Kumar first saw her at the US Consulate while waiting in the queue for his visa. He had definite opinions about what his wife should look like, and she fit perfectly. "She's not too tall," he later told his friends. "Just about this tall," and indicated his neck. "Quite fair. Brown eyes. Sharp nose and high cheek bones. A really cute face. No, not a bob-cut. Short hair, and she pins it up like a bun. Usually wears salwars. Today she was wearing a yellow and green. Why don't you come to the Consulate in the afternoon? She'll still be waiting in the queue just behind me - the poor thing!"
Kumar had completed his bachelor's in chemical engineering and like a true IITian, was on his way to the land of milk and honey. He was determined to earn as much has he could as fast as he could, and come back just in time for his sisters' wedding. Maybe an hour earlier, if he could spare the time. Nobody was going to stop him and tie him down until he'd despatched his duty. Not Sailaja, whom he'd left brooding in Vishakhapatnam. Not the hordes of IITians who flocked at his beck and call, only to be dismissed after he'd fed them. Not the millions who thought him the best organizer in history. No sir, Kumar was going to Texas and would come back to marry the girl of his mother's choice. At least, that's what he told his friends.
So it was something of a surprise when Kumar confessed to have found a perfect match to his dream girl. He played it down, though. "She's just giving me something to watch when I'm at the queue, da," he would deprecatingly comment. His friends knew better the next day, when Kumar walked in dejected. "She's married," he pronounced miserably. "I found a yellow thread around her neck. Only married women wear that, right? She was wearing shoes, so I couldn't see if she had metti on her feet." Then he started sulking. He wouldn't even bathe.
"Maybe she's not a Hindu. What's her name?" said Anand, trying to console him. It of course puzzled Anand as to how Kumar got a look at the yellow thread, and what else, but he kept those thoughts to himself.
"I don't know," said Kumar. "But I think she is."
"Maybe she's going to Texas as well. What if she's joining your college?"
"Nah, unlikely. She's going on a H-1 visa, so she's not a student," brooded Kumar. "Maybe she's joining her husband there. But so what? I don't care!" and stormed out. His friends thought they had heard the last about the affair.
Kumar was dejected. A year had passed at Texas, Austin. Two students had been successful in switching over from petroleum engineering to computer science. One was dejected. The other was drunk. Kumar was 67 cents short of his $10,000 dollars, and his diary made no mention of his extraneous expenditure. On the whole it had been a bad year for him - having begun with a true love who was married and ending with a 67 cent deficit and a diary that had no clue about either. It was no consolation that he had volunteered to help receive the freshmen on their first day and might get a coke worth 50 cents for his effort. It was time to take a bath.
He ambled across to the reception area and tried to put up a happy face for the benefit of his juniors. Rows of bleached faces with baggages piled by waiting to be directed to their rooms in the dorm. Kumar politely handed out their keys, smiled a hollow smile and shook hands with a "Have a pleasant stay."
A voice behind him muttered "Hey Koomar, here's someone from India. Guess you'd better take care of her accommodation." Kumar turned around. He saw the face. Then his knees gave way and sank into his chair.
"Sukenya, meet Koomar," Ralph introduced them. "Our boy Valli will hand you your keys."
"Hello, Mr.Kumar, I'm Sukanya." She offered her hand. Kumar grabbed the chance. His heartbeat was still at 150 but his sweat was not noticed in the sweltering heat. Which was why she was wearing a loose T-shirt and shorts.
"G-g-glad to meet you, Mr... Ms... Mrs... um... er... Sukanya." He did recall that she was married, but when he looked now, he couldn't see the thread. Here was the perfect opportunity to ask. "It IS Mrs, isn't it?"
The smile on her face gradually faded. "No. Miss Sukanya," came the quiet response. "Do you have my keys?" Kumar's heartbeat went up another 150. He was heading for an attack. Then a smile grew on his face and turned into a grin. "Sure, Sukanya." He managed to get the key with his left hand, not letting go off her right. "Please let me know if there's anything else you want."
"My arm would suffice, thank you," came the polite reply. A sheepish look preceded the keys and the "Have a pleasant stay." Kumar was able to confirm that there was no metti in the foot before he passed out.
Sukanya had taken the decision to divorce her husband while waiting for her visa at the US Consulate. The reason had stood just ahead of her in the queue. It had helped that he frequently turned back and let her admire his neatly combed hair that kept falling over his forehead in the smartest way she thought possible. He had been wearing a white IIT T-shirt and jeans. A pair of dark glasses prevented her from determining the colour of his eyes, and whether he was looking at her. He's probably 22, she decided. How convenient.
Sukanya had been forced into marriage 6 months ago. Her parents seemed to think that arranged marriages were the 'in' thing that decade. That would have been all right except for the fact that Sundar was a disgrace to his name.
"He's weighs 90 kilos and is not even 5'4". That's twice my weight, let alone being an inch shorter," she had screamed. None of it worked. He was earning $20,000 at General Motors and was rumoured to be the next Vice-president, which, incidentally, also said a lot about his age. His parents were long-lost family friends of hers. Worst of all, their horoscopes matched. That had settled the whole matter. Mr.Sundar arrived at Madras on a saturday, was whisked away to her house and was permitted to drool over her. The marriage was on tuesday with a grand reception at Woodlands.
Sukanya had considered eloping with someone. The only thing that stopped her was the fact that she had no one to elope with. She was on the lookout even during the wedding, but her would-be's friends turned out to be in even worse shape than he was. It was thus that she became Mrs.Sukanya Sundar. Sundar had left the very next afternoon with the words "Add sambar powder and coconut oil to the list of things to bring." Her passport had taken 4 months. Her father had contacts, but she refused let him use influence. Let it take it's time. Finally she got her visa token. That was where she saw him.
She noticed that the tall girl behind her had walked up and talked to him. Damn, she thought, but checked herself. She's probably just his classmate. Maybe she can tell me about him. She struck up a quiet conversation within a minute.
"That's a pretty dress," ventured Sukanya, as an opening gambit. It required imagination, of course.
"Thanks," replied the girl. "My name's Sujatha. What's yours?"
"Sukanya. Are you from IIT?"
"Yes. How did you know? I finished my B.Tech in chemical engineering and am going to Texas, Austin for my masters in petro. And you?"
"Um, well..., I'm on vacation. Is anyone else from IIT going with you?" Pretty weak, and she knew it. Please say "He's in front of you." Please. Please. Please.
"Yes, four others. The guy in front of you is coming with me as well."
"What is his name?" she whispered, perhaps a trace too quickly.
"Kumar. Nanda Kumar." Sujatha talked a lot more, but Sukanya didn't catch any of that. Kumar. Sukanya Kumar. That sounded pleasant. She had made up her mind.
The divorce proceedings had been smooth, the US laws being what they were. In six months, she was Sukanya Ramnath once again. Her parents had kicked a huge fuss once they came to know of it. But they were on the other side of the planet, while Kumar was just a few hours drive away. A friendly graduate had told her that Kumar had shifted to CS. She took up computer courses and worked several late nights to secure herself a place at Texas, Austin.
Kumar was carried back to his room. After he woke up, jumped on his bed and flounced about in joy. His wildest dreams were fulfilled. His day was made. She was here, and unmarried. He had obviously been mistaken at the visa queue. Why, oh why didn't he check more carefully? He needn't have wasted one full year. She'd been here all along! He started singing Hindi songs of love in a loud voice, much to his room-mate's irritation. Then he took a bath and ran around the room in a green towel. It was obviously time for celebration.
"Enthuku ra all that jumping about?" demanded a half-drunk voice.
Kumar stopped, scratched his head for a while, put up a puzzled expression and said "I wanted to tell you something." His room-mate was too inebriated to listen, and she walked off.
"How does it matter?" he shouted, and proceeded to run around the room. He was the TA of the girl of his dreams. She would ask him questions. She might even ask him to do her homework for him. Oh, what a wonderful way she would have of asking him. He decided he would do the same. Ask her out of interest. Ask her out. Ask her. And her answer would be "Yes, yes, yes."
Later that evening, Kumar put on his best suit, tie, dark glasses, and boots, and headed to Dorm A2, Room 207. Pity I didn't make a duplicate of those keys, he thought. He could see that the lights were on through the keyhole. Knock, knock, knock. Did he hear footsteps? Why did they sound like "lub, dub, lub, dub?" He wiped his forehead and waited.
"Hello, Mr. Kumar. What are you doing here?" She was in a yellow nightie. Her hair had grown and was flowing. She hadn't removed her earrings. They were yellow too.
"Hi Sukanya. I just came to check if everything was OK. Please drop the Mister. Call me Kumar. Is there anything you need?" He had rehearsed the line 20 times to avoid the "I wanted to tell you something" line.
"No, everything's fine. Why don't you come in?"
The "lub, dub" sound became so loud he was afraid she would hear it. He stepped in and shut the door behind him. He had not expected such quick progress. The room was spacious and seemed well organized. She certainly had a flair for interiors. The drapes were pulled. She sat down on her bed and indicated a chair nearby. Kumar looked at the locked door and wiped his forehead.
"It is rather hot, isn't it?"
Kumar smiled weakly and suppressed the urge to wipe his forehead again.
"Do you like the campus?" What sort of inane questions am I asking?
"Yeah. It's quite big." Equally inane. I'd better change the topic.
"You seem to like yellow a lot." That's better. I'll buy her some yellow flowers.
"You're very observant." She was of no help. Silence prevailed. They just sat there staring at each other awkwardly.
"Uh, I'll see you later then. If you want something, let me know. Good night, Sukanya."
"Good night."
Sukanya kicked herself again. In the morning she actually shook hands with him, but couldn't bring herself to say anything but hello. She felt she wasn't to blame on that occasion, though. Kumar's grip was like iron and the pain kept other thoughts out of her mind. When he mentioned her marital status, she felt a chill through her spine. She barely managed to answer no. And then she embarrassed herself even more by asking him to let go of her hand. That was the first time she kicked herself.
She had just finished organizing her room when she heard the knock. She unlocked the door and found herself saying "Hello, Mr.Kumar. What are you doing here?", then immediately bit her lip, and corrected her mistake by inviting him in. She had been caught off balance: no makeup, nothing but a nightie to wear, and of all awful colours, yellow. He even commented on it. Oh, help! The attempt at conversation was an obvious disaster. He had left within the minute without even taking a seat. She kicked herself again.
Determined not to repeat her mistakes, she had made elaborate plans for the next day. Her classes didn't begin for a week, and she used the opportunity to follow Kumar at a safe distance and determine his working habits. He seemed to spend most of the early morning in his room, coming out only once clad in a green towel to dry his clothes. (Oh, what a manly chest! What muscular shoulders!) Then he would stay put in class till late afternoon, taking a break for lunch. He would then get back to his room and come out only in the evening for tea, followed by a visit to the computer center for an hour. Then a spell at the library. Dinner and back to the room. Poor fellow seemed to have absolutely no social life. That probably meant no girlfriends except perhaps his room-mate, but she dismissed that thought instantly.
She began visiting his room frequently on the pretext of seeking clarifications over some subtle aspect of computing or the other, and listened patiently while he expounded his views on the future of World Telecommunications, Inc., of which he was destined to be the founding director. She managed not to sleep through those. But the instant she turned the conversation into broader topics, he would clam up or start stammering. In fact he had developed the perfect way of terminating a conversation. He would stare at her and say "I wanted to tell you something"; then he would crease his forehead, scratch his temple, and remark "I forgot!" and walk away.
Deciding that all this was getting her nowhere, Sukanya decided to gear up her strategy. She took her aunt (with whom she had stayed the last 6 months) into confidence. Part B of the plan was to invite Kumar home for dinner. She made a pair of irresistible offers and managed to elicit a "yes" to visit her for dinner that weekend.
Kumar had convinced himself to spend $100 on the Taylor's, 1927 that he held in his left hand. After the disastrous 'first night' experience in her dorm, he had recovered remarkably well. He managed do some of her homework. For days he had been preparing to ask her out for dinner, but before he could work up the courage, she invited him over to her aunt's place to look over her laser disc collection of Revathi movies.
The big moment had at last arrived, and he was going to make the best of it. He had spent the whole week thinking of something appropriate for the occasion, when his room-mate had suggested vintage wine. Not that Kumar had any experience with this, you see, but he been told that Taylor's, 1927 was in a class of it's own. He knocked thrice with his right.
She was dressed in a red silk shirt and a stylish skirt of black crepe that fell below her knees. What lovely legs, Kumar thought. And she has two of them. He bowed elaborately and held out his left. "May I have the honour of the gift?"
"Oh, how sweet of you. Come on in. Aunty!"
An elderly lady in her 40s walked into the room.
"Aunty, this is Kumar."
"Hello, aunty." He wasn't sure what else to say. But aunty had been briefed rather well on what was expected of her.
"Welcome home, my dear boy. Sukanya has told me so much about you. Do come in. Take your seat. Make yourself comfortable. Did you have any trouble finding the house? We were worried you might get lost. This is not a very safe neighbourhood, you see."
Great. Here he was to have a possible date with his girlfriend and an aunty had to chatter her head off. "Yes, aunty."
"My husband's not back yet. He is the GM, production at General Motors. Very rarely comes home before ten. You can imagine the kind of pressure they must work under. Would you like something to drink? Hot or cold?"
"No thanks, aunty."
The boy was being as unresponsive and her niece had described. Aunty decided it was time to move in for the kill. "So where do you stay in India, Kumar? Tell me about your family." Through a series of carefully worded questions over dinner, Aunty managed to get a complete bio-data. It would suffice.
Seven years later, Kumar was patiently explaining the story of his daughter's birth at her request.
"Then Mommy's aunty sent Grandma your Mommy's horoscope to see if it would match with mine."
"Did it, Daddy?" The eyes of the four year old were filled with anticipation and tension.
"Of course it did, dear. So Grandma wrote back to them to tell them that the horoscope matched, and also invited them to Shanthi aunty's wedding, so that everyone could see Mummy. That red album on the shelf has photos of that wedding."
A demand that the album be scrutinized instantly followed, and was complied with.
"Why am I not in any of the pictures, Daddy?"
"You weren't born at that time, dear. This was seven years ago."
That took a moment's thought. "Then what happened?"
"Grandma liked Mummy so much that she decided Mummy would stay with us forever. So three months later, Mummy and I were married on the same day as Sangeetha aunty. Then I became the Director at Global Telecommunications, so we came to this house and lived happily ever after."
"And how was I born, Daddy?"
At this juncture, Kumar felt he had bitten off more than he could chew, so he left her with her mother and vanished into a room. Within minutes he could hear several loud howls of protest. He came out to check.
"Really, Kumar, why don't you complete the story before you run off to take a bath? And for heaven's sake get rid off that green towel. I warn you: if she cries again, I'll get really mad!"
Kumar looked forlornly at his wife and walked up to his only daughter, who had promptly stopped crying. She insisted on being lifted. Perched on Kumar's neck, she questioned him once again.
"How was I born, Daddy?"
Kumar thought for a while, then said "I wanted to tell you something, dear, but I ...."
This story has an interesting postscript. I wrote the story with a real incident in mind. The first part of the story actually happened to my friend Vivekananda. After I wrote the story, he left for the US. A year or so later, he apparantly did meet "Sukanya" in a theatre. However, they did not meet or talk to each other. Now Vivekananda is happily married (not to Sukanya, though), and is believed to have discarded his green towel.
I was watching the shooting from a distance. You must have heard of the film "Muthu" being directed by K.Balachander (he's KB to us). KB was explaining the shot to my husband, but he seemed to be shaking his head in confusion, so I decided to have a look.
"Rajni, you cannot throw up a cigarette and catch it in your mouth this scene. Your father has just died. Your eyes are blinded by tears."
"But I can do it even with my eyes closed," he protested.
I wasn't surprised. Nor was KB. We had seen him do it with his mouth closed too. But that, obviously, was not KB's point.
"This character doesn't even smoke, Rajni," explained KB.
"Nor did I until I was seven. It isn't too late for him to start now. It's never too late!"
At this point, I really had to intrude before KB slapped my husband. His temper was legendary, and I had a sneaking suspicion Rajni had been slapped more than most other artists put together. The above conversation, I suppose, explains the reason.
"Darling, if you want to smoke, you can smoke after the shot."
"No Lata, my fans love my smoking. They watch my movies to see my style of smoking. They are still trying to find out how I throw the cigarette and catch it in my mouth. If I don't do it, they will start committing suicide."
I had no real answer to that. Every fan of his was mad. Even madder than him. Some committed suicide when he decided to renounce films, some when he decided to divorce me and many when he promised not to enter politics. It took over an hour to convince him that there were other scenes in which to show his style, until he finally relented. I left him to his 'histrionics' and wandered about the sets.
That evening I found him in drawing room, with a frown on his face. I at first thought he was in deep thought, but immediately dismissed the impossibility. He was just worried.
"What's bugging you, dear?"
"On Friday I have a fight, Lata."
"Good. You like fighting scenes, so what's the trouble?"
"I don't know whom to hit first."
That really got me. He'd made many weird statements to date, including becoming disciples of liquor, Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, Sai Baba, Raghavendra, Ayyappa and 'moola', but this one took me by surprise.
He went on. "I have to hit the villain last. I know that. But whom should I hit first? If I don't get it right the first time, KB has threatened to make me pay for every retakes. I can't pay for 60 cars per retake!"
I rapidly made some calculations to the tune of 1.5 crores, and decided that he could earn the money in a few days of politics. But nothing was going to make me mention that to him. "Why don't you explain," I said, trying to calm him.
"Vikram Dharma has made a very complicated climax. 60 cars are following my car into a wasteyard. Then I must break their cars. They get out and form a circle around me. I have to hit all of them one after another while in air. That is easy. But Dharma has insisted that that I hit every second or third person only. Every time I hit them, they will obviously fall down and die. But the villain must be the last person I fight. So whom must I start hitting so that I correctly end up with the villain last? I don't even know if I have to hit every second or third person. He will tell me only tomorrow."
I shook myself awake. Not that I had any interest, but I decided to at least follow the problem. Besides, it sounded very much like the first part of police and robbers, where we had to choose the policeman.
"There are 60 men around you....," I started.
"No, no, no! There are 60 cars. There may be many more men!" he screamed.
Not unusual. He generally goes up to a hundred in most fights. "... and you must hit all of them. You must hit every alternate person, and the last one you hit should be the villain."
"Wrong again. It may not be every alternate person. It may be every third, or every fourth, or anything. Dharma will tell me only tomorrow."
That was a rather interesting problem. And from what I knew of my hubby, he had as much chance of solving a mathematical puzzle by himself as a cat had in catching its tail. I had to throw in a lifeline. Just then I recalled that my friend had recently returned from the US, and her daughter was doing her second year at IIT Madras. She had been singing great praises of her cousin, who was also at IIT, and I thought this might be just the kind of thing for an IIT brain.
"I know somebody who may be able to help you," I cautiously put in. "He's an IIT student..."
He paused. "What is an ITT?"
I closed my eyes and slowly counted to ten. "I just think he can tell you whom to hit," I said, and walked away before he could get me angrier. Over dinner, he persisted. "You think this ITT man will tell me whom to start with? Can you fix up an appointment, then? Please Lata, it is very important. Otherwise KB will slap me again."
Well, it wasn't often he said 'please', so I relented and called Priya.
"Hello, Priya. Lata here. Could you put Anuja on the line please?"
I waited for her daughter to come on. "Hello aunty, Anuja here."
"Anu dear, do you remember you were telling me about a cousin of yours who's studying with you? You said he was brilliant and all that..."
"Yeah aunty. He's the second in his branch. Very smart. What about him?"
"Rajni uncle has a problem in mathematics, dear. We were hoping this boy could help him. Can you give us his address?"
"Certainly, aunty. He is a great fan of uncle. Just walk into his room. He will be delighted. He thinks uncle is the greatest thing on earth. I can't imagine his shock when he sees Rajni uncle face to face."
Oh no! Not another fan! Still, I took down his hostel address and passed it over to my husband. But I insisted that I accompany him. Just in case.
Taking Anuja's suggestion, we decided to walk into his room on Thursday evening at eight. (Not unlike a certain other person. Hint to crossword experts : Lord Shiva's better half is in a Jumble - Ed). The door of #219, Alakananda hostel was closed, but a light was turned on inside, so we knocked. A chubby boy in a dirty T-shirt and Bermudas opened the door.
"Are you Anand?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. And before I could put in a word, "My God! Rajnikanth! Is it really Rajnikanth or is it Bhalla's photography trick?"
"Vanakkam," my husband said, folding his hands. "Naan Manidhan, eh, Manidhan. May I come in?"
The lad was obviously too dazed to say anything, and just sat down. His room was rather messy, with clothes, papers and books strewn all over the room, and a stereo playing Baba Sehgal's latest (c)rap loudly. Strangely, there was no picture of Rajnikanth in his room, thought Agassi seemed to be an apparent favourite.
"My husband has a problem that he wants you to solve," I began. The statement served the dual purpose of my introduction. "The problem is somewhat mathematical. Anuja felt that you were the best and suggested that we contact you. Would you like to look at the problem?"
"Yes, would you?" piped in the superstar. "You have to tell me whom to hit."
Before the boy got scared, I explained the problem to him. I wasn't sure if I was getting through, though. Half the time he would look at Rajni and the rest of the time crease his forehead and eyebrows. At the end of it, he sat back in the chair while we stared at him and let Sehgal's noise permeate the room. I wished he'd switch it off before he started explaining. But no such luck.
"Could you just repeat the problem," the boy began, when his hero got into the act and roared "Indha Baasha oru tharava sonna, nooru tharava sonna mathri." If this Baasha says it once, it is as if he has said it a hundred times. Fine, but I was the one who had explained the problem. Still, the lad's eyes were filled with unadulterated devotion and admiration, so I decided to sit back and watch the show. Rajni then took out his cigarette and threw it up. Pity the ceiling fan was somewhat low. Instead of flying towards his mouth, it flashed across towards the stereo. I was full of hope, but the hero in the room darted across, dived, and landed on the other fan's belly. I must confess to his credit, however, that the cigarette did land right in his mouth. "Idhu eppadi irukku?" (How is it?)
After some of the commotion had settled down, I went through the details slowly once again while Rajni sat down on the bed to do some meditation. The boy too leaned back and closed his eyes, and I was left to stare at them. Their hairstyles were similar, mainly because neither had much. But other than that, fan had done little to resemble mentor. I appreciated that. In a while, both of them opened their eyes.
"OK, the problem can be done," he began. "Let's call the number of people you hit before one falls down as c," proposed Anand. That means you miss c-1 people for every hit."
"I don't miss them. They are just not supposed to fall down," protested the superstar. "I tried telling KB that with my image, even without me hitting them the should fall down, but KB said no. He said it was in some table."
"The error function table," declared Anand. "Such statistical process can be done only using an error function table."
"I thought he said it was in 'accep' table," Rajni mumbled. Luckily, it didn't reach his ardent admirer's ears.
"Now, let's say there are m men standing in a circle. We need to find out who will be left after eliminating m-1 of them cyclically in steps of c. If we number them starting from 0 to m-1..."
"Shouldn't we start counting from 1," I put in. "In this case it is better to start with 0, as you will see," he replied mysteriously. "Without loss of generality, we can assume that you start hitting person 0. We just have to figure out what the position of the last person will be."
"Brilliant!" said my husband. "Wonderful. That solves the whole problem. I'll just call them from zero to m-1 and start hitting zero."
"But who will you hit finally?"
"The villain, naturally."
"But what is the villain's number? What we have to do is find out whom we end with if we start from zero. Then if we give the villain that number, he will be the last one. Do you see?"
He didn't but shut up anyway.
"Let the villain have a number x."
"'x' is not a number," piped Rajni. Neither of us deigned to reply.
"When we are going forwards, at any stage, we skip c-1 people and hit the cth person. So we add c to the last person we hit, basically. If this exceeds the number of people at that stage, we just take the remainder, since they are standing in a circle. The remainder operation is called modulo, and can be represented by the '%' symbol. So a%b is the remainder of a when divided by b."
Saying this, he pulled out a sheet and started scribbling notes. I had the sense to take them back with me, and I have produced it here for completeness.
Let the number of the last person when there are people hit be f(m).
Then if there are only m-1 people, f(m-1) is the last person to be hit. If an mth person is added as number m-1, then we have m people now. But the position of the last but one person would have been effectively shifted back by m.
So f'(m-1) = f(m-1) - m
From that point onwards if we count c people, we end up with the last person as
f(m) = f(m-1) - m + c.
Since we must take the remainder for cyclicity,
f(m) = (f(m-1) - m + c) % m
or
f(m) = (f(m-1) + c) % m,
since m%m is 0. We know that f(1) = 0, since there is only 1 person. Hence by induction, the last person is known.
He went about explaining it, too, but neither of us could quite follow it. I therefore took it upon myself to ask "How exactly do we find out who the last is going to be?" What he said after that made sense.
"Suppose we don't know how many people there are and we want to hit every fourth person. If there's only one person, just start with 0, the first person. If there are 2, add four for the second person. But since the number 4 is invalid for just 2 people, take the remainder, which is 0. For three, again add 4 for the third person. 4 is larger than 3, and gives remainder 1. For 4 people, add 4 to 1, giving 5, which is larger than 4, giving remainder 1. This process can go on for as long as you want. For 5-10 people and a count of 4, the process is shown here."
| # Men | 2nd | 3rd | 4th |
|---|---|---|---|
| 5 | 2 | 3 | 0 |
| 6 | 4 | 0 | 4 |
| 7 | 6 | 3 | 1 |
| 8 | 0 | 6 | 5 |
| 9 | 2 | 0 | 0 |
| 10 | 4 | 3 | 4 |
He was in fact kind enough to prepare a rather large table for upto 200 people and counting upto every 10th person, so my husband didn't have to lose 1.5 crores by starting with the wrong person. The least he deserved under those circumstances, was in my opinion....
"Thank you very much, Anand. For your great help, I feel the least I can do is to give you my autograph."
I thought it was the least too. But the boy seemed to think the world of it, and pulled out a rose autograph book. I couldn't resist a quick look at the note.
"Yesterday I was a bus conductor. Today I am an actor. Tomorrow, who knows, I may even become a mathematician."
Heaven forbid.
-- Lata Rajnikanth
"Thank you, madam", and the phone went dead. Thirteen, I counted mentally. This was the thirteenth time I was called "madam" (and also my fourteenth telephone call to an unknown person). Every one of my numerous and heartbreakingly piteous appeals to my father, the telephone department and the Heavens above to change either my voice or the telephone were in vain. Often I wondered if it could be an International Conspiracy to insult me. Madam, indeed! Let me call one of those sweet voiced females "Sir" even once, and they would choke me with my own windpipe. But I (my noble, peace-loving and holy self), would do nothing more than moan over every millisecond of it. But worse was to come!
"Hello, Subha. Sorry I couldn't come to buy the saree yesterday. I was ...." the voice busily chattered. My aunt, of course! Who else would ever talk with such a high pitched squeak? After over four sentences and the loss of the purple colouration of my face, I interrupted "Just a minute. I'll call Mother." And thereupon would ensue an hour long discussion as to how closely my voice resembled my mother's and sometimes (God forbid), my aunt's.
Weeks of humiliation, I thought. Adolescent, young, proud, clever and humiliated. "When will my voice break?" I craved.
Two more weeks, and my excursion came along with our Yoga troupe. Fifteen wholesome days cut off from civilisation, cities, smoke, pollution, and most of all, telephones! I was jumping with joy if only for that.
Water. The most bitter thing on earth came upon me in the aforementioned form. No wonder I had a miserable sore throat. What a voice, I thought. Worse than my most squeaky tone, with a pint of vacuous hissing intangibly confusing every syllable emanating from me. That was for over a dozen days.
Fifteen days had passed, and I was going back home. My big surprise for our family was bursting with impatience. The instant I reached home, it rose to my tongue and poured out "Listen to my voice." Not an iota of a squeak in those four words of mine. My voice had finally attained the dignity of a clever, proud, young adolescent. Henceforth I could actually pick up the phone with confidence, and without being mistaken for my mother, or any "madam" for that matter.
Golden days ahead, I stupidly thought.
"RRRRing"
"Hello"
"Good morning, Mr.Mani. In the plan that we discussed yesterday, the plinth elevation of the third floor...."
I'll call Father," I mumble.
So, now I have to receive every one of those respected "Namaskaram"s and "Good morning sir"s on behalf of my father.
What next? Worse perhaps?
Life's like that!