“Do you want coffee?” my wife yelled from the kitchen.

“Of course,” I yelled back from my tiny living room. I looked out of the grilled windows from my 1-bedroom ground-floor apartment (flat). Five of us lived there. My parents, my brother, my wife, and I. I grew up in Mumbai’s suburb called Vile Parle. Yes, that Vile Parle, where the original factory of the most popular Indian cookies, Parle-G, is named after. I lived in a society (apartment complex) called Kripa Nagar since 1969. It consists of a cluster of seven buildings, labeled, A through G. Actually, when my family moved in, there were just two buildings, C and G. It’s known as Kripa Nagar to most of its residents, but its formal name is Nutan Jeevan Cooperative Housing Society Ltd.  

My wife walked in with a steaming cup of coffee and placed it on a coaster on the rectangular teapoy in front of me.

“Will you eat dosa?” she asked.

I shook my head and continued to browse through the classified section of The Times of India. It was Sunday. Both my parents were home. My father was a manager at a local bank, and my mother was a teacher. She taught English in a vernacular medium (Gujarati) school. In fact, my father was a committee member (treasurer) of our building committee which oversaw construction of other buildings in our society.

My maternal grandfather was a freedom fighter. He would narrate his experiences before India got its independence in 1947. He always used to wear clothes made out of khadi. As I write this sentence, I just realized that all the parents of my generation were born under British rule. My grandmother was a soft-spoken, sweet lady. At the risk of creating controversy among my maternal cousins, I maintain that I was her favorite. 

<Begin confession>

Being the firstborn from both—my father’s and my mother’s—sides, I was pampered a lot.

</End confession>  

My wife had recently become a teacher at her alma mater. She was teaching arts at her college. She was helping my mother in the kitchen while my father sat near the window, watching passers-by. My mother had sent my younger brother to run some errands. 

I reached for the cup and blew gently on the surface before taking a sip while my eyes continued to scan lazily down the classifieds. I wasn’t too sure what I was looking for. A new employment? Maybe. 

I was working for a small software development company as a programmer. I felt that my career had stagnated. I was newly married. I had more responsibilities now. I was ready for a jump. Looking back, I think I was curious to see what kind of opportunities were out there. Going to the US was nowhere on my radar. Plus, I didn’t have a degree in engineering or computer science. I had done my B.Sc. in Physics at Mithibai College—a local college- and obtained a degree from the University of Mumbai. Mithibai, well, it was formally called Mithibai College of Arts, Chauhan Institute of Science & Amruthben Jivanlal College of Commerce and Economics. No one called it that, referring to it merely as Mithibai (or ‘Sweet Lady’—a lame joke.) The word Mithibai is actually two words combined together, Mithi (sweet) and bai (lady) thus making it Sweet Lady (I told you it’s lame.)

Suddenly, my eyes narrowed as they fell upon a small squared column that advertised a course on mainframe computers. Mainframes? I thought. I had never worked on them. I was a PC guy programming in COBOL. My curiosity rose. I focused on it and started to read.

Learn to program on an IBM mainframe with CICS. If selected, you will get a chance to travel to the US for an assignment. 

- Mafatlal Consultancy, Worli, Bombay.

Did I tell you Mumbai was called Bombay then? It was a name more convenient to pronounce (and remember) by the British when they ruled India. A few decades after they left, the original names were restored. Bombay became Mumbai, Madras became Chennai, Trichy became Tiruchirappalli, Cochin became Kochi, Vizag became Visakhapatnam, and so on. There are too many names to list. 

<Begin trivia> 

Have you noticed the baggage tag when you travel to Mumbai, India? The destination says BOM. That’s the airport code for Mumbai. You might be wondering, ‘why not MUM?’ That’s because MUM is the airport code for Mumias Airport in Kenya, Africa.

</End Trivia>

But I digress. I was excited—not at the prospect of going to the US. I could finally get my hands on a mainframe. Although PCs were pervasive and small-sized businesses could afford them, mainframes were not. Only large corporations and IT companies had them. In addition to the cost, there also is a question of space. They are large and bulky and require a temperature-controlled and dust-free room. Only a few people were allowed to go into the enclosed room. 

I have worked on various operating systems, including Unix, MS-DOS (predecessor of Windows), and CP/M (oh boy, I feel like I’m listing my skills in a resume.) 

<Begin geek trivia>

As a newbie programmer, I didn’t know the difference between MS-DOS and CP/M. Both of them had a DIR command to list the files. However, I would press Ctrl-C to stop the listing. Little did I know that Ctrl-C was the key combination to reboot the PC on CP/M. I still remember the amused look on my colleague sitting next to me when he saw my baffled expression, as he tried very hard not to burst out laughing.

</End geek trivia>

This was an excellent opportunity to list the mainframe as a skill that would allow me to apply for better paying jobs. 

This is it, I thought. I decided to take the course. 

“Pappaji,” I said aloud.

“Yes?” my father replied without turning his head. He continued to peer at the passers-by.

“This looks interesting,” I said as I got up and walked across where he was sitting. I tapped with my index finger on the square box on the paper. 

“What do you think?” He turned his head and looked at the newspaper. “Hmm.” He grunted as he scanned the classifieds. “Do you want to do it?” he looked at me over the rims of his glasses. 

“Yes.”

“Why? Do you want to go to the US?”

“That’s not why,” I shook my head. “I want to learn CICS to further my career. Besides, it clearly says, ‘if selected.’ There will be many candidates that might be more qualified than me, more experienced folks with a master’s or an engineering degree and probably having worked on mainframes (I only was in the field for three years, and that too, my experience was exclusively confined to PCs). A B.Sc. graduate from a college popular for its ‘filmy’ crowd won’t stand a chance.” 

“Filmy,” he smiled. Mithibai was known as a filmy college as many film stars sent their children there. It boasts vast alumni and alumnae of actors, directors, musicians, etc., who have graduated from Mithibai. 

One such alumna that comes to my mind is Nita Ambani. She is the owner of a highly successful cricket franchise, my beloved Mumbai Indians. 

<Begin confession>

Like most Indians, I, too, am a huge cricket fan. And like them, it’s in my DNA.

</End confession> 

<Begin shameless plug> 

In my first book, India Was One (available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle format, both in the US and India), I have dedicated an entire chapter to cricket.

</End shameless plug> 

<Begin cricket trivia>

Mumbai Indians’ home ground is the Wankhede Stadium in South Mumbai. I was at the stadium for its inaugural match held between India and the mighty West Indies in January of 1975. I still remember the West Indies captain, Clive Lloyd, scoring a swashbuckling 242. To put things in perspective, the most famous cricketer in the world—Sachin Tendulkar—was two-year-old at the time. 

</End cricket trivia>

She, Nita Ambani, also happens to be the wife of one of the wealthiest men in Asia, Mukesh Ambani, with a net worth of 87.5 billion USD. He also happens to be of the top-fifteen wealthiest people in the world—enough about money. Coming back to Nita Ambani, I’ve seen her in the Canteen, a cafeteria sandwiched between two colleges, Mithibai and NM. 

<Begin shameless plug>

I have a chapter titled The Canteen in my first book, India Was One (available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle format, both in the US and India)

</End shameless plug>

When I was younger, we used to have a cricket match every Sunday between Seniors and Juniors. I was the captain of Seniors.

<Begin confession>

We, the Seniors, never won a single match. Yes, I’m embarrassed to admit my failure as a captain now (after decades). I’m sure that a Junior (my brother was in the Juniors) will be reading this gleefully.

</End confession>

Each side could play for one-hundred-twenty balls, and the opposing team would chase the target within the ball limit. This was in the 70s. So, yes, you guessed it. 

<Begin controversial statement> 

We started the T20 cricket.

</End controversial statement> 

Although, we didn’t call it that. Do I know if it’s true? Of course not. But as Bill Maher says, I just ‘feel’ it’s true.  

“I think you should do it,” said a voice behind me. I turned around. My mother was standing in the door frame that led into the hallway.

“I agree,” my wife shouted from the kitchen.

“Do you even know what it is?” I yelled back as I laughed.

“No, but I’m sure it must be something important to you. I’ve never seen you going through the classifieds.”

“She has a point,” my mother nodded.

“Okay,” my father said as he handed me the newspaper.

“Great,” I beamed, “I’ll enroll tomorrow.”

*-*-*

I dialed Mafatlal’s number on my recently acquired rotary phone the following day. What’s a rotary phone, you ask? The ancestors of smartphones.

Back then, phones were not ubiquitous. One had to apply for a landline to the government and wait. It took years (yes, years and not days or months) to get a phone connection. My father had applied for one years ago, and our turn had finally come. In fact, many households covered the phone with a blusher (as if it was a freshly wedded bride). Two instruments folks covered with blushers were their phones and televisions (started in Mumbai in 1972—twenty-five years after India’s independence from the British—that too, in black and white, very few channels and for only a few hours in the evening.) People (mainly mom-n-pop businesses) would have a lock on their phones to prohibit unwanted outgoing calls (butt-dialing). Only incoming calls were allowed. Why? Because they were free.

Once again, I digress. 

After a few rings, a melodious voice answered. “Mafatlal Consulting. How may I help you?”

“Hello,” I said, “I saw the ad for the CICS course in the Times of India.”

“Yes?”

“I am interested in enrolling in it.”

“Great,” her voice perked up.

“But before I do so, I have a few questions.”

“Sure,” she continued in her sing-song voice.

“How long is the course? It doesn’t mention the duration.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, but her voice sounded facetious. “Six weeks.”

“And will I get hands-on training?”

“What do you mean?” she sounded confused.

“Will I be working on a terminal, or will they be all whiteboard theories?”

“Ah, you mean practicals?” she exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“Great,” I said as a smile spread across my face. I was finally going to get my hands on a mainframe. “I’d like to enroll in it.” She wrote down my name to reserve a spot. I informed her that I’d be coming in the afternoon to pay the fees (cash, of course. We didn’t have credit cards back in those days, or at least, I didn’t have one. Remember, I come from a middle-class family and a culture where cash was king.)

The course was commencing a few months later. However, she had informed me that there were limited spots, and she had received many people inquiring about the course. I was alarmed that so many people had shown interest in enrolling in it in less than twenty-four hours after the classified ad came out. I decided to go in the morning. I called my office and informed them I’d not be coming in. I quickly showered, got dressed, and stepped out in the sweltering heat. I looked at the clear sky, devoid of clouds. I hope it doesn’t rain today, I thought. Unlike most Mumbaikars, I never carried an umbrella (I wanted to look cool.) 

Worli (where Mafatlal’s office is located) is about forty-five minutes by bus ride from Irla, Vile Parle (where I lived). I walked to the bus stop and got onto a red-colored BEST displaying 84Exp. as its route number. I got off at Worli. I crossed the road and entered Mafatlal Consultancy’s office, relieved to be in an air-conditioned environment, away from the muggy climate outside. A young receptionist was sitting behind a desk, attending to the phone. She wore a navy blue saree and a red blouse. I approached her. “I’ll be with you,” she mouthed as she continued to nod. After a minute or so, she hung up and looked at me. “Yes?” she smiled.

“I’m here for the CICS course. I called earlier. Did I speak with you?”

“Yes,” she smiled as she looked down at her notepad where she had scribbled my name. “Is this you?” she asked as she placed it between us. “Yes,” I nodded. 

“Great,” she smiled as she opened a drawer, produced a form, and handed it to me. “Please fill in your details.” 

I filled in the form, handed it to her, and reached into my pocket. She took it, briefly scanned it, and extended her other hand. I gave her the cash (Rs.5,000, if I remember correctly. The exchange rate was 1 US dollar to 13.92 Indian Rupee. It’s ballooned to around 79 Indian Rupee now.)

“Thank you,” she said as she counted the bills. She nodded with a smile as she counted the last bill. She placed my form in a pile in a tray marked, ‘enrollees.’ I wondered how many had already enrolled in the course. “How many have you accepted so far?” I asked.

“About fifteen.”

Fifteen?! Already?! I started to feel fortunate that I’d enrolled early. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “That was fast.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “good that you called in and enrolled so early. It’s on a first-come-first-serve basis. We have been getting many inquiries. I’m sure the course will be full by the end of the day.”

“How many do you enroll?”

“We top off at fifty.”

“Oh,” I felt lucky that I was in. “Is there any course material for me to study?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Just bring a notepad.”

“Okay,” I smiled. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

I was eager to inform my family of the good news, but I had to wait until I got home (remember, no mobile phones?) I stepped out in the heat and looked around. There was a small paan shop. I was not a big paan person, but I knew that it also sold cigarettes (yes, like most Indian youngsters who wanted to look cool and impress girls, I used to smoke back then. A nasty habit that I’ve given up for over twenty years. My wife hated it and was overjoyed when I gave it up.)

I waited for the 84Exp. at the bus stop that would take me back. Upon returning home, I informed my wife (the only one at home, the rest had gone to work.) I was in time for lunch, but I celebrated it with a chilled beer. Although it wasn’t much of an achievement, I felt this would lead somewhere.