Ranjit Kulkarni's Blog, page 33

Sit in Protest

I have never woken up a single day of
my life thinking that today I am going to protest. Actually, there haven’t been
many things in life that I have felt like protesting about. The same holds true
for Jigneshbhai. He likes a quiet life and doesn’t have much to complain about.
So, that makes him ineligible for joining protests. But it’s not the same with
Swami. He has a lot to complain about. But even for him protests are a far-off
thing. At best I can imagine Swami protesting against the hardness of the idlis
in his office canteen. But nothing more than that.

So, even for him, joining a protest
against the bad quality of roads was something. No doubt that he is a regular
user of roads for his commutes and complains about them all the time. But
complaining and protesting are two different things. For Jigneshbhai, even bad
roads aren’t much of an issue. He walks about 500 metres twice everyday out of
his house. Sometimes four times, if he comes home for lunch. So, imagining how
Purno slept so many nights of his life thinking that tomorrow when I wake up I
am going to protest, is astounding. It’s tough to sustain such a protest-filled
mindset and put it into practice for years together.

Given this state of mind about
protests, we had a small argument on whether we should go for this protest. And
that too only because some long-lost friend of Swami, who he did not even recognise
at first, called us for it. But then you know how it is when it comes to Swami.

“We should go. Roads are
important. No one in power will act till they have to. And we have to make them
act,” Swami said in a newfound protestor avatar. That didn’t turn either
Jigneshbhai’s head or mine.

So, he resorted to a softer argument in
favour of going. “See, think about it. My friend Purno is organising it.
We have to support him,” he said. That got him some faint attention from Jigneshbhai
and me. It seemed like a somewhat plausible reason but still not enough.

What sealed it at the end was a more
practical reason. “Look guys, we don’t have much else to do on Sunday.
Might as well see what protests are like. It will be something new. On the way
back we can stop at the café,” he said. That was it. It got nods from both
Jigneshbhai and me.

We assembled at Swami’s house on Sunday
morning. “I guess there won’t be any parking, right?” He asked and
answered it himself. “That is a frivolous question. We will walk.”

Then he had another doubt. “Is
coffee allowed at a protest?”

Jigneshbhai and I had no idea. It was
our first time attending a protest too.

“Let us go there and find
out,” Swami answered it himself again.

On the way, Swami had another doubt.
“I hope we are well dressed for a protest,” he remarked. Jigneshbhai
and I had not taken any special efforts for that. But Swami had worn a kurta
on his jeans. So, Jigneshbhai said, “You are. You look like an upcoming
youth leader.”

When we reached the protest site, it
was quite confusing. It looked like there were three protests going on there.
There was a big crowd and it wasn’t clear which protest was protesting against
what. Swami searched for Purno, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I asked one person who looked like an
activist whether his protest was against bad quality of roads. He said, “I
am against government apathy towards infrastructure.” The protester next
to him said, “No, that is over there. This one is for government
indifference towards construction labourers.”

The infrastructure apathy one was ours,
I thought. But Purno had said it was about the bad quality of roads. So,
Jigneshbhai and I shouted, “Swami, which one are we joining?”

Swami looked embarrassed and signalled
to us to shut up with a finger to his lips. “Keep your voices down,”
he said. “This is not a shopping mall. Let me find out,” he came
closer and whispered.

Swami went further ahead looking for
Purno. “Keep looking out for Purno,” he told us as he walked.

In a few minutes, he came back but Purno
was still nowhere in sight. But he had decided which protest to sit in.
“That infrastructure apathy one seems to be the one,” he said. He
pointed to the protest on the opposite side of the traffic signal.

“That side also has some shade,
they have built a shamiana,” he winked with a smile. We realised
how he’d reached his decision. But it was a good enough reason. “Good
idea, the afternoon will get hot here,” Jigneshbhai agreed looking at me.
For once, we agreed with Swami without any need for coaxing, crossed over and
settled down.

Once we sat down, we had even less
visibility over what else was going on. Someone came and gave us a placard
after a few minutes.

“Good roads reduce load” it
said. Jigneshbhai and Swami smiled. “We are in the right place, now let’s
find Purno,” Swami said.

But the placard given to the man next
to us said, “Good power should be ours.” Well, whatever, I thought.
“Purno might be busy organising stuff. Let’s find him after a while,”
Jigneshbhai said. Swami agreed. So, we stayed put.

If you imagine protests as dynamic
places where lots of things happen, then you are mistaken. It is not that I
have a lot of experience in protests. But from what I saw in this one, I am
certain that nothing much happens most of the time at a protest.

First the protestors settle down in
their seats. Then the initial few minutes sees what is beginner’s enthusiasm.
Everyone shouts slogans with energy. But how long can you keep doing that with
no one watching? Then things go silent. That’s what happened to our protest
too. By ours, I mean Purno’s protest that we sat in.

We sat in protest waiting for something
to happen. But nothing did. “How has Purno spent his life doing
this?” Swami asked. “What a boring life!” He passed his
judgement in a hurry like usual.

A few days back the social angle to his
long-lost friend’s noble vocation excited Swami. He thought his friend could
make a difference. Now, a few days later, within an hour of protesting, it
became boring. But that was Swami’s mind, as Deja says. Things got interesting
soon enough though.

A few policemen walked past us as we
sat in silence. Swami smiled at them. But they didn’t smile back. I guess these
were not like his regular traffic policeman who waved at Swami with a smile every
day. These policemen weren’t supposed to smile at protestors.

An hour after noon, a press
photographer came, and everyone started yelling at the top of their voices.
When the camera is on you, you shout louder. That was the ABC of protesting. No
point in protesting if it isn’t captured and reported. Jigneshbhai and I also
raised our hands when everyone raised them to feel part of the protest. Swami
was at his vociferous best.

But Swami regretted that later. “I
hope we don’t appear in the papers tomorrow,” he said on second thought
when the photographer went away.

Soon after that, a boy came with some
water and we picked a glass each. It was a hot afternoon. Swami opened up his
lunch box and asked, “Sandwiches?” Our friend’s preparedness pleased
Jigneshbhai and me. But when we picked up the sandwich, the person behind us
tapped me on the shoulder. I turned back and thought he wanted one too. So, I
offered him one. But he said, “This is a hunger strike, you can’t have
food here.”

That was something we didn’t know and
hadn’t prepared for. Purno hadn’t said it was a hunger strike. Jigneshbhai and
I kept the sandwich back grudgingly. We gave Swami an annoyed look for choosing
the wrong protest. Jigneshbhai asked me in a murmur whether they would allow
coffee. I thought of asking Swami or the activist behind me but thought it may
not be wise. A hunger strike probably includes a thirst strike.

“But Purno said it’s a sit-in
protest, not a hunger strike,” Swami protested. But Purno was still seen
nowhere.

Some large voices and a noise broke the
afternoon silence that had settled over the protest soon. Those also broke
Jigneshbhai’s siesta. “Clang,” some glass broke. This happened at
some distance away from us. “Thud,” we heard a few chairs falling. It
came from around the same place. It was on the opposite side of the signal. It
was from the place where we had started our day. It was clear that things were
heating up.

Swami stood up. “Let me see what’s
happening,” he said. “Somebody is throwing bottles,” he
reported. Everyone in our row stood up. Jigneshbhai and I finally did the same.
“Oh no, that’s a big bottle,” Swami exclaimed on seeing a man
throwing it. Jigneshbhai had a closer look at what was happening at a distance.
“This doesn’t look good. They are throwing bottles at the police,” he
said. “Yes, that’s what it looks like. And the policemen are now asking
them to stop it,” Swami reported.

“Who is that guy with a mic in his
hand?” Swami asked. Jigneshbhai and I had no idea. It looked like the man
was making a speech on the mic. We reckoned he was a local leader. We could
hear some of his words. “The party in power has no sympathy for the plight
of construction workers,” he said. “They don’t have food to eat
because the party doesn’t spend on infrastructure projects. How long will we
let our families starve and our children go to bed on an empty stomach?”

Someone threw another bottle. This time
it hit a policeman on his head. The press photographers were now ready to shoot
whatever happened. There must be a threshold for the police to act, I wondered.
The police reached that threshold soon.

“Let’s go,” Jigneshbhai said.
It was a firm decision taken by a man with a cool head after considering the
situation that was unfolding before them. Swami and I nodded our heads in
agreement. He started walking towards the other side. We had to cross that area
where the bottle throwing was happening. There was no other way. Jigneshbhai
started walking and we followed suit. By the time we reached there, another
bottle had hit another policeman. The police started a lathi charge.

“Don’t look there,”
Jigneshbhai said. “Let’s sneak out from the left side,” he said.
Swami and I followed him.

It was at that time that a man in a
khadi kurta caught hold of Swami’s arm. He pulled him aside and said,
“In an hour, come to the local police station.”

Swami shoved him aside, but the man
held on. Swami then saw his thick glasses and beard. “Where were you,
Purno? We searched for you everywhere,” Swami started. This was not the
time for elaborate deliberations.

But Swami continued. “What are you
doing here? We were sitting in your protest on the other side.”

“Last minute change of plan. It
happens,” Purno explained. Jigneshbhai and I waited and listened in.

“Oh okay, but why police
station?” Swami asked. 

“Will tell you. Things got out of
hand. Normal in protests,” Purno clarified.

A policeman charged towards Purno and
hit him with a lathi. “Throwing bottles? Come here.”

“One minute, Sir, I am
coming,” Purno said. He wasn’t perturbed but Swami’s face went pale.
“Purno, he is arresting you.”

“It’s alright. Don’t worry. Come there in an hour, please. Now you go,” he said. And he went with the policeman. As he left, he shouted back to Swami, “Get three thousand rupees in cash, please. I need your help. You have to do that much for your poor old friend.”

Excerpted from the book “Give Me a Break” by Ranjit Kulkarni. Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paperback. Follow Ranjit Kulkarni on his Amazon Author Page to hear about his latest books and get updates from his blog.

The Activist

“Swaminathan, Swaminathan,”
the shrill voice said. Everyone, even those not named Swaminathan, looked in
the direction of the voice. It appeared to have come from somewhere outside the
café. “Jigneshbhai, Jigneshbhai,” the howler shrieked at the top of
his voice.

When we turned to our right, we saw a
man waving his hands about twenty-five metres away. He stood near the entrance
of the café. We were at the far end near the glass window. The man looked
around forty plus minus a few years. He had a receding hairline and an unkempt
beard with strands of grey blowing in the wind. His eyes were deep, behind a
thick pair of glasses on his face. He wore a cream khadi kurta, a white pyjama
and had a cloth bag on his shoulder. His teeth and lips had patches of black,
indicative of heavy smoking and tobacco use. He had a cigarette in his hand. He
stood outside the no smoking board at the entrance and didn’t walk in. None of
us recognised him.

“Swami, it’s me, didn’t you recognise
me?” He shrieked again at the top of his voice. “Jigneshbhai, didn’t
you recognise me either?”

Why do people you haven’t met for years
expect instant recognition? This is way beyond my comprehension. The worst part
is the guilt trip they put you on. They keep repeating “Still didn’t realise
who I am?” Or even after a persistent no, make queer expressions and ask,
“Now tell me did you get who I am?” You are not the former Prime
Minister of this country for me to recognise you after twenty years. I often
feel like telling them. But I keep such thoughts to myself.

Swami has lots of old relatives who practice
this form of torture with him over phone. They call him on the phone after
years and expect instant recognition of their voice at the first hello.
“Guess who this is?” They say even before saying hello sometimes. And
when they sense blankness in Swami at the other end, they get disappointed.
Similar was this howling man’s predicament. Because he had not one, but three
blank faces staring at him, unable to recognise him.

Jigneshbhai looked at us with his
eyebrows raised. His memory of faces wasn’t the strongest. So, it wasn’t a
surprise that he had no idea who this screaming, waving man was. Swami also was
at a loss. He wasn’t bad at faces, but the distance was too much. The man got
impatient near the entrance. The security held him back outside. He was about
to get into an argument with security over entering the café with a lit
cigarette. We decided to walk towards him at that time.

“Hello, Swami,” he said for
the third time. “I saw you from the glass window and called you out, but
you couldn’t hear me. So, I came to this side to meet you,” he informed us
with fervour. “I am meeting my friends after so many years, is it twenty years?
So, I had to come,” he raved again like a long-lost friend. 

The problem was we didn’t know who this
long-lost friend was. Swami didn’t share any of the camaraderie that the man
displayed. Swami looked like someone digging deep into his memory for the face
and name of the man. Jigneshbhai was not even trying to do that. There was a
deadpan expression on his face. His vacuous look gazed into nowhere. He
depended on Swami and me to come up with an answer. I for one had no idea either
but gathered that he might be an old friend from school or college. 

Finally seeing our predicament, the man
gave small clues before he introduced himself. “Oh! Now I get it. You
didn’t recognise me because of my beard and glasses,” he said and removed
the glasses. There was no easy way to remove the beard, so he let it be. But we
couldn’t fault him on enthusiasm. He put both his hands on his beard as if to
hide it. This helped. Not Jigneshbhai or me, but it helped Swami.

“Ohhhh, err…by any chance…”
Swami mumbled in faint remembrance.

“Yes, yes?” the man gushed in
eagerness. He bent forward and peered nearer to give Swami a close-up. He
smiled in eager anticipation. He resembled someone playing dumb charades egging
his team on the edge of the right answer.

“Are you…umm…let me guess,
Purno?” Swami muttered again.

“Yessss..! You got it,” Purno
exclaimed with a loud clap of his hands and an even louder slap on Swami’s
shoulder.

“Oh wow, Purno, it’s been a long
time, you have changed so much,” Swami broke into a smile and hugged Purno
in affection. Purno squeezed Swami in his arms. Jigneshbhai and I looked on. We
still hadn’t figured out who Purno was, but guessed he was an old friend of
Swami’s.

After the meeting of long-lost friends
Swami and Purno got over, Swami said, “This is Purno. An old friend from
engineering days. We lived in the same hostel.” After a brief silence
spent in recollection with squinted eyes, Swami continued, “Was it for a
year or so?” and looked at Purno to fill the gaps in his memory.

“Yes, one year and a bit more,
then I shifted out of engineering,” Purno said, and Swami nodded.

“Oh okay, great,” Jigneshbhai
said. So, after all, it wasn’t a big deal if he didn’t remember Purno, he
thought. Why on earth should I remember Swami’s hostel friends? That too after twenty
years. He consoled himself that he didn’t have such a bad memory about people,
after all.

“I came to your house once with
Swami during vacations, Jigneshbhai,” Purno said. So, there was reason for
him to recognise Purno, in that case.

“Oh, is it?” Jigneshbhai
asked.

“Yes, you were already working in
some business then,” Purno affirmed.

“Wow, that’s a great memory. I am
sorry I didn’t remember, Purno,” Jigneshbhai apologised.

“That’s okay. I thought you will
remember. Because you had a name like mine, a long one, and we had joked about
it,” Purno broke into a loud guffaw. It was evident that Jigneshbhai had
no memory of any such joke. And it was evident that Purno had petabytes of it,
down to the last detail.

“Jigneshbhai Ranchoddas Patel,
right?” Purno asked.

Jigneshbhai nodded and said, “Yes,
that’s right. Wow, you remember that?” This man’s photographic memory astounded
us.

“Yes,” he said. “I am
Purnendu Bankimchandra Mukhopadhyay,” Purno winked. He shook his hands
with Jigneshbhai and me in delight.

Wow, I exclaimed within. The man, his
memory and his name were impressive.

“Great to meet you, Purno,”
Jigneshbhai said. “Why don’t you join us for a coffee?”

“Okay sure. It’s been a long
time,” he said. He stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. Then he crushed
it with his rubber chappals before entering. The security guard gave him
a queer look. We went back to our table. Purno pulled a chair from the
neighbouring table. Swami asked them if it’s okay. “Oh, I should have
asked,” Purno smiled sheepishly. We ordered a coffee for Purno and settled
down.

“So, what’s up?” Purno asked.
Swami spoke about his corporate job and his family. Jigneshbhai spoke about his
business. I gave a brief introduction and left the floor open to Purno.

“Well, I am a social worker,”
Purno started. “Or you can call me an activist. That’s what they call us
nowadays,” he added. His tone had a mix of pride and wistfulness.
“That does not count for much, isn’t it?” His face turned
contemplative as he twiddled his fingers. He fiddled with the tissue papers on
the table. A distinct wave of melancholy enveloped his being.

“No, Purno, it’s a noble vocation,”
Swami reassured him with a pat on his arm.

“That’s what I used to
think,” Purno continued, staring into blank space.

“So, do you work with some social
service organization?” Jigneshbhai intervened. He put his positive spin to
it, hoping it will ease the mood. And it did work and provide some succour.
Because after that, the vivacious Purno of a few minutes earlier was back.

“Well, it depends. Earlier I used
to work with an NGO, but I had some differences with some of the other team
members. Now I am independent and take up projects based on my interest and the
cause,” he explained. Animated with passion, his arms waved across the
table when he explained some of the projects.

“Wow, that’s great, Purno,”
Swami said. “Sounds like you can make a lot of difference,” he added.
The excitement of a social angle had caught on in Swami’s mind. Jigneshbhai was
circumspect as usual.

“Yes, we can. But nowadays
everything needs the support of politics, business, and media,” Purno
complained. His face mellowed down again with a sense of pensive sadness.
“Years back the cause mattered when we protested. Now it’s so much more
complicated.”

“Oh, so you protest?” Swami
asked with the earnestness of a child wanting to learn a new subject in school.

“Yes. What’s an activist who
doesn’t protest? In fact, this Sunday we are having a solidarity march,”
Purno informed us, catching on to Swami’s zeal. “Well, no, not a
solidarity march, sorry, that’s later in the week. Let me check,” Purno
said and opened a diary from his bag. “Yes, this Sunday is a sit-in
protest,” Purno said.

“A sit-in protest?” Swami
asked.

“Yes, we sit in protest to draw
attention. There will be media called and a local leader will give a
speech,” Purno explained.

“Okay, what’s it about?”
Swami asked.

“The poor quality of roads in the
city,” Purno clarified, after rechecking his diary. It looked like his
routine revolved around organising protests and marches. Because he needed a
calendar to keep track of them.

“That’s an important issue,”
Swami encouraged Purno.

“Actually, why don’t you join us
in the protest? It’s at the next junction, a ten-minute walk from here,”
Purno said. “It’s from eleven in the morning, till about four pm. You guys
can join anytime. We need locals to support,” he persuaded with passion.

Swami looked at us with his questioning
face. He had enquiring eyes and raised eyebrows. Jigneshbhai wasn’t too eager
to join protests, so he didn’t give the soft go-ahead signal. He did not say
no, though.

“You don’t have to wait long. Come
around noon. That’s when the media will come. Then you can leave by two or three,”
Purno coaxed Jigneshbhai, identifying the source of the lack of enthusiasm.

“Let us see,” Jigneshbhai
said.

“A lot of successful local
businessmen will also be there,” Purno enticed him again. “You will
find it to be time well spent.”

There was no doubt that he had
experience in these matters of activism. He did have some traces of what must
have been the idealism of his youth. But there was no naivete of inexperience.
It was clear that he had moved beyond those.

“Okay, I will make a move
guys,” Purno said and got up from his seat. “I need to get some
things done before Sunday.”

“Alright then, good to see you
after so many years,” Swami got up and gave him a high five.

“Bye, see you all on Sunday,”
Purno said. He lit another cigarette on stepping out. He put it between his
lips and adjusted his glasses under the helmet. Then he left on an old Vespa
scooter parked on the road opposite the café.

Excerpted from the book “Give Me a Break” by Ranjit Kulkarni. Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paperback. Follow Ranjit Kulkarni on his Amazon Author Page to hear about his latest books and get updates from his blog.

Lucky Draw

“Does anybody win anything in a lucky draw?” Swami
asked Jigneshbhai and me over a coffee at the café. I knew why this question
was troubling him today. It was because of an episode that happened last week
that I must tell you about.

It was on a cool evening sometime last week that Swami
called Jigneshbhai and me.

“How about we go to the shopping mall this evening?”
he asked.

“Well, why not?” Jigneshbhai responded. We didn’t
have any particular reason to go. But we didn’t have any particular reason not
to go, too. Given this tender balance, Jigneshbhai thought it was logical to go
rather than to not go.

But that’s not the point. The shopping at the mall got over
fast. Well, how long, after all, can a forty-something guy take to buy a pair
of jeans? There’s a blue or a black to choose from. And once you try a few on,
it’s simple to decide based on fit. Anyway, I digress again.

When we stepped out of the store, a young salesman accosted
Swami.

“Sir, can you fill this form with your name and phone
number?” The 20-something cut our path waving his hands with a smile on
his face.

“Oh no, not again!” This is what telemarketers and
pushy salespeople evoke in most people. Most people, habituated to receiving
calls of this kind, do the normal thing of not taking them. Some engage with them
only to follow it with questions like “where did you get my number?”
Some slam their phones with a rude rejoinder such as “I will complain to
the police if you call me again.”

But in Swami, this species of telemarketers and salesmen
incite a deep sense of sympathy. He greets them with a sense of camaraderie
that surprises even the callers. “They are also doing their jobs, poor
things,” he told us once after talking for ten minutes with a caller.
“Personal loan approval in 60 seconds,” the caller offered to attract
Swami’s attention. It was customary for indifferent, rude voices to disconnect
calls within 10 seconds. But when he called Swami, an understanding tone on the
other end surprised him. After 60 seconds, the caller realised that he was the
one who had to pay attention on this call, not seek it.

After three minutes he realised that sweet talk with someone
who’s not taking a loan is a waste of a call. It was worse for his job than a
rude buyer rejecting him outright. After those three minutes, it was the caller
who said, “Sir, can I call you later?” in a hurry to disconnect. But
Swami took another seven minutes. He asked him, “Who is in your family,
how many calls do you make per day?” and after getting those answers, he
went on to enquire about his incentive plan. “After all, they must be
getting bored of calling so many people every day. It’s not easy to get slammed
by jerks all the time,” he remarked with an endearing sense of empathy.

The reason for this background is to tell you this. That
when that young salesman at the mall approached us, little did he know who he
had hit upon. Jigneshbhai and I had seen him coming from a distance, so we
tried to change track. The salesman must have felt later that he should have
done the same on seeing Swami. When Swami reached him, he broke into a smile.

“What is this form about?” he asked.

“Sir, it’s a simple form from an e-commerce
website,” the salesman explained.

Swami put his glasses on and studied the form.

“What does the e-commerce firm do? It is not mentioned
anywhere on the form,” Swami asked with a deep sense of interest.

“Sir it’s a clothes site,” he continued.

“We finished buying clothes now. We will skip it,”
Jigneshbhai intervened and started to walk ahead. He sensed that this could be
the start of a lengthy bout of camaraderie between Swami and the salesman.

But Swami’s empathy had awoken. His face was full of glee at
the upcoming amity. He scanned the form for more details. He found none. It had
only the name and phone number.

“Wonderful. So, the clothes site sells clothes?”
Swami asked.

This was no time for empty talk, I felt like telling Swami.
Did he know any clothes site that sold something else?

“Yes, Sir. Womenswear,” the salesman clarified.

“So, why are you asking him to fill the form? We aren’t
interested in womenswear,” Jigneshbhai said. He tried his best to break
the developing fellowship between Swami and the salesman. His hands twitched to
get rid of the form.

“Sir, it’s a lucky draw form,” the young man
explained. “I need only your name and phone number and you will be
eligible for a lucky draw offer from this site. Your wife or daughter can also
buy if you win.”

Swami’s face glowed in appreciation. The prospect of free
clothes for his wife filled his imagination. The young man detected that
positive expression right away. His attention shifted to Swami in a jiffy.
“Sir, it will take only two minutes,” he persuaded.

“Of course, we have two minutes,” Swami said, and
took the form in his hands. He removed the pen from his shirt pocket and
started writing.

“So, is it your job to get these forms filled from
people in the mall every day?” Swami asked while filling his name.

“Yes, Sir. We have a lucky draw every Monday.”

“So, do you do this full time?”

“No, Sir. I work in the menswear showroom there during the
day.” He pointed to a store on the floor above. “And I do this in the
evenings when people come to the mall,” he added.

“Very good. Some extra pocket money?”

“Yes, Sir.”

While this guy might very well be a hardworking guy, (and
God bless all hard-working guys), we hadn’t come to the mall to appreciate
enthusiastic salesmen and their hard work. We wondered if there was a way we
could get our friend to work harder on the form and get it over with fast. But
Swami took more than the two minutes promised. He surpassed it by quite a
margin. The youngster also realised it.

“Phone number here, Sir,” he pointed to the form.

“Yes, sure. But tell me one thing.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“You get paid, or let’s say, measured, based on the
number of forms filled?”

Swami was getting into performance metrics now. That was his
old habit. He had registered, from his past tête-à-tête, how companies measure
loan peddlers. He had recorded metrics for donation seekers and mobile plan
sellers too. Now he was adding lucky draw form fillers and their metrics to his
repertoire.

“Kind of, Sir,” the young man said.

“And how many forms do you manage daily, or let’s say,
weekly?” Swami asked. The salesman peeked into the form. He noted that
Swami had filled only the first five digits of the mobile phone so far. Five
more digits were pending. So, he had no choice but to answer.

“Sir, it depends. Weekdays are slow. Weekends I manage
double of weekdays,” he explained. He did not give an exact number that
Swami was expecting. With a last push for completion, he insisted, “Can I
get the filled form, Sir?”

“Oh, got it. That’s expected, isn’t it?” Swami was
still on the metrics. “On weekdays only people like us come to
malls,” Swami exclaimed and laughed aloud. Neither me nor Jigneshbhai
reciprocated. We rolled our eyes and wrinkled our foreheads. But the salesman
giggled.

“Okay, here you are,” Swami finally said, handing
over the form. “So, what’s next?”

“Thank you, Sir. I will call you if you win anything in
the lucky draw,” he said and sneaked away towards another group at a
distance.

“Well, he has a job to do. So, I thought why not give
him the details? We were anyway not in a hurry, were we?” Swami said as we
made our way outside the mall.

Jigneshbhai had his normal unperturbed expression on his
face. “He must have been happy seeing us at first. But even he might not
have thought we were so jobless. Who takes 10 minutes to give a name and a
phone number?” Jigneshbhai chuckled with his usual sarcasm.

Swami sneered at us. “No need to make fun of that. I
was helping a poor soul,” he added with a scowl.

Jigneshbhai didn’t want to talk any more about this. Swami’s
many attempts to help poor souls had gotten us into trouble in the past. I
thought of Deja. Soul talk was his domain. Deja was a dog now, but had been a
spiritual guru in a past life. Before I could muse any further, “Okay,
let’s go,” Jigneshbhai said, and we stepped out of the mall.

That was the background from last week to Swami’s question
at the café today. When none of us replied, he repeated it. “Does anybody
win anything in a lucky draw?”

After a brief silence, Jigneshbhai replied. “Yes, if
you are lucky. But those who take less than two minutes to fill the form are
luckier.”

“You stand no chance,” he added. “You didn’t
meet the time limit for form filling,” he tittered.

Swami twisted his mouth in a goofy grimace. He focused on his coffee. It was better to keep his dreamy visions of lucky draw victory to himself, he mused. We sipped our respective coffees in silence. We waited for another topic of discussion to emerge. That’s when we heard a loud shout from somewhere.

Excerpted from the book “Give Me a Break” by Ranjit Kulkarni. Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paperback. Follow Ranjit Kulkarni on his Amazon Author Page to hear about his latest books and get updates from his blog.

Give Me a Break, Now Available

My new fiction novel is now available. It is called “Give Me a Break” and is available in Kindle and Paperback. “Give Me a Break” is a humourous novel featuring the two characters I have created, namely Jigneshbhai and Swami.

You may read the Kindle version on your Kindle device OR on the Kindle App on your phone (after downloading it from Play Store or App Store). The Paperback version (in India) is likely to take around 10 days to deliver due to the lockdown/unlock situation.

In case you are interested, you may know more about the book at the links below:

Kindle: https://www.amazon.in/gp/product/B08F3HJ7ZL

Paperback: https://store.pothi.com/book/ranjit-kulkarni-give-me-break

USA: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08F3HJ7ZL

Apart from the above, it should also be available at all local Amazon Marketplaces.

I would be pleased to hear back from you at ranjit@ranjitkulkarni.com, and keen to listen to your feedback and reviews. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Thank You,
Ranjit Kulkarni

Flying Colours: Book Excerpt

The one thing Jigneshbhai likes is a quiet life. He is
not the kind who gets restless and worked up when there is not much happening.
Give Jigneshbhai his daily freedom, his daily work and his daily food, and the
company of a few loved ones and friends to talk with, not all the time but off
and on, and he will be happy for days on end.

So, when he called me with a lot of trepidation, which
is rare for a person like Jigneshbhai, and said, “tomorrow we meet at
Swami’s house”, I couldn’t stop myself from asking him what the matter
was.

“Swami needs to be home as he is getting his
house painted,” he replied, sounding rather colourless for a generally
cheerful man.

Painting can be a fairly messy affair as all of you
might know. With Swami, generally even the smallest of things can assume epic
messy proportions. It was no wonder then, that Jigneshbhai was worried that his
quiet life might undergo some short-term turbulence.

At the entrance of Swami’s house, we were welcomed by
a bunch of chappals indicating that there were visitors before us already
inside. We saw a few boxes of paint lying on the floor. Next to them were a few
brushes. I could see a big can of what looked like white paint and another with
some white paste. There was a big wooden ladder and lots of waste papers and
plastic sheets lying on the floor. There were three people who themselves
looked painted and we gathered that they were the painters. Swami had a big catalogue
in his hand and was standing in the middle of this mess.

“How will pearl organza look on this wall?”
He suddenly asked. Jigneshbhai and I wondered if he was asking us. We leaned
forward to check the colour Swami was pointing to.

“It’s nice and sober,” Jigneshbhai remarked.
“But it’s almost like that white paint,” he said, pointing to that
big can on the floor.

“That’s not white paint, Jigneshbhai. That’s the
primer, and next to it is the putty. They will put 1 coat putty, 2 coats primer
and 2 coats paint on the walls and 2 coats putty on the ceiling,” Swami
explained with finesse.

Swami described putties, primers and paint with the
familiarity of idli, vada and sambar that he has for breakfast every day. I
don’t know about you, but I have noticed that there is something about painting
one’s house that makes one an expert in all things related to paint. It takes
over your life. Swami was no exception. Primer, putty, emulsions, enamels,
textures all became commonplace terms as if he had been painting houses for
years.

“But pearl organza is not white. Come look
here,” Swami called us. He opened a set of colour shades from his catalogue
and held them up, presumably so that we can see them in the light. Apart from
pearl organza, there were winter mood, oatmeal cream, eggshell mist, bone charm
and various such shades. Jigneshbhai briefly whispered, “Why does white
have such exotic names?” But I left his question at that for the moment.
All of these shades seemed more or less like white to me and Jigneshbhai. But
people who paint their houses probably get a third eye which enables them to
see invisible tinges in shades that other mere mortals can’t. You have to have
the eye for seeing them which is revealed to you only after you spend a few
hard days of penance with putties, primers and shade cards of paint.

“See, this one has a tinge of ivory, this one has
a light biscuit shade, and this one has a slight coffee shade, very light, not
like our strong filter coffee but the milky coffee we get up North,” he
explained with a rarely seen passion for colour combined with an often seen
passion for coffee. I could sense that, given the late afternoon hour,
Jigneshbhai was thinking more about real coffee and biscuits than the ones
whose tinges Swami was pointing out in the colour. But he said, “Yeah you
are right, so that’s pearl organza with the slight coffee shade, it’s not
white”.

“Yeah it seems to have a mix of ivory and coffee
shade,” I added, not to be left out. Actually, I hadn’t seen any coffee or
ivory there. But it would look bad that we didn’t get it after such passionate
explanation. So, some participation is a sign of decency. But it turned out
that both of us were bad students of colour.

“Actually, the other one with the biscuit shade
is pearl organza,” Swami corrected both of us. 

Our colour vision clearly left a lot to be desired.
Thankfully the real coffee and biscuits arrived, saving us any further
embarrassment, and Jigneshbhai and I got some relief. We focused on the real
thing and let Swami continue.

Swami’s explanations in detail continued, followed by
Jigneshbhai’s single word exclamations.

“We are using luxury emulsion on the walls and
premium oil enamel on the windows and doors.”

“Amazing.”

“One of the living room and bedroom walls will
have texture paint. We are thinking of some shade of gold rust and roast
saffron.”

“Wow.”

“One is going to be canvas and the other is going
to be ragging. What do you guys think?”

Jigneshbhai and I looked at each other blankly
wondering what is canvas and ragging. It was like the surprise quiz question in
a class you aren’t paying attention to. Listening to this medley of colour
standing in the middle of plastic, paper and paint felt a lot like ragging to
us. But these were relatively minor inconveniences for Swami who was lost in
the world of painting.

“See they have provided us with this
visualization. This is how canvas and ragging textures will look,” Swami
opened his laptop and showed it to us. He had developed a nonporousness that
his walls had developed after 2 coats of putty. No amount of failure to answer
questions on our part shook him from his mission.

Canvas and Ragging were names for texture paint,
Jigneshbhai and I deduced.

“Wonderful technology,” Jigneshbhai remarked
continuing with his encouraging exclamations. “The gold rust looks
good,” I added with a tone of positivity too. This time Swami smiled
indicating that I had got the colour right.

Our interest in visualization triggered further
explanations from Swami. As I said, he was a man on a mission.

“On every texture we get 3 colours, 1 base coat
and 2 topcoats,” Swami began. We thought he had finished but clearly he
was not yet done. “So first they put the putty, then the primer, then the
base coat. Then the topcoats are put in a manner that the output is textured.
Like this,” he showed us and opened a demo video.

Swami told us the recipe for textured paint with more
gusto than the recipe of his favourite death by chocolate sundae. It almost
sounded like one brownie at the bottom, then add vanilla ice cream, finally
topped by layers of hot chocolate sauce and whipped cream. Or probably
Jigneshbhai and I were just hungry.

We watched the demo video with as much keen interest
as we could muster at that late stage of Swami’s painting education class. Our
approach was similar to students paying sincere attention in the hope that the
professor will finish the lecture fast. One eye on the class and one eye on the
clock waiting for the bell.

It seemed to have paid dividends because Swami closed
down his laptop after the demo video ended. Jigneshbhai knew that lecturers get
it. He was an expert at giving the right signals. Jigneshbhai and I had
finished the coffee and thought it was the right time for us to make a move. We
told Swami who agreed, sounding satisfied with the paint talk and our attention
so far. We started walking to the door. Swami got his car keys and joined us on
the way out.

Jigneshbhai and I were happy that Swami was joining us, so we can now have our regular coffee at our regular cafe. The wealthy old man and Deja must be waiting, I told Jigneshbhai. We thought we had come through with flying colours. That’s when Swami announced, “Guys, I think we have some time. Let’s go to the curtain store now as I need to choose matching curtains for the new wall colours.” He must have been truly encouraged by Jigneshbhai’s and my attention in his class as he added, “It won’t take long, now that you guys have also seen the colours.” As we stepped out, he told his wife that she needn’t worry, as his friends will help him make the right choice. The presumptions that friends make, Jigneshbhai and I thought, but let things be, for the moment. So that was that. I told you that Jigneshbhai was right when he worried about turbulence in his quiet life.

Excerpted from the book “The Good, The Bad and The Silly” by Ranjit Kulkarni. Available on Amazon Kindle Store worldwide and as a PDF eBook on ranjitkulkarni.com. Paperback available on Pothi.com (in India) and on Amazon.com (only outside India).

Follow Ranjit Kulkarni on his Amazon Author Page to hear about his latest books and get updates from his blog.

Jigneshbhai & Swami Origins..and Deja

At 9 in the morning, the door of A13 Vrindavan Park
opened, and a happy man in his mid-forties stepped out. “Good
morning,” he said to the familiar traffic constable at the crossing. The
policeman acknowledged the greeting. He continued using his whistle with skill
to guide the traffic. “Move fast,” the traffic constable shouted at
the driver of the Honda City. The driver was listening to the radio in the
comfortable confines of his vehicle.  With
a business newspaper in one hand and a mobile phone in another, the portly
gentleman from the flourishing Gujarati community of Ghatembur smiled at the
familiar face in the Honda City and started walking past the honking traffic.
“It’s bright and sunny,” he remarked to the pedestrian on his side.
The pedestrian gave him a smirk and continued walking to the nearest bus stop.
The beggar trying to evoke sympathy in drivers waiting at the red signal shared
his optimism. “Haven’t had food for 2 days Sir,” he got on to his job
on seeing Jigneshbhai. He gave the beggar a generous 20 rupee note from his
wallet further fueling the beggar’s optimism.

 Jigneshbhai
Patel had been following this happy routine for over the past 10 years. His was
a life free from worries. His was a head full of ideas. His was a day full of
freedom.

Ranchoddas Patel and his wife, who then lived a few
blocks away from today’s Vrindavan Park, had a son over four and a half decades
back. “Let’s call him Jignesh, my grandfather was called that,” Ranchoddas
told his wife who readily agreed. In time, Jignesh went to the local convent
school though he did not grasp English till he went to college to study
commerce. “We should speak in English at home,” he insisted but to no
avail.

As far as can be ascertained from school and college
records, he did not succeed a great lot in studies. His family didn’t mind
that. “I didn’t take my boards seriously and the boards also didn’t take
me seriously,” he told me over his uproarious laughter after his results.
But he was extremely successful in running a textbook business in school, and a
clothing business in college. For both of them, his school and college mates
were his primary customers, and both of them he closed later. “The returns
on investment weren’t great,” he told his family and returned the capital.

His grades and articulation may have belied it, but
Jignesh was an extremely intelligent boy with a rare breed of sagacious wisdom.
“Where will I use calculus later in life?” He once asked his maths
teacher. His penchant for logical but seemingly out of place questions was
well-known. “I would rather invest my time in learning English than
studying Calculus. It is more useful,” he had mentioned, when he initiated
his friendship with Swami many years back, but we will come to that. There is a
difference between knowledge and wisdom, and Jignesh had the ability to gain knowledge
in any area he chose, but his forte was in grasping the wisdom with ease. Not
many have this ability. I have seen a lot of knowledgeable unwise experts in
lots of areas. “The sign of true expertise is to understand the limitations of
your knowledge,” Jignesh the kid once told me.  

As the years passed by, this wisdom turned Jignesh to
Jigneshbhai. I heard a lot of friends ask him “Jigneshbhai can you advise
me what I should do here?” in various situations.  He realised that, his degree in commerce
wasn’t particularly useful in getting a job, plus he did not particularly like
working for anyone else. “It’s too painful to keep following instructions
when there’s no logic, plus there’s no freedom,” he once told me. He also
realized that, with his intelligence, acumen and smart money management, he
could run a business of his own profitably, only if he could take some
calculated risks and show some patience – both of which he had in plenty. After
a few experiments, he found that, for his relatively introvert personality and
strengths around wisdom and clarity of thinking, investing advisory and
brokerage were his best bet. “It’s a nice mix of analysis, risk taking and
making money work for me,” he had explained once to me. He has been
engaged in that since then. That is the reason he stepped out at 9 am from A13
Vrindavan Park to walk to his small office around 500 metres away.

The other part of this story has its origins a few
blocks away. A serious, studious man in his early forties stepped out in a
hurry walking fast to his car. “I need to get there on time for a meeting,”
he said. He had a laptop bag and a lunch box in his hand. One of his neighbours
said “Good morning” on his way to the car, but he hardly noticed it.
As his Honda City made way through the traffic, he checked his mobile to see if
his driver could find a shorter route. “I hope this policeman knows what
he is doing,” he said to his driver when he heard the whistle. “I
will be late. But it’s another nonsensical meeting with another useless
boss,” he muttered to himself. He waved and smiled at the familiar face of
Jigneshbhai walking to his office. As he stopped at the signal, the beggar came
to his window. He felt sorry for the beggar. He opened the window and gave him
a generous 20 rupee note. “What’s the use of earning if I can’t use it to
do good deeds,” he said to himself.

Swaminathan Ramakrishnan had been following this
hurried routine for over the past 10 years. His was a life full of worries. His
was a head full of thoughts. His was a day full of activities.

Close to four decades back, just a few years after the
Patel family, a South Indian cosmopolitan family was blessed with a son. Swami
went to the same local convent school, albeit a few years junior and, unlike
Jigneshbhai’s family, Swami’s expected him to do well in studies. “Focus
on skills, science and engineering will have good scope,” his father and,
often, members of the extended family advised him. His command over Science
ensured that he got the grades to get into engineering, and his eloquence in
English helped him survive in the hustle and bustle of corporate life. “My
science teacher liked my English, and my English teacher liked my knowledge of
science,” he often told me. “Honestly, I knew both just about enough
to impress the other.”

He was not particularly interested in engineering but
took it up because “intelligent kids did it” and that it was “a
safe option” that would get him “a decent job”. “We have to
earn a living and an AC office is comfortable, plus salary isn’t bad and they
send you places sometimes for work,” he explained his four-point logic to
me and Jigneshbhai then. There was no deep logic as such, it was basically what
he felt more secure and comfortable with. But that was Swami’s way of taking
decisions going with what felt good, unlike Jigneshbhai’s more dispassionate,
logical and rational way going with what made sense.

Most people in his family and social circle thought
Swami was very intelligent, very ambitious and very accomplished. “Look at
Swami Anna. How brainy he is and what marks he gets,” was an oft repeated
line at family functions. But deep within Swami always had doubts whether it
was truly the case. Jigneshbhai was sure that Swami didn’t have much of what he
called ‘life intelligence’ but he knew that Swami had a heart of gold. “He
is the kind of guy, who you can give a loan blindly without any documentation.
He will be more worried about repaying it than you,” Jigneshbhai once told
me.

Over time, Swami survived the corporate life, but he
constantly complained about the problems with it. “Another useless
meeting, more politics” was a frequent one. But it did give him a decent
life, so he kept on with it. “Now I have seen America, I think I will take
a job that lets me see other places,” he used to say. Most of his
decisions were driven by what Jigneshbhai called ‘short term feel goodness’ and
social, family and similar considerations. “AVP is a decent title plus the
office is close to my house, so no stress. I can easily attend all family
functions and take care of my health. Good work life balance,” I once
heard him say during a job change. Jigneshbhai always felt Swami’s work-life
balance was imbalanced and was always more in favour of life than work. But such
considerations of how to choose a job were in plenty in Swami’s ‘logic feeling
basket’ as Jigneshbhai often called it. At the end of the day those drove him
enough and that’s what mattered. “Be that as it may,” Jigneshbhai
often said.

I have known the two of them for close to 25 years
now. I think the origins of their friendship lie in that English elocution
competition that Swami won in school. Jigneshbhai was so impressed and so
interested in learning English that though he was a few years senior, he
approached Swami to ask if he could teach him English. Swami, proud that he
was, had then wondered and asked me “what kind of weird guy can go to a
junior asking to learn English! Why doesn’t he learn science and maths?”
He added, “you better help me teach him English,” because I was the
one who had written the speech which he had simply learnt by rote. That’s when
their association started, in a local convent school.

Swami’s yearning for security matched up to
Jigneshbhai’s penchant for risk taking and freedom. Swami’s impulsiveness
matched up to Jigneshbhai’s composure. Swami’s heart matched up to
Jigneshbhai’s head. Different strokes, like chalk and cheese they were since
then, and still are. But all of this is just to let you know the origins of a
story that started many years back. Experience brings with it some wisdom and
it also brings with it some regrets. It brings superficial modifications, but very
few changes in core personality. At the core, nothing much has changed in Swami
and Jigneshbhai. Swami’s tendencies to get into trouble due to the machinations
of his fickle mind remain. Jigneshbhai’s abilities to overcome situations due
to his wisdom and temperament stay intact. I have been an audience in many such
instances, and I should know. So, I will not take you back into history. While
the origins might be over two decades old, this is a story well entrenched in
today’s Ghatembur.

In their neighbourhood of Ghatembur today, slick cafes
have replaced the small tea shops of yore. That is what we frequent now to have
our regular cup of coffee, and, sometimes, the chocolate muffins with it.
“The sweetness of our life” Swami calls the double chocolate muffin
that the cafe is famous for. While Jigneshbhai calls it “the meaning in
our meaninglessness.”

Enough of the past. Now let me come back to the
present. That is more valuable. That’s why the present is called a gift, or
something akin to that. I heard Deja say that sometime. Let me come to that.

“It’s a nice afternoon to go out for a
coffee,” Swami called Jigneshbhai that day a few weeks back.

“Yes it is, but every day is,” Jigneshbhai
retorted.

Swami’s definition of nice afternoons changed every
afternoon. While for Jigneshbhai, afternoons were more or less nice unless
something drastic happened.

“See you there at 4.30,” he decided the
program. Not that I or Jigneshbhai had any objections. It was a good time for
coffee and a muffin.

“Alright,” both of us said in unison, and
turned up at the cafe for a nice cup of hot coffee as usual.

We had been meeting at this cafe for the past many
years. It was like every other coffee conversation. But it was not the same.

There was some topic that we started a discussion on.
I don’t want to get into the details of the discussion now because something
much more important and astonishing happened that evening.

The wealthy old man was sitting at the table next to
ours. He had come much earlier today.

The wealthy old man lives in a sprawling bungalow in
Ghatembur’s posh locality, not too far from Jigneshbhai’s and Swami’s homes. He
hasn’t told us much about himself. Swami often says, “What he says goes
over my head, unless I ponder over it.” I must admit that I agree with
Swami on this count. Jigneshbhai seems to get him though. He told us once to be
kind and polite to the wealthy old man. “Now he has retired, but he is very
wealthy with the right connections and still quite influential. He has been
there and done that all in the world of business during his youth.”

“Who is speaking?” Swami asked Jigneshbhai
out of the blue.

Jigneshbhai had not uttered a word. Swami looked at
me. I was also silent.

“What is this new prank you guys are upto?”

Jigneshbhai and I looked at each other in a bemused
manner.

“Don’t pull my leg. Why are you telling me to
shut up and listen when you aren’t speaking?” Swami continued. He was so
used to being made fun of that he felt it was more of the same, and as usual,
we were the prime suspects.

But we really hadn’t spoken. Jigneshbhai and I started
wondering whether Swami was hallucinating.

Swami looked at the wealthy old man who was sitting at
the next table. He had his normal cryptic expression. He was silent too.

But next to him today was a small cute dog. The dog
was sitting next to the old man. He was staring at Swami.

What happened thereafter none of you will believe. But
believe me, it is true. Swami asked for a pen and paper in a hurry.

“He is asking me to fetch a pen and paper,”
he declared, pointing at the dog.

Jigneshbhai and I thought Swami had gone crazy. What
happened shocked us beyond words. “A dog asking you to get pen and paper?
What’s next? A dog reciting poetry? What did you have for lunch?”
Jigneshbhai asked. But Swami neglected us and called the waiter to get a paper.
After about ten minutes, Swami gave us the paper which had this written on it.

“I am a dog but pay attention to what I say, I used to
be a yoga and spiritual teacher in an earlier life

I died and my soul got this dog’s body, Now I see the
world of humans from this body

It has given me a new perspective, I can understand
humans and dogs, though dogs are easier

Swami, you are the only one who can hear me, your
friends can’t

That’s because you were my favourite student in an
earlier life

Next time order some bread for me with your coffee. You
can call me Deja”

“What the hell is going on?” Jigneshbhai
asked. “Don’t make up stuff. This doesn’t make sense to me.”

Swami had his eyebrows raised. His palms and forehead
had sweat. “I don’t know what’s happen……wait a sec,” he said.
“He is saying something.” And Swami started writing. He showed it to
us.

“Tell Jigneshbhai to believe you, this doesn’t happen
often, but it has happened before and will not make sense

But it is true, my name is Deja Vu, I am a spiritual
dog and, I repeat, you can call me Deja”

I don’t know when was the last time I saw Jigneshbhai
and Swami with their hair standing vertical. But that day, I did. I also saw
their mouths gaping open, hands on their heads, eyes almost round.

“Ok. We will call you Deja,” both of them
said in unison.

That is how Deja the spiritual dog came into the world of Jigneshbhai and Swami. And not to forget the wealthy old man.

Excerpted from the book “The Good, The Bad and The Silly” by Ranjit Kulkarni. Available on Amazon Kindle Store worldwide and as a PDF eBook on ranjitkulkarni.com. Paperback available on Pothi.com (in India) and on Amazon.com (only outside India).

Follow Ranjit Kulkarni on his Amazon Author Page to hear about his latest books and get updates from his blog.

Swami on a Fridge Hunt: Book Excerpt

“You have to buy a 5-star rated
fridge with a built-in stabilizer. If you don’t buy a 5-star rated fridge, then
it is better you don’t waste your money on a fridge,” the salesman warned
Swami. I never knew buying a refrigerator was such a complex activity. But I
knew that day when we went for a fridge hunt with Swami, Jigneshbhai and their
families.

“Do you mind if we drop into the
electronics store? My wife wants to check out a refrigerator,” Swami had
asked. An innocent request after the movie turned out to be quite an adventure.

“Sir, bags in the shelves,”
the security guard stopped us. “Sir, bags in the shelves there,” he
repeated and told us to keep our bags in the shelves near the entrance. “What
kind of logic is this? Stupid rules everywhere,” Jigneshbhai complained.
“We can’t steal a TV or fridge in this bag,” he muttered. “And
the mobile phones and cameras are all bound by some wire to their desks. So why
keep the bags here?” He asked me. I gave a blank stare. “Why can’t
you follow simple instructions?” I asked and continued following the
rules. Jigneshbhai and his logic – why get it everywhere, I thought.

The showroom had rows of TVs of
different sizes on the wall all showing the same program. When the picture in
one TV changed, all pictures changed. “Why can’t they have different
programs on different TVs? At least we can entertain ourselves,”
Jigneshbhai complained again. He wasn’t ready to give up yet. “How will
you compare the pictures on the TV screens then?” Swami explained. It
seemed logical to me, but we left it at that. Why argue about why TV screens in
a TV showroom show the same program? Especially if you aren’t planning to buy a
TV. In fact, if you aren’t planning to buy anything actually.

But the salesmen didn’t know that Jigneshbhai
and I weren’t planning to buy anything, at least yet. Every few steps a
salesman walked towards us and asked us, “How may I help you?”
Jigneshbhai and I smiled but didn’t tell them that we were here only to while
away our time. And that Swami and his wife were the real prospective clients.
We soon concluded that they figured it out themselves. Because after the TV,
mobiles and camera sections, no salesman approached us. We walked towards the
domestic appliances section which was at the far end of the showroom. We passed
through huge washing machines and refrigerators taller than us. We finally
reached the place where the fridges were more aligned with Swami’s height and
budget.

Jigneshbhai and I walked past the
fridges. The intricacies of fridge selection had engrossed Swami and the three
wives. As in each of our respective three wives, I meant. I never knew there
were so many features to check in a fridge.

“This one doesn’t have enough
vegetable sections,” Swami’s wife declared. “The ice section here is
too large. Who needs so much ice?” Jigneshbhai’s wife observed.

Why do they make these side shelves
with 12 eggs? I can’t put anything else there, as they take so much
space,” one of them continued. It was true. I remembered my fridge at
home. Those empty egg shelves ended up with lemons and spices. And sometimes
even small leftover chocolates. Not that I had any problem with the chocolates.
But the shelves per se were quite useless for the eggs, when they were not
there, that is the eggs. Well, they are meant to be useful when the eggs are
there, but you get what I mean. “Madam but these shelves are removable.
See, like this,” the salesman argued and removed the shelves to prove it.
“But where do we keep them after removing? Now, we have to find space to
keep these empty shelves? What kind of stupid design is this?” She asked,
to which the salesman had no answer. I could make out that he did not have this
experience. He looked too young to have a wife that would make similar
complaints.

“Hold this tape, come here,”
Swami called Jigneshbhai without warning, asking him to hold one end of the
tape. “It is 28 inches, fits well in the kitchen,” he told his wife.
They had come well prepared. “But the colour doesn’t match our kitchen
wall,” Swami’s wife said. “Do you have a maroon colour in this
model?” She checked. Now bear in mind that maroon is not an easy colour
for fridges. There were ample whites, blacks and greys, but not many maroons. The
salesman shook his head which meant that this model had lost the race to
Swami’s home. Swami folded the tape and put it in his pocket. The call for the
next measurement came soon.

“27 inches,” Jigneshbhai read
out. This time the zero side was in Swami’s hand. The funny thing about these
folding measuring tapes is that you could easily misread the inches if you
don’t know which is the zero that is your reference. Because there is a
centimetre zero on one side and an inch zero on the other. And the measures run
in opposite directions, if you understand what I mean. And this tape doesn’t
stay straight and gets twisted over a reasonable distance. So initially
Jigneshbhai saw a largish number but quickly realised that it was the
centimetre number from the other side. Then he checked the other side. Seeing
27 there, and having heard 28 inches earlier, he used his native intelligence
to logically conclude that the reading was 27 inches. Well, this may seem like
an unnecessary explanation, but if you are new to measuring tapes, it is
important to have your fundamentals right.

“It’s smaller than the earlier
one, but 8000 rupees more,” Swami proclaimed pointing to the price tag.
“But this has more features Sir. Plus, it is 5 star rated, so you will
save on electricity,” the salesman pitched in with the explanation. We are
used to getting more size for more money. In fridges, to Swami’s dismay, it
didn’t work that way. I guess he realised or was made to realise his folly by
none other than his wife.

“Do you think it’s a wardrobe? It
doesn’t sell on inches,” I could hear Swami’s wife whispering to him. I
pretended I hadn’t heard it, but my acting performance was not upto the mark.

Swami looked at us, realising we had
heard it, becoming meek as a lamb. Jigneshbhai preyed on Swami’s temporary
docility. He handed over the measuring tape to Swami at the first opportunity.
He didn’t want to be involved in the inches and centimetre confusion anymore,
at least for now.

The entire gang now moved to the next
alley which had more fridge models. A touch button which let users control the
temperature attracted everyone.

“But how do we know what
temperature to set?” Jigneshbhai asked what seemed like a logical question
to me. His logic was back.

The salesman came up with a booklet.
“Sir this has a list of indicated temperatures based on what is inside the
fridge. “A company representative will come to install and explain,”
he assured Jigneshbhai. He did not know that when Jigneshbhai asks a question,
it doesn’t mean he is buying the fridge. It only means he is curious. With his
curiosity satisfied, he neglected the salesman.

But Swami was not curious, he was
evaluating features as they presented themselves. “It’s too complicated.
What if I put ice cream first, and then someone comes later to put vegetables
and lowers the temperature?” Swami didn’t like the idea. I wanted to point
out that ice cream goes into the freezer and vegetables into the fridge
generally. So, this situation will not arise under normal sane circumstances
for sane people. But I refrained. Counter arguments aren’t advised when a buyer
has decided against something. Especially when the buyer is Swami.

The wives were anyway not interested in
this feature, so this fridge had lost out in any case. We moved further.

“This is nice. The food shelves
are on top and the freezer is at the bottom. So, we don’t have to bend every
day,” Swami’s wife observed.

“But I have to bend my back,”
Swami said. “Look at the price,” he pointed at the tag. This fridge
lost out.

“Why does this fridge offer 10
years and this one offers 20 years warranty on the compressor?”
Jigneshbhai asked what seemed like a pertinent question again. His curiosity
was slowly reaching its known peak. He had once asked an English teacher why
curiosity is spelt with an ‘s’ and electricity with a ‘c’. The whole class had
spent the next 20 minutes playing tic-tac-toe while the two argued.

The salesman, thankfully, had an
explanation. He gave an awkward smile. “Sir this is a local company, that
one is German-made,” he explained. That satisfied Jigneshbhai who again
moved elsewhere while the salesman explained further. “But we have an
extended warranty program Sir from our side. At a nominal price, you can cover
the compressor beyond company warranty even for the local one.” He was
about to bring us more details, but we indicated to him to hold on. How had he
not realised that Jigneshbhai’s questions didn’t mean he is buying anything?
Everyone learns, I thought.

Meanwhile it looked like Swami’s wife
had shortlisted another model. It seemed to tick all the boxes. This time Swami
asked me to hold one end of the tape and said, “28 inches”. I didn’t
have to take the reading. I just held the zero end. The colours matched, the
features were fine, the measurements aligned. The pricing seemed ok. It was
also 5 star rated with built-in stabilizer and had a 10-year compressor
warranty.

Swami was fiddling with his phone when
his wife whispered again “Are you checking for it online?”

The salesman who was standing some
distance away seemed to have heard it. He sensed the threat of a customer with
whom he had spent so much time ending up buying online. “Sir, charges for
installation charges and extended warranty are higher online. Plus, you won’t
get future customer service,” he said. He was well-trained and knew
customer behaviour well.

“No, I was doing something
else,” Swami told his wife, irrespective of what he was doing. I suspected
that he was doing what his wife suspected but be that as it may. He directed
the salesman to get the exact final pricing with any discounts.

“Ok Sir, I will check and get
it,” he said and walked to his billing system, presumably to get a
proforma price.

Meanwhile, Jigneshbhai had lost
interest in refrigerators. He was now busy walking around the TV wall. Next to that
were the home theatre and other sound systems. Jigneshbhai said, “Now I
get it. This is the reason security wants us to keep the bags outside.” He
had a small earphone in his hand. “There is some logic, after all.”

Jigneshbhai was in a world of his own.
He seemed to be on an exploratory mission to understand the logical fallacies
in an electronics showroom. I had long forgotten about the security. The
entrance seemed far away, and it seemed like we had spent almost as much time
as the movie in this showroom.

Swami and his wife seemed to have made
up their mind to go ahead with the shortlisted fridge model. They were
discussing the modalities of payment and delivery. “Check with him when
they will deliver, and will they take our old fridge in exchange?” She
instructed Swami.

The salesman was walking back towards
us. Swami was ready with his questions. But the salesman didn’t have any paper
with him and had a dejected look on his face. Jigneshbhai detected this first
and shared his observation with me. “He is coming empty-handed. Looks like
he doesn’t have the pricing,” he whispered. His attention was back on the
fridge hunt.

“Sorry Sir, this was the last
model. It has sold out,” the salesman said when he came closer to Swami.
That explained the dejected look observed by Jigneshbhai.

The news disappointed everyone.
“When will you get another piece?” Swami asked.

“Sorry Sir, the company has
discontinued this model from this month,” the salesman said.

Swami was about to lose his head on the
salesman. Jigneshbhai and I saw that his head was slowly reaching the point
that milk on a gas reaches just before spilling over. “Why did you waste
so much time showing us a discontinued model? Do you think we are fools to
waste our time checking out a discontinued model?” he thought. But these
were still within the mind. Before it spilt over, he saw the wives in a chit
chat.

He noticed that the wives had
reconciled to the non-availability. They had already moved on in their quest
for the fridge. That was like the gas was switched off just in time so that
milk in Swami’s angry head suddenly went down. They were already thinking of
going to the next store. “There is an electronics store 2 kms down,”
said one. “Yeah it is a good showroom with good variety of models,”
agreed another. Swami’s wife looked at him and said, “There is parking
too.”

The plans were already made.
Jigneshbhai said “alright” and was cool as ever adjusting to the new
reality. Swami said “dammit” and looked irritated still. Swami gave
me the keys, “Will you drive?” I took the keys. “Fridge hunting
does lead to cool heads,” Jigneshbhai chuckled as we walked out. We headed
to the next showroom, the hunt ended there, and we went home after that.

It was another day in the life of Jigneshbhai and Swami.

Excerpted from the book “The Good, The Bad and The Silly” by Ranjit Kulkarni. Available on Amazon Kindle Store worldwide and as a PDF eBook on ranjitkulkarni.com. Paperback available on Pothi.com (in India) and on Amazon.com (only outside India).

Follow Ranjit Kulkarni on his Amazon Author Page to hear about his latest books and get updates from his blog.

Get a Copy, Now Available: “The Good, The Bad and The Silly”

Hello,

My new fiction novel “The Good, The Bad and The Silly” featuring Jigneshbhai and Swami is now available. You can get a personal copy of the book at the following links:

PDF: https://www.ranjitkulkarni.com/product/thegood-thebad-and-thesilly/

Kindle: https://www.amazon.in/dp/B08777W31Z

Paperback (after lockdown): https://store.pothi.com/book/ranjit-kulkarni-good-bad-and-silly

Get Ready for Jigneshbhai and Swami
When an innocent health check-up report seen by Raji Periamma leads to Swami and Jigneshbhai meeting a specialist, it turns out to be only the first step in a series of unexpected episodes. An accidental meet with astrologers, a funny drunkard and some unnecessary action at the cinema, and it starts a set of funny coincidences and uneasy trickery leading up to a temple visit that shakes Swami’s faith. As Jigneshbhai and Swami manoeuvre this motley group of the bad and the silly, it takes a speech and a doctor’s appointment for the confusion to unwind and let the multiple cats out of the multiple bags!

Download a free preview here: https://www.ranjitkulkarni.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/TheGoodTheBadandTheSilly_eBook_Preview.pdf

Feel free to share with your contacts, circulate in your groups and spread the word around to readers who you think might be interested. Thank You!

-Ranjit Kulkarni

Call for Early Readers: The Good, The Bad and The Silly

What an experience the past 30 days have been! I hope this note finds you well, mentally, physically, emotionally. I pray you are as well as you can be, with a mix that is more in favour of happiness and joy than their opposites.

For me, the past month has been productive as I finished my fiction novel that I had planned for the first half of this year. It is called “The Good, The Bad and The Silly” and it is the first pure fiction story featuring Jigneshbhai and Swami. Though I must admit that those of you who know me might find some similarities with real life experiences. But let me assure you that these coincidences are, as they say, purely coincidental and a product of the author’s imagination.

This book introduces you to the world of Jigneshbhai and Swami. When an innocent health check-up report of Swami is seen by Raji Periamma, it leads Swami and Jigneshbhai to a specialist. As they find out, this turns out to be the first among a series of comic unexpected episodes. An accidental meet with astrologers, a funny drunkard and some unnecessary action at the cinema start a series of coincidences and sequences of uneasy trickery, leading up to a temple visit that shakes Swami’s faith. Get ready for Jigneshbhai and Swami to manoeuvre this motley group of the bad and the silly to finally let the cat out of the bag!

The title will be up online in a few days as I finish the final edits and cover this weekend. Meanwhile, I wanted to ask if you would like to receive a free copy of the book to read and review. I will send you a free copy of the eBook for private reading in a format that you would like, and would appreciate if you could post an honest review on Amazon or Goodreads (I will send you the link). The ebook is available in mobi (for Kindle), epub (Apple devices and other readers) or PDF (Adobe Reader) formats. 

If you would like to be an early reader, just send me a note with your preferred format and email to ranjit@ranjitkulkarni.com. I will take care of the rest. As you know, early readers and frank, honest reviews are important not just for other later readers to find the book, but also for the author to build a credible reader base over time.

I look forward to hearing from you. That’s it for now. And wish you a better next month than the last! Thank You,

Yours sincerely

Ranjit

Note the email: ranjit@ranjitkulkarni.com

Deja comes

It was like every other weekend coffee conversation. But it was not.

Swami and Jigneshbhai were having their usual question answer session. The questions weren’t ending and the answers weren’t starting. I don’t want to get into the details of the discussion because they are not relevant today.

The wealthy old man was sitting on the table next to ours. He had come much earlier today.

“Who is speaking?” Swami asked Jigneshbhai suddenly.

Jigneshbhai had not uttered a word. Swami looked at me. I was also silent.

“What is this new prank you guys are upto?”

Jigneshbhai and I looked at each other in a bemused manner.

“Don’t pull my leg. Why are you telling me to shut up and listen when you aren’t speaking?” Swami continued.

Jigneshbhai and I started wondering whether Swami was having hallucinations.

Swami looked at the wealthy old man who was sitting at the next table. He had his normal cryptic expression. He wasn’t speaking.

But next to him today was a small cute dog, the type that is long and short with big ears. I mean short in height but long in length, almost near the ground. The dog was sitting next to the old man. He was staring at Swami.

What happened thereafter none of you will believe. Swami asked for a pen and paper in a hurry.

“He is asking me to fetch a pen and paper” he declared, pointing at the dog.

Jigneshbhai and I thought Swami had gone crazy. We were shocked at what was happening, but quickly called the waiter to get one. After about ten minutes, Swami gave us the paper which had this written on it.

I am a dog but listen to me carefully

I used to be a yoga and spiritual teacher in an earlier life

I died and my soul got this dog’s body

Now I see the world of humans from this body

It has given me a new perspective

I can understand humans and dogs, though I must say dogs are easier

You are the only one who can hear me but your friends can’t

That’s because you were my favourite student in an earlier life

Next time order some bread for me with your coffee

You can call me Deja

That is how Deja the dog came into the world of Jigneshbhai and Swami and the wealthy old man.