the MIDDLE Path by Aniruddha Banhatti (speld decodable readers .txt) 📕

/> By this time, three refills had made me very hungry. Fortu¬nately, the prominent host, dressed in gleaming silk kurta with gold buttons and silk salwar, clapped his hands and announced that din-ner will be served.

Uniformed waiters started cir¬culating. First they gave us empty plates. Then came the appetizers. When I picked up five or six pieces of what looked like chicken tikka, there was a sharp intake of breath. But learning from others, I also helped myself to minute quantities of food from each course. That left me hungry. So when a course of rice appeared but every¬body took about half a tablespoon of the delicious stuff, I simply lifted the entire dish off the wai¬ter's tray, replaced it with my empty plate and started eating with the table spoon. After the first few tablespoons, I looked up and saw that I had been deserted and left to eat all alone. I didn't mind. I finished the rice, followed the waiter to the food counter, had three glasses of water, burped noisily and left for the great open spaces. When I met Ravi the next time he enquired,
"By the way, how was the cream of society?"
"Rotten," said I.
"I thought as much." Ravi said with a hearty laugh.


The crossword addict


The dawn is black and white squares on a paper. If the black and white checkered board is not seen, it results in restlessness. If stuck for any word the result is hatred for all human beings and this entire universe. If all the white squares are branded with a letter each and the crossword completely solved, the result is euphoria. These, broadly, are the symptoms of a crossword addict. And I have gleaned, if 'gleaned' does mean what I think it means, the above symptoms from the behavior of my better half who is a crossword addict.
One day. I went home and my better half was looking extraordi¬narily pleased.
"What's the matter? You look unusually happy. "
"Yes", she replied, "I am euphoric, elated, happy, have got it up my nose and two or three other words that I can't remember because I am walking on air".
I said, "So what prospects do I have for a cup of oolong, bohea or to put it in milder terms, tea?"
"Oh! your refresher is ready, and I have made something special today"
"What's the occasion?" I asked, getting outside my favorite snack.
"Today I am satisfied, contented, cheerful, and serene because I could solve the crossword comple¬tely".
"Ah, that explains it".
The next day which was a holi¬day, in the morning I was woken by a fierce cry, Opening my eyes I found my better half looking aghast at the newspaper.
"They have not printed the crossword today", she shouted with utter wonderment looking at the news sheet as if it was not real. The whole holiday was spoiled for me, my better half being edgy, restive, restless, quick tempered and apt to take worst offence at the slightest chance. Now I know all the symptoms of the crossword addicts. But I didn’t realize that I had become an addict, too. I knew once how far the disease had spread only when without my knowledge, unknowingly, unintentionay, as if in a dream, in a trance, I found my way in a book shop and heard myself ordering a copy of the thesaurus!


The detergent opera


SOAP operas are now out of date. What we see on the idiot-box is the detergent opera. With extra power. With the brain-washing power of lime. You may well ask what the difference is. The difference is exactly the same as the differ¬ence between a cake of soap and a cake of detergent. The cake of soap is no more available. One fine morning, I felt a great nostalgia for wash¬ing my (clean) under linen with a cake of the old yellow Sunbrite soap. The aroma of Sunbrite was in my nostrils. I ransacked the market for a cake of Sunbrite. But to no avail. Finally, I had to settle for a cake of yellow detergent bar that looked like imitation soap. ¬I rubbed and rubbed it on the clothes, but could not get the rich creamy lather one used to get with soap.
That is the exact difference. The soap operas of yesteryear when the Doordarshan started tele-casting had a rich creamy theme woven in an everyday life aroma.
The detergent opera of today, in sharp con¬trast, is superficial and watery. It may have extra power but it has less extras. The mob sce¬nes are missing. The art of making tears out of the mundane as in Tum Log or the ubiquitousness of Fakkad is lacking.
Every detergent opera seems to be a costu¬me drama-based production where the costumes won't stand the rough, caustic treat¬ment of soap.
Now the detergent companies are marketing two new brands of detergents per week. Maybe they only change the wrappers. With the advan¬ces made in color printing this must be a lot more profitable. Also cheaper. Brand names, which meant a lot in the past, do not mean anything today. Nowadays everybo¬dy wants something new, including brand names. Even the British, with their well¬ known tendency for sticking to the old like lim¬pets, opted for a change. So change is the name of the game. You may retain the inner cake of the detergent as it is, but you have to change the wrapper twice a week.
The same applies to the detergent opera. Every week the audience wants to see new faces. The result is the detergent opera as we see every week.
Some detergent companies are still sticking to the rural scenarios and tribal enlightenment, some are still wielding their historical swords. But this is just the flicker of the flame before it dies.
With the detergents, your clothes may not shrink, but it is highly possible that the deterg¬ent operas will shrink from the usual thirteen episodes to say, six and half, or seven episodes!!


The French connection


This is an account of my life which was shrouded in the mys¬tery of an unknown language. I was as unknown to the French language as the French language was unknown to me, which made things equal. On the first day when I entered the class, the Madame cried enthusiastically, "Bonjoo, Mosiye Bonjoo" and a circle of expectant faces looked at me from their chairs in anticipation of another round of great fun.
"Rhapetey, Bonjoo Madame", said the Madame, and there was a burst of laughter from the already gathered students who looked at the madame holding onto my limp hand and a bewildered and terri¬fied me.
“Rhapetey, Bonjoo madame,” madame again said, now m a tone of explanation,
“Bonzoo, mosiye, rhapetey, bonzoo madame".
"Is this the beginner's class?"
"Oooooooo la la, no aangley"
"No, The French language begi¬nner'sclass?
"Wheee. Bonju mosiye, rhap¬etey, bonju madame.”
Again a burst of laughter from the merry spectators, and the Madame now clutching my now perspiring hand. At last I gathered the import of the "Wheee" and "Rhapetey” and to her great relief, said, "Bonzoo, Madame.”
She then deposited me in a chair like a wet sock. I draped the chair in relief. But the relief proved to be short lived. It turned into cha¬grin and irritation, not to say intense concentration as I listened to her asking again and again, "Come on,Whose apple whose" or some¬thing similar to it. My Adam's apple jumped up and down. I must have looked extraordinarily dumb, for the many-headed monster roared again and again in joy every time I could not know and wondered intensely what she kept asking me. At last she made it clear to the meanest intelligence, I am alluding to mine, of course, by asking,
"Jom-apple-ye Sonya, Whose apple-ye whose?"
"Oh", I breathed a sign of relief. "Jom-appleye Aniruddha", I answered.
"Oo-la-la, Anihuddha". she said
"No, No, Aniruddha".
"That's what I am saying," she seemed to say angrily in French, "Ani-Huddha". I let it go at that. Anyway, I was not paid to improve her Marathi pronunciation. One thing I have noted is that we Indians are such polite people that we will take pains to twist our tongues to the pronunciations of foreign tongues, while all the invaders are such rude people that while leaving the shelter of our hospitality, they have left twisted monuments to their perversity such as Delhi for Dillee, Bombay for Mumbaee, and many others.
I thank God, whose existence I doubt with a religious intensity, that Poona has thrown off the shackles and has become Pune at last.
Be that as it may, the next mo¬ment there was a knock on the door and we, for now I was one of the gang, looked at the new customer as she, for it was a she, walked in unsuspecting through the door opened for her by madame.
The next week I was bombarded by a torrent of French, which was all Greek and Latin to me and whose meaning I had to know only through conjecture. I was familiar with the stories of the fervor with which the secrets of this sweet sounding language were guarded during the occupation. So I could understand the method of teaching.Then on the fifth day, the miracle happened. As Madame Sonya was describing Paris, which she called "Paakhee" in French, its avenues, a particular avenue, a particular shop situated there, and the fine, very fine, texture of the silk clothes available there, as if a curtain parted, and without under¬standing a word of what she was saying, I understood exactly what she was saying. I think the same thing happened with many of us in the class. From then onwards, French was not difficult for me at all. I for¬gave Madame' all the fun she had at my expense because I knew not the language. Now the connec-tion was established and French became as easy as Marathi for me, if not easier!


The never fading bloom


The alarm clock rings. Through habit she slams it shut, so as not to wake her hubby lying by her side. Her little son stirs a little in his sleep. She yawns, sits up in the bed. She feels unrested. But the routine has to start. She gets up, brushes her teeth, goes to the kitchen, assembles the cooker, puts it on the gas. The veg is already out and cleaned the night before. She puts the kadai on the other gas stove, starts preparing the vegetable, by which time the cooker starts whistling. Her hubby wakes up - by the whistles and the aroma of cooked rice and dal wafting through the house. He grumbles; yawns, goes through the newspaper luxuriously, looks at the wall clock, shouts,
"Omigosh! It's seven already. Is my bath Water ready?"
She hands him the towel sarcastically. She wakes up the boy, copes with his demands, some how makes him ready for the school. By that time the paunchy hubby is back from the bath and dancing around in the bedroom shouting for his clothes. At last, the morning chores finished, she rushes to the college where she teaches. On the way, she has to remind herself that late mark doesn't matter, she has to drive safely. Pant-pant, up the stairs, and the muster is still there. Saved! She signs it and the leering clerk takes away the muster.
"Now I have to hurry, I have the second lecture", she says as she enters the staff room.
"Relax madam, today is a non instructional day. It is the