatrical productions of his father, with McIntosh, Aunt Agatha’s Aberdeen terrier. Gushing references to many of Plum’s characters and instances in his narratives invariably followed. Challenges faced by the world of theatre were discussed. So were matters pertaining to advances in acoustics and a few other realms of human enterprise.

A Visit to the Dulwich College, UK

This was a lovely and instructive encounter with an important part of Plum’s life. Some of you might have already come across details of this visit of mine here.

The Orange Plums

Gangs of Plum fans, whether masquerading as societies or otherwise, can be found all over the world. Besides the United States of America, United Kingdom, Netherlands, Sweden, Norway, France, Italy, Russia, Japan, Australia, and Canada also boast of devoted fans and admirers who keep his works alive by organizing events and conducting various activities from time to time. India, with its sizeable population, also has a liberal smattering of fans, with a latent desire for some browsing and sluicing which often manifests when a fan from another city pops up.   

The Wodehouse Society (USA) has many Regional Chapters all over the country. One of these, located in the Orange County of California, is known as Orange Plums. Its members congregate once every month, thereby continuing to spread sweetness and light in their community. Their meetings take place at the Streamliner Lounge and Café which happens to be a diner located on the premises of the Orange train station. The credit of introducing me to the group goes to Thomas Langston Reeves Smith, a fan of Plum’s who infests another part of the country.

To ensure that the group members did not take me to be an imposter, as also to follow Jeeves’ advice that there are no times when ties do not matter, I had worn a Drones Club tie to the meeting. This, despite the sweltering heat outside. But what I had not imagined was the kind of warmth with which the members would greet and receive me. I might as well have worn an asbestos vest. After much ‘What ho’-ing and exchange of pleasantries, I was elated to receive a few mementos from the 2022 San Diego Convention of the Wodehouse Society. Precious gifts, indeed!

All of us are aware of the invigorating properties of the juice of an orange, especially when laced with a liberal dose of tissue restoratives. However, the sheer joy of meeting some fans of Wodehouse located in a different part of the world itself acts as a powerful intoxicant on someone like me. A generally shy, morose, and reticent person like me suddenly turns into a blabbering idiot. I am surely not a loquacious pub raconteur in the same class as that of Mr. Mulliner but a transient bout of chattiness does overtake me on such occasions.

Thus, the Double-Whisky-and-Splash, the Gin-and-Tonic and the Tankard of Ale who had assembled at the venue had to suffer a great deal of coarse buffoonery on my part for close to about one hundred and twenty minutes. However, it goes to the credit of Orange Plums that they withstood the onslaught upon their auditory senses with a chin up attitude which would have made Bertie Wooster proud of them. None of them exercised either of the two options of an escape available to them – either by using their jalopies parked upfront, or by using the back door to catch the trains which were chugging along at regular intervals. Climbing down pipes was ruled out because the café happens to be on the ground floor.      

Fans of Plum often hide their talents well. The Double-Whisky-and-Splash, who had coordinated the meeting, turned out to be someone who dishes out not only a monthly newsletter but also two regular submarine-related magazines. He has long studied the art of whipping up TV scripts and producers of shows are watching his progress with keen interest.

The Gin-and-Tonic, a history buff who is in the noble profession of teaching, is also open to schooling others in music appreciation and even participating in karaoke competitions. A genial soul, I am certain that her pupils would have never alluded to her as being a female lion-tamer cast in the mould of either Miss Mapleton or Miss Tomlinson.  

The Tankard of Ale happens to be in the service of the Almighty, perhaps delivering Sunday sermons the durations and handicaps of which keep the local betting syndicates agog with excitement. I am sure he has had the company of a goofy kid like Thos for some time and would thus be hotter at his job. A technology geek, he kept on locating various narratives and characters on his technical gizmo, in tandem with the flow of discussion of the group, which involved trading tales and sharing our mutual enthusiasm for The Master.       

It was fun meeting a few members of the group. Sometime soon, the Orange Plums are planning to organize a flowerpot throwing competition. They are also keenly looking forward to the next Society Convention, scheduled to take place in Nashville, Tennessee, September 26 – 29, 2024.  

I wish Orange Plums a goofy time ahead!

A Wish List

Perhaps the Bard was not much off the mark when he said that the world is an oyster. Just in case my Guardian Angels ever enable another visit either to the United Kingdom or to the southern parts of California, my travel plans may include the various spots said to be the inspiration of many of Plum’s narratives.

By way of an example, I believe that there are two claimants to the Drones Club – the Buck’s Club in London and the Montecito Country Club at Santa Barbara. As to Totleigh Towers, the Hearst Castle at San Simeon, where Plum is said to have stayed for several months during 1930, is said to be the inspiration.

Of course, brainy coves on both sides of the pond would have already listed out several such attractions.  

Each encounter of a Plummy kind leaves one feeling enthused about the future of humanity.

May the epidemic of Wodehousitis continue to spread all over the world!

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The Travails of an Air Passenger

All kinds of studies done by brainy coves the world over keep telling us that our well-heeled denizens are gradually becoming even-better-heeled with each passing year. Thanks to the capitalistic theories propounded by such experts as Milton Friedman, the concentration of wealth appears to be going up for a tiny segment of the society.

One of the off shoots of the increasing concentration of money power is that of air travel becoming more popular by the day. Manufacturers of commercial airliners, overjoyed at receiving bulk orders for delivery of shimmering new aircraft, are laughing all the way to their banks. New airlines are springing up at a rate which would put many a mushroom-growing enthusiast to well-justified shame.

But it is the hapless customer who appears to be getting increasingly short-changed over time. Here are some of the typical blues which she faces while daring to travel by air.

Pre-flight Stress

For first-time flyers, or even infrequent flyers, the challenge starts right from the time they start twiddling their thumbs trying to squeeze in whatever they desire to carry while keeping a sharp eye on the dimensions as well as the weight of their bulging suitcases. With each passing year, following the advice dished out by their finance honchos, airlines keep reducing the baggage allowances, bringing in additional charges while offering apparently juicy deals for cheaper tickets. While the algorithms of our search engines keep highlighting airlines offering the best deals, the overall cost of travel keeps galloping at a pace which would make Potato Chip (of Aunts Aren’t Gentlemen fame) sit up and take notice.

Some countries like Japan and Switzerland have already kick-started campaigns to persuade travellers to pack less and reduce the airlines’ carbon footprints. Skiing gear, helmets, insulated wear, caps, snow goggles and many other mountaineering-related items are now available for rent upon arrival at major airports. Many airlines have already reduced their check-in baggage allowance from 32 kgs to 23 kgs, leaving many a passenger from countries like India carrying a year’s supply of toys, garments, spices, pickles, and other items of daily consumption fretting and fuming over the changes. Many airlines have already started charging for cabin baggage as well. Very soon, there could be additional cuts in allowances and handsome rewards for passengers who practice a size-zero policy for the baggage they carry.

Luckily for customers, many airlines are yet to wake up to the revenue-boosting potential of charging higher fares based on the gross weight of the passenger herself. Air New Zealand appears to have already started this practice. I suspect the day is not far off when many airlines across the world would start following a similar practice.

All clouds have a silver lining, and the practice of linking fares being charged linked to a passenger’s Body Mass Index could usher in a new craze of Homo sapiens’ desire to be leaner and fitter. World Health Organization would have us believe that by 2021, worldwide obesity had nearly tripled since 1975. Well-endowed passengers would start sweating it out merely to ensure that they do not get overcharged for travelling by air. Fitness experts like Ashe Marson (Something Fresh) and gym-owners like Chimp Twist (Money for Nothing) would surely enjoy higher levels of prosperity.

The Triathlon at the Airport 

The Challenge of Checking-in

The requirements for online check-in vary not only from airline to airline but even from airport to airport, leaving many a flyer baffled, bewildered, confused, disoriented, fogged, flummoxed, mystified, nonplussed, perplexed, and puzzled.    

With a rapid increase in those wishing to take to the skies, the challenges of navigating through milling crowds at the airport merely to reach a check-in counter could leave a passenger disgruntled, disappointed and dejected. The earlier norm of reporting at least three hours prior to the departure of one’s flight is no longer valid. Cost-saving measures introduced by many airlines have apparently ensured a drastic cut in the number of ground staff operating the check-in counters. These days, just to reach one, it could take up to two hours.

Upon reaching the counter, you may get greeted by someone cast in the mould of Florence Craye. While you may be trying to check out her willowy profile sideways, her sharp eyes would already be checking out your baggage profile and weight. Anything exceeding the limits prescribed, and she will pounce on you to extract an extra pound of flesh. She may or may not extoll the virtues of the Types of Ethical Overloading but is bound to demand some extra money you have to part with.

Gone are the heady days when one could keep the check-in baggage within the stipulated limits but could carry overloaded cabin baggage, hoping that the smartly dressed ground staff will indulge the hapless passengers and turn a blind eye to bulging hand-carried items. You will be asked to insert the cabin baggage into a super-tight metal box, and should you fail in doing so, or get noticed for overly exerting yourself to somehow shove it into the size-zero box, monetary consequences will need to be faced. Ukridge would have surely come up with a betting racket linked to whether a certain passenger would get away with an oversized baggage. Shylock himself would do well to undergo a crash refresher course conducted by ground staff of this kind. 

Of Security Blues

The security guys and gals leave no stone turned to further fray the nerves of a passenger. If milk being carried for bonny babies gets thrown into a dustbin, so do some objects as small scissors and any precious gifts made of such material as wax, etc. Some kind of footwear and accessories invite a jaundiced eye, leaving the passenger praying for mercy. The process of taking off one’s belts hastily wound around by someone who faces Pear Pressure in office has left many a passenger de-trousered, shocking the on-lookers.

If your cabin baggage gets singled out for a detailed scrutiny, that too at the hands of someone of the stature of Roderick Spode, you feel as if you have just been found pinching an umbrella belonging to him. You only hope that he does not wish to jump on you with size eleven boots and see the colour of your insides. Too many traditional medicines carried by the elderly in bulk could arouse the worst suspicions. Even a silver-coated set of spoons and forks purchased by you for a loved one may have to be parted with.        

Emigration and Boarding

Another long queue awaits you next at the emigration counter. Someone in the mould of Madam Bassett will ask you a perfunctory set of questions and then only do you get to hear the loud but reassuring noise of her having stamped your passport.

When you land up at the boarding gate, you often realize with sudden horror that the boarding is not through an aerobridge. Instead, you have to trudge down a flight of stairs, take a bus, brave the elements, and then huff and puff back up the aircraft boarding stairs. This is what management experts allude to as a win-win situation. Your heart gets some well-deserved exercise, whereas the airline saves the cost of engaging an aerobridge at the airport.

Long queues at the boarding gates are now a norm. Some airlines in the USA practice a policy of laissez faire, helping the flyers to maintain a high level of physical agility and fitness. The moment the gates get thrown open, a race down the aerobridge to grab the best possible seats begins, putting many an Olympian sprinter to shame. All those who, like Bingo Little, have allowed their sporting spirits to drive them to the races at Ascot and have keenly watched the winning tactics of racing horses stand a far better chance of securing seats of their choice.

Of course, you can have a seat of choice as well, provided you are prepared to shell out some more green stuff for the privilege.

When Reality Hits One

Finally, the passenger heaves a sigh of relief, squeezes herself into the narrow seat, fastens her seat belt, and looks forward to a time of rest and repose. But wait, some more excitement is on its way.

When she looks around, she starts feeling empathetic towards the sardines which get mercilessly compressed into a tiny tin/aluminium box. A realization soon dawns that the seats have been designed by expert ergonomists who have squeezed every square inch of the carpet area of the aircraft. 

A Sudden Jump in the Blood Pressure 

The security drill starts. She suddenly realizes that she is destined to travel by an aircraft which happens to be a Boeing 737 Max. She shudders to think of all the 346 passengers who had lost their lives many years back while travelling in the same model. Her blood pressure suddenly shoots up a few notches. She silently prays to one’s Guardian Angels that the same fate may not await her during the flight. She starts wondering if she had, like Aunt Dahlia, ever committed the sin of breaking a few infant Samuel figurines at a nephew’s lair, and Fate was now sneaking up from the back with a lead pipe in hand.   

Of Tissue Restoratives and On-board-meals

Thanks to the over-zealous Chief Financial Officers (CFOs) of airlines who keep advising their managements on how to keep cutting down the operating costs and boosting the inflow of the green stuff, no initiative is good enough.

Forget the midair supply of such benign tissue restoratives as tea or coffee, even plain drinking water gets served with a flourish, only to be followed by a much-dreaded card payment gadget. Forget also the juicy and not-so-juicy meals which used to be part of the airfare many years back. There are no free lunches anymore. Be prepared for being not served any nourishment even after having made an online booking for the same.  

The days are not far off when one would even be charged for using the washrooms aboard the aircraft, fundamental rights guaranteed by the constitutions of many countries be damned.   

The Short-haul Sprints

The question of getting served anything on a short-haul flight does not even arise. By the time the seatbelt sign gets switched off and one starts soaking in the glory of nature while marvelling at the white cushion of fluffy clouds below, a short opportunity of getting a cup of tea/coffee may present itself. However, even before one has sipped half the cup that supposedly cheers one, the aircraft is already preparing to land at your destination, leaving one feeling cheated and disgruntled.

In the days to come, passengers may even be allowed a hefty discount on short-haul flights provided they consent to travel in a standing position, holding a velvet-covered handrail above, while being duly strapped to a safety belt dropping down upon one from above, duly herded like a flock of subservient sheep into a separate bay at the back of the plane. We may find them behind the privileged and seated passengers who would perhaps be enjoying their bouts of snootiness, casting supercilious glances at those having a standing ride, much like the kind they themselves are made to suffer at the hands of business class passengers!  

The Horrors of Long Marathons in the Sky

Even the trauma suffered by those who travel on a long-haul flight is bound to increase in the days to come.

The Stiff-Upper-Lip Passengers

I wonder why and how airlines keep attracting passengers who follow a strict stiff-upper-lip policy while interacting with their co-passengers. Their faces and their body language carry an invisible ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. Forget a tentative smile. Abandon the thought of a handshake. Eye contact, if any were to happen, may take place only when the guy in the window seat has to visit the rest room and expects one to get up and make way for him to attend to the nature’s call.    

Those from the emerging economies who are always used to a friendly exchange of notes with the person seated next to them on, say, an eleven-hour flight across the pond, are left disgruntled at the singular absence of a human interaction, howsoever inane it may be. A wee bit of ‘What-ho’-ing is summarily ruled out, curdling whatever little milk of human kindness may still be coursing through one’s veins. This is one of the many perils faced when one undertakes a long journey on an airliner. Ashe Marson had a similar experience while traveling with Joan Valentine from London to Blandings in Something Fresh. The latter had held a magazine before her as a protection, so as to avoid making any conversation. Thanks to Covid, in-flight magazines have all but disappeared from the seat pockets in front of us. Thus, the modern woman today cannot be blamed for being found riveted to a screen in front of her.   

There is a limit to studying the safety instruction card, the menu on offer, and the inflight purchases you can indulge in. Pretty soon, the only option left is that of perusing either a book or a downloaded movie or two or latching on to the movies/series on offer on the screen in front of one. Of course, the last mentioned would work only if you are willing to pay for the earphones you would need.  

The Absence of Beauty and Amiability

It seems incredible that in this age of progress steps have not been taken to either improve the standard of looks among air travellers or even attracting those who have an amiable nature.  Time after time I step on board, full of optimism and feeling that this trip at any rate my fellow-passengers will be at least semi-human, if not human. And every time I stagger back with a hand over my eyes, shaking my head in disbelief.  

Perhaps, a reserved kind of nature is taken as a sign of maturity and wisdom. As to looks, I accept that it is not their fault that most of them look like what either Webster or Augustus might have dragged on to the plane. You see an exhausted looking aged lady devouring a literary tome in her wrinkled hands, peering through her horn-rimmed spectacles, and wearing a ghastly necklace of artificial pearls. Across the aisle, you notice a pot-bellied business honcho feverishly working on the tablet in his hands, ostensibly preparing plans to persuade his customers to part with some green stuff while buying whatever product/service his company may be offering. A sudden commotion draws your attention to a bunch of noisy and weepy tiny tots, with a much-wearied mom who has given up all hopes of reining in the noise pollution.

There is no beating the game. When the aircraft hits a stretch of turbulence, the seat belt sign gets promptly switched on, making you give up your brief saunter down the aisle and rush to your assigned seat.   

The Invisible ‘Do Not Disturb’ Signs

Even if you have the good fortune to be seated next to some moderately attractive passengers, the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is invariably switched on for the entire duration of the flight. The charm, if any, starts waning soon after the crew starts its in-flight service.

Hope of a friendly chit-chat, if any, in your bosom, starts evaporating like water would in the vast Sahara Desert. Within the first hour of the journey, if I had imagined that someone would look over at me in a not unkindly spirit and say to herself “Ah! Jolly old Bhatia, the fan of P. G. Wodehouse, eh, what? Capital!”, I would be proven to be wrong.

By the end of the second hour, she feels that she may have seen me before somewhere and that I am not nearly the thing of engage-worthy intellect she had imagined me to be. My fascination begins to wane.

By the end of the third hour, a sort of nervous irritation floods over her as I sink into my seat and start going through a book of Plum’s. Half unconsciously, she begins to wonder if, like Bertie Wooster, I happen to be mentally negligible. She starts marvelling at the weird parental affection which kept my father and mother from drowning me in a bucket as a child. My rapidly balding head gleams at her in the overhead reading light of the overhead reading light, prompting her to wonder if I happen to be a distant cousin of Sir Roderick Glossop whose head is said to resemble the dome of St. Paul’s. More and more does she resent the vacant stare of my infernal eyes behind their spectacles. The way in which I shove some nourishment down the hatch seems to her proof of a diseased soul.

After an interminable stretch of time, when the eleventh hour finally arrives, the sheer relief at the prospect of release from a confinement in a metal tube cruising at an altitude of 35,000 feet above the ground, imposed upon me by a stern-looking beak, ends up inducing a sort of grisly geniality. However, it gets partially reciprocated only by the crew at the time of exiting from the aircraft.

The journey does end up boosting my respect for Albert Einstein who had postulated something somewhere about the speed of time slowing down when we approach the speed of light, even though the speed at which an aircraft travels is but a mere fraction of the speed of light. He surely knew his stuff.      

A Censor Board for Air Passengers?

To return to the matter of improving the standard of personal beauty and amiability amongst air travellers.

The Role That Governments Can Play

Governments the world over would do well to start screening the passport applications presented to them to weed out those whose looks do not meet prescribed norms for beauty as well amiability. Since decades, the authorities have been insisting on non-smiling and morose-looking photos from the hapless applicants. This, I daresay, has eliminated the sheer pleasure of international travel and made all of us look like carrying the burden of the Homo sapiens on our slender shoulders. In fact, they should hand over such delicate tasks to their respective Ministries of Happiness, if any. The screening personnel should be ardent fans of someone like Plum, encouraging people to look good and smile when they get themselves clicked for a passport application.

Whereas the assignment may be easier for those screening applicants from the tribe of the delicately nurtured, there would be severe challenges while attempting to screen those from the tribe of the so-called sterner sex. Other than spotting three chins and a visage which reminds one of Stilton Cheesewright, those wearing horn-rimmed spectacles may have to be shown the door. Ears that stuck out at right angles would surely earn a black mark and would have to be made up for by singular beauty in the nose and mouth. There would be a standard measurement for foreheads, and it would be easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a camel than for a gold tooth to win its way across the aerobridge when the passenger has trudged his/her way up to the boarding gate.

In any case, it would be fatal if the Board of Censors contained men and women of hasty and impulsive judgment. They would need to be cool, canny persons, with educated eyes. They would be people who would have nerves of chilled steel and who can peer at a face and brood over it for some time before hitting the delete button on their computer monitors.

So, all the authorities need to do is simply to take a firm line and refuse passports to all whose photographs fail to pass a Board of Censors specially created for the purpose of dealing with this matter. After all, we have many censors – formal as well as informal ones – these days. When I publish my thoughtful blog post on Management Lessons from Kama Sutra, those who follow me on social media lose no time in registering a strong protest, making me withdraw an excellent scholarly piece from circulation, thereby depriving a part of humanity from improving their intellect.    

Some of the members of this screening board should be disciples of Sir Roderick Glossop, who can summarily reject applications of those whose Looniness Quotient does not match the requisite standards, and instead encourage those who have a very high HQ (Happiness Quotient, for the uninitiated) to acquire a well-deserved passport. Such denizens, whichever country they travel to, will be sure to spread some light and sweetness there, at least partially dispelling the gloomy darkness the local citizenry may be exposed to. Such persons would be the true brand ambassadors for their country of origin. The Happiness Index of countries which have the most exotic tourist destinations to offer would soon register an uptick, thereby keeping the government-backed public relations agencies busy.  

What Airlines Can Do

Airlines could also pitch in and join this crusade. Those revealing a toothy grin on their passports could be offered discounts on air fare, besides some other privileges like priority in boarding, free water, and tissue restoratives, and the like. On long-haul flights, some group activities and competitions could be organized, so friendships have a chance to blossom and even some browsing and sluicing could take place.

The CFOs of airlines need not lose their beauty sleep over proposals of this kind. I am certain that the losses incurred would be more than offset by the jump in airlines’ revenues when passengers start coughing up fares which are linked to their body weights. Being an astute observer, the reader may already know that obesity levels are only going up the world over.   

A Global Initiative

The International League of Happiness would do well to incentivise countries which aggressively promote humour amongst their denizens and prioritize passport applicants with happy and smiling faces affixed on their travel documents.

All is Well that Ends Well

After a long and gruelling flight, if you are entering a highbrow developed country which suffers from delusions of grandeur, the immigration process is designed to keep your nerves in a high state of entropy. A stern-looking officer cast in the mould of Dr Doctor E. Jimpson Murgatroyd who has sad, brooding eyes and long whiskers, welcomes you. His resemblance to a frog which has been looking on the dark side since it was a slip of a tadpole is apt to send your spirits right down into the basement. He is bound to give you a censorious look and ask you all sorts of unpalatable questions. After an interrogation which would be akin to a Scotland Yard detective enquiring into your life, you will sigh with relief only when you are excused for having disturbed the detective’s time to relax and unwind and are finally ‘accepted’ into the country.   

Much elated, you then rush to meet your friends or relatives waiting for you outside. Whatever the nature of trauma suffered by a hapless passenger, it gets forgotten. Till, of course, it is time to return to your base camp!   

Notes

1. Illustrations for representative purposes only; courtesy Esther Robles.
2. Inputs from Suryamouli Datta are gratefully acknowledged.

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A visit to the Dulwich College, the Alma Mater of P G Wodehouse

By no stretch of imagination can I be held to be an expert on cats. In any case, I have no clue as to how a cat which has been fed too much of cream would look like. Perhaps, having temporarily overcome its snootiness caused by the belief that in Ancient Egypt it would have been worshipped as a god of some reckoning, the milk of feline kindness would be coursing through its veins. Coming across a healthy mouse, it might just have shrugged its tender shoulders and decided to skip its quota of vitamins for the day. A wide grin would surely be adorning its visage.

Anyone who had spotted me coming out of the hallowed portals of Dulwich College recently would have noticed the wide grin on my not-so-handsome countenance. She might have seriously suspected me to be a member of the feline species which had just gorged on a diet full of rich cream duly enriched with fat-soluble vitamins. The spotter would have been left twiddling her thumbs trying to figure out the singular absence of the morose look which usually adorns the face of the spotted, making her wonder if the latter had just put in his papers relinquishing his position as the honorary Vice President of the Global Morons’ Association.

She would not have been off the mark. My cup of joy was indeed running over. The sky was bluer. The grass was greener. The air was more fragrant. In short, God was in heaven, and all was well with the world. Peter Mark Roget, had he been around, would have described me as being blissful, chuffed, delighted, elated, ecstatic, glad, grateful, gruntled, pleased, happy, and satiated. At the time, the heart was overflowing with unalloyed joy.

The cause of my having attained this state of blissfulness was two-fold.

One, Dulwich College had turned out to be a treasure trove of Wodehousean memorabilia. A place where brainy coves who happen to admire the Master Wordsmith of our times could settle down to drink deep from the joyous waters of his works and his methods and dish out some scholarly research papers brimming with erudition of the first order. They could even soak in the ambience of his own study, a recreated version of the one at his home across the pond at Southampton in New York. After his death in 1975, Ethel had donated the same to his beloved Alma mater.

Two, an overwhelming feeling of gratitude pervaded my mortal frame. I was, and continue to be, amazed at the affection, care and conscientiousness with which Dulwich College has built up and maintains multi-faceted records pertaining to Plum. Besides his books and their translations or pastiches in very many languages of the world, one could peruse his academic report cards, cricket score sheets, records of singing and theatrical endeavours, duly embellished with some juicy comments from the Rev. Aubrey Upjohns of his life while he was there from 1894 till 1900.

Sample this specimen:

He has the most distorted ideas about wit and humour; he draws over his books and examination papers in the most distressing way and writes foolish rhymes in other people’s books. Notwithstanding he has a genuine interest in literature and can often talk with enthusiasm and good sense about it.

(Dulwich College report on Wodehouse, 1899)

It is well known that in addition to his sporting achievements, he was a good singer and enjoyed taking part in school concerts; his literary leanings found an outlet in editing the school magazine, The Alleynian.

It may be of interest to note that Plum’s six years at Dulwich were among the happiest of his life. According to a statement made by him:

“To me the years between 1894 and 1900 were like heaven.”

Perhaps it was this sentiment of Plum’s which rubbed off on me when I had the privilege of visiting the college, guided by Calista Lucy, the Keeper of the Archive.

The college was founded by Edward Alleyn in 1619. Since then, many of its alumni have made it proud of their achievements in different realms of human endeavour. A few other celebrities who have passed through its hallowed portals are the writers Raymond Chandler, Graham Swift and Michael Ondaatje, the banker Eddie George (Governor of the Bank of England), and Anand Panyarachun (Prime Minister of Thailand).

The buildings have obviously undergone several additions since 1900, when Plum ended his sojourn at Dulwich College. We entered through the North Cloister, a corridor which was open to the elements during Plum’s days. It was a place where he would do his Larsen exercises.

A grand staircase, adorned with portraits of various patrons of the college over time gazing benignly at us, led us to the Great Hall which is used for school assemblies and examinations. When Plum was at school, he and others would have eaten in the hall.

On the Honours Boards, one could see the name of Armine, Plum’s elder brother, who was also at the college. While the brother could subsequently gain admission to Oxford University, Plum was unable to do so owing to the financial difficulties faced by the family then.

We passed by a well-stocked library of the college, named after Plum. Seeing the reconstructed study of his was a sheer delight. His working table, the chair that he used, two typewriters of his (one manual and another electric), his reading glasses, his pipes, the paperweights, a small figurine, and first editions of several of his books make the room come alive.

Calista was grace personified. She invited me to sit on Plum’s chair. Out of sheer reverence for the great man, I was hesitant, but than gave in to the temptation, merely to feel the vibrations of this genius humourist. The experience was something beyond words to describe, if you know what I mean. A signature in the Visitor’s Book was duly affixed.

What followed was a perusal of his personal collection of books, Dulwich College report cards, cricket score sheets, and his correspondence with various other luminaries and friends, all lovingly catalogued and preserved. The icing on the cake was surely to be able to go through his comments on a manuscript of his own, mostly in red colour. Such comments as “Good,” “OK, but needs to be improved,” and “Not funny enough, rework on this,” gave a sneak peek into the kind of perfectionist he was when it came to dishing out his uproariously funny works.

Passing through a hall which had a bespectacled scholar working on a research project, we came across a room full of translations of his works in many languages and an array of books inspired by Plum’s works and published by authors of different hues, ethnicities, and nationalities in their native lingua franca.    

By way of a token of gratitude, I took the liberty of presenting my own compilation entitled “The Indian Curry Dished Out by Sir P. G. Wodehouse,” which is a long essay on various references to India in many of his works.

After expressing sincere gratitude to our gracious host for the time she could spare for us, I and my companion took leave of Calista and the college. If Lewis Carol had then described me as a Cheshire cat, albeit with a benevolent grin on my face, I would have taken the comment in my stride. The heart was aflutter. The world appeared to be full of joy, laughter, light, and sweetness. The everlasting value of the blissful cocoon left behind by Plum for Homo sapiens was driven home, yet again.

I also felt grateful to my Guardian Angels who had felicitated a trip to the Alma mater of P. G. Wodehouse by creating a concatenation of circumstances which had enabled my first ever trip to the United Kingdom.

If Plum and Ethel were then looking down from their cottage in heaven, I am reasonably certain that you would have noticed them both having a twinkle in their eyes. Perhaps, they might even have been waving at me!

Notes

1. Most of the photos here are courtesy Dominique Conterno, my host in the UK.
2. A few have been taken from the Dulwich College website.
3. Caricatures courtesy Suvarna Sanyal.
4. Plum at Dulwich courtesy the world wide web.
5. Inputs from Calista Lucy towards giving this article a better shape are gratefully acknowledged.

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