When I did finally read the papers on Saturday, it was to realize that Azim Premji of Wipro Infotech had become the second richest man in the world, thanks to his 75% stake in the company, whose share prices touched Rs 8000 (200$), on Friday. And, apparently, Mr. Narayan Murthy's chauffeur at Infosys Tech, is worth all of Rs 20 million (500,000$), because of his stock options.

Two incidents happened last week, the sum and essence of which can be best described by two jokes that I read on Saturday. Just like the cliché, "one picture is worth a thousand words", sometimes I guess, "one joke is worth an entire column". Both these jokes are "dirty" but somehow this very dirtiness seems to put things in perspective.

On Friday night, my sister and brother-in-law (BIL) had come home for dinner. BIL dabbles in stocks and was lamenting his notional loss in Infosys Tech. Apparently he had bought a whole lot of shares at a low price some months ago and sold them, when the value became 10 times. At present, the stock is valued a 100 times more than at the time when he bought them he calculated that if had held them till now, he would have made a cool 10 million rupees (250,000$).

This brings me to the first joke.

A man was sitting in a bar morose, not drinking the whiskey in front of him.
Bartender: What is the problem?
Man: I just came across a semen bank which gives 40$ for one sample of semen.
Bartender: So?
Man: I am depressed thinking of the fortune I have let slip through my fingers over the years.

Notional losses.

Three days ago, a group of us were animatedly discussing the changes that will be brought into our health care system by the new reforms related to insurance, third-party payment and the like. As of now our healthcare is predominantly a fee-for-service industry where the patient pays the doctor directly. The entry of the corporate sector and insurance companies will change that and everyone is a little scared and unsure of what will happen. The second joke helps bring that into perspective.

A man is being given a tour of the hospital. He comes to a ward where a patient is vigorously masturbating in his non-private bed. Aghast he asks the doctor, what is happening.
Doctor: He has a condition where his semen builds up so badly inside him that the only way is to release it by masturbating every 15 minutes.
They then come to another private room, where a nurse is giving a blow-job to a patient. Again totally surprised, the man asks the doctor for an explanation.
Doctor: This patient also has the same problem as the previous one. He just has better insurance.

Healthcare reform. Everyone gets screwed except the managers.

I get to see my children every evening for a couple of hours when I go to visit them and WFM my in-laws' place, where they will stay for the next three months. I stayed over Saturday night and in the morning as I was having breakfast, my mother-in-law brought my son into the kitchen and sat with him in front of the window. The mornings rays were slanting through the window grill and when mom-in-law held him up against them, the rays lit up my son's face, making him look radiant and peaceful. He closed his eyes against the bright light and a tiny smile played on his two-week old lips.

I just hope that the world he grows up in becomes a little saner and easier.

The futurologists have predicted that his generation will live for more than a 100 years. That is fine, provided that the 100 years are not full of stress and violence.

Maybe I am over-reacting - despite the way things are, I wouldn't mind living for a 100 years.

Yes, this is sunny southern California. The rainy season. We sort of have one. We sometimes experience actual weather in this part of the world. Usually what passes for weather around here is merely a background picture -- neither too hot nor too cold, and thus ... it's just there, asking nothing of you. A sweater, maybe. You observe it, but you don't actually participate in it. It's a movie.

But not today. Today our real-estate investment has dropped a considerable bit in value as seams between the roof and the walls are becoming soaked through and treasured family photos are getting wet on the backside before I even realized anything was wrong. I've noticed a funny thing about living in California. Once you move here you have to accept the concept that there is no such thing as a family heirloom. You will not have the opportunity to cradle and nurture your treasured items. You never know when something completely unexpected is going to wreck them.

I remember the muddle of glass and condiments and coffee and spices that covered my kitchen linoleum when the big earthquake struck six years ago. It happened so fast and at such an inopportune time of the early morning that there was no possible way to grab anything except maybe eyeglasses and bedroom slippers. Assuming you were savvy.

If you were in a state of shock, one of the millions of people who had never before experienced an earthquake, you'd likely wander right down your own carpeted hallway completely unaware of the amount of glass and shattered wood and ceramic bits that would be underfoot. Under bare foot. No flashlight, no glasses. No pants. And we, of course, are the lucky ones because we survived that morning.

I'm extremely lucky to be here, safe and wet, and typing out my memories.

Some of my heirlooms didn't make it through that natural disaster. A lot of them, actually. I used to have pretty things. Things passed down from granny to mommy to me. Things worth a certain amount of money. Things that are gone and shattered forever. Not that things are important in the greater scheme of things -- they were just nice to have around before they became exploding projectiles before dawn.

And now I wouldn't consider going into a home furnishings store and getting excited about dinnerware or crystal goblets, or big beautiful serving bowls decorated with wildflowers and lovely woodland fowl. I don't see quality tableware anymore; I see shards.

And the same goes for any paper products, of which I have plenty. Things really get wet around this neck of the woods. There seems to be no safe corner of the house. I just had to take my calendar down off the wall beside my computer because the very wall itself was seeping. The very wall! I've had to dry out all manner of valuable book and document. Water has seeped up from the earth itself and ruined my quality flower box collection of old sheet music.

But it's the photos that I've tried the hardest to protect. I've got an flee-the-fire small suitcase packed and standing permanently by the back door. I read about such a suitcase in an old essay by Joan Didion a long time ago, and I really had to go back and read that sentence over again. Could people actually live in a place where fleeing is a common worry? The answer is yes.

When we lived in a wooded area and the police cars were patrolling ahead of the rampaging blaze, blaring through a loudspeaker that you'd have fifteen minutes to pack up and get out of your house, you think fast. What's irreplaceable? Certainly not money or clothing or jewelry. But the photo of your baby's first tooth?

That's what I call a precious heirloom. Tonight that particular photo is slowly drying out. And I try not to get too attached. Here, in southern California, home of the fragile landscape, heirlooms must remain in the mind of the beholder.