Of taps & flushes

Our family trip to Delhi & Manali turned out to be successful. Highly satisfying, in fact. Exactly the kind of trip whose wondrous moments get etched in your memory. Manali is a most beautiful place: apple-orchards, snow-capped peaks, pahari people, pine slopes, splendid castles, exhilarating views, steep gorges, green meadows and what not! We thoroughly enjoyed the holiday, especially the part where we rented a couple of bikes and set about exploring the mountains! (Click here for the snaps)

The only disappointment, perhaps, was that we couldn't make it to the snow point at Rohtang Pass, thanks to landslides that blocked the roads (or what is left of them). Turned out to be Rohtang Fail, i guess...sigh! Well, next time, maybe.

The return trip to Delhi was by bus and it changed a lot of things. Put a lot of things into perspective. The bus being a semi-sleeper had reclining passenger seats. I heartily applaud the fellow who came up with the name 'semi-sleeper'; the search for a more precise term would prove unnecessary. In simple language, it means that for approximately one half of the travel time, the passenger is in a state of sleep, while for the other half, he is continuously & vigorously shaken out of it.

The reasons are many. I strongly suspect that some prankster had left the driver thinking he was being secretly monitored to qualify for the World Rally Championship. The poor fellow, in his iron will to succeed, rode over rock and rubble in a manner reminiscent of Knights during the time of Queen Elizabeth-I. But as a passenger reclined backwards at an angle of 45 degrees, I clearly could not share the driver's high spirits. "River-rafting, my dear fellow", I wanted to tell him, "is generally not carried out on land, however slushy the roads may be."


The single most obvious effect of this mountain road roller-coaster was the enthusiasm passengers displayed to take the window seat. This is not to be confused with the desire to appreciate scenery. Upset tummies gurgling like cisterns, travel sickness bags being passed around and various forms of digestive projectile motion being demonstrated summed it all up. As for me, an Avomin pill did the trick (normally, i would proceed to enlighten u that etymologically, 'Avomin' is partly derived from Sanskrit negative prefix 'a-' (not) and  Latin 'vomin' (to vomit), but this time, I refrain from doing so!)


The bus stopped at a Haveli the next day morning, for people to attend their morning calls (not to mention several 'missed calls' during the night!) To my dismay I noted that only tissue paper had been provided in the toilets and there was no tap to be seen for washing. At that, I was forced to issue an 'About turn' command and wait for the prospect of using a toilet only at Delhi.


While on the subject of toilets and wash areas, I want to speak out my mind and get to the bottom of things!
Never has mankind been so unnecessarily and wastefully innovative when it comes to designing taps and flushes. I am sure the ordinary man will be totally bewildered for such a simple thing as – how do I open this tap? Do I
a) press it?
b) lift it?
c) twist it to the left or right?
d) place my palms under the spout as in prayer?
e) adopt a wait & watch policy, let someone else operate?


Even more bewildering are the toilet flushes! Where is the flush button, dammit? And why the hell is it camouflaged? Don't they have better things to camouflage- the US army in Iraq , for instance- but why? Why flush buttons of  all the things on earth? And why can’t they provide ordinary taps for post-morning-call use?


I say this with deep feeling, as I realised later that i had been made a gross fool of in the matter, when  a co-passenger educated me  that the wash taps in the Haveli toilets are not fixed to the walls  as generally known , but ‘cleverly’ positioned  at a set of precise co-ordinates inside, mind you, inside the ‘commode' itself! All u have to do is to go on sitting on the toilet seat while the 'flushing station' senses the 'proximity of the target' with respect to the station and an obliging  jet of water from the secret pipe set inside the commode is released by a set of (again obliging) valves to do  all the bum-washing required! 


Now, if this facility is altruistically  intended to reduce human labour and make human life easier easier, I totally oppose it and register my strong protest with the relevant authority concerned! Now, I would like to know why is it that for AGES till recently,  the humble tap never underwent any metamorphosis? Why only now? I postulate that this is being  done by a set of practical misguided jokers who manufacture flushing equipment calculated to frighten and bewilder the poor ordinary man in an emergent situation! And they also extort a fancy price for such accursed equipment!
Smart toilets, indeed!

The elephant and the bull- a Shenoy*

[Warning: A shenoy ahead! Please wear your seat-belts!]


The following incident was the turning point in wildlife reporter Sathish's life. This took place in 1971, a year before the Wildlife Protection Act (1972) came into force and partly depicts one of the sequences that led up to its legislation.

As he made his way up the rocky terrain of the Anaimalai Hills, Sathish was lost in contemplation. His career prospects looked bleak. He was 24, just as old as Independent India was. There seemed to be no future for him here. He considered migrating to the US.

Three years ago, in 1968, two of his journalist-friends had settled down in the States. They had then quit journalism, moved on and made big bucks in the stock markets. The idea had planted a seed in his mind..and it grew. He dreamt about NYSE all the time...and about a new stock exchange called NASDAQ set up in February that very year.

He looked up at the skies. Dark clouds were gathering above the village. A heavy downpour was imminent. He spotted a lone building a few hundred yards away. 'That must be the Chinnamalai Police Station', he said to himself, and dashed for shelter.

The first modern settlements in Chinnamalai village, nestled in the Anaimalai forest range, were initiated by Gen. Harold Westmond during the time of the British Raj. Game-hunting was a passion for the General. This region was elephant territory, and Gen. Westmond wasted no time in converting this place into a nucleus of ivory trade.
Soon, he had the village named after him. By 1971, Westmond village had been renamed as Chinnamalai village, but the inhabitants preferred using the British name. Colonial hangover had not elapsed.

The village wasn't just famous for ivory trade. Horticulture and poultry farming were practised with great enterprise. The Westmond Subji Market teemed with a variety of vegetables, mountain crops and poultry produce. In fact, poultry farming had become a huge success, so much so that references of 'Subji Market' were often corrected as 'Subji-Egg Market' by the villagers.

Meanwhile, inside the Chinnamalai Police Station, Sub-Inspector Rajan paced up and down the room. He was on special duty: Internationally prominent wildlife activist, Gabrian LeBeouf was campaigning in the village. He was gaining strength as an anti-poaching activist. LeBeouf vehemently opposed Ivory Trade. His mission in India was to introduce anti-poaching laws. He had done wonders to protect wildlife and had co- founded the International Fund for Animal Welfare in 1969.
S.I. Rajan admired Gabrian LeBeouf, to say the least.

Suddenly bad news had poured in: LeBeouf was shot in the arm! He was bleeding profusely. The nearest hospital was miles away. SI Rajan ordered his men to bring LeBeouf to the police station immediately. First-aid treatment was to be given.

The S.I. suspected the attack to be the ugly work of an ivory dacoit. His name (villagers shuddered when they heard it) was 'Neela-Lungi Bhaskaran'. He was notorious for his cold-blooded killings of dozens of elephants. What started for Bhaskaran as working as a forest guide, accompanying Gen. Westmond himself on his hunts, had turned into an ivory mafia, complete with smuggling and overseas connections.

The police discovered that Bhaskaran also sold ivory legitimately through an agent. To ward off any suspicion, all his trade contracts were signed in one of the shops in the Subji-Egg Market. The offer documents, viz. the papers that stated the terms and conditions of the trade were hidden somewhere in the market. This had been a magnificent find for the police: something to lead them to Bhaskaran's whereabouts!

At the front door of the station, P.C. Velu stood guard. Never had he seen the Sub-Inspector so worried in his life. 'Irritated'- yes, but 'Worried'- no! The S.I. always used to get irritated by Velu and his attempts to speak english. 'Full of grammatical errors', he used to say! But Velu loved speaking in English and never gave up.
His father had been a small-time tailor who sewed uniforms for the British soldiers. The first 5 english words that Velu learnt were these- 'Knicker, Shirting, Suiting, Vesting, Briefing'. His father had taught him those beautiful words. In his subconscious mind, random english words and phrases kept swimming about.

The dark clouds in the sky caught Velu's gaze. He could hear the police jeep coming from the direction of the Subji-Market. (Subji-Egg market, he corrected himself in time) Gabrian LeBeouf, bleeding profusely, was being brought in that jeep. From the opposite direction, a young man (whom we know to be Sathish) was hurrying towards the station.

Suddenly, a long, twisted fork of lightning struck somewhere near the edge of the forest. Thunderstorms shook the village. Rain had started to pour thick, chill and rich.
Then, Velu heard something that froze his blood! He was shell-shocked and stood rooted to the spot- The lightning and thunder had maddened the elephants in the forest. In a fit of musth, the agitated pachyderms were heading for the village! Life and property were at stake! Westmond Market was in danger! Bhaskaran's documents might be destroyed too, and the police may never be able to track him down! Oh, the horror of it all!

Velu was so shaken that he did not see the other constables carry LeBeouf in. He did not see Sathish step into the verandah either. As he slowly turned back, to inform the SI of what he had observed, the other constables were removing LeBeouf's jacket, followed by his 'shirting', but left his 'vesting' on (for it was quite cold at that time)

P.C. Velu stumbled into the room. In moments of great panic, he could speak only in English. Out in the verandah, Sathish heard the conversation that ensued between P.C. Velu and S.I. Rajan. They spoke fast. Breathlessly. The former spilled out the information, the latter gave out the necessary police orders. When one has to act fast, one doesn't usually pause for commas and full-stops as one speaks.
But the dialogue between them merely inspired Sathish. He was overjoyed! It was one of his favourite lines!

"Much elephant in Westmond, sir!" "Subji (egg too) market? Risk! Police, raid the offer documents! Care for LeBeouf here in vesting!"

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P.S.: To unlock the wordplay / shenoy in the last para, please see this and let it sink in slowly.

*A Shenoy is a long, winding story woven around a punny, one-liner (also known as a 'groaner')..originally the brainchild of narendra shenoy and named thus by his admirers.. To understand a shenoy, u need to go through the entire story.. and read the last line out loud and fast..repeatedly and with special attention, if required.. Click here, here, here and here for more!

Chittar Dam: The word that paints a thousand pictures!

(Click on images to enlarge)

It was the last day of May. The Pre-monsoon showers that heralded the mango season had left. The South-West monsoons were to be expected anytime soon. The Sun was up in the sky, though acting coy most of the time. The weather was perfect. The heart yearned to travel, explore and discover!

So, Sankar and I got together and decided to throw ourselves into the wilderness. With our travel base being Trivandrum, we were naturally spoilt for choice! A word of explanation is in order here: When one looks at a map of the town and adjoining districts..and reads between the lines latitudes, one learns that Trivandrum sits pretty at the centre of a circle, hemmed in by country getaways on all sides: Hills, waterfalls, streams/rivulets, dams, lakes, beaches and lagoons..all of them pegged onto the map within a 60 km radius of the town.

Our gaze turned south-east, and we set off to Chittar Dam on Sankar's Activa at eight in the morning. We careened along the serpentine curves of NH47, weaving our way through the morning highway traffic. At Marthandam town, we took a left turn and took the route that takes one to Thiruparappu Waterfalls and Pechiparai Dam.

In no time, Sankar's camera, which had hitherto been hiding in his bag, crept out excitedly and started going about its business. Paddy fields, village ponds and rubber plantations sat up, suddenly alert and full of life, and posed for the lens, as the shutter merrily clicked away. The distant hills and the clouds, it seemed, wanted to get into the frame too.

We reached Pechiparai dam, yet another dam built during the time of the Maharajahs to cater to the needs of the region known as 'the ricebowl of Travancore.' A very picturesque place. Pardon the cliche, but it did look like it was right out of a picture postcard! At that time, we weren't permitted to cross the dam to the other side, which we would doubtless have loved to. We moved on, wishing we'd spent more time there. Since the bridge over the spillway of the dam was still under construction, we took a fun detour: Rode down the sides of the bank, across the bed of the stream, up the other bank and back to the road!

Now, there are two dams at Chittar: Chittar dam-1 and Chittar dam-2 (as if you wouldn't have guessed!)
The road from Pechiparai to Chittar-1 has plenty of sights to offer. At one point, we even got off from the scooter and trespassed into a very inviting rubber estate, drinking in all the greenery and pandering to the camera's demands.

Chittar-1 is the smaller of the two. The low wall of the dam abuts the road. The reservoir was not full at the time, enabling us to climb over the dam and into the terra firma that led up to the waterfront. The view was magnificent! A thick carpet of grass spread itself from the inner wall of the dam all the way to the lake. The unassuming hills on the opposite bank of the lake, the shade of the sky and a soothing breeze, taken together, had the effect of casting a spell on us, holding us bewitched for several minutes. It was the camera, obviously cross for being momentarily neglected, that tapped  us on our shoulders and took us out of the trance. About a hundred feet to our right, a man was bathing his cows in the lake, singing to them. Everyday routine for him, sigh!

It was past noon by now. Of course, there were no restaurants in sight! We sped off to Chittar-2. There was this particular stretch of road, very narrow, that cut across through rubber estates on either side. Had here been a fog, it would've looked really spooky; and really romantic! We paused our journey and stretched out for a bit- right in the middle of the road! The canopy was enchanting, and the sunlight could filter through the leaves only if it made a bit of an effort.

Finally, we reached Chittar-2. We were given to understand that this was the place where a part of the movie, 'Rithu', was shot. The dam here is much larger. We parked the scooter on the road and walked towards the dam. Gulmohars in full bloom greeted us at the start of the walkway. Half a kilometre later, we reached the reservoir. It was a most beautiful spectacle. The lake, the mountains and the clouds played visual accomplice, while the breeze robbed us of all the reserve in our manner. I'd heard the expression, 'to throw caution to the wind' before; got to experience it first-hand there! It's very difficult to abstain from dancing when Ecstasy ripples across your soul. The spine goes a -tingle, the heart a-flutter and the spirit a-twitter! We suddenly felt a burning envy for all the winged creatures on the planet! What was more, there was not a soul in sight!

We walked along the dam, intoxicated by the sheer charisma of the place. At the other end of the dam, there is a dead tree that stands out on the edge of the lake. A round boat was drawn up to the shore near the tree. A herd of plump goats grazing in the grass nearby stared at us in pure astonishment, as though wondering what in the name of Chittar's-Greenest-Grass were these two human beings doing in this part of the world!

An abandoned shed lay further up, frozen in time. Weeds that were a golden-yellow shade and almost two-feet tall swayed gently, enslaving themselves to the whims of the winds that playfully sashayed over this placid paradise.

We left the place by around 3 in the afternoon. Took a different route on the way back, a shorter one. Entered the highway at Kuzhithurai jn. and dug in into lunch. The trip sort of imparted a whole new meaning to the term 'rejuvenation'. A perfect picnic spot, far, far away from the madding crowds. A photographer's holy altar. An idyllic retreat best suited for soul-searching. To top it all, a stone's throw away from Trivandrum!

To dot the ice and cross the tees

We've all heard the immortal and wise saying, 'Half a loaf-er is better than none'.. Inspired by the pith of this celebrated adage, and with a sudden urge to better myself, i promptly decided to loaf around.. and so, @tuxerman and yours truly started tweeting a few one-liners.. twisting a proverb here, contorting an idiom there.. We dedicate these twisted nuggets to Narendra Shenoy, who loves making up long, winding stories around punny one-liners.. which, by the way, are now popularly called 'shenoys'! :)

[Ye shall find sriram's tweets here]

Alrighty then.. setting my hand to plough.. :)

When osama's men crashed on the World Trade Centre, they cut a long storey short

It's when u write ur lab record that u realise that the graph is greener on the other side

Leopards in the zoo never move about. They sit in a corner all day. And y is that? Because a leopard can never change its spot(s)

When u've nothing to do on a lazy day, u realise that all roads lead to Roam

Believe me, there are a lot of people who care abt the environment. They consume cartloads of spinach for dinner, wake up early in the morning and start their day by Going Green.

Samsung LCD displays sell because they ain't afraid to show their true colours

Jayan picked up his lightener and lit his cigarette. After he was done smoking with one, he stood in the same place and contemplated a second cigarette. He flashed his lightener. Didn't work.. because Lighten-er never strikes twice in the same place, duh!

Did u see his new sportscar? It's the torque of the town..

If Fate turned Thakur (of sholay) adrift on the streets , he would probably go begging for arms first, and alms later

The whole town plunged into darkness, when in a fit of rage, two electric lines decided to meet phase-to-phase

MNS leaders can't stand north indians living in maharashtra. They're always on the lookout for hindi-bashing opportunities. And we know that Raj Thackeray wears glasses. So, it's true what they say: Hind(i)sight is always twenty-twenty

If a child is born obese, it's mother is forced to give a wide birth to it.

If Nandan Nilekani, the brain behind the Unique Identification Authority, were to suddenly turn into an insane wreck, he would have taken leave of his census.

The juice-shop owner has had a great business this season: his story has been of profets and sheikhs!

If there's a heavy rush outside public toilets, people waiting for their turn tend to get all irate and restless. Really, they ought to mind their Pee's and Queue's!

Jharkhand has not registered much growth, despite being a state with Iron mines all over the place. I guess that's what they call an Irony!

(click here): 'Jintian Company is one that produces yarn-dyed fabric, cowherd's professional factory...' Positive proof to show that 'Cowherds dye many times before their death' :P

Well, all's swell that ends swell!

Intruder in Wonderland

I do not know where it was. I cannot recollect when it happened.

Oddly enough, a part of me is happy that I do not remember the details. Another part of me is trying hard to guess them.

I was trotting up the mountain path. The mist was gliding along, hugging the luxuriant slopes in its heavenward gait. I found myself fluxed by the mist: 'practically inside a cloud', i fancied... In a matter of seconds, the whole valley disappeared from view...

Looking around in the mist, I couldn't discern much from the faint silhouettes shimmering a few yards away. They appeared to be signalling something. Directions, perhaps. I took them to be either shrubs or rocks, and kept walking. It felt insanely satisfying. Tiny droplets of water be-dewed me as i ambled along.

Mists are true travelers. They do not plan ahead. Nor do they know of their destination. They listen to the Wind when it grows powerful. They hover around mountains, at times making them look beautiful. This mist, in particular, was in no obvious hurry. Not wanting to miss out on any more views of the valley, I decided to halt and reclined upon a smooth rock. I closed my eyes and felt myself dissolving into the mist.

Percussion.. Rhythmic strokes.. Somewhere in the distance. I stirred slowly from sleep. The rhythmic strokes started again: the sound that a sharp beak makes when it caves in into a hardwood tree. Ah! I'd woken up to the melody of a woodpecker at its day's work. I opened my eyes and scanned the place. The mist had sailed on.

There was not even a suggestion of the mountain path anywhere in the vicinity. I must've strayed off a long way. I discovered that I was near the edge of a mountain. Obviously intrigued, i walked towards the edge and peered down.

If i describe what met my eyes as merely hair-raising, heart-stopping or spine-tingling, I should be punished. It was nothing less than spiritually uplifting!

Flowers: Hundreds and Thousands of them!

Theme: Fragrance and Colour!

Artist: He who created the World.. who left this part of it unknown to Man.. and who momentarily lost vigil: when a man wandered into His finest piece of art, hiding under a cloak in the shape of a mist.

The mist had left pearls on their merry petals. These flowers had seen nothing of the world.. and the world had seen nothing of them.. If ignorance was bliss, it was only theirs.. The ponderer somewhere in me felt troubled.. For whom do these flowers blossom everyday? Apart from the mist, wind and rain, who appreciates their beauty? Why did God even create them, only to keep them a secret unknown to the world? For years and years, the flowers must've bloomed everyday, not knowing how wonderfully charming they are, not knowing that a world of men exists, that a few of these men would admire them endlessly. Why did God have to rob us both of what we deserve?

Thomas Gray's legendary lines came to my mind:

'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.'

Perhaps He did it for a reason. Midas, as we know, turned everything he touched into gold. Maybe Midas is none other than Man himself.. and just like Midas' own daughter who turned to gold upon his touch.. he ends up losing even those things he holds close to his heart, for Gold.. for materialistic gain and a queer pleasure only Man can identify with..

Perhaps many more such valleys exist, unknown to us.. The more unknown they are, the better..

A tough pill to swallow

Who says brave men do not know fear? At the core, a brave man is also a human being, and there’s bound to be Something that inspires fear in him... Something that sends a shiver down his spine; something that reminds him of his weakness, and strike him down, knocking him off his bearings.


And when that terrible Something happens, his celebrated bravery gets thwarted. Speaking of brave men, Achilles seemed to have had a rather notorious problem with his heel. Closer home, the author of this post, also widely considered to be brave, has a rather nasty problem with swallowing pills.

The very idea of having to swallow a pill causes me to writhe uneasily like an old table fan, fidgeting where to turn next. 
And I know exactly why. It does not take a psychiatrist to uncover the scars of my childhood experiences with pills and tablets to track down the cause of this fear. 

It all started when i was in the 4th grade.

One day, without prior notice, a giant lollipop decided to get ensconced in my throat. Just like that. Now, I used to think of myself as a curious kid open to new experiences, which included sampling candies & lollipops among other things. But this time, it looked like the giant lollipop had plans to overstay its welcome and intended to settle there forever. So I refused to be humoured anymore. I simply couldn't bring myself to pander to lousy lollipops and their unreasonable whims.

So, with all the lung power I could muster, I volleyed to evict the rascal out of his cosy new-found home. I coughed and splattered about all over the place, to no avail. Hell, I even tried new-age yoga techniques for rapid air-expulsion. Several attempts later, I gave up, defeated and subdued, my famed bravery and confidence shattered.

After this ghastly accident, every time I had to see a doctor, the cruel memory came knocking on my door, trying to haunt me with a lollipop the size of a fully blown balloon. I developed a particular dislike for doctors who prescribed pills.

For good old traditional wisdom says, "Eat fruits, drink water and do exercises. By all means, shun pills!", for a healthy lifestyle.

But in order to remain in the pink of health, I was forced to take pills from time to time, no matter what. So I came up with an ingenious solution to end my pill-swallowing woes.

Step 1) take a glass of water.

Step 2) place the pill on a flat surface, such as a dining table. Pick up a heavy object. Mercilessly crush the tablet to powder.

Step 3) Gloat over the crushed pill and let out an evil laugh for added effect.

Step 4) Dissolve the powder in the water and sip in style

The easiest, entirely hassle-free road to the radiant glow of health had just been discovered.

One day in summer, a rather nosy neighbour of mine (for I regret to say such people exist, who have their noses buried in the lives of others), found out about my Operation Kill Pill.
Within hours, the whole colony was talking about The Boy Who Couldn't Swallow Pills. The neighbour-in-question was a formidable lady with big, round eyes and a towering stature, unofficially known as the Gossip Queen (G.Q.) of the neighbourhood. Whenever she spotted something interesting, her eyes popped out like tadpoles jumping out of a well, before her excitement spread in all directions. Needless to say, the mimicry of amphibian life on her inquisitive face terrified children in the neighbourhood.

But they say, "Always stand up to your fears"...and I was a brave boy for my age. That summer, I took it up as a challenge to learn how to swallow pills, and choke my fears instead of myself. I picked up a carton of Cadbury's Gems, took out a Gem, sat out on the open terrace, relaxed my throat and summoned up my courage. Taking a deep breath, I placed the Gem far back on my tongue, took a sip of water and tried to swallow the Gem...and it worked! I was elated, overjoyed! What a gem this Gem truly was! 
There was a surge of confidence in me. The feeling of triumph in overcoming an irrational fear! Not really daunted by the summer heat of the afternoon, I wanted to try it again, to practise, to overcome the fear once and for all!

I picked up another Gem and readied myself...and then, events started unfolding in quick succession.

As I sipped some water, there was a sudden commotion behind me. Halfway through the process, with face turned skywards and not in the most elegant of positions, I turned around to the source of the noise.

G.Q. and her clique of girls stood on the terrace next door, glowing in their element, transfixed by the promise of new inflammatory material for gossip, watching The Boy Who Couldn't Swallow Pills make headlines.

Gossipmate#1 pointed and gasped, "Look, Vasumati! he's swallowing a pill!"

G.Q.'s eyes popped out as was customary in such occasions.

My throat suddenly gagged up and I started choking on the Gem stuck in my throat. The nasty memory of the lollipop flashed before my eyes again.

Gossipmate#2 pointed and gasped, "Look, Vasumati! he's choking!"
Even as a young boy gasping for air to survive on that summer afternoon, I thought the quality of live commentary was banal and sub-standard.

As a paralysed fear began to consume me, my vocal chords loosened up by reflex and I coughed decisively, launching the Gem in the general direction of the spectators. It was expelled, though not quite in style.

More pointing and gasping followed with dull commentary as the Gem ricocheted off the parapet wall of the terrace and escaped into the alleys of the neighbourhood. 
Sensing that the show was over and there remained nothing else to do, G.Q. and her brigade broke away disappointed. No new developments to report, the boy still couldn't swallow that summer.

As for me, I was back where I started, giving up after just one successful attempt, and psyched about the social interest that followed the failure of the next.

Perhaps that's why they say - "One swallow does not make a summer"