PATTAR AND HIS ‘2-chakra Vaahanam’

(This piece is dedicated to my young Pattar friends who are the beacons of hope for the Seniors)

These days I am fighting a losing battle at home. No, no. It is not the battle of ‘The Bulge’ (my unsuccessful fight against the waxing and waning of my waist line); nor operation ‘The Desert Fox’ (my receding hair line); it is much more physical than that viz. the one-to-one (tu tu- mein mein) that I engage with my son on almost daily basis. The debate is about a contraption called Mobike. My son is a sportsman . Until recently, he was sporting long hairs tied with a rubber band like the management guru Arindham Choudhary or the Australian cricketer Jason Gillespie. Then he heard this joke from his grandpa, with whom he has a joint account in the C S Bank. The joke.

A young Christian boy had just gotten his driving license. He asked his grandpa, if they could discuss his use of grandpa’s car (could as well be Mobike). The old man said to him, "I'll make a deal with you. You bring your grades up, study the Bible a little, and get your hair cut, and then we will talk about it".  

A month later the boy came back and again asked his grandpa if they could discuss his use of the car. The old man said, "Son, I'm real proud of you. You have brought your grades up, you've studied the Bible diligently, but you didn't get hair cut!"

The young boy waited a moment and replied, "Well grandpa, I've been thinking about that. You know Samson had long hair, Moses had long hair, Noah had long hair, and even Jesus had long hair."

The old man replied, "Yes son, and they all walked everywhere they went!"

    My son seemed to have taken the broad hint and now looks a decent sort-of-a- chap with a regulation hair cut (though not anywhere close to my (H)Air Force standard). His grandpa has left for Vaikuntam nominating his grandson as the sole nominee for his Bank account. ‘My-my’ how the old man would have relished taking- in this unbelievable yet delectable spectacle of his grandson?

    “Appa when shall I get the two-wheeler?” he pesters “It is not your money in any case”, rubbing salt to the wound. Then the long drawn debate goes on. My beloved Pattathi remains a mute spectator. My daughter when she is here chips in now and then to support my case. But………my mind races to my own childhood days.

     Late Mr. P…….one of my father’s very close friends may not have been from Paadur (where every house has a learned Jyotsyer). All the same, he was no half-baked Vedic astrologer. My father would rush to him every Saturday night (after Atthaazham) for exploring the possibility of obtaining a suitable match for my younger sister who had just finished her MBBS from Nair Medical, Mumbai. The first look at her natal chart, I was told sent Mr. P….. into such a spin that he took some time to recover. Why?

“Lagnaal, Chandraal and Shukhraal, Kujan ettil iruppu unde!! Thrukketta Nakshtram!! Navaamsathil Kujan neechan. Guru vakrathil, Chandran balaheenan.” This meant that it was an ominous task to find a groom for her. But as luck would have it, Mr. P…… took out from his collection an equally impossible chart of a boy who willingly tied the knot the very next month (The affluent couple is presently enjoying their retired life at Navi-Mumbai with not a care in the world). This was the second time I admired this Jyotsyer- friend of my father for his accurate predictions and skill in match-making.

But the first time was when I, a mere 12- year –old (I was so close to Mr. P…. that I could take liberties with him) had asked him rather disdainfully, “Uncle? Do I have Vaahana yogam?”

“Badava rascal! Evada vaaa” he chided. “Yes, certainly, you would soon acquire one. Don’t worry”, he had said seriously. “And not a nadavandi, ok?” he added smilingly. I took his statement with a bag of salt. But amazingly, the prediction came true. I got a bicycle.

First time I ran into a car, I wasn't in a car myself. I was riding my second hand ‘Swift’ bicycle given to me in 1952 by my father. His boss Balasaheb D Garware gave away his son, (Ashok Garware’s) old bicycle to me. Why? Well, he appeared to have been very happy with me when we called on him at ‘Kapur Mahal, Marine Drive’. Trying to impress my sister, I hit a Morris Minor parked at the stop sign. There were no injuries to boy or automobil (now-a-days they don't make 'em like they used to).

My parrot green ‘Swift’ with blue and white streamers attached to the hand grips was my first real possession. In the Palghat village where I come from, any boy's bicycle is sacred, and treated with certain veneration. But on the day my bicycle arrived at Vile Parle, packed in a gunny bag in a knocked - down condition (pun not intended) I found it hard to pluck up the courage to ride it. I felt very vulnerable, a soft thing of flesh and brittle bone, when perched on that mass of steel which looked anything but a bicycle. But twelve-year-olds don't ask each other what they do for a living; they want to know if that Bike with the basket on the handlebars and the back fender removed is yours. Riding your bicycle for the first time is comparable to taking a spin in the family car when you finally get your driver's license (not a miniature, learner’s bicycle with training wheels attached as my own kids first rode upon). So I simply hopped on, testing the limit of my expertise with disastrous results; but soon ‘Swift’ and I were to become as one, enjoying the freedom of pedalling through distant unchartered routes- My companion was Pama (Padmakar Raut) who could ride his own bike ‘Rudge’ with such élan and aplomb to put to shame even the best of the acrobats from the Kamala 3-ring Circus riders.

I let go of ‘Swift’ the day my friend left me after battling his Cancer so bravely.

My bicycle is part of most of my boyhood memories. It would lie on the grass at Vile-Parle Park (No self-respecting boy used a kickstand!!!!) during “Sunday- afternoon- yellow-ball- badminton” matches of Senior Pattars. On most days, it was parked in the bike rack at Parle Tilak Vidyalay (where my friend Pama Raut studied) and it leaned against the wall outside the Parle Theatre during Saturday matinees (where Tarzan, Zoro and Superman transported us to imaginary worlds; and Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, Bud Abbot and Lou Costello provided the laughs).

Today I own a mountain bike, the 5th in a series since I began riding. I've found the old adage true: One never forgets how to ride a bike. And, even though my trips are not as long or rugged as they used to be, I've discovered that one doesn't forget the pleasure of riding.

            As a technical officer, at many an Air Force Station, when I used to exhort my colleagues thus, “Go for a bike; it doesn't use non-renewable resources or pollute (including noise pollution), is inexpensive both for ownership and in terms of public infrastructure to support it, can be parked anywhere, and is a healthy activity”, they would retort, "Blah, blah, blah. Tell us something new".

            But my CTO (Chief Technical Officer) SRP used to silence them by letting go his Brahma Astra, (the thunderbolt of the Gods) thus. But before that a word about this great personality.

Air Commodore Sreepad Ratnakar Patankar (not his real name), let us call him SRP

(his real initials) is also a Pattar, a pure unalloyed, unadulterated Koknastha Brahman. Whereas his second son is married and settled in USA, the elder one after joining the Air Force is doing very well like his illustrious father. SRP is a graduate from College of Engineering, Pune and what he does not know about MiG variants ‘is not worth knowing’. He is not an instinctive engineer. “He is a work-in-progress”. At any time of the day or night, we could consult him and seek his advice and SRP would give a clinching diagnosis on the technical snag. He could pin point with accuracy the fault in an engine by merely listening to the ground run. He had to his credit so many innovative methods and diagnostic routines that the Ruskies often consulted him on several finer points of repair routines. He would appear to concentrate deeply on something only he can see. That is SRP for you- a genius indeed. The only problem is that his spoken words travelled faster than his thoughts, as a result even if you ran to catch those words you would still be standing on the spot and listening to what he said an hour ago.-a Breathless Shankar Mahadevan of seventies. But he is a simpleton to the core. You needn't go too far to see a true Gandhian. Just walk into his nest and you would be astounded to see how simple a life he leads. But people often misread his quiet determination. SRP would never turn his back on any one in trouble.

“People confuse niceness with weakness and think I have no spine”, he would say. I

asked him once, ”what advice he would give the young officers?” “Well, Let other people talk about you, don’t ever talk about yourself.” And amazingly, when we were all wanting to get out of that salt mine of a place in the remote East, this officer refused his promotion and posting to Delhi just so as to be able to savour his only pleasure, namely maintenance of the R11 engine of MiG -21. Apart from several other common tastes I shared with him, our passion to ride bicycles was an aspect which bound our affections even more closely.

“O.K., here are at least two reasons that you guys have never heard before. Not in your wildest dreams”, SRP would argue coming to my rescue. And if they weren't already riding a bicycle for fun, fitness, or transportation, they would be convinced to get their gears spinning by the time SRP finished with them. This was how:

“First, a bicycle is in certain ways the most intelligent vehicle ever created. It has, perched on top of it the world's most advanced "engine" controlled with the most wondrous and sophisticated "computer." The engine often knows what's wrong with itself and usually fixes itself. A bicycle is also the world's most energy efficient mode of travel, using just 35 calories per passenger mile versus 1860 for an average automobile with one occupant. And the engine can run on all kinds of strange fuels, like Bindis, Baingan, Chapattis etc. In comparison cars use dinosaurs. Actually, they burn decomposed dinosaurs in an internal combustion engine that, evolutionarily speaking, is about at the Paleolithic era.” SRP would rattle out like singer, Shanker Mahadevan in one breath

“Appa, SRP uncle and aunty are in a world of their own. Spending their retired life offering their services in an Ashram near Pune which takes care of destitute and lepers”, reminds my daughter from Pune. I was not surprised.

              He taught me that life was all about Service and excellence.

Bikes are faster than cars. In all urban areas, this is literally true. Congestion,  traffic signals, parking-space-search time, and walking-to-final-destination time all add up to reduce (Oxymoron unintended) the speed of even the highest powered motor vehicle to about that of a bicycle. However, if you consider that the time cost of travel also includes the amount of time spent working to pay for the vehicle, bicycles come roaring ahead. (I did my part time MBA (Operation Research) from FMS, Delhi University). Don’t forget to consider the advantages of reduced life-cycle cost, replacement cost and the running (pun unintended) cost. By the way there is a hidden opportunity cost too –no medical bills due to BP, arthritis, obesity and the like and the EMI payments on loan...

Bicycling with the wind in your face and your senses on hyper-drive was life at its best during my first short 6 month stint as GOI inspector, at Bonham, Texas in the 70s. It was out of this world.

Try it before the time comes when you won't be able to.

So be a kid again. If you don’t believe, ask SRP.

But hear what my son has to say.

“Appa, according to Muhammad Ali, ‘A man who views the world the same at sixty as he did at twenty has wasted forty years of his life”

“Yeah? I know who you mean! Do you know what Confucius said, my son? To be truly happy and contented, you must let go of what it means to be happy or content.” I retorted.

“O, Appa You are cool”, said my son and went out making me feel like a nerd.

Then I prayed thus:

“Dear God, I thank You for the gift of this child to raise, this life to share, this mind to help mold, this body to nurture, and this spirit to enrich. Let me never betray this child’s trust, dampen this child’s hope, or discourage this child’s dreams. Help me, dear God, to help this precious child become all you mean him to be. Let your grace and love fall on him like gentle breezes and give him inner strength and peace and patience for the journey ahead even if it is on his MOBIKE.”

“What colour is my 2-chakra vaahanam?” you mean?

Parrot green, of course.

V V R (a retired retreaded Air Vice Marshal)

19^th Jul 2005