One snowy, stormy Christmas eve these perfect couple were driving their perfect car along the winding road, when they noticed someone at the side of the road in distress. Being a perfect couple, they stopped to help. There stood a Santa with a bundle of toys.Not wanting to disppoint any children on the eve of Christmas they loaded Santa & his toys into the vehicle. Soon they were driving along delivering the toys. Unfortunately the driving condition deteriorated and the perfect couple and Santa met with an accident.

Only one of them survived the accident.

Ya, you guessed it right, it was the Perfect Woman. Because she is the only one that existed in the first place. Everyone knows that there is no Santa Clause and there is no such thing as a Perfect Man!

Women, please STOP reading HERE.

Men may continue......

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So, if there is no Perfect Man and Santa Claus, the Woman must have been driving!!!

This explains why there was an accident.

Men may continue.....

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And by the way if you are a Woman and still reading, this illiustrates another point!!!

WOMEN NEVER LISTEN!!!

Grandpa had an assistant by name Raghavan, who used to look after the various processes through which coconuts were transformed in to kopras, like removing the husk covering, breaking the coconuts, drying them etc. We used to call him Raghavankotharan (kotharan means elder brother). He was around 45-50 years of age then and was lean, but physically very fit. He used to stay in a small thatched building, a little behind our house, where the kopras used to be stored prior to being taken to the main market in Alapuzha in kettuvallam (big boat mainly used for carrying goods). He used to stay for days or sometimes even weeks in that shed. Whenever he was on duty he used to have food from our house. I used to enjoy watching him eating his food, mixing the rice with buttermilk curry, sambar or fish curry, making them into balls and throwing them into his mouth followed by a pinch of other dishes or pickles. I used to try to imitate him while eating my lunch/ dinner. But, most of the time I ended up getting bashing from my mother for throwing the rice all over my face and spilling it on the dining table.

Raghavankotharan had an uncanny knack of telling lies. At nights we (my brothers & cousins and me) used to visit his warehouse to listen to his instant made-up stories, which were beyond our wildest imaginations. We always managed to drag him into some kind of situation, where he would start his narration.

I remember one night one of my cousins asked him, "Have you gone to Ceylone?"

"Yes, yes", he replied.

"Okay, then tell us something about your trip, please."

"In Ceylon one of the must-see places is Ravana's palace. It is such a huge building that it took me one whole week to go around the whole palace. Acres and acres of gardens, umpteen number of swimming pools, fruits and vegetables farms etc. You name a tree, it is there. I myself counted more than 50 varieties of Mango trees alone." He started.

"Did you see any pictures of Ravana and his family there?" my cousin became curious.

"No, there were no pictures, but they had kept on display the swords, bows & arrows and other weapons he had used, his dresses, his ornaments etc. for the public to see."

"Is it?" my cousin mockingly asked him.

"And you won't believe, the gold ring which he used to wear on his middle-finger was also on display and is so big that we can wear it like a bangle."

Once when Raghavankotharan hadn't reported for work for almost a week, grandpa sent a man to his house to enquire. His house was around 5 km from our house. The man returned after around an hour and told that he met Raghavankotharan at a teashop near his house and that he was mourning the death of his youngest son who died of jaundice 3 days back. Grandpa immediately arranged to send some rice, grocery items and vegetables to his house.

A week after Raghavankotharan's rejoining duty, I was sitting with my grandpa in his grocery shop when he suddenly pointed to a small boy approaching us and asked me, "Isn't that Raghavan's youngest son who he told had died?"

He had come to our house a couple of times earlier and I immediately recongnised him.

When the boy came near the shop, my grandfather asked him, "Aren't you the youngest son of Raghavan?"

The boy smiled at us innocently and said "Yes, I came to see him to get some money".

I was asked to fetch Raghavankotharan immediately.

When he came, grandpa rebuked, "How could you tell looking at the face of such a boy which is shining like a star, that he is dead?"

Raghavankotharan's immediate reply was, "It is his younger one who died, not him".

"No, I'm the youngest, I did not die", the boy stepped in front and anoounced boldly.

Raghavankotharan started slapping the boy left and right and grandpa had to intervene to save the kid from getting hurt.

Whenever I go to my ancestral house, all those incidents come rushing back to my mind which makes me feel nostalgic. Eventhough all these happened almost 25-30 years back, all those characters are still so vivid in my mind that I can still feel their presence when I go there. The whole house used to be full of people buzzing with activities. As children, we used to find the days shorter for our various adventures, especially during school holidays.

During school holidays, usually our days would begin with an elaborate bath in the river followed by a visit to the Devi Temple on the other side of the river. Then we would have our breakfast, we children formed the first batch, followed by the elder ones and then the ladies. Every morning Grandpa used to ask each of us to read aloud a stanza from the main page of the Malayalam newspaper, Mathrubhumi. The time between breakfast and lunch would be spent in the parambu (backyard) or in the textile/ grocery shop. In between we helped ourselves to one or two glasses of sambharam (butter milk with ginger, salt, kadipatha and green chillies added for flavour). After lunch, we usually played hide and seek inside the house and other buildings connected to it. In the evening we would be served tea and some snacks (like vada, fried bananas, eleyappam, unniyappam etc.). After snacks we would be busy with our outdoor games (gilli-danda, chor-police, etc). Before sunset, we go for yet another bath in the river followed by Namajapam or a visit to the Devi Temple for Deeparathana. Then we all (including grandpa and other elder members of the family) used to gather around the radio (the old type with wooden cabinet and 2 big knobs for volume control and tuning) to listen to the Malayalam news at 7.30 pm. By around 8 pm we would have our dinner followed by a glass of cow's milk specially prepared by grandma. She used to put rava in the milk and boil it before serving it to us. Its taste is still fresh in my mouth. By 9 we would all be on bed, listening to "Ningal Awasyapetta Ganangal" (songs you requested), on the radio.

Now-a-days my daughter frequently pesters me to narrate such old stories to her on bed. Even now, in our house no occasion is complete without discussions about Raghavnkotharan's famous stories and lies during Onam and other gatherings.

Vivek Pradhan was not a happy man. Even the plush comfort of the First Class air-conditioned compartment of the Shatabdi express could not cool his frayed nerves. He was the Project Manager and still not entitled to air travel.

It was not the prestige he sought, he had tried to reason with the admin person, it was the savings in time. As PM, he had so many things to do. He opened his case and took out the laptop, determined to put the time to some good use.

"Are you from the software industry sir," the man beside him was staring appreciatively at the laptop.

Vivek glanced briefly and mumbled in affirmation, handling the laptop now with exaggerated care and importance as if it were an expensive car.

"You people have brought so much advancement to the country sir. Today everything is getting computerized."

"Thanks," smiled Vivek, turning around to give the man a look.

He always found it difficult to resist appreciation. The man was young and stocky like a sportsman. He looked simple and strangely out of place in that little lap of luxury like a small town boy in a prep school. He probably was a railway sportsman making the most of his free travelling pass.

"You people always amaze me," the man continued, "You sit in an office and write something on a computer and it does so many big things outside."

Vivek smiled deprecatingly. Naivety demanded reasoning not anger. "It is not as simple as that my friend. It is not just a question of writing a few lines. There is a lot of process that goes behind it." For a moment, he was tempted to explain the entire Software Development Lifecycle but restrained himself to a single statement. "It is complex, very complex."

"It has to be. No wonder you people are so highly paid," came the reply.

This was not turning out as Vivek had thought. A hint of belligerence came into his so far affable, persuasive tone.

"Everyone just sees the money. No one sees the amount of hard work we have to put in."

"Hard work!" "Indians have such a narrow concept of hard work. Just because we sit in an air-conditioned office does not mean our brows do not sweat. You exercise the muscle; we exercise the mind and believe me that is no less taxing."

He had the man where he wanted him and it was time to drive home the point.
"Let me give you an example. Take this train. The entire railway reservation system is computerized. You can book a train ticket between any two stations from any of the hundreds of computerized booking centres across the country. Thousands of transactions accessing a single database, at a time concurrency; data integrity, locking, data security. Do you understand the complexity in designing and coding such a system?"

The man was stuck with amazement, like a child at a planetarium. This was something big and beyond his imagination. "You design and code such things."

"I used to," Vivek paused for effect, "But now I am the Project Manager,"

"Oh!" sighed the man, as if the storm had passed over, "so your life is easy now."

It was like being told the fire was better than the frying pan. The man had to be given a feel of the heat.

"Oh come on, does life ever get easy as you go up the ladder. Responsibility only brings more work. Design and coding! That is the easier part. Now I do not do it, but I am responsible for it and believe me, that is far more stressful. My job is to get the work done in time and with the highest quality. To tell you about the pressures, there is the customer at one end always changing his requirements, the user wanting something else and your boss always expecting you to have finished it yesterday."

Vivek paused in his diatribe, his belligerence fading with self-realisation. What he had said, was not merely the outburst of a wronged man, it was the truth. And one need not get angry while defending the truth. "My friend," he concluded triumphantly, "you don't know what it is to be in the line of fire."

The man sat back in his chair, his eyes closed as if in realization.
When he spoke after sometime, it was with a calm certainty that surprised Vivek.

"I know sir, I know what it is to be in the line of fire," He was staring blankly as if no passenger, no train existed, just a vast expanse of time.

"There were 30 of us when we were ordered to capture Point 4875 in the cover of the night. The enemy was firing from the top. There was no knowing where the next bullet was going to come from and for whom. In the morning when we finally hoisted the tricolour at the top only 4 of us were alive."

"You are a..."

"I am Subedar Sushant from the 13 J&K Rifles on duty at Peak 4875 in Kargil. They tell me I have completed my term and can opt for a land assignment. But tell me sir, can one give up duty just because it makes life easier. On the dawn of that capture, one of my colleagues lay injured in the snow, open to enemy fire while we were hiding behind a bunker. It was my job to go and fetch that soldier to safety.

But my captain refused me permission and went ahead himself. He said that the first pledge he had taken as a Gentleman Cadet was to put the safety and welfare of the nation foremost followed by the safety and welfare of the men he commanded. His own personal safety came last, always and every time. He was killed as he shielded that soldier into the bunker.

Every morning now, as I stand guard I can see him taking all those bullets, which were actually meant for me. I know sir, I know what it is to be in the line of fire."

Vivek looked at him in disbelief not sure of his reply. Abruptly he switched off the laptop. It seemed trivial, even insulting to edit a word document in the presence of a man for whom valour and duty was a daily part of life; a valour and sense of duty which he had so far attributed only to epical heroes.

The train slowed down as it pulled into the station and Subedar Sushant picked up his bags to alight.

"It was nice meeting you sir."

Vivek fumbled with the handshake. This hand had climbed mountains, pressed the trigger, and hoisted the tricolour. Suddenly as if by impulse, he stood at attention and his right hand went up in an impromptu salute. It was the least he felt he could do for the country.

PS:

The is a true-life incident happened after the capture of Peak 4875 during the Kargil war. Major Batra sacrificed his life while trying to save one of the men he commanded, as victory was within sight. For this and his various other acts of bravery he was awarded the Param Vir Chakra the nation's highest military award.

Live humbly, there are great people around us, let us learn!

Winners are too busy to be sad, too positive to be doubtful, too optimistic to be fearful and too determined to be defeated. You are a winner any day, any time.

Our daughter was sitting on the sofa in the drawing room busy drawing something on her new magic slate. When she looked up at me, I stared at her questioningly and she mumbled "I don't know."

"Malu, tell Daddy that one of his old classmates had called up and asked to return his call as soon as he came." My wife blared from the kitchen.

Our daughter obediently repeated whatever her mother had just told her to.

"Which one, didn't he tell his name?" I asked loudly so that she could hear.

"Tell Daddy to try calling all his old classmates, because he loves talking to them more than to us?"

Our daughter covered her face with the slate and struggled to hold her laugh.

I don't know whether all wives have this complaint, but mine always tells that I talk very less at home. But, I thought that an ideal husband is the one who listens more and talks less. Moreover, basically I am a poor talker, except when I'm a bit high. But, I am a patient listener, even she agrees to it. My wife is also a poor conversationalist. Fortunately, our offspring has inherited the conversational skills of my paternal side and more than compensates for our weakness.

I was under the impression that I had already settled this matter a week back. It all started with a phone call from my friend. We were at my parents' place enjoying the holidays, when he called me one morning and asked me to meet him at the railway station at 12.00 noon, where two other friends of ours would also turn up. Before leaving home, my wife reminded me to return by 5.00 pm so as to go to the nearby temple together.

We were seeing each other after a gap of nearly 20 years and decided to go to a restaurant in the nearby town from the railway station. But, once we were finished with the coffee and snacks, we had to clear the place and obviously there was a lot left to talk. So, I suggested that we go to my house which was only about 15-20 min drive from there. But, they all objected and instead suggested to go to a bar. Reluctantly, I agreed, yielding to their proclamations that they also had promises to keep and would not take more than 1 or 2 hours.

But by the time the merriment was over, it was already 8.00 in the night. I reached home at around 8.30, which I thought was early by any standards. That was the first mistake. But, the second one was more serious. To come home boozy!

May be by the smell or the way I smile, walk or talk, I don't know, she always caught me when I am tanked up. That day was no exception.

"Do not make promises which you cannot keep" she declared when I was changing my dress.

"Actually, it is better to got to the temple in the mornings, when we will be fresh." I suggested.

"I am not talking about that, see, you have already forgotten all about it."

She was referring to the promise I had given her a week back, during one of those weaker moments, that no matter what happens, I will never drink when she was not with me.

"I only had a couple of pegs." I tried to vindicate.

"Oh! Is it? You could have had a couple more. Whether it is 1, 2 or 5, the fact is that you are drunk. And who knows? You always lie when you are drunk."

That is one of the many wrong notions she has about me, which I purposely never attempted to correct. Actually, on the contrary I always tell the truth and only the truth when I am drunk. But, when I am sober there are no guarantees and unfortunately most of the time I am sober. So, it is always good that she thinks otherwise.

Dear readers, please don't misunderstand. Most of the lies that I tell are harmless ones with the sole intention of avoiding confrontations at home.

"You know, we were meeting after such a long time and when they all forced me, I had to."

"Oh! Come on, don't put the blame on them now. Anyway, go and have your bath. Everybody is waiting for you to come to have dinner together."

The dinner passed off without any untoward incidents. But, I knew for sure that she won't let me off the hook so easily.

Once we were in bed, our daughter started to fire her array of queries at me.

Innocence can be really harmful sometimes.

"Daddy, where you went today?" She fired the first one.

"To meet some of my old classmates."

"Or 'Glassmates'?" That was my beloved trying to correct me.

"Why you took so long?" The curious child continued.

"Because we were meeting after almost 20 years."

"One, two, three, four, five, six...." She started counting the numbers on her fingers.

"That's quite a long time, isn't it? Even I am only 5 years old now?" She was sounding more sensible now.

"Yes dear, it's indeed a very, very long time and we had so much to talk, you know."

"Did you finish it all, or will you be meeting again soon to continue your unfinished talk? As if it were some serious talk, like those between Pakistan and India or Palestine and Israel or Sri Lankan Govt. and LTTE militants." She was trying to globalize the issue.

"And because of you, we couldn't go to the temple." Our daughter poured oil to the fire.

"Doesn't matter, molu. At least your daddy is happy, forget about us." My better half was trying to give the whole episode a sentimental twist.

I wanted to tell them that true friends are much better than many of our relatives in many ways and it is always advisable to maintain a cordial relationship with them. Since they are more trustworthy and helpful, they can think in the same level as you do, you can be more open with them, they understand your feelings better, they will stand with you during your bad times.. But, succumbing to their double-pronged attack, I kept my mouth shut.

For the next two-three days she used to harass me with indirect reference to the above mentioned incident time and again. Sensing the apprehension, during breakfast on the morning we left, my mother reminded me that I am no more a college-going brat and it is high time that I learned to behave more responsibly. My daddy also nodded his head in approval much to the satisfaction of my wife. I saw a smile flashing across her face, eventhough she was pretending to be busy enjoying the steaming Idli-Sambar-Coconut chutney combination. That really helped. She never mentioned anything about it afterwards until today.

But, now here in our house, only we three were there, the so-called Anukudumbam (nuclear family). I was wondering who will come to my rescue here when I heard the "Ding-Dong" of the door bell.

"Ding-dong bell, Pussy's in the well.

Who put her in? Little Tomy stout.."

Our daughter started her usual recitation on hearing it.

I opened the door to see a gleaming "Chittappan" (my father-in-law's younger brother) and "Kunjamma" (his wife). He was more like a father for my wife since the demise of her own father during her College days. He is employed in Sharjah and used to be a frequent visitor to our home when we were there.

"Maya, see who is here." I called out to my wife excitedly.

"Ayyo, chittappan!" My wife came running from the kitchen and could not hold back her delight.

Our daughter popped up between us holding her slate and shouting, "Appoppa (Grandpa), see what I have drawn."

Chittappan bend down and lifted her up.

"Let me see. Oh! That's really beautiful." He commented, admiring her work.

After the initial exchange of intimate greetings, they all walked in, Kunjamma leading the way holding my wife's hand, followed by Chittappan and our daughter displaying the new Barbie doll he had just gifted her and screaming at the top of her voice, "Amma, see ..Amma, see". I was left behind at the door with a gaping mouth unable to digest the sudden transformation of my wife's behaviour.

While closing the door I thanked God for sending the "rescue team" at the right moment, greatly relieved to realize that she will be in no mood to have any further arguments on the subject, at least not today.

At the same time, my mind was busy contemplating various possibilities as to which of my "C/Glassmates" might have called me.

However, I decided to postpone indefinitely the question to her, "Who was it that called me?"