What were They Thinking?

This should go down in the annals of dumb designs.

So, last weekend we decided to take a trip to San Francisco. Not having done it in a while, we thought we would take the Caltrain rather than drive. (The whole public transit thing...). Well, Caltrain has a pretty lean schedule for the weekend - which means there is a train every hour. This requires a little more planning than just jumping into your car and driving away.

True to our family "tradition", we left home around 11:45 am to catch the 12:10 train. We had a 20-min drive, so the chances of catching the train were iffy. As I drove to the station, I was being chided by the other members of the family for driving too slowly (and for paying attention to the speed limit), while some others were blaming each other for the delay.

We got to the station with about 7 mins to spare. As I parked, my wife and son dashed off to the ticket vending machine, while my daughter and I started looking for parking ticket dispenser. After a little bit of investigation, we saw a sign that said we had to get the parking ticket from the ticket vending machine. Since time was of the essence, I ran to the ticket vending machine (which was a few hundred meters away and mind you I was carrying 2 bottles of water and a backpack). I found my wife and son simultaneously arguing and fighting the vending machine (and doing both well, I might add). They wanted to know what I was doing there and I panted that I was there to get the parking ticket.

I popped in $2 into the vending machine to get an all day parking ticket and was faced with a dozen choices - all the way from buying a train ticket to parking ticket. I chose the parking ticket option, and then I was asked the parking space number. This was a curve ball! I had no idea that I needed to note down the number of the parking space to get a ticket. So, I turned to my wife to see if she knew the number. She told me, "Yes, it is 47", in a "I am surprised, you don't even know this" voice. Treating that as gospel, I punched 47 in, picked up the ticket and ran back to the car.

As I puffed towards the car, I passed No. 47 and it wasn't our car. Our car was in 49! Time Check: 12:09! The train should be pulling in any minute (actually, in precisely a minute). Since there was no way for me to park in 47, I decided the next best thing was to drive closer to the vending machine and get another ticket. But, as luck would have it, all the slots close by were taken, so I ended up finding one about the same distance as before. I parked and we jumped out of the car to buy another ticket.

At this time the train had just pulled into the station and my wife and son were waving to get on the train while my daughter and I were screaming from the other end to not get in, because we hadn't procured the parking ticket yet. All this was complicated by an unpleasant and impatient train conductor who was egging them to get on, because the train was running late.

As you can imagine, I was more than a tad ticked off by now. We were going to miss this train and wait another hour all because some smart aleck decided that they need to tie a parking ticket to a particular parking spot. The logic escapes me. I would have expected ticket dispensers at multiple convenient locations in the parking lot and/or BIG signs saying note the parking spot number because you will need it to get a ticket. And by the way, once you get the ticket, be prepared to sprint to your car to place the ticket on the dashboard and back to the platform to catch the train.

The Caltrain Station designer(s) obviously expected the passengers to get there with plenty of time to spare!

PS. If inquiring minds want to know, we caught the 1:10 and the rest of the day was uneventful:)

Thoughts From My Daughter

“Who is that speaking? Rohu is that really you?” This greeting marked the beginning of the end, or to put it less euphemistically, my grandfather and my last conversation. And no, he didn’t say this because he was losing his memory or consciousness (as he did in the days just before his death), but he said this with the lively tone and spirit by which I have come to define him over the past 20 years.

There was never a dull moment with my grandfather. He was always heartily poking fun at my grandmother or his children. For example, in response to an email I had sent shortly after my grandmother’s eye surgery, he wrote, “She is fine. New glasses have been prescribed for her and she has started wearing them. Now, she sees well and also looks better.” Still, I would have to say that his stories about my dad were the funniest as they were always stories my dad has conveniently “forgotten” over the years.

As you can probably tell, my grandfather loved talking about his family. He never bragged about his experiences as Gujarat chief secretary or his “celebrity” status in Adyar. He raved about the fact that his youngest grandchild had shared with him the perks of oral hygiene (“brush it everyday!”) while his oldest was at “Pennsylvania University.” He had a way of making each one of us feel like we had a separate and equally important role in his life. For the longest time, I was his only granddaughter, and he never let me forget this. Growing up, it was my biggest honor to be the “only granddaughter.” My brother was the oldest grandson, Chinmay, the youngest grandson, and when Shreya was finally born 8 years ago (usurping my title as only granddaughter), my grandfather called and notified me as my promotion to “oldest grandchild.” All this without a high school diploma.

My grandfather also had kind of a roast for each of his grandchildren – a funny story from our childhood that he would share (maybe a little too often) and submit to Reader’s Digest monthly. If you ever met my grandfather after I turned 3, you’ve probably heard mine: It had been about two weeks since Kartik was born and I was experiencing the usual “jealous-older-child” syndrome, so my grandfather was spending the day with me in San Francisco. We were sitting in a tram. I should probably also mention that I had a horrific boy cut. So this woman sitting near us turns to me and asks, “Are you a boy or a girl?” to which I responded, “Well, I’m a girl, but I have a brother at home who’s a boy.” After that, every time we talked my grandfather would ask, “How’s your brother who’s a boy?”

Jokes aside, what I miss most about my grandfather is that he believed in me. My every littlest accomplishment was such a big deal for him. When I was awarded the distinction of scholar-athlete I told him. I even told him that the other 12 members of my team had received the same award. But still, he congratulated and re-congratulated the family’s “scholar-athlete.” Then, a couple years ago, I wrote him one poem that he actually had published in an Indian magazine. Last year when I visited, my grandfather had me meet all his neighbors. Upon entering the first house, the host looked at me and then at my grandfather and said, “Uncle! Is this the one? The writer?” I was speechless. And was again, at the six other houses where this moment was repeated. It’s almost impossible to make it as a recognized writer. But the fact that I am a “writer” in my grandfather’s eyes makes me one of the most successful writers there ever was.

At first I was devastated that my grandfather would not be here if and when I actually accomplish something of significance. But you know it’s probably more symbolic that he won’t. Because he was a man who celebrated the smallest of things. Don’t get me wrong, he was a fighter if I ever met one, but he knew that change takes time and he recognized the importance of stopping along the way.

Thatha,
Thanks for being my biggest fan for every step I took, no matter how big or small.
Love,
Rohu

I have attached two poems in his honor. The first was written when I was 13. The second was written a week after he passed away.

Growing Up Miles Away

As I watch the gorgeous ocean waters wash across the sandy shores,
My family watches the same ocean on the other side of the world.
And as I sit on these shores, I look at that point where the ocean meets the sky,
And am comforted that my grandparents are standing on the other side.
As the waves continue to flow majestically,
I understand that this ocean unifies my family that is stretched across the world.

As the sun glows brilliantly in the morning sky,
I smile, and remember that this is the same sun that my family sees in India.
This sun that warms my day and fills it with happiness,
Is the same sun that warms my grandparents' home in India.
The same sun that when hidden by the clouds,
Bring gloom and sadness to both my grandparents and me.

I am satisfied to learn that this sun is responsible.
Responsible for allowing my family on the other side of the world
To share the same emotions and enjoy the same feelings.

I then look at the distance and wonder,
What will happen in the future?
Will the world's mystical elements continue to unite my family?

As the world goes through war and destruction,
I pray that people will remember that this world
Brings together many cultures and beliefs.
This world is responsible
For allowing me to feel safe and united with my family
While growing up thousands of miles away.

The Same Sun

He believed in me.
I was his writer, his scholar-athlete,
His Star.
Thanks to him,
I knew about the stars.

And when I told him that
Despite the oceans between us
We both saw the same sun
He was one with
His writer, his scholar-athlete,
His Star.

He always wanted me to write another.
I never did.
I never could.
The best ones don’t have sequels.
Simply have no match.
Like him.

We still do see the same sun.
He’s just closer to it.
Looking out for me,
My Star.


-Rohini

My Father

As some of you know, my father, Shri R. V. Chandramouli recently passed away in Chennai. I am reproducing here a tribute that appeared in the Adyar Times on Sunday June 29, 2008 (with a few edits shown in italics).

Mr. R. V. Chandramouli, 75, passed away on Monday, June 23, 2008, after a brief illness.

Mr. Chandramouli rose from humble beginnings to become the Chief Secretary of State of Gujarat. He was a student of Ramakrishna Mission Home and got his B.A. (Hons) from Vivekananda College, Madras in 1953.

Mr. Chandramouli joined the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) in 1955 and served in various positions in the Gujarat Government including Home Secretary, Chief Election Commissioner and finally as the Chief Secretary. He was known for being an honest, no-nonsense officer with a great sense of humor and wit.

In 1997, after retirement, he settled in Gandhi Nagar, Adyar in Chennai. He brought his sense of duty and organisation to the local community. He championed eye donations amongst the senior citizens. One of his signature campaigns was to stop the local hospital to stop dumping medical wastes in the residential trash cans. Local residents remember his initiatives to clean neighbourhoods, minimize water problems and similar issues of common concern.

Mr. Chandramouli is survived by his wife, son, daughter-in-law, daughter and son-in-law and grand children.