A Corner Of My World

Suddenly, One Day.

2011-04-05T00:55:00.000+05:30

At the Pragati Maidan Metro Station, two people waited.. One was a young woman not more than twenty, dressed in black like most of the people her age. Every once in a while she looked up from her iPhone, craned her neck a little bit, looked around, and went back to fiddling with the device.The other was a middle aged man, grim looking, with silver rimmed spectacles. The two of them sat next to each other, unspeaking, comfortable with the silence – waiting for their Metro to arrive.

Rajesh sighed impatiently and leaned back onto his chair. He glanced at his daughter, Akhila, who was still tapping the screen of her phone and occasionally smirking. He shook his head and sighed again. What is it that Akhila found so fascinating about the Metro? It was just a train, except it was silver in colour and looked a little more fancy. They could have taken the car – but Akhila had insisted that they use the Metro. The young people were more concerned about the environment these days.Rajesh looked around a little more. Damned train.

The Metro came whooshing into the platform and suddenly the idle crowd came to life. People stood up, straightening their newspapers, clothes, hair. Women checked their reflections in the mirror. Men started gulping down the last sips of their coffee. Children started jumping up and down and clapped their hands with joy. Teenagers said their “Catcha later, dude. Gotta go.”

Akhila looked up from her iPhone and put it away, and stood, her eyes gleaming with ill concealed anticipation. Rajesh also silently rose, and followed his daughter to the train. They stepped inside and sat down, and within a few minutes, the massive vehicle rumbled to life and whooshed out of the station.

Not many people had got in and the compartment was relatively empty. Rajesh looked at Akhila again, and saw that her phone was nowhere in sight, and she had pressed her lips together, like she did whenever things became awkward. He wondered if she was expecting him to make conversation. Rajesh winced internally. He was horrible at small talk.

“How is college these days?” He heard himself say.

“Good.” She replied, looking slightly relieved.

Rajesh nodded. Now what? “You don’t go with your friends these days?”

Akhila shook her head. “No. They have gone to Ladakh.”

“From your college, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“Because of my asthma problem. The doctor didn’t clear me.”

“Oh.”

Awkward silence.

Akhila tapped her phone a little more, set it down and stared at a boy in front of her. Then she tapped her phone a little bit more. What was this tapping business? Rajesh wondered. He surreptitiously leaned in to see.

Akhila was on FaceBook (big surprise) ‘updating her status’. He leaned in a little more, and read.

Sitting in the metro. Hot guy sitting in front of me! :D :D

Rajesh chuckled quietly, and cleared his throat. Akhila looked up quickly and touched her hair uncomfortably.

The train stopped at Rohini East. Rajesh looked at his wristwatch and realized that the Metro was behind schedule. Passengers shuffled in, some shuffled out but the compartment still remained fairly empty. The Metro started again.

They passed buildings, and cars and more buildings. From the window, he could see two drivers engaged in a fight about their collided cars. He saw a small boy rolling a tyre around with a stick. He saw a massive lorry carrying sugarcanes to somewhere. An old woman buying carrots from a roadside vendor. Two men leering at a girl crossing the road. Then they passed more buildings, and more cars. Then he looked away, bored. He tried to think of something else to do.He missed driving his car. Damn Akhila's concern for the world.

Rajesh looked out of the window again, watching the buildings and shops whiz past him. They were now on a bridge, and suddenly the Metro gained speed. Outside the window, everything was a blur. Rajesh frowned, and heard mumble. She looked outside, and said: “It's moving too fast.”

By this time, other people had also realized the change in speed and were looking out of the window, a little tensed.

There was a loud thud and the compartment shook violently, throwing people off their seats. Akhila squealed. Rajesh put a protective arm around her and held her tightly as the train shook.

People were screaming, crying, some desperately looking for the emergency exit. Someone had hit their head and was bleeding profusely, and a small child probably had broken her arm. People were rushing towards the tail of the compartment, hoping that the train would stop. Some were swearing, others were praying. It was utter chaos.

Rajesh looked at Akhila, had held her even tighter, and closed his eyes. He prayed to God, hoping that Akhila would get out of this unharmed, and that his wife and son would remain safe and happy their entire life. He prayed for this mess to stop. And he prayed to God to save his life. That was his last clear thought.

He heard the massive noise.He heard the screams, the ear piercing screech that only colliding metals can create He heard the cries . And then he heard the silence.All the noise of screaming people, crashing glass, screeching metal stopped suddenly stopped. As if everything was alright with the world again.

Rajesh opened his eyes. He couldn’t see anything. His vision was blurred. He tried to remember where he was. His jaw hurt, as did his chest. He had lost all feeling in his lower half. He could feel blood trickling down his face. He tried to shout for help, but nothing came out. Then he felt something. Rather someone. He rolled his eyes to the left, and found Akhila, bleeding. Then he remembered. He was in a train that had crashed. Gathering all his strength, he called her.

“Akhila?” A whisper came out, to which he got no response.

“Akhila, beta? Can you hear me?” He spoke louder.

Yet no reply.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and silently rolled down his cheeks, mixing with the blood. He prayed again, to keep Akhila safe. To let her be alive and unscathed. Then he closed his eyes, and let the blackness overcome him.

" Put pressure on that wound. Sister, please get me 100 mg of Thiamine, 1 mg of Folic acid, I amp MVI and 3 grams magnesium sulphate. Fast!”

“Yes sir.”

“His pulse is low, I need you to keep the defribillator ready. Now check his…”

Rajesh tried to hear more, but he was feeling dizzy, and already the voice had started growing more distant. He couldn’t remember where he was. His body had lost all feeling, except for the faint awareness of the fact that he was hurting. It was too much of an effort to think, he just went back to sleep.

“Rajesh?” A voice from a tunnel came. It seemed familiar “Rajesh? Can you hear me?”

“Papa, please wake up.” Another voice came from the tunnel. It was closer. “Papa.” The voice became a whisper, then he heard someone cry.

“Don’t cry, Ma. He’ll be fine.”

“Yes. Yes, he’ll be fine.” The first voice said.

Rajesh felt like he had suddenly resurfaced from a pool. He opened his, but the light blinded him.

“Rajesh! You’re awake.” He heard his wife speak to him. His wife. He opened his eyes and saw her, smiling through her tears. “Arun! Call the doctor, fast!”

“Yes, Ma.” Arun hurried away.

“Akhila?” Rajesh managed to say.

Sarala held his hand tightly and tried to calm him down. "Shh, you rest now. Don't worry."

"But Akhila?"

"Sarala held on to his hand tightly and smiled, trying to reassure him, "Everything's fine. The doctor's just coming."

Rajesh blew out a sigh of relief. He looked at his wife. She was smiling at him, clinging on to his hand like a lifeline. Rajesh stared at her, completely transfixed by a tear drop that seeped out of the corner of her eye, slowly.

The month of March was hectic. My daughter Ishita appeared for her class X board exams. It was a stressful time for all of us, may be I'll blog about it later. This was a story Ishita wrote for her school magazine. I copied it blatantly, with her permission of course. Hope you enjoy it.

The Hormone Years

2011-02-09T18:46:00.001+05:30

"Why don't you tell me what to wear and what not to?"
"I thought you didn't want me to tell you all that. I thought you said I had to stop imposing my opinion on you."
"Yes, but my friends' moms tell them what not to wear...it shows they care about their daughters.
" OK, so let me tell you right now, the skirt you are wearing is too short."
" Will you stop telling me what to wear all the time?"

"Can I colour my hair?"
"Whatever for? You have beautiful hair"
"But I want streaks. And I want curls."
"Your hair is naturally beautiful now. Wait till you become a little older to experiment with colours."
"You never want me to have any individual style. Why do you have to be such a tyrant?"
"It's just that you have such beautiful hair. Colours and curlers will ruin your hair."
"So can I get a Lady Gaga wig instead? Red?
"Lady who?"
"Never mind, you would not recognize her if she left a comment on your blog anyway."

"Do you have to pick me up from school? I am old enough to come on my own. And please wear something a little more glamorous when you come? You look boring in jeans and T-shirt."
" I thought I looked pretty good in jeans and tees."
"You look old."
" I am not old."
"Mom, you are practically vintage."

" Stop telling me to study all the time."
"Well, I can't, your boards are starting in exactly 3 weeks."
"Why do I have to do well in my exam?"
"So you can get into a good college/school."
" I think you are just trying to get rid of me by sending me to a good college. Who wants to live in this house indefinitely anyway?"

"Will you have a problem if I have a Muslim or a Christian boyfriend?"
"I will have a problem if you have a boyfriend, period."
"Come on mom, some of my friends have boyfriends."
"You are only 15, too young to have a boyfriend."
"So when I am old enough to have one, will you object if he is not a Hindu?"
"No, as long as he is good and treats you with respect, I will have no problem."
"God, will you stop being so nice? How am I supposed to have a dramatic fight with you on this one if you never object to a boyfriend?"

"I washed my school uniform."
"That's very good. I am so glad you are acting like a responsible person and sharing the chores."
"Yeah, well, the i-pod was in the pocket and it got washed too. And now it's no longer working."
"What? Your i-pod? You didn't check the pockets?
"Err, actually it was dad's, I had borrowed it from him for a day."
"You washed your dad's i-pod? Do you know how cross he would be?"
"Can't you ask him to look at the bright side? The uniform looks almost brand new now."

"Can I pierce my ears?"
"You already have pierced ears."
"Can I have couple more piercings?"
"Two more? May be we can talk about it after your exams."
"You know, you are not too bad for a mom. In fact, you are more tolerant than a lot of moms I know."
"Well thank you."
"Some of my friends are always complaining about how domineering their mothers are. I told them my mom is not as bad."
" Uh..thank you I guess."
" You are really open to suggestions and you do let me have my own say."
"Oh baby, I'm so glad you finally saw that."
" Yeah, well, so can I have a tattoo? A scorpion on my lower back would look awesome."

I bow down before all those survivor moms who successfully negotiated teenage years. I only have 4 more years to go with this one. By that time, the second one would be 13. With plenty of wine, chocolates and Yoga, I'm sure I can go through that one too.
And those women who are currently mothering those cute angelic kids, kids who make you say "awwww let me take a picture of you cutie-pie, cootchie-coo,.." well, to those women let me say, I hate you with gusto.

Giving Away The Memories

2011-02-02T13:38:00.000+05:30

On the 17th floor of my building, lives an old man.

He does not live alone. He stays with his two grown up sons. Their wives. Their kids. It is a big family. There should not be any reason to be lonely. Or feel empty. But I think he does. Every evening when he goes for a walk, I can see it in his eyes. He is lonely and sad. And this feeling has nothing to do with his large family.
He may have a lot of people in his life but the person who mattered the most, his wife, died a few months ago. And ever since, he has not been the same.

We all have different ways of coping with grief. Some cry. Some deal with it with dry eyes. Our ways may be different but we all feel this profound sadness. We all feel a deep emptiness that descends on us when we lose a loved one. This old man I know, does not keep his grief bottled up. He talks about her to people he meets in the elevator, in the park, in the grocery store. He tells us about the wonderful years he had with his wife. His helplessness towards the end of her illness. His relief when he realized she has passed away and was incapable of feeling any more pain. He talks a lot. And sympathetic neighbours, some strangers, some not, listen to this old man's ramble.

Few days back, he called me while I was walking in the park.
"Do you tie your hair?" When I said that I do indeed tie up my short hair occasionally, he handed me a shiny object.
"Keep this then, it will look good on you." I opened my palm to find a rather tacky looking hair clip And I knew. I knew instantly that he has begun the painful process of going through her stuff. Bits of items that were once precious to her. Hair clips. Bags. CDs. Stuff that he will never use in his life, stuff that perhaps his daughters in law do not want, he has started handing them over to utter strangers. These things are no longer useful to him. But he can not bear to throw them away.. So he gives them away, hoping some stranger will honour these silly items and somewhere, somehow, his wife's belongings and with them her memories, will live on.

I know I will never use this clip. It is neither pretty nor serviceable. Moreover, it does not even hold any sentimental value for me. What will I do with this? Perhaps I will give it away to my domestic help. Or I will give it to a street kid in need of a hair pin. No matter what I do, I know the lady will live in her husband's mind.

Just because you get rid of something does not mean you lose the memories.

Guilty Pleasures

2011-01-15T17:04:00.000+05:30

It's been more than15 days since I last posted.

I feel terribly guilty for neglecting the blog but a tiny corner of my mind is celebrating this utter laziness. The blog can wait, my laziness can't.

Actually there are quite a few things that are making me feel guilty. Like how happy I am now that my mother in law is not in town. She is a sweet lady and is pretty easy going and she brings a sense of discipline to our house. There are set meal times in the house when she is at home.The laundry gets folded at the right time, the kids drink their milk right on time. The maid comes early, the chores get done right on the dot.With her away, things are extremely slack around the house.And I am loving every moment of it. We have been eating a lot of stuff she considers inedible. Sandwiches, spaghetti, pasta, soups...my kids think they have died and gone to heaven. I am just relieved the food takes less than an hour to cook. That gives me more time to indulge in my strongest passion, reading.

I have been reading a lot of Nora Roberts lately. She is entertaining and funny and I immensely enjoy all her books. The last book of hers that I read was called The Search. Both my daughter Ishita and I loved it. My friends deride me for reading such junk but I refuse to feel guilty about my reading habits. Whatever gives me pleasure, right? So what if they are chick flicks? So what if they do not make me enlightened and spiritually elevated? They make me want to stay all day in my pajamas, curled up reading. For company,I generally have a bag of chips. One hundred percent pure guilt Hence the pleasure I get from her books is usually doubled.

The other thing that is making me feel guilty these days is my lack of exercise. My yoga teacher is on a holiday. So no twisting of my body at awkward angles, no I-can-touch-my-nose-with-my toes moves and no fire breathing, hell burning, soul purifying breathing exercises. I can't tell you how happy that makes me feel. I have noticed that happiness has an adverse effect on my weight.But I have decided to look away from the mirror to assuage my guilt. I do go for walks, but that is purely for pleasure and has nothing to do with guilt.

So what else has me feeling guilty lately? A big box of finest Swiss chocolates that's sitting in my fridge. Someone gave it to us and I've been raiding the fridge at midnight quite often. Experts however say that I have nothing to feel guilty about. Dark chocolates apparently improve the function of blood vessels. Cocoa elevates mood and preliminary research suggests that chocolates boost one's memory and concentration span. What's more, it is hundred percent vegetarian and does not give you a hangover.Or make you pregnant.

So there. Now that I've vented my feelings, I am feeling less guilty about my inactive lifestyle. With Blogger around, who needs a shrink. And who needs guilt...it is such a wasted emotion anyway.

This Christmas Day

2010-12-25T17:12:00.003+05:30

Thank God my parents never believed in Santa. They never took me to an old, fat guy with a fake beard and asked me to sit on his lap. Subsequently I never suffered from the trauma of discovering Santa Claus did not exist.

They did believe in plum cakes and a good Christmas feast though. So my brother and I always looked forward to the 25th. That was the night we went out to eat.

When my kids were born, I tried to tell them that Santa existed. Truly I did. It worked also in the beginning. "Eat your lunch or Santa won't give you any toy, " or "Behave or else Santa will give your share of candies to your sister," but they were pretty smart. They figured out all by themselves that good old Santa was just a figment of mommy's over active imagination. So they took charge of the whole festival, bought a big tree that almost touched my ceiling, bought Christmas presents with their own pocket money and rented some Christmassy movie to watch on Christmas Eve. To be honest, as long as they did not expect me to bake a turkey or wrap their presents, I was quite happy with this arrangement.

This Christmas however every thing has gone wrong. Their father has gone on some long official trip up north. Their mother has forbidden them to put up the big tree that overwhelms the rather small living room. Their exam schedule, (especially the older one's) has clashed with the festival. The friends of the older one are all at home studying for the board prelims. The friends of the younger one have all gone out of town to celebrate the holiday season. So this year there have been no plum cakes, no presents, no tree and definitely no Santa.

We have spent this extra-ordinary day doing ordinary stuff. Got up rather late in the morning. Had Maggi 2 minute noodles for lunch and lazed around the whole afternoon. The kids have demanded pizza for dinner. So the evening will probably turn out a little better.

So how did you celebrate the holiday this year? Did you get a completely useless gift? And did some of you spend the holiday getting over a hangover? Whatever it was, I bet it was better than mine.

So I thought I'd cheer myself up with this hilarious video. What do you think of this? Isn't this awesome? Enjoy people, and have a great holiday season!

Decisions, Decisions...

2010-12-15T18:28:00.000+05:30

Sometimes we are pushed to one, some times we make a conscious one- but we all make choices. Everyday.

The day starts with the most important one. What do I pack today for my kids' lunch? At 6 o'clock in the morning, when admittedly I'm not at my best, I often make the wrong choice. The result? The lunch boxes come home with the food barely eaten. Apparently nobody eats rotis and vegetables anymore in the class. The super cool moms have graduated to making pastas and pizzas. I, being old fashioned and 'uncool' still persist on packing rather orthodox meals. Decisions. Do I make something nutritious and hope hunger would compel them to eat it? Or do I make something tasty but junk just to make sure they have something in their stomach?

Then later, do I laze around with a cup of tea and read the newspaper? (Which I badly want to) or do I go for my yoga/walk/pranayam routine which I badly do not want to? That is a tough one indeed!

Sometimes the decisions are fun. Which place to go to this summer? An ancient city or a modern one? Glam and glitz or quaint and serene? Mountains? Beaches? Architecture? We argue, discuss and finally come to a conclusion. This time, looks like an old civilization would win over everything else.

Do I go and meet my cousin and stay with her for the weekend or do I stay at home and help my younger daughter to study for her exam on Monday? The cousin has come from abroad and I get to meet her only once a year. The exams happen all the time. So the cousin wins. And the daughter gets 90 in the exam. She usually gets 100. So was that a wise decision or a stupid one? I think a wise one. Quite a few don't agree.

The older one will be appearing for her all important class 10 exams next year March. Like all typical Indian parents, we too are feeling the pressure. The boards are almost here. How many hours is she studying? Is she still watching T.V.? Is she studying at least 6 hours a day? Have you got the last 10 years question papers? Is she solving them? Science, Arts or Commerce? Has she made a decision yet?

The latest to join the bandwagon is the IB curriculum. The schools are wooing all the students to join this prestigious board. Apparently this board has the best methodology and offers the students a shot at world's best universities. The schools are inviting the parents of class 10 students for a presentation. The fees are too high. Around Rs 6 to 10 lakhs a year. But what is a little money compared to your precious ones? Think about their bright future. Never mind the fact that the curriculum is rigorous and not many students perform well enough to get into an Ivy League college. So decision time once again. Continue in the same school? Transfer her to CBSE? What about the junior colleges? Though that would mean changing over to the State board which many consider slightly inferior.

So what decision do we make about that? My daughter is not one of those highly motivated, super brilliant, overly ambitious teen. She is just a normal 15 year old who deserves to have a decent enough education without feeling the constant pressure to do well. We talk to other parents and read about all the possible systems. We discuss with the current students of all the boards. Hopefully, the decision regarding her education will be based upon her needs and not what others expect her to choose.

And if I've not blogged lately, there is a reason. My electricity bill hit the roof last month. And I've been thinking, do I continue to be a net addict? Surf, Facebook, Google and blog? Or do I save electricity?

Life is tough sometimes.

The Fear Of Flying

2010-11-23T18:40:00.001+05:30

Every time I travel by an aeroplane, my insides drop to my feet. I hear a roar in my ears, my stomach muscles work overtime and my heart beat accelerates. A friend, who also happens to be a doctor, tells me that I have some "underlying issues" and I need to go through some "cognitive coping strategies to deal with the anxiety disorder". Remind me never to have a doctor for a friend.

I feel if some one up there wanted me to fly, he would have given me wings. It is unnatural to fly strapped in a weird giant bird making a strange noise. Every time I fly, I make it a point to sit next to my tolerant husband. That way, I can really grip his hands hard, twist his fingers and squeeze his palms almost to a pulp. That is the punishment the guy gets for insisting I fly with him. If I had my way, I'd be walking or driving every where.

This time, when we went to Rajasthan for a short trip, I flew in the smallest aircraft I've ever flown in. The damn thing did not even require proper stairs. You could just haul yourself up the plane. And there was only one door. The familiar claustrophobic feeling slowly engulfed me. I thought a strong cup of tea or coffee would settle my nerves. (Damn the puritan Indian airliners for not serving liquor on board).
"Sorry ma'am, for your own safety, we would not be serving any hot beverages in flight," the cheerful air hostess informed me.
" Why the hell not?"
" Because bad weather and turbulence might cause your coffee or tea to spill."
I nudged the husband. " Honey, may be we should just spend Diwali in Mumbai. I hear the lights have a spectacular effect on the otherwise dull city and makes it almost pretty."
"There, there," my husband just patted me indulgently. " Take a few deep breaths and count backward from 100 to 0, you'll be just fine."
"Yeah but did you hear the air hostess? Turbulent weather ahead. What will happen if lightening strikes?"
"Chances are the bolt would pass through the nose or the wing tip and exit off through the tail." That explanation did not sound very comforting. What if the bolt decides to enter through the fuselage? That would be a disaster, right? My husband of course was blissfully unaware of my incessant worries. The flight was at an ungodly hour and he had slept off even before the plane took off.

Rajasthan is a lovely state. I have been there countless number of times and every visit I discover something new. This time the discovery was in Ranakpur temple, around 100 kms from Udaipur.

I saw this temple for the first time when I was in IInd year college. A gang of us had gone there during our
Holi break. That was quite a few years ago. The temple had looked absolutely breathtaking. Exquisitely carved pillars, underground vaults, beautifully sculpted domes, the temple looked majestic amidst the Aravalli range.This time though. it was a disappointment. The light marble looked black and ugly. There were too many people inside and we were barred from going up.Somehow the temple had lost its pristine looks. The peace that we found there so many years ago had disappeared.

Perhaps we looked lost. Or perhaps we looked disenchanted. A little girl came to us and offered to show us around. Her name was Yogini and she was the priest's daughter. Since the temple's inception, the men in her family had been the priests there, performing the Puja every day.. Her brother, who was only 5, would be the the 20th generation priest one day.

She acted as our guide, telling us various stories associated with the temple, expertly weaving fiction with facts, history with mythology. She knew the story behind each pillar. She knew the temple like the back of her hand. Her command over Hindi was impeccable and I could not help but be impressed. She was only in Grade 5.

End of the tour, we asked her if she liked to study. Her beaming aunt, who was standing behind us for sometime, informed us that the girl stood first in her class every year.
" So what would you like to be when you grow up?" We asked, expecting the answer to be the standard 'a doctor' or 'a teacher'.
" A pilot," pat came the reply.
I was flabbergasted. " Why a pilot? Wouldn't you be scared to fly a plane? Going so high up in the sky?"
"Not at all. To be able to fly, to be able see the earth in a whole new way, to be able to soar... it would be so liberating"

So there. That is what I found in Rajasthan this time. The cognitive coping strategy to combat my anxiety.

There is joy to be found in soaring after all. Even a little girl knows it.

Say A Little Prayer

2010-11-15T14:11:00.000+05:30

Yesterday one of my friends took me to her Nichiren Buddhism chanting class. Though she is a practising Hindu she has been attending this class for a year. She says this has helped her tremendously. Chanting, she feels, has made her serene and tranquil. Out of sheer curiosity, I decided to go there to figure out what made her so enthusiastic about Buddhist chanting.

The class started with a chant of Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, (I bow down to the mystic laws of cause and effect). The group, which consisted of women between 30 to 50, also chanted some other prayers, which went completely over my head. They were all in Japanese.

I am not very religious, though religion fascinates me. I do not perform Puja every day. I rarely go to the temple. I do not believe in rituals. But I do have a strong faith. I believe there is a power above. I firmly believe if offered sincerely, prayers come true. I have experienced it many times myself. For me, understanding the language of that prayer is very important.Though the chants were mesmerising and sounded really beautiful, I felt completely out of place.

The leader of the group, who thankfully did not take offence at my scepticism, asked me if I understood all the Sanskrit prayers that I was more used to hearing. Most Hindu prayers are from the Vedas or the Upanishads. They are in Sanskrit which has been dead for centuries. If I could place my faith blindly in them, why could I not show the same faith in this. In my defense, I did point out that I do not chant mantras blindly. The few shlokas that I know and chant, I know their meaning. Moreover, even now, in India, there are people who can explain the philosophy behind these mantras. Sanskrit is still not so dead that we do not have teachers. How many people would I find who can explain some 13th century Buddhist texts in Japanese?

But the whole session did make me think. Is language really important when it comes to religion? How many Muslims are there in India who can fully understand the Koranic verses which are in Arabic? How many Hindus have studied the Vedas or the Geeta which are in Sanskrit? But does that make these people less devout? Do they really need to connect with the language before they connect with the faith?

You decide. All I know is that though God is universal, my relation with Him/Her is private. My prayers are unique. They are not found in any religious texts. When I chant some prayers, I want to know what they exactly mean. I pray because I want to be a better human being. I pray for strength. I pray to be a better mother. I pray for the well being of the society that we live in. I pray for my family and for my near and dear ones. What good is it to me if I do not understand that prayer?

Itchy Feet And Painted Shoes

2010-11-05T00:06:00.001+05:30

Every six months or so, the travel bug bites us.

We get this sudden, strong desire to travel.We feel a strange restlessness, an irresistible impulse to get out of our house and see some new places. Even when we go away for a short weekend trip, we come back to Mumbai recharged and refreshed.

The summer holidays, which are longer, are reserved for international travel. We have been to a lot of countries in Europe, renting apartments and staying like locals. Which means doing the grocery, getting the laundry done, travelling by local trains and buses, cooking our own dinner.We walk a lot, travel by trams and trains. The kids love the experience, and so do we. The shorter Diwali breaks are meant for India. We just choose a city or a state and experience the marvel that is India. The food, the customs, the markets...we can never have enough of it.

My kids, who have been travelling since they were knee high, are seasoned travellers. They never complain about the pace, the food, the journey. Like us, they too have itchy feet.

Every year, they also do something different. Like when we went to Austria, they made a scrap book. They collected every scraps of paper, their entry tickets to various museums, the information booklets, the maps. They collected things like fallen leaves and pine cones. They beautifully stuck these things in a small notebook and wrote their memories of the places they visited. Along the margins, they drew pictures of the things they saw and stuck the relevant photos. One day, when they are all grown up, these scrap books will bring them happy memories.

This time,my daughter Ayushi, who is the artist in the family, has painted the shoes she plans to wear. Ordinary Bata canvas shoes, now look exciting. She coated them with acrylic paint, drew flowers, painstakingly filled them with her favourite colours and gave her cheap shoes that special touch. She is happy knowing wherever she goes, people are going to stare at her shoes and admire them. The shoes look so stunning that now she plans to gift her younger cousins shoes painted by her. Inspired,the older sister, also plans to make her own pair. And so does the mother, some day.

After all, itchy feet deserve beautiful shoes, don't they?

I wish all of you a sparkling and happy Diwali. And if you intend to travel this holiday season, do post about your experiences. I love to read itchy time tales...

One World

2010-10-25T16:24:00.000+05:30

A friend of mine recently became an US citizen.

He is not the only one. Over the last decade, a lot of them, my childhood friends, my former colleagues, my family members, have surrendered their Indian passports and have adopted a new country as their own.
Every time that happens, I feel sad. Not just because I see India losing some fine people to some other country but because each time I feel I've lost a part of my former life to a foreign land. Some where back in time, these people were a big part of my life. Now they are gone from me forever.

In August I went to US for a fortnight. Some of my friends who were very close to me once appeared distant. They now have a life I no longer understand. They talk about school districts and health care policies in the US.. They discuss how the recent recession has affected their lives. They discuss the latest Apple products and the best GPS system for their cars. I do not understand their world. Some of my friends told me they chose the schools of their children keeping in mind the number of Indians and Chinese studying there. Apparently the more Indians and Chinese, the better the schools.

Every year they come to India for a visit. They shop and eat. They complain about mosquitoes and pollution. They invariably pick up a stomach bug.They talk about their lives in America. About how wonderful things are there. Meet friends and family. And after the mandatory two weeks, they leave. They do not understand our way of life any more. They do not understand why we tolerate the inefficiency of our people.Why things remain the same all the time. They do not understand why we wait for things to happen. They certainly do not understand why we are never punctual. They have spent half their lives here, and yet the land appears alien to them. There is a gap between us that no bridge could ever connect. I do not belong in their world, they do not belong in mine.

I know it is possible to stay in India and have a good career. It is possible to earn a decent living and send our children to good schools. (Schools that are full of Indians, may be the Chinese will join some day too) It is possible to live in big homes (though in Mumbai that is next to impossible if you are not Mukesh Ambani). It is possible to hold a good job and not worry about recession. So what is it about the distant lands that beckon my friends? A country that nurtured them once, why is that country no longer good enough for them?

Perhaps my views are parochial. In today's world, where going global has become the catch phrase, who cares what colour your passport is? Travel has become easy. Communication easier. No longer we book trunk-calls to talk to our family abroad. No longer we scream into the phone late night hoping to be heard across seven seas. We chat, mail, skype. Distance does not matter any more. Neither does citizenship. To the 33 Chilean miners trapped in the mine for so many days, their citizenship was the last thing on their mind. The NASA along with the Chilean Navy designed the pod that finally brought them up. The drilling equipment Strata 950 came from Australia. To speed up the drill, the supplemental motor was sent by Germany. Japanese cameras were used in the rescue operation.The world took care of these ordinary people, without caring about their nationality. Borders are after all artificially created.

But still, a woman like me, living in a country that is still years away from being fully developed, wonders what is it that makes people leave their country of birth and settle down somewhere else? Is it money? Is it opportunity? Is it freedom? Is it the convenience? What do they look for? Do they really find it?

Mean Kids

2010-10-10T12:53:00.000+05:30

My school days were all about innocent fun and everlasting friendships. I could not wait to go to school every day to meet my friends. My friends put up with my idiosyncrasies and bad humour. They helped me with my homework. They shared their food and class notes.They supported me when I went through any crisis.

My daughter however disagrees with me. According to her, school is full of mean boys and meaner girls. Kids take every opportunity to pull down each other in her school. They wilfully hurt and spread rumours about each other. They kick, slap, punch and call each other names.

There are days when she comes back from school in tears just because she has been insulted. Her friends sometimes do not invite her to their birthdays and gleefully inform her that she has been deliberately left out. Once, a girl walked out of my daughter's birthday simply because the food served was not to her liking. ( I had served aloo parathas instead of pizzas) Just a few days ago, she cried the whole afternoon because some girls called her gay as she did not have a boy friend.

My daughter is now in tenth grade. She goes to a prestigious school in Mumbai that figured in the top ten schools of Mumbai recently. The boys and girls are all above average students. They come from supposedly good families. I have met the parents of her class mates, they all seem rather nice. Then how come these kids find such inexplicable delight in ruining some one's art work or taunting some body's hair style or making fun of some one's body? My daughter is not like other 15 year olds. She finds it difficult to make friends. She finds it difficult to fit in. Therefore she has been a natural target for bullies on more than one occasions.

She is not the only one. There are many more like her who are bullied every day. The teachers complain about lack of discipline at every student-teacher meet I have attended. The kids write cuss words with permanent ink on the class room walls. They disrupt lectures. They bunk classes.Sadly, they are not even in high school. What will happen when these children enter India's work force? Will they carry this behaviour to work place?

The innocence that I expect from a 15 year old has vanished. These days, kids say "Screw you, bitch/man" and show each other the middle finger all the time. They use the F word like some punctuation mark in their sentences. They call each other ugly names and mean them too.They are often cruel to their class mates Is it a big city phenomenon? Because I often get the same response when I talk to my friends from Delhi, or Bangalore.

My daughter identifies more with the characters of Glee than with the eternal friendship of Jai and Veeru of Sholay. She thinks school is all about peer pressure and politics. She thinks childhood is a phase she has to quickly grow out of as it is very cruel.

I am devastated to know from her that school is no longer fun. It is apparently, a jungle out there.

Joy Sticks

2010-09-30T23:08:00.000+05:30

The summer time in Kolkata was idyllic.

Every year in May, my mother, my brother and I would travel to the city and spend 2 whole blissful months there. Since there was no television in the house, the long, hot afternoons would be spent playing with cousins or cooking up some trouble. The curtains would be drawn, and the carrom board would be out on the floor. There would be Ludo and card games and there would be a huge pitcher full of homemade lemonade.

There was also another event that all of us would wait for every day. At exactly 4.30 pm, we would hear a strange guttural sound from the distance. " Ice-creeeeam wallah...Kwality ice-creeeeam..." That cry was what we waited to hear every day. A shabbily dressed man of indiscriminate age pushing a cart through the neighborhood and calling to the children. We would scamper down and order what our budget permitted. An orange bar which cost 25 paise. It was a princely sum those days, specially when you consider the fact that we had an ice cream almost every day. When an uncle or an aunt came to visit us, we would shamelessly ask for a special treat, a choco bar which cost Rs 1.50. That day was like a celebration.

The parents trusted only Kwality's, my mother thought any other ice-cream was made with gutter water. The image of someone making ice cream with sewage water and dirty ice was so horrifying that even looking at some other carts gave us stomach cramps. So every evening, Kwality's it was. The guy would stop at our doorstep and look up hopefully, knowing full well there would a small army of children noisily descending down the stairs. My brother, who hated orange flavour would always ask for a chocolate bar and for some reason my mother always indulged him. I strongly suspect she was biased towards her first born, but that is of course another story.

In Delhi, there was another popular brand, called Gaylord's. Now when I think about the name, it makes me burst into laughter. But those days our vocabulary was pitifully limited and we never thought about the significance of the name. Every year they would run a promotional campaign to con us into buying more from them. Some book where we would have to stick hundred stickers.Or save the wrappers of the ice creams for some prize. It goes without saying that we never managed to win anything. But the ice cream memories were priceless. Sticky fingers, dripping cream, orange tongue, and the fine art of finishing off the ice cream before the hot Delhi sun melted it down. I did not care about the hygiene or the man's filthy fingers or even those sometimes dirty wooden spoons to scoop out the ice creams. I would continue to lick even when the poor spoon broke down filling my mouth with tiny fragments of soft wood. Precisely why I personally think I never had typhoid or jaundice or even mild diarrhoea.

The ice cream experience is different these days. There are hardly any hand carts to be seen and we go to sanitised air-conditioned parlours that boast of hundreds of flavours. Names I had not even heard of in my childhood. Tiramisu. Kiwi. Hazelnut. My ice cream vocabulary had never gone beyond orange, vanilla and chocolate. The men (or women) serve wearing disposable rubber gloves, no dirty fingernails visible. They ask if you want an ordinary or a waffle cone (never knew about that too) and are kind enough to give you tissues to wipe those sticky fingers. There is an alternative to licking your fingers clean that I never knew existed in my childhood. The prices are unimaginable. A small, tiny cup is now Rs 60. On a single day my children spend twice as much as we did on our entire vacation.

The idyllic days of summer are long gone. Nobody stays home playing ludo with cousins anymore. We are all very busy zipping off to exotic locales for our summer vacations. The Kwality's that we knew is long gone, taken over by an international giant. But on a hot day, under the scorching sun, I still stop by, with my kids, to indulge my taste buds. Take a stick of coco-vanilla, lick it, swirl it around my tongue and savour the taste of unadulterated joy. "Ice-creeeam..."

Some children obviously never grow up.

The Lost Childhood

2010-09-15T18:34:00.000+05:30

My local grocer has a prized employee. He is quick and agile on his feet, obeys each command instantly, smiles all the time and is ever ready to please all his customers. It also helps that all the people who buy groceries there, like him too. I was in fact shocked the first time I saw him. He was trying his level best to carry a 10kg sack of rice to a car parked near by. He did not look strong enough to carry the load, Tiny feet, tiny hands, he could not have been older than my younger daughter, Ayushi, who is nine.

"Do you go to school?" I asked. He just smiled. "Do you know you have the right to go to school now?" He smiled again. He did not know what 'Rights' meant. All he knew was he had to some how get the sack to the car.I was angry that an able bodied man, who was more than 3 times his age and size, expected him to carry his rice. The heaviest burden my daughter has ever carried was her school bag. Most mornings, her father, taking pity on her, carries it himself to her school.

"Why do you employ him?" I asked my grocer. " Where will he go ma'am? He has nobody. He works here. Sleeps here. Most of my customers pay him some money when he delivers their grocery home. He keeps that money plus his salary here. If I turn him out, he will have nowhere to go. He will probably end up in a home for juvenile delinquents. Do you know what goes on there?"

I do know. But still it was heartbreaking to see a boy that small work for his keep. I also knew he was not alone. There are millions of little children in India, working in worse conditions just for survival. They peddle books at traffic signals, work at road side tea stalls, pick rags, clean houses. Their parents are too poor and too ignorant to know how education can change their lives. Sometimes even knowing does not help. They need the money the little ones bring home. Childhood, a tender time which should be reserved for play, laughter, exploration and reading, is forever lost to these children. The condition of the girl child is of course much worse.

India, which is slated to be one of the top economies in the year 2020 does not care for its poor and homeless children. Neither do the Indians. The local schools will not take such children. Neither will any family agree to offer street kids free food and boarding while they completes their studies.The child working in a grocery store of a prime area of Mumbai knows that. That is why he does not complain while carrying those heavy sacks.

He has no body to complain to.

What Indian Men Can Learn From Our Favourite God

2010-09-01T22:33:00.005+05:30

There is a perfect role model in our own homes and our men never even noticed.

Born bang in the middle of India's cow belt, adopted by Yadav parents, he is amongst our top 3 Gods entirely due to his own merit. He never thought of using the 33% reservation quota, did he?

All of us know he was dark. So did he start using the Fair and Handsome? The girls fell for him anyway. It was his charisma and his personality. It's time Sahahid Kapoor, John Abraham and Shahrukh Khan acknowledge the fact that to us girls, fairness is not the priority. The personality is. Hindustan Unilever, are you listening?

Never was he scared of wearing yellow. Never was he scared of accessorizing his outfit with something as outlandish as a feather. It's all about style baby. We women prefer a bit of daring. Blues and blacks can be boring after a while.

And what about the musical instrument? We all love a man who loves music. There is nothing as romantic as being serenaded with a classical piece. It was the flute that was with him all the time, not the Blackberry.

He gets extra brownie points for coining the country's (and the world's) most popular spiritual expression of all times, Karma. Who can forget "Karmanye Vadhikaraste Ma Phaleshu Kadachana?" Every Indian mother quotes these lines to her children before exams, interviews or before any other challenging times. Wisdom at its sublime best.

No , he didn't go to Harvard. Or even to the IIMs. He simply created a Management School of his own. One of the best books I've ever read on management issues happens to be the Bhagvat Geeta. He convinced a disillusioned and devastated warrior to pick up his arms again to fight for a just cause. Let's face it. He was history's first and the best Motivational Speaker and he didn't even charge money for it.

He was not scared of loving a woman older than him. And though he was supposed to be a lady's man, none of the women he was involved with were bimbettes. They were all women of strength, unafraid of speaking their minds. He respected women. Didn't he come to Draupadi's rescue while all her five husbands, including Arjun, sat quietly? I love him for that.

I know there were too many women, but let's forgive him for this transgression, shall we? He, after all was the God of Love. And don't believe every thing that you read. Some reports were probably just publicity stunts engineered by some gopis.

He ran wild with his bunch of friends, he stole butter and cheese, he gave his mother apoplectic fits. But he also talked of war and peace. He talked of love and duty. And most important, he tried to tell a nation that work can be the only solution. We unfortunately have still not learnt this lesson, even after 5000 years.

So here's wishing my favourite God a big Happy Birthday. While I celebrate it with some thick aloo parathas with a big dollop of white butter on top and some fresh home made lassi, you guys think about why we constantly look westward for inspiration. Let me know if you come up with some valid answers.

By the way, I am eternally grateful that I was born in a Nation that values freedom of expression but still, do not tell any SS, MNS or Shri Ram Sene activist about this post, OK? I do not want hate mails (males?) flooding my inbox.. After all, this post just exposes my quirky humour and is not meant to offend any body, or any religion. I hope you understand...

Break Ke Baad*

2010-08-28T12:34:00.002+05:30

I was on a holiday that took 25 years to plan.

It all began in a small town called Kharagpur. There, a few boys barely out of their teens, regularly discussed their aspirations and plans. They were all students of an engineering institute that was "Dedicated to the service of the Nation". Through the years, the 'ser' of the word 'service' had worn off, inspiring laughter and jokes. The college building was rather ordinary. The hostels were even more spartan. In one of those hostels, named after the first President of Independent India, these boys shared their notes, shared their tea, shared their limited wardrobe before a big interview and shared their dreams. Just before their graduation, they made a promise. They vowed to meet again, after 25 years. Rather like 3 Idiots, right? But unlike the reunion in the movie, this meeting after 25 years would be to celebrate life. It would be to celebrate their successes, their marriages, their kids. It would be to celebrate everlasting friendship. Most important, it would be to celebrate the institute that would ultimately change their lives forever.

This celebration happened in August this year. And that is where I was. In Orlando, Florida to be a part of this big event that was planned almost 25 years ago, on the fourth floor of a nondescript hostel. As you might have guessed, my husband was one of the planners.

Why USA? Simple. Most of the ex-students were now settled there. A fact that continues to sadden me. As we were the only ones from India, (two others from here had to change their plans for some reason) it made more sense to meet them there than to fly all of them here. Although the party was for the kids as well, I had to leave mine behind. My children had school. I really hated leaving them here but there was nothing much I could do about the situation. The American kids had holidays in August and this was a suitable time for all of them. Majority, after all, always wins in a democracy.

The seven days that we spent in Orlando were amazing. There were unlimited fun and laughter, plenty of impromptu songs and dances and many anecdotes to share from the past. Of course the splendid view of the Atlantic did not hurt. Early morning the pelicans would dive to the ocean for their breakfast and the dolphins would perform synchronized jumps. As the ad says, it was priceless.

Florida was hot and steamy but as Mumbai has a very similar weather, it was hardly a bother to us. What surprised me though was the temperature of the water. I guess I was used to the warm Arabian sea. The cold water of the Atlantic came as a shock to me. But you get used to it after a while. The kids went crazy trying to surf and I missed my older daughter so much. She is a water baby. She would have loved it.

In the last 25 years, there have been some changes in the institute. The 'ser' in the 'services' has been restored to its rightful place. There are more girls to be found there, making the place less drab. There are some new wings, new buildings. Modern technology has made the lives of the students easier. But the boys still dream. They still study hard and make plans. They still talk about reunions. I just hope the reunions they talk about, happen in India. It would be so wonderful then.

The view from the place where we stayed

Just some ordinary birds, trying to make a living

Shopping for breakfast

The planners, they may have lost some hair and found some weight but the twinkle in their eyes remain the same

Not all of us are there, but you get the picture. I'm the woman in red!

America was beautiful but every time I go away from India, I realize how tied I am to this place. It may be maddening, it may be chaotic but this is a place I call home.

And it feels so good to be back.

* After the break.

The Dragon Slayers

2010-07-20T14:03:00.000+05:30

When I was small, it was my brother who took on that role.

Delhi, like the rest of India, was not a stranger to insects, rats, spiders, lizards and other creepy-crawlies. And where I grew up, a flat in a government colony in Minto Road, New Delhi, there was no dearth of such creatures.

Often I would find roaches invading my study table. Or spiders in my cupboard. There was once a lizard floating in my bath water. No matter how hard my mom tried to keep her home clean, there was always an alien lurking somewhere to invade her space. My brother, who for some reason found such creatures rather fascinating, was the designated bug buster. Broom in hand, he would gleefully chase the offending creature, driving it away. I, being petrified of it, would stand on the tallest structure in the room, a bed, a chair or the table and try to direct him to his prey. " There, there, behind the T.V., strike, whack, swat..." Or, "There it is, climbing the curtains, kill it, kill it". Fear turns the best of us into killers. My brother, who was not a killer, would hold the creature in his hands, (eeewwww) and release it outside. That got him another round of blood curdling screams. " Why did you not destroy that damn thing? Now it will come back again."

For all his faults, (he was a weak wimp after all) he took his role as the dragon slayer rather seriously. His primary job was to defend his little sister and he never forgot to inspect the bathroom before her bath or the bedroom before her bedtime. He kept an hawks eye under the sofa, behind the curtains, inside the shoe rack and all other such vulnerable places. He spoiled me to such an extent that I'd often wonder how I'd ever cope without him in my life. Being a brave girl of the New World, I could fight my battle against any two-legged beast and win, but who would chase away the anthropods and the reptiles?

So, when I decided to get married, one of the first questions I asked my husband was " Are you scared of cockroaches or lizards?" If he thought I was mad, he never let me know.

Over the years, my husband has protected the women in his life, his wife and his two daughters, countless number of times. He saved us from those big brown cockroaches with beady eyes and long tailed lizards with clawed feet. He saved us from smelly rats and ugly spiders. Over the years, he has been able to gauge the seriousness of the threat by just listening to our screams. He now knows whether to pick up a rolled up newspaper or a long handled broom just by hearing how much stress we put on our vowels when we say "Aaaaahhh" Choosing the right weapon is half the battle won.

So my house, thanks to my husband and my pest control agency is normally alien free. The problem arises when he travels. Like now. There is a big, revolting, lizard on my kitchen wall and I do not know what to do. I gave my kids bread for breakfast, I asked my mother in law to make the morning cup of tea and I'm here now, in front of the computer blogging, when I should be thinking of lunch.

The fire breathing, broom weilding Dragon Slayer is quite appropriately in China. And I'm missing him terribly.

India Through Their Eyes

2010-07-12T17:05:00.000+05:30

Last week I had some guests at home.

Though they were of Indian origin, they had not been a part of my country for a long time. The husband was an American citizen who left India almost 25 years ago. The wife was an Australian who had never lived in India. Their laptop was stolen at Mumbai airport. The wife sheepishly admitted they were pretty lax when it came to such issues and the thought of locking their suitcases had not occurred to them. "We no longer have the habit" was what she said to be precise. Traffic snarls, potholes and numerous questions later, (What are these? Slums? Is it where Slumdog Millionnaire was shot? How come there are so many people on the roads? Why do trucks have Horn Please written? Isn't it impolite to honk here?) when we finally reached home, it was almost as long as their journey across an ocean and several seas. The weather was gloomy and it continuously rained which created further delays.

And I kept on thinking, what do they see when they look at my country? When they see barefoot children playing in the rain, do they see the poverty or do they see happy children? When they see policemen taking bribes from commuters, ( happened right in front of us) do they see how immune we have become to corruption? When their laptop went missing, did they think this was inevitable? And the unruly traffic and the constant honking? What do they think of that?

When they see my India, a country that I think is vibrant, colourful, confusing and endearing, what do they really see? A billion people working hard just to survive? A dirty, messy, smelly country? A country full of crooked people trying to con the foreigners? What do they see? Do they see the love?

He Said She Said Part II

2010-07-08T21:16:00.000+05:30

He said: Wan't to go for a walk?

She said: Are you crazy? In this rain?

He said: I thought you loved the rains.

She said: I do, but not the Mumbai variety.

He said: So what do we do? Want to eat out tonight?

She said: OK. Let's go to McDonalds.

He said: McDonalds? That's hardly suitable for the occasion.

She said: Who cares? The kids will love it. Moreover I don't want to change out of my track bottoms and sneakers.

He said: What happened to your high heels?

She said: I packed them off. Mumbai monsoons are shoe-killers. Moreover, I get my sciatica pains if I wear heels for a long time.

He said: Alright, that's settled then. I have to check my mail and make some calls. We'll leave at 8.

She said: And I have some groceries to pick and vegetables to buy. 8 seems perfect. Oh, don't forget to sit with the older one with her math problems. I will be teaching the younger one for her tests tomorrow.

He said: Right. Remember to buy Ma's BP medication when you go out.

She said: And you don't forget to return your cousin's call. He has called twice already.

He said: Sure. Hey kids, guess what? Tonight is special and we are going to celebrate it by going out to McDonalds!

They said: Awwww, can't we order some pizza instead? We don't want to miss our TV show.

He said: (Looking slightly relieved) Well, we can do that, what do you say?

She said: (Looking relieved too) We can certainly do that. Let's order pizza. I have to get up early tomorrow morning. And I have this book to finish. May be this Sunday we all could go out.

He said: I have to go over some reports. And make a con-call. Fine, next Sunday kids. Meanwhile let's call the pizza guy.

They said: Yayyyyy!

The story actually started like this. And then continued like this. But that was some years ago. He is still gallant, she is still romantic. But for both of them, the definition of love has somehow changed...

The Carousel

2010-06-27T23:57:00.004+05:30

I slid into the driver’s seat, let in the clutch, and we were off. I knew it was illegal, but it didn’t matter any more. All that mattered right now was where I was heading. What I was doing. Saving a life.

8 hours before…

“I’m so excited. I’ve never been to an amusement park with so many rides before. And they’re all so high. Wow.”

“Ok, I need you to keep quiet. For a while at least, I’m going to make a call. So don’t move.”

We both knew that I had just wasted my breath. As if keeping silent was possible for Libby. She had yakked all the way to the park.

“Ooh ooh! Look at this!” Libby cried.

God, when is she going to shut up?

Ignoring Libby, I continued to argue with my agent on the phone. She hadn’t managed to land me a role in months.

“Ishita!”

“Shhh!” I waved my hand at her without turning around, motioning her to stay shut.

“Ishitaaa!” Libby cried again.

“What is it?” I snapped, turning around. “I thought I told you to–“

There was no Libby. Only a large throng of people enveloping me.

“Libby?” Great. Just great. Now she got herself lost in the crowd. “LIBBY!”

My phone rang. “What?” I angrily snapped into the phone, seriously considering hanging up.

“Looking for Libby?” A sinister voice called from the other side.

“Who is this?” I said cautiously into the phone.

“Now, how does that matter? All that matters is that you want Libby back. Am I right?”

“Who is this? Where is Libby?”

“Oh don’t worry, Libby is with me.” He snarled into the phone.

“Then give her back to me.”

“Of course I will. Why would I keep her from you? I just need something in return.”

“You want to trade her?”

“For a price, obviously.”

There was silence. I had just received a ransom call from a stranger who had my niece, and I didn’t know what to do.

“How much?”

“Ah. There’s my girl. It’s not much. Only five lakhs.”

My mouth went dry. I hadn’t had a job in months. Where was I going to get so much money?

“You’ll get it. Just don’t hurt her.”

There was a sinister laughter on the other side. “You just get the money, I’ll take care of the rest.”

“How do I know that she’s alive?” Immediately I heard Libby scream. “Libby!”

There was that laugh again. “Oh and just one more thing.”

“What?”

“You have only eight hours. Or she’s dead.”

I closed my eyes and prayed to God, asking him to help me through this. Taking a deep breath, and pulling my ski mask on, I slunk through the huge backyard. Reaching the building, I broke the window with one swift kick. Jumping in, I loped to the large safe.

“Fifty five, thirty one, six, and ten, two to the left… ah!” I muttered; as I cracked open the safe. All those years of safe - cracking finally put to some good cause, instead of stealing. Everything should be a safe - cracker turned actor. Both skills were useful during a crisis. Like now.

The safe had opened completely, and in front of me, I saw bundles of cold, hard cash. It was everything I wanted, everything I needed. And more. Taking exactly five lakhs from the safe, I put it in the bag, shut the door, and fled.

I should be counting my blessings. There had been no alarm, no hidden cameras, no police, and best of all – no one had seen me. And everything contained in the posh abode screamed rich. It was as though God had willed this crime. How ironic.

Pulling off my ski mask, I jumped into the car, and immediately sped to the amusement park. The journey to the park felt like eternity. I just couldn’t get there fast enough, all the while hoping, praying Libby was safe, and unhurt.

Reaching the park, I tried to jump the turnstile, but as soon as I did, I was stopped a security guard.

“Ma’am, the park is closed. You can’t enter.”

“But I need to go. My niece is in there.”

“We will go look for–“I silenced him with one swift punch to his nose, and I heard the sickening sound of cartilage snap as he fell unconscious to the ground.

“Sorry.” I muttered, as if he could hear me, and ran to where I had lost her first.

“Libby!” I screamed desperately searching. “LIBBY!”

And then I saw her, taped to the carousel. Screaming her name, I ran to her, but I was stopped by a man. It was he.

“You came.”

“Here’s your money.” I said to him flinging the bag at him. He let me go, and I ran to her. Libby was bleeding, and her breath was shallow. I could feel tears roll down my cheeks, but I didn’t bother to brush them off. I gently removed the tape of Libby, as fast as I could. When I was done, I picked her up and ran to my car. The man was gone, I noticed.

“Who’s here for Libby?”

“I am.” I said, rising. “Is she alright? How badly was she hurt?”

The doctor’s face was serious, but otherwise blank. She spoke monotonously.

“Libby was shot in the chest five times, and she was very hurt. I’m surprised that she survived that. But-“Oh no. Oh no no. The doctor continued to speak, but I couldn’t hear a thing. Blood rushed in my ears, and the whole world became a blur. Libby was gone. Gone. Forever. There was nothing else I could do but sink down on the floor and cry.

This was the essay my daughter Ishita wrote for her English class. Thought you people would like to read it.

Love, Like, Hate, Adore.

2010-06-24T13:19:00.000+05:30

Do you remember your first crush? The thrill? The madness? The excitement? Do you remember the anxiety?

I remember. I was 14 and so was he. He was a geek, (how I loved those glasses!) Had an overbite. ( Isn't that better than saying he had buck teeth a la Dharmendra in Ghazab?) He spoke with a slight South Indian accent. ( I found it super cool....would have used another word but my daughters read this blog.) In other words, I was totally mesmerized.

I remember talking about it with my friends. I remember writing down my name on a sheet of paper, A-P-A-R-N-A and then writing down his below mine , V-I-, well never mind, my husband reads my blog too. I remember striking off the letters that were common to both our names and softly counting the ones that were left. Love, Like , Hate, Adore...ticking off the remaining letters one by one till I arrived at the conclusion. It was such an innocent, silly game.

Two of the books that I read last week dealt with first loves. In Alice Munro's collection of short stories, Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage; Johanna, the protagonist of the title story is a strong yet vulnerable woman. The story centres around a deception two school girls play on her and the unusual turn her life takes due to this childish prank. Incidentally, Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship Marriage is also the childish game the two preteen girls play to determine the fate of Johanna's love, something very similar to my own Love Like Hate, Adore. Interesting, isn't it?

The book has 9 stories in the collection. Alice Munro, a Canadian author, sets the stories in provincial towns of Canada. The stories are of ordinary women and their ordinary lives. Their dreams, love, fate and aspirations. Nettles, a story that I particularly liked, dealt with a girl's chance meeting with her first love after many years. The story is poignant, reminding us nothing remains the same forever and fate can be cruel at times. Some stories in the collection are simple, some are more complex. The author, the 2009 Man Booker International Prize winner for her lifetime work and a contender for the Nobel Prize, deftly unwraps the lives of women in small town Canada and moves you with her simple and powerful narration.

I do not know whether I should recommend the book. Authors like Chekhov, Saki, O Henry or Edgar Allen Poe, to name a few short story writers, have impressed me more than Alice Munro. But you can try out her books, they are definitely worth a read.

The other book that I read was South Of The Border, West Of The Sun by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese author, now settled in the USA. This 186 page novel, which you can finish in 2 days, is a somewhat touching tale of Hajime and Shimamoto who were classmates in an elementary school. They have similar taste in music ( the title of the book is taken from a song by Nat King Cole) and spend hours listening to songs in the girl's house.They are perhaps in love but are too young to know for sure.Years later, Hajime, now a successful owner of a jazz bar, married with a pair of kids, meets Shimamoto again and they begin their clandestine love story.

This book is about wrong choices we often make in our lives. A flawed man, Hajime is not your typical hero. He is selfish and insecure and he ultimately does something that causes his almost perfect life to come crashing down around him. A lot of people would perhaps identify with his character. His lady-love Shimamoto on the contrary is a mystery woman. Till the end the reader has no idea about her true nature. All we get are some small glimpses into her life. Sometimes sappy, sometimes touching, the book left a lasting impression on me, though I admit I really hated Hajime at times. I loved Murakami's style. I now know why there are some people who swear by him and I would definitely love to read more of his work. His language is soft and rich and each word dazzles. He creates a strong imagery in your mind and you can see his characters right in front of you. Although, this perhaps is not the best work by Murakami, it still is a highly enjoyable read.

There was a delightful book that I picked up called In The Pond by Ha Jin, a Chinese writer, settled in, you guessed it, USA. The literature students would be familiar with the Picaresque novels of Europe in the 17th and 18th century. In The Pond reminded me of those novels.The protagonist, Shao Bin, works as a pipe fitter in a fertilizer factory in a small village in Northern China. He is a senior worker and deserves an apartment in the Worker's Park Apartment Compound. But he gets passed over for the corrupt officials of the Communist Party and their cronies. The episodic novel tells the story of how Shao Bin, with the help of his art (he is a calligrapher) and a few journalist friends, takes on the commune's Party Secretary and fights for his rights. I loved the book. The book (only 178 pages) made me realize how similar the Indian Babus are and how the common Indians, waiting for a telephone connection, a house, a gas connection are harassed every day by these corrupt bureaucrats of our country. The Indians and the Chinese are not so different after all. The Hindi-Chini Bhai Bhai slogan may actually mean more than we ever thought! Who else will know better than the officials who coin such terms! I highly recommend the book. It is funny and entertaining. You will not be disappointed.

The other book that I finished was The Bookseller Of Kabul, by Asne Seierstad, a Norwegian journalist. The story is an account of her stay with an Afghan family in Kabul. It is yet another tale of Afghanistan's tyrannical male dominated society and the brutal treatment of Afghani women. Apart from making me happy about the country of my birth, the book did not do any thing for me. It lacked the raw emotions of A Thousand Splendid Suns or the poignancy of The Kite Runner. This was nothing new and can be completely avoided. Those who have not read Khaled Hosseini's books on Afghanistan however should definitely pick up his books. I simply adore them.

I am thoroughly enjoying my journey of the world through books. The next few books on my list are

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I love her poetry and I did not know she also wrote novels. This apparently is the only novel she wrote.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid, in fact I have already finished this one. It is a superb read.

In The Country Of Men by Hisham Matar.

I hope you will keep on recommending books for me to read. This is such a wonderful world, this world of books...

Phish, Phutball And Jamai Shashthi

2010-06-17T16:16:00.002+05:30

My husband has been excommunicated from the Bengali community.

He does not have the typical Bengali traits and hates everything the community loves.

In the current football crazy Bengali world, he is showing utter apathy towards the game. He does not know how many teams are playing in the FIFA World Cup, he does not know the names of the players, he has no inkling as to who Ronaldo is and what colour jerseys the Brazilians (the eternal favourites of the Bongs) wear. His sins do not stop there. He hates fish, the Bengali's staple diet and has not touched the creature in the last 20 years. He hates Rabindrasangeet, every self respecting Bengali's pride and joy and he absolutely abhors eating rice before going to work. Naturally the community took major offence and finally kicked him out.

But my mother, the most loyal supporter my husband ever had, of course is not giving up. She uses every trick in the book to convert him back. And the most lethal weapon that she ruthlessly uses for this noble cause is the Jamai Shashthi.

For the uninitiated, Jamai Shashthi is celebrated all over Bengal on the sixth day of the Shukla Paksha of the month of Jyeshtha. (Translated into English, it means every year in June, around this time.) On this day, the mothers-in law prepare mouth watering delicacies and invite the jamais, or the sons in law to their homes. It goes without saying the food prepared by the moms-in-law happen to be the favourite of the jamais. Bengalis love to eat and on this day, tradition demands a grand feast. The more exotic the food, the better. Since my husband hates the traditional Bengali food, my mom actually serves him Chinese. Then there are the sweets. There are at least 5 varieties of them. And yes, in between the sweets and the fries and the lunch and the dinner and elaborate tea, there are also huge plates full of fruits. After this, a lot of jamais simply collapse and are unable to attend office the next day. Most bosses in Kolkata also suffer from the same condition and hence fully sympathize. The leaves are granted without any hesitation. They later on compare notes on whose mother in law prepared the best fare and who got the best gifts. (Did I tell you the jamais get gifts also? Shirts, trousers, wallets, books, watches...whatever they fancy) The daughters, though lament the fact that there is no special day assigned to them, do not really complain very loudly. Along with the jamais, they are also invited to their parents' homes for the feast.

Today happens to be Jamai Shashthi. My mother has been calling me for the last 2 weeks, nagging me to take my husband shopping to buy him whatever he wants. My husband asked if he could buy a BMW but my mom said she only had the money to buy him a cycle. So he had to be content with some clothing. She again called me last night, and then this morning to check if I had prepared his favourite stuff. Not satisfied with the food cooked at home, she demanded I take him out for, you guessed it, Chinese.

This has been going on for the last 17 years. Since my mother and I stay in different cities, she sends me some money every year and coaxes me to take my husband out for dinner. Next day she calls me again to know what all we ate. As he loves sweets and fruits with passion, she expects me to fill up my refrigerator with his favourite stuff and feed him all that periodically.

Today Kolkata would be wearing a festive look. Over too much food, the jamais and the rest of the gang would be discussing the rising prices of the fish, Brazil's not so charming display of football this year and the latest spat between Mamata and Budhdhadev. There would be a smattering of jokes that only the Bengalis could come up with, there would be some Rabindrasangeet and of course there would be enough food to feed the entire country. My husband, who is going over to Delhi on work, would be missing out on all that fun. In the morning he surreptitiously tried to find out what all my cousins would be eating today at their sasural and seemed a bit unhappy for missing out on all those jamai shashthi sweets.

BTW, the other day I said, "Did you see Messi? Absolutely dazzling foot work!"
He replied, "Your masi came? When? How is she? And since when has she dazzled with her foot work? She can hardly walk...."
And then he said, " Your Kaka, Masi are all in South Africa to watch football? How come I did not know?

So guys, do you think the Bengalis were wrong to throw him out of the community?

No Country Like Home

2010-06-11T19:21:00.000+05:30

I have some memories of that year. Vague sketchy memories. I was too young, but I do remember the blackouts, the siren, the impassioned "Jai Bangla" cry. For those of us who were in Kolkata at that time, the war had entered our doorsteps. Millions had entered our country as refugees and the air was thick with tension.

The year was 1971. The Bangladeshis were fighting for liberation. Indira Gandhi was pledging full support. And India's Sam Manekshaw was masterminding strategies to win the war. Unlike the author of The Golden Age, children in India did not grow up listening to war stories. That perhaps is the reason why I found this particular book so fascinating and engrossing. The war was so near to me, yet I knew nothing of it.

The Golden Age by the Bangladeshi author Tahmima Anam won the Commonwealth Writers Prize in 2008. It is the story of a woman, Rehana Haque and her two children Sohail and Maya during the Bangladesh war. It is the story of a mother who held on to her two children with all her strength and never gave them up. It is the story of a country, battered and bruised but never giving up hope and it is the story of an obscene war, tearing apart ordinary lives and ordinary families. This was one stunning novel I hated to put down,

To be honest, the novel's first half did not impress me so much. I found some discrepancies in the initial pages. A Hindu neighbour of Rehana, called Supriya Sengupta wears a heavy gold mangalsutra to show she is married. Bengali women wear the mangalsutra as a fashion statement and not as a sign of marriage. We wear the 'loha' an iron bangle for that. We also wear the the traditional shankha-paula or the red and white bangles. Mangalsutra was never a part of bridal jewellery. It is only now, seeing women of other regions proudly flaunting this sacred thread, we have started wearing it. But we have no hesitation in taking this off when the saree or the outfit that we are wearing does not match with this accessory. To think that a woman in 1971 Bangladesh would wear one to indicate she was married seemed a bit unlikely to me. My mother's generation never wore the mangalsutra.

The story also mentions how Rehana took her children to see Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra in 1959. The reference of the movie is important here as this is one of the reasons Rehana lost custody of her children. I feel the author should have researched a bit more on this as the movie in question was released in 1963. A little bit imperfect history, but still the novel is powerfully written.

The other book I read in my quest to go round the world's libraries was Cry, The Beloved Country by Alan Paton. If the earlier book was gritty, this one was taut with emotions. This is the story of Stephen Kumalo, a black priest in a tiny village of South Africa who went to the big, bad city of Johannesburg to find his son. The book takes us through the black and white South Africa, the prosperity of the whites and the abject poverty of the blacks, the Shanty Town of the blacks and the beautiful houses of the whites. It explores the racial injustice in a country where the whites controlled the blacks and completely destroyed their tribal culture.

The book is remarkable. This is what I would call a true classic. Each word, carefully chosen is full of beauty, wisdom and despair. You have to read it. There is no other way to describe it. Grab your copy today.

One book set in Bangladesh. Another in far away South Africa. One place where heavy monsoon rains mercilessly destroy the lives of the people but make the land lush, green and fertile. Another, where there are continuous droughts and the land is almost always parched. Two different cultures, two different races. And two authors deeply in love with their land, their despair and their hope of renewal for their own countries.

So these were the books I read last week. I have already finished another book this week. But that is of course for my next post. Some of the books that I've shortlisted are as follows:

1. Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage by Alice Munro, a Canadian author. I fell in love with the name!
2. South Of The Border,West Of The Sun by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese. Again I loved the name and that is why I picked this up.
3. The Bookseller of Kabul by Asne Seierstad, a Norwegian journalist.
4. In The Pond by Ha Jin, a Chinese author, settled in USA.

I have been unable to decide on books from Australia and New Zealand. If you have a suggestion, then let me know. Till then I will be reading the ones listed above...

The World And The Lover

2010-06-04T00:01:00.002+05:30

What does the word 'World' mean to you? Earth? Human population? Civilization? Countries which have borders created by people? Geographical landmarks?

I have been thinking about it a lot ever since I read the book 'Around the world in 80 days' to my child. As most of you know, this classic book tells us how an English man Phileas Fogg and his French valet Passespartout travel around the world in 80 days to win a wager.

While reading the story, my daughter Ayushi, who is passionate about books, said,''Imagine how wonderful it would be to go to the different book stores of this world! Imagine how many books we could then read! I would call this adventure Around the world's libraries in 80 days''...

The child's imagination has set me up on a journey. I have decided to read as many books as possible from across the world in 80 days. There are many wonderful authors all across the globe. Some we have read, some we haven't. Many books are not available in Indian bookstores. But today, who really cares for such trivial difficulties? Books are available online. So I decided to read books set in various parts of our world. This would be my way of circumventing the world in 80 days. By doing this, I hope to learn more about the terrain, the culture, the people of this wonderful planet we call home. This would be my tribute to the world of literature.

My reading list as of now, is a bit sketchy. I have not decided still what all books to read. A lot depends upon the availability of a particular book. All I know is that I would like to read as many international authors as possible.

My 80 days started on June 1. I finished reading The Lover by Marguerite Duras. She was born in Saigon, a French colony which is now in Southern Vietnam. At the age of 70, she wrote L'amante, or The Lover which won her the Goncourt Prize (Le Prix Goncourt). She was an avant garde writer, and her writing style can be a bit ambiguous. But her words stay with you for a long time. And it's only later, once you have finished the book and put it down, her story starts to make sense.

The Lover is a gritty story of a poor French girl and her forbidden love affair with a rich Chinese man. When the story starts, the girl is fifteen and half. The man is twenty seven. Their troubled affair continues for one and a half years. Her manic-depressive mother encourages the girl to continue this affair for money. Her family feels this affair is a favour granted to the man as the girl is white and hence superior. Set in Saigon and Sa Dec during the French rule, this is a story with veiled references to racism, colonialism, poverty and lust.

The book is autobiographical. The girl in the story is the author herself. The novel's narration is in the first person but it often jumps to the third person. This can create a bit of ambiguity but as I said, slowly this starts to make sense.

I wish the book showcased more of the Indochina culture and way of life in the '30s. But it only talks about the love affair and very rarely discusses the cultural issues of those times.

Did I love the book? I can not say. I felt disturbed by it. I felt a little sad but I loved the ending, I thought it was a bit like a Bengali book I'd read many years ago called Na Hanyate (It does not die) by Maitreyi Devi. Those of you who have read that one can perhaps understand.

The book has only 120 pages, so I managed to finish this in 2 days.

The next one on my list is 'Cry, the beloved country' by Alan Paton. I have already finished about 100 pages of it. As this is a very famous book, a lot of you would have already read it. I hope to finish it in another 2 days.

I can not write book reviews, I do not think I am qualified to do so. Moreover, reading habits are rather personal and what appeals to me may not appeal to you. I only hope by reading about different people on the earth, I can understand our world a little better.

Those of you, who would like to join me in my quest can feel free to do so. You can either read the book that I am currently reading or pick up any other book that you would like. If you recommend it, I may include it in my reading list. I hope, after 80 days, I will be a little more literate. And don't forget to hold my hand, I will need a lot of support to finish my journey...

Where's Your Body, Woman?

2010-05-28T21:09:00.002+05:30

As a raw, completely wet behind the ears 22 year old, I had joined the big bad world of advertising. Man, was it a shock to my system? There was no respect for age, gender, race, creed, religion or whatever. People used four letter words as punctuations. They came in late and worked till early mornings. Men talked about various body parts without any shame or inhibition and women did the same. To top it all, I was the only female in my creative team. And I loved it.

I loved the energy, the fun, the excitement. I loved the challenges and the camaraderie. I loved the whole creative process and most of all, I loved my team and my creative head. It was another story that my copies always ended up in the garbage bin. My boss would often scream at me, "Aparna, don't write a press release, write a copy. Write better, shorter, crisper.Write sexier."

Derik, my boss, was always trying to teach me to write better ads. Write an attention grabbing, riveting headline. Write a mind boggling, jaw dropping body copy. Most important, write a hard hitting punch line. The ad should make the readers salivate. It should make the poor guys or gals want to jump up and buy the product then and there. Unfortunately, my attempts were almost always the non-salivating types and ended up as paper planes flying towards the bin.

The first product I handled was a lingerie brand. Lacy and sinful looking underthings used to be strewn all over the office. The creative and the client servicing team discussed the merits of the straps, the hooks, the designs of the inner wear so clinically that soon my initial embarrassment disappeared. I felt absolutely no hesitation in discussing the product with the boys. The final ad had no eye ball grabbing headline. It had no body copy describing the various merits of the undergarment. There was no tag line urging the reader to buy the brand. It had a visual of a beautiful woman sitting on a beach, looking at the sea. A four line poetry described the inner beauty of the woman. The result was a beautiful, subtle ad that our entire agency fell in love with. The client promptly rejected our effort. He wanted a woman posing half naked looking lasciviously at the camera. All efforts at trying to tell him this kind of ad may appeal to the baser instincts of a man but would put women off completely, went down the drain. He just would not accept the ad. Derik lambasted the client, raged against such sexist behaviour and tried his best to convince him. Nothing worked. He finally accepted his wish and asked us to create a crass and tasteless ad for him. We were heart broken but finally got around to accept that not all clients were as intelligent as us. And the fact that Derik loved our ad meant more than the client's approval.

Our team of four, 3 boys and 1 girl, loved him fiercely. He was our mentor, our support. He was a father figure to all of us and we went to him for advice even when the problems were personal. He shaped our thinking and helped us to hone our raw talent. He was the best boss I've ever worked for.

Our superiors influence us for lives. When you work for a boss you love, the results show.The work becomes more exciting. It is not a chore to go to work every day and slave over tough projects. The men and women who mentor budding talents, I wonder if they realise that how important their roles are. Their mentoring ultimately affects the whole industry.

Even now, when I write a blog post, I keep thinking, would Derik approve? Would he find my head line captivating? Would he like the body? The last line? Or would he say, "What happened to your head woman? And where's your body?"

I would love to know. Unfortunately my all time favourite boss, Derik Fernandes Prabhu, an award winning advertising guru,died suddenly around fifteen years ago. He was in his fifties. And I never got to tell him how much his mentoring meant to me.

But if he is up there somewhere, drinking wine with the angels and looking at my head or body, then "Thank you Derik, you were the best and I loved you. Now, how's that for a punchline?"

Aap Ka Naam? Baap Ka Naam?

2010-05-15T16:39:00.002+05:30

I have been officially counted as a citizen of India.

Yesterday a lady came for census at my house. Like all courier boys, plumbers and electricians, she also came in the afternoon, when most people in India take a siesta. Though I was not taking a nap, I was engrossed in a thriller and resented the interruption. But remember those good old Doordarshan days? How the government ads urged us to never lie to the census officials and give them the right facts and figures? I was suddenly bombarded with those long forgotten images.
"Jan ganana," she said and I invited her in.
" Aap ka naam? " Was her first query. And then the whole conversation went like this.

" Aapka naam? " (Your name?)
" Aparna "
" Pita ka naam? " (Father's name?)
" Arun Dasgupta "
" Do you own this flat? "
" My husband and I jointly own the house "
" Whats his name? Whats his qualification? "
I mumbled he was a B.Tech. She looked unhappy.
" What's that? "
" It means he is a graduate engineer. "
" And what else? "
" Pardon? "
" I mean what happened after he became an engineer. MBA? CA? LLB? "
I had to apologetically murmur that he was only an engineer and nothing else.
She looked at me with pity. Already I'm sure the government has classified me under the category Women Married To Lesser Mortals.
After duly noting down my children's and my educational background (she did not raise her eye-brow, thank god) she pounced on my poor mother in law.
" What's her education? "
" She was a B.Ed."
" WHAT? "
" She had done her teacher's training after her graduation."
" What? How old is she? "
" 75 "
" WHAT? 75 and she was so well educated? Can't be possible "
I felt apologetic once more.
" Sorry she studied so much. I hear she was rather good at it so her parents encouraged her to be a teacher."
" OK. Now tell me, where was your husband born? "
" Patna."
" No, no tell me the village."
" Well I know decades of misrule has ruined the place but last time I checked, Patna was still a city. He was not born in any village."
The woman looked suspicious again.
" Which state is Patna in?"
" Er, Bihar?" (Will she get angry and tell us leave Maha Land and go back to 'North India?' These days I have become a bit anxious.). She thankfully let that pass.
" And where were you born?"
" Kolkata."
No geography lessons this time. She knew where Kolkata was.
" And your mother-in law?"
" Dhaka" I mumbled, waiting for the 'WHAT?" I knew was coming my way.
" WHAT?" (See, I told you.)
" Dhaka where? Which state?"
" Dhaka as in the capital of Bangladesh. When she was born, India was undivided."
"OK, OK. But are you sure none of you were born in any villages? Where were your daughters born?"
I apologized once again. "Both my daughters were born in New Delhi. We all are rather suave and urbane Indians. Our families ceased to have the right to go back to the family village the day our country was partitioned.
She was disgusted to know we had no village connections. Rightfully so, the real India lives in its villages.
"But tell me then what should I write as your native place?"
Now that's a dilemma. Mumbai, where we own a place surely can not be a 'native place'. Neither can be Patna or Kolkata where we do not own any property. Apparently she had to write down the address of the house in the 'native place'. After almost 15 minutes of trying to convince her that we were rootless Indians without any native place, she finally gave up.
When she started winding up I became a bit rattled. What happened to the question of my 'caste'? The whole of India was debating that issue and the lady here did not even ask me about this. I felt rather cheated.
" Wait a minute ma'am. You did not ask me about my caste."
" WHAT?" She seemed to have an apoplectic fit. "But you do not live in the jhopad-patti.(slums). You live in a building!"
It was my turn to say WHAT this time. I obviously did not get the connection between slums and caste.
" But the government wants to know our caste. It came in the papers". I was sure it would soon be incorporated in our Fundamental Duties. The Government of India hereby directs all the citizens to reveal their castes to the census officials, or else...
" Madam, are you a SC/ST? Building people can not be SC/ST. We have been instructed to take down the castes of those residing in slums only."
That left me a little confused. Certainly some' Building people' can be members of a schedule caste. And not all jhopad-patti dwellers would be dalits. So what exactly was the purpose of this caste based census then? For whose benefit? I asked the lady about this. She ranted and raved about the ill-effects of reservation, job quota, caste politics and the corrupt politicians exploiting the caste issue. I almost felt sorry for asking the question. I had touched a raw nerve.
After she ran out of steam, she prepared to leave.
" Don't you have to mark my house door or something? "
" Sorry madam, I forgot to get the special ink. But why worry? You have been counted, right? "

So I had. A family of 5, counted and accounted for in the city of Mumbai. What about you? Have you been asked,'Aap ka nam? Baap ka naam?' yet?

Surviving Mother's Day

2010-05-11T13:29:00.000+05:30

Another Mother's Day came and went. There was no breakfast in bed. No 'Happy Mother's Day, mom!' shriek in unison. No cards. No gifts. No flowers. Not even a damn 'Happy Mother's Day' sms from Airtel. Instead,the habitual chaos prevailed. The usual grumbling before every meal, "Why can't we have anything different, ever?" One daughter had to be forced to do her home work. The other had to be literally pushed into the bathroom to take a shower. The hubby had to be gently reminded that it was NOT Mother Teresa's birthday the world was celebrating. The menu had to be planned, the laundry had to be done, the clothes had to be folded. Well, life is unfair to start with. And then you become a mother.

I have two daughters, and let me tell you, every time I see my friends with sons, I feel envious. No, it has nothing to do with my archaic Indian mentality. Just that mothering sons seems to be so easy. They eat without counting calories. They have short hair that need no combing. They do not spend hours on the phone talking. They do not have to be told to go down and play instead of watching TV. They never look at gangly, gawky 16 year old boys and burst into giggles and most important, they never talk about waxing their legs or plucking their eyebrows. The mothers only have to cook enough food to feed an army and the boys seem rather happy. The sons also seem to dote on their mothers. My elder daughter on the other hand thinks I'm her public enemy number one. In a few years,the younger one I am sure will start feeling the same. Though I would never exchange my daughters for sons, I really could do with some doting.

My mother perhaps would not have agreed with me on this one. The moment my brother turned 16, she turned into a deranged woman. She regularly checked his bag to find out if there was a love letter hidden somewhere. She sniffed for cigarette smoke every time he entered the house. She kept a check of how he was spending his pocket money and constantly worried about him getting into bad company. From a perfectly normal happy woman, she turned int a spy with an obsessive compulsive disorder. This went on till he finally married at the ripe old age of 33. Honestly, I do not know how my brother survived those maddening years.

I think this motherhood thing does not come easy to me. I wish along with the babies, God had also sent me an instruction manual to handle them. I would not have stumbled so many times on the way then. This Mother's Day, when I saw some lovely e-mails that my friends sent me, I started thinking, what was the fuss all about? Wasn't it like any other day? We cooked, we fed, we cleaned, we took care, we loved fiercely and we tumbled into beds that night too tired to even straighten out the bed sheets. That has been my routine for the last 14 years. That day was no different. And I know I was not the only one who felt like this. A lot of mothers all over the globe dealt with tears and sicknesses, tempers and tantrums, scraped knees and heart breaks on Mother's Day. And they all survived.

So why just celebrate it on a second Sunday of May each year? Why not every day? After all every day we are mothers, and every day we survive.

Some days with difficulty and the others with some cuss words...

The Young And The Wise

2010-05-03T15:30:00.000+05:30

Once a week I go to a nearby commercial complex and wait.

My daughter attends a coaching class there and has a class till 9 pm. Sometimes the class goes on almost till 9.30. Although the complex is pretty close to home there is a slum in the area and I do not feel very comfortable letting her walk home alone.

The complex has a few eateries. There are some coaching centres. There are also some other shops and the place is generally very vibrant and alive at that time. It is a nice place to watch people. Last week when I was waiting for my daughter to finish her class a very interesting episode happened. A street urchin, a boy of nine or ten, started begging people for some money. He said he was hungry and had not eaten anything that day. He said he wanted some money to buy food. He looked unkempt, though he wore rather decent clothes. He also wore shoes. For some reason, shoes are important to me. In my mind, that is a measure of poverty. A completely shoe less boy or girl always evoke greater sympathy. Perhaps because he noticed I did not carry any purse, the boy did not approach me. And even if he had, I doubt I would have given him any money. But he did ask a well dressed man who alighted from a swanky car. The man did not even spare a second glance at the boy and moved away. And that set me thinking. Are our rich less sensitive? Are they completely immune to other people's pain? And am I also slowly losing my empathetic side?

India

has a thriving middle class. There are quite a few people in the country who are capable of giving a lot to the needy. But for some reason, we do not have the culture of sharing our wealth. We are so focussed on making our own lives comfortable that we have forgotten the joy of sharing. When I had gone to the

United States

for a visit, I was amazed at their culture of giving back to the society. Every where I went, the museums and the parks, the libraries and the community centres, I saw people willingly and happily sharing their time, their money and their energy to make things better. Here, looking at the man shunning the little boy, I wondered what kind of future my own country had. A country that has forgotten to share joy with others has no place amongst other great nations.

Just then, a young boy and his girl friend, perhaps in their late teens spotted the urchin and called him. They took him to a tea stall and bought him a vada-pav, Mumbai's favourite all time snack. Looking at the young couple, my heart filled with joy. I forgot all about my earlier ruminations. See the young people of

India

! How different they are from the earlier generation! The youth of our country indeed have their hearts in the right place. They have plenty of empathy, and they do care about their poor fellow country men. In just a few minutes, my dark thoughts had changed colours. My

India

was on the right track and I was upbeat and optimistic once again.

What do you think happened next? The moment the young couple turned away, the small boy without any hesitation, fed the vada pav to a street dog. He was not hungry, he just wanted some money... perhaps to gamble, perhaps to smoke. May be even to buy drugs. He definitely was not impressed with the young couple's generosity. A few minutes later, he started begging again.

So tell me, was the man in the swanky car heartless or was he just wise? Were the teenage boy and the girl naive? If they knew the young boy made a fool of them, would they ever give anything to any body again? And what about the boy? Did he even care?

The incident upset me, I do not know why. May be because it reminded me that I live in a metro where a lot of people do not care how the other half lives. That I live in a metro where a lot of people tend to think it is all right to con others. Or may be because I was reminded that I live in a metro where a lot of caring people stop giving just because they can not tell whether they are being taken for a ride...

I Wish I Were A Bird

2010-04-20T17:34:00.001+05:30

I went bird watching last week. Amidst all that lush green mountains and a meandering river, I discovered my philosophical side. And it kept on saying '' Quisiera ser un pajaro." Which is Spanish for "I wish I were a bird".

The birds there did seem to have a lot of fun. Apart from clocking some serious flying miles, they sang all day, had some kind of a kitty (or was it a birdie) party and took a dip in the hotel swimming pool. It made me wonder what life would have been if I were born a bird, and not a woman. I made a list of things that would have been different...and here they are.

1. My man would not have been scared to wear pink. He would have proudly flaunted the pinks and the mauves. There would not have been any boring whites in his cupboard. Or for that matter those staid blues. He would have worn purple and no one would have snickered.

2. For a change, he would have felt the pressure to look better in the relationship. People would have looked at his chest (and not mine, thank God) and whispered in awe.

I would have escaped all those painful waxing, threading, styling and grooming rituals.And those mud baths would have been absolutely free and not cost me a bomb. Sheer freedom.

3. He would have wooed me with gifts. And built the house. And baby sat my chicks. And would have helped bring food home.

4. My babies would have gladly eaten anything I served them, even insects. There would not have been any 'boring roti-sabzi once again?' cry at my dinner table. No pressure to serve gourmet meals. No demands for Italian or Chinese. Simply organic, healthy, oil free food that they all would have eaten without fuss.

5. There would not be any worry about weight gain. No fear of blood pressure or diabetes or cholesterol. Most importantly, there would not have been any pap-smear or mammogram. Ever. Just the thought makes me want to fly. And sing.

6. To keep me from staying fit, I would not have to hit the gym or jog or twist my body at unnatural angles. No annual membership of any gym. Just fly and strengthen those muscles.

7. Lastly, I would have had the freedom to kick out of my home my recalcitrant kids without any remorse or guilt. I would not have to deal with temper, tantrums,tears, disobedience and most importantly, those horrid parent teacher meetings.

.

Go fly away kid... and let me live my own life.

All photos courtesy google images.

The End- Of -Term Cleaning

2010-04-08T16:55:00.003+05:30

It's that time of the year again.

New books have to be bought. The old ones have to be either given away or disposed off. New notebooks have to be covered with brown paper. There will be new pencils and pens. Erasers and sharpeners. Paints and crayons.

There is plenty of anticipation in the air. There is also some consternation. The untutored mind looks at the new syllabus and proclaims, "We can never do this, this looks too tough for eight year olds." Of course with time, the same syllabus becomes "So easy that even a six year old can do this."

The house is always a mess. Too many books. Way too many notebooks. Reams and reams of brown paper. Scissors that get lost at the most inappropriate moments. Bottles of gum that inadvertently topple over and create a mess on the table top. The screaming father. Someone always takes his pen to write on the labels but does not return it. Kids scream equally hard. It is just a pen after all. Grandma never screams. But her TV does. And the mother screams the most. She after all has to do most of the covering and labeling and writing part.

The mother also has another tough job to do. Her little one is an artist of sorts. She draws all over her books, notebooks and all the other unimportant papers that need to be thrown away. Which work of art is to be preserved? Which one is to be thrown away? It is a difficult decision. Some sketches are mere scribbles. Some are hurriedly drawn doodles on her text books. Most of them are in the class work notebooks. "Why did you draw in your class work books?" " Because I finished early. And because I wanted ma'am to know I really understood the lessons very well. And because I felt like drawing."

So anything connected to sunshine has a picture of a resplendent sun. The lesson on festivals has Ravana burning and Santa beaming. There are pictures of flowers, children flying kites, man feeding a cow. The budding artist never lets go of an opportunity. Or for that matter a lesson. But sadly, everything is on notebooks that have an expiry date.

Of course apart from these, there are those loose sheets of papers where she has drawn. One can of course preserve them. But the trouble is she has been drawing and painting since she was a three year old. And now there are too many such sheets.

So over the years the heartless mother has learned what to do. Keep the finished sketches. Throw the unfinished ones. And always throw the ones she has drawn in the notebooks. There is only so much storage space in the flat she calls home.

The story has begun again this year. Make place for the new. Throw away the old. Clean, arrange, stack, store. There is a slight difference however. The mother now has a blog. And she can now share some of these paintings with her friends.

Technology can sometimes be handy.

The heart need not ache so much this time.

Saddi Dilli And Aamchi Mumbai

2010-03-26T12:32:00.001+05:30

Every time I open my mouth to say I grew up in Delhi, most Mumbaikars exclaim with horror, "But isn't that an awful city to live in?" That question is generally followed by," Didn't you feel horribly unsafe there?" then, " Were you ever, you know, molested on the roads?" And then, "Aren't you glad you stay in Mumbai now?" And of course the icing on the cake," So which city do you think is better?"

I used to answer them pretty honestly once. No. I didn't find the city awful, in fact I loved it. Yes I did, but very rarely. No I did not have my butt pinched or anything like that every time I went out.(It did happen once in a bus, but I pinched back. Hard) Yes I am glad I stay in Mumbai. And well, to the last one, that question is so stupid it does not even deserve an answer.

For some reason, people tend to think that you can not love two cities equally. That you must prefer one over the other. That the preference better be Mumbai because no sane person will ever prefer a city known for the Punjabi culture of over the top display of show-sha and name dropping. And what about the danger lurking at every corner? A testosterone laden Jat male just might grab you, rape you and then leave you to die. It is pathetic that some of the people I know, all well educated, well read and fairly well balanced, tend to be so biased. Earlier I used to get angry. Now I just laugh.

Because there is humour to be found in every corner of both these Indian cities. When I came to Mumbai as a young bride in the early nineties, the city's breakneck pace amazed me. No one had time for anything superfluous. When I went for veggie shopping, I invariably asked the wrong question. What's more, I took too long to ask it. Now of course I have become wise. "Bhai-saab, pyaaz kya bhao de rahen hain?" has been replaced by " Kanda kitne ka?" Short and crisp. And you get the same answer. Amazing.

It took me some time to get used to the city's brash language. I used to cringe every time I heard the Bombaiyya version of Hindi. Once, while selecting some footwear from a particular hawker at Linking Road, I was told, " Leneka hai toh loh nahi to jao, khali-peeli apunka bheja mat kharab karo. Apun ke paas itna time nahi". Coming from the land of the traders who always said, "Dekh lijiye behenji, dekhne ka koi paisa nahi lagta," it was a rude culture shock. My traumatised self almost needed therapy to go back to Linking Road. Now when I venture out there, I make my purchases and quickly get away. Honestly, who really has the patience to deal with fussy customers?

Of course shopping in Delhi could be equally mind numbing, specially for those lost souls who are not used to the North Indian twang. Like my husband. He was more at home in Mumbai, where the strictly vegetarian Gujarati shopkeepers did not stock anything even remotely connected to animals, except milk. He was used to asking the grocers whether they kept eggs. He did the same in Delhi once. " Kya aap ande dete hain?" The grocer without blinking said " Sirji main toh nahi deta par murgi deti hain. Aapko chahiye?" He was speechless but he bravely went ahead and chose what he had to buy. While making the payment, the grocer said " Aap ji chaliye, saaman ghar bhijwata hoon. Bas yehi kafi hain ki aapke ghar mein kuch whore bhi bhejoon?" This time it was my husband who needed the therapy.

Now, you tell me, when they ask me which city I love more, what do I reply? Both cities have made me what I am today. Delhi is beautiful, gracious, old world charm and wide open spaces. Mumbai is spunky, funky, glitzy and modern. In both cities I have a home. And I love both of them unconditionally. It is unfair when people compare these two cities and find one lacking.

So when I am asked which team I am cheering for this IPL, I say unabashedly the Kolkata Knight Riders. Because sadly, some people, even those who are well educated, well read and fairly well balanced, tend to be biased about their home state.

Disgraceful, isn't it?

I did not translate the Hindi sentences into English as I thought the humour would perhaps be lost in translation. If some one wants it translated, I will do it.

Dude, Have You Seen My Humour?

2010-03-12T13:37:00.000+05:30

My precious cousin let me know over a cup of coffee and a computer screen that she was missing my funny posts. I thought she wanted to say that I was a silly, intellectually superficial, ditzy female and I had no business writing on grave matters and that I totally sucked at serious writing. Big time. But I guess she chose to be diplomatic. Our family is rather big on 'Respect- your- elders- and- hold- your- wayward- tongue' stuff. So there.

She was not the only one. Some of you had subtly let me know the same thing. So since then I'd been searching for my long lost sense of humour. I have actually forgotten when I saw it last. Probably it was when I inadvertently caught a few scenes of Rahul Dulhaniya Blah Blah Blah. But later I realized the show had actually made me angry. Or perhaps it was when I watched the Parliament in action and some goons tore the papers and tried to uproot the mics in the Rajya Sabha. It was straight out of a badly written hilarious soap opera but wait, it was more disgusting than funny. Was it when my 14 year old daughter let me know that she wanted to have a tattoo? Uh-huh. That time I was trying to save myself from a cardiac arrest and some trauma to the brain. Who cared about the elusive sense of humour? Wait, I got it. I saw it last just two nights back. It was when my husband brought home a friend for dinner and let me know our guest would be staying the night. Wasn't the situation outrageously funny? Here I was, dashing around the house trying to clean it up, changing the sheets and cleaning the pot, making dinner, helping my daughter prepare for her Hindi exam the next day (God help) and teaching the other one some much needed table manners. The situation decidedly smacked of hilarity. But then I lost it.

I really valued my sense of humour. It was one of the few things my father gave me. Apart from a good education of course. He gave my brother his house and his car, he gave my mother happiness and exasperation and he gave me his sense of humour. A fair man, my dad. So you see, my humour is practically a family heirloom. In the good old days of no television, my family would sit in one room and my father would crack us up with his pathetic puns. We did not have much money, but we had a lot of fun. Of course my daughters these days enjoy the fun as well as the money...sigh, what can I say, the world is foolish at times.

But currently I am desperate. So desperate that I have started reading romance novels and watching a serial named Bidai- babul -ke ghar -se- tere -ghar- tak- par -pyar- to- ho- gaya- kam-do-hanso-ke jode- mein. Or whatever. I am yet to figure out who is getting married to whom and what do the men do in the serial but I know I will eventually solve all the mysteries. And in the process find my humour again. About the serial, I have already figured out the more outlandish the bindi, the more chances of the female to be the vamp. Now I just have to figure out where my funny bone disappeared.

So, if any of you happen to find my humour wandering about on the streets of Mumbai, hold on to it tight and inform me immediately. If not for mine than for my friends' and cousin's sake.

I think they need my father's gift more than than I do.

What Price Freedom?

2010-03-06T16:22:00.000+05:30

When my elder daughter was in class VI, the school had organized a seminar on Mythology for the students. She was asked to submit a painting of any Hindu god. My daughter had painstakingly drawn a huge portrait of Lord Shiva. She had spent hours on the painting, doing it a little by little. She, who never cared for drawing; sketched, rubbed and sketched again to draw a God we were so familiar with. She had experimented with colours to get the best effect. Embellished the final art work with gold and silver paint. Done the detailing with the finest of brushes. Her blood, tears, toil and sweat. The painting had them all. The day of the submission, an angry and spiteful classmate, for no reason, poured water all over the painting, stamped on it and tore a corner.

This needless act of violence devastated my daughter. She was angry, hurt and shocked. She did not understand why a boy would deliberately try to destroy a painting that she had so carefully and diligently drawn. She was inconsolable. The others in the class had rallied around her.They tried to salvage the painting by re-doing portions of it. They taped the torn corner with utmost care and went with her to the class teacher to complain against the bully. The class teacher dismissed their complaint with a " Boys will be boys and just get on with your lives" admonition. She was told not to be so "juvenile" and to learn how to deal with bullies. Though I did not really agree with the teacher at that time, I thought she indeed needed to learn how never to let the bullies win.

My daughter was no M.F Hussein.Though the people who destroyed his precious paintings and drove him out of the country were exactly like my daughter's classmate. Bull headed and prejudiced. And I can't help thinking that by choosing to accept the citizenship of Qatar, Mr. Hussein just gave in to the bullies.

Hussein has decided to be a citizen of a country which is not exactly known for freedom of expressions. We may have our share of fanatics and fundamentalists,we may still have a flawed system, but we definitely have a better track record than the Arab world. Specially when it comes to 'artistic freedom'. He of course would have the freedom to draw as many nude figures of Hindu gods and goddesses, if that was what Hussein meant by the term.

In India, his homeland, he was considered a living legend, a hero, a national treasure. In a country of one billion people, which struggles to produce a true icon, he was the free spirited, flamboyant artist many considered a role model. A struggler who made it big. A dreamer who found the rainbow. An inspiration to many. To leave now, at the age of 95, to another place for artistic freedom, just does not make any sense to me.

M.F. Hussein says that 90% of the people in this country love him and want him. And at the same time he claims his country rejected him. I would like to know his interpretation of rejection, just as I would like to know his interpretation of freedom. I do know however that by not staying here and taking on the bullies, he did a great disservice to the people of his own country who admired him. By fighting for his right to express himself here, on his home turf, he could have become a greater hero in my eyes.

Violence and vandalism have no place in a civilized country. Specially when that vandalism is directed towards art. But neither does hurting other people's religious sentiments have any place in a secular nation. We all have our views and we all have the right to express ourselves. In a civilized world, that expression also comes with a price.

At the age of 95, by settling down in a nation not really famous for respecting the fundamental rights, away from home, from family, away from the city that nurtured him...I wonder what price Mr. Hussein paid for his freedom.

Technology-Disconnect

2010-02-28T17:44:00.002+05:30

My computer went on a self-imposed exile.

Two weeks ago, it sighed, coughed, sputtered and then became completely inert.

I can not really blame it. My chats on gtalk and my comments on Facebook have been on the rise lately. The chats, specially the ones I have with her, lean on the scorching side. Plus, all that unrestrained use of the web to search for school projects, recipes, craft ideas, blog ideas, music download... the poor thing could not handle the pressure and simply burnt itself down.

So, I experienced what my daughter's friends call a total ' Techno-Disco' for a fortnight. For the uninitiated, that is Technology Disconnect. A space where there are no World Wide Web, Facebook or gmail. Can't say I enjoyed my hibernation, but it had its moments. Like when I started watching the saas-bahu serials out of sheer desperation. My journey into the Indian television world almost made me want to hit the escape and the F1 keys. But that's another blog post.

We women, tend to use our social networking sites as family chat sessions. We build relationships here, we nurture them here and we make our voices heard over here. Here, we offer advice, seek help and generally have a good time, with plenty of laughter thrown in. Men on the other hand, do not seem to be so emotionally connected here. They use the internet perhaps as a transactional tool. They book tickets online, pay for their bills online, and do their banking online. No relationship building over the net for them. Even the games they play here are the solitary kind. They tend to be objective and analytical in the cyberspace. We, I guess, tend to be more creative and emotional.

I read somewhere that there were more women users of Facebook and other networking sites than men. I can not speak for other men, but I know my husband looks at these sites with utter disdain. He thinks moments spent on Facebook is a total waste of time. He would rather pick up the phone and call someone up if he wanted to connect. I on the other hand, thrive on the comments that my status updates get on Facebook. I love the witty one liners, the cheesy replies and the juicy gossip. I absolutely adore my 10 minutes- a-day Facebook interactions. It is a huge stress buster for me. The same goes for blogging. More than my love for writing, it is my love for social interaction that draws me to it. My readers are more like friends who come over for a chat. And that is why, when I can not blog, I tend to miss it so intensely. More than the technology, it is the emotional disconnect with my friends that gets to me.

Apparently the female brain has 11% more cells in the area of the brain called Planum Temporale. That is the area that perceives and processes language and music. Women tend to be better communicators and that is why the networking sites are popular amongst them. So all you men who accuse us women of talking too much, it is simply because we know more words than you do.

No wonder the poor chap burnt down. Women outnumber men pretty substantially in my family.

But this techno-disco thing was not all bad. Once I got over the initial despair, I quite enjoyed chatting and catching up with some of my long lost friends over the phone. Facebook and gmail may be great, but nothing like letting your voice do the talking. Try it sometimes, I bet you will not be disappointed. Your voice will be a little rusty from lack of use but soon you will get it back.

And that, after all, has been our intention all along, right? To make our voices heard?

I wish all of you a very colourful Holi. The header picture was taken by my daughter, Ishita.

My Name Is Aparna And I am An Indian

2010-02-12T14:17:00.000+05:30

There were some Pakistani Television serials in the '80s that I loved. Dhoop Kinare. Ankahee. Tanhaiyan. I loved the leading actors and actresses. Now, every time I see the regressive, third rated TV serials made here, I yearn for a good quality Dhoop Kinare kind of a series. There are Pakistani poets like Faiz I admire. I admire his composition, his ethos. His ability to create an impact with very simple language was brilliant. I love Ghulam Ali's ghazals. I also love listening to Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. I guess that makes me a traitor.

I am hurt that a tolerant Indian society is becoming rigid day by day. Our country is diverse. There are many faiths, many languages, many communities. There are different food habits and different clothes. We still exist as one. My ideology may be different from yours but we have no right to verbally or physically abuse each other. We certainly do not have the right to damage public property just because our points of view vary.

I am disappointed that I will not be able to see a movie just because the leading actor according to some is not Indian enough. Just because he said he wanted to have some Pakistanis play in his IPL team. I am disappointed that 2 different political ideologies do not co-exist peacefully here.I am disappointed that people have decided to keep quiet on this issue. There have not been people lining up to buy tickets for the movie just to protest against the lawlessness. The people who terrorized Mumbai were not cricketers or singers or actors. So why brand every one alike?

I hope every one realizes that all Indians have a lot of love in them. That India stands for harmony and not hatred. That Indians may love all things foreign but still deeply remain patriotic. That one can appreciate a Pakisitani cricketer but still love Indian cricket. That one can not take our patriotism away just because we say something we believe in.

My heartfelt Valentine's Day wishes to all of you, though I know it is not an Indian custom. But all our numerous gods and saints preached love, didn't they? So have a beautiful time with your loved ones this weekend. And those of you who do manage to see My Name Is Khan, let me know how it was.

I guess till better sense prevails in Mumbai, I will have to do with your reviews.

I know the title of my post is a bit corny, but could not help it.

The Cringe Factor

2010-02-09T14:09:00.001+05:30

I am old fashioned. Horribly so.

I can not see a movie that has some steamy scenes with my 14 year old daughter. The other day, I saw a movie highly recommended by a close friend. “Can we see this with Ishita?" I specifically remember asking. “Oh yes" was the reply.

Within a few moments of the movie starting, the hero and the heroine were unabashedly romancing each other. I spent half the movie looking at the floor and the other half surreptitiously looking at my daughter. She was of course all wide eyed eagerness. I on the other hand was cringing and squirming on the seat. Apart from having the heroine in various states of undress, the movie also had some extremely violent scenes. I definitely did not think the movie was appropriate for a 14 year old. Angry, I questioned my friend's judgement. “What? You found it inappropriate? Have you seen the clothes girls wear on MTV? And have you seen how violent the cartoons are these days? Trust me; she did not see anything that she hasn't seen before."

May be, but I am the kind of a mother who left her 14 year old behind to see Love Aaj Kal. Hilarious but true What was the harm in watching a hero and heroine having a few flings before and after marriage? Living together is no big deal in today’s world. So why not watch it on screen? But while watching the movie, there were several moments I felt glad our daughter had not accompanied us.

Innocence is slowly being lost in our world these days as more and more children are growing up on American TV shows. And the internet is certainly not helping. In Mumbai at least, I see my daughter's classmates aping the film heroines and wearing tank tops and mini skirts. I hear the boys her age using words I did not even know existed in the English language. I know some of her friends write on Facebook that they are in a 'relationship'. I see that and I feel awkward. I do not know whether having an old fashioned mother helps or harms my child. But I grew up in a different world and it is tough to let your values go, even for the sake of your own children.

Few months back my daughter Ayushi, who was not yet 8 at that time, came back from school all excited. "Mamma, I learned a new word today."

“Wow! That's great! What was the word?"

"Gay. Supriya learned that from Dostana. It means a man loving and kissing another man."

I cringed.

The Projects We Do For Love

2010-01-27T23:01:00.001+05:30

I have been racking my brain for almost a week now. All blog ideas have deserted me and I am completely clueless about what to write.

Not that nothing interesting happened in my life the past week. I connected with my old college friends through Facebook and had some lovely lunch and dinner with them. My husband survived his third trip to China and came back all safe and sound. ( Though there was a scary moment or two, like when he was served donkey meat for dinner). My parents went back to Kolkata after spending two months with me here. My daughter Ayushi grew up a bit more...despite my best efforts to prolong her childhood.

Not that I want her to be eight forever. I just want her to skip the 10, 12, 14, 16 part and go directly to a responsible 20. I am already dealing with one temperamental teenager and sincerely do not think I can deal with another one.

Another reason why I want to prolong her childhood is because I know what projects will be coming my way as she grows. Digestive system of a frog, a solar cooker, model of a sewage treatment plant and many such more. The schools these days emphasise a lot on projects. Apparently projects are less traumatic than home work. The child is less stressed. Obviously, as the entire stress is on the parents and they have to think, plan, execute and take the elaborate models to schools on the submission day. The kids meanwhile happily play downstairs with their friends. No stress, no mess.

Last month it was a log cabin. Reams of paper were rolled and stuck. Windows were made of an acetate sheet. A chimney was planned to the minutest detail by the engineer dad ( finally the IIT degree was put to some use) and the porch and the roof were designed by the architect grandfather. The entire concept and the idea was of course the mother's. The elder sister chipped in with some hard labour and finally, after some 5 hours of gruesome work, the log cabin was ready for submission.

This month, it is Antarctica. So we have been making mountains and oceans, penguins and seals, birds and icebergs. As the model had to be made of eco- friendly material, we had to make sure we did not use thermocol, plastic and toxic paints.( I cheated a bit though and used acrylic paint) I have been given lot of suggestions by well meaning friends, including " Use shaving foam with fevicol to make snow and ice, " to "Bake a huge cake. Cover it with white icing. Bake figures of penguins. Your Antarctica is ready. Whats more, the kids can have a blast eating it after submission." Though I do agree the suggestion was fantastic, I did not think the teacher would have appreciated my efforts.

So all of last week, I have been sitting till midnight making penguins and seals with atta( flour) and creating mountains with papier mache. The penguin and seal figures had to be baked in the micro wave individually and let me tell you that there have been some minor disasters in the kitchen. Thank God most Indian flats do not have smoke alarms.

Once, out of sheer frustration, I entertained the thought of just painting the board blue and submitting it. "Ma'am, due to global warming all the ice melted. Just the ocean remains." But I do not think the teacher would have seen the humour in either global warming or my project. So atta and papier mache it is.

Seriously, what all we do for our children. And all those who think that the child should have done the project herself, please think again. There would have been mounds of atta and glue on my kitchen counter, there would have been dollops of paints on my floor and that papier mache would have been reduced to some sticky glob of paper, stuck on my sofa. By taking the role of a leader and delegating the little one to be the helper, I made sure this whole process was less painful.

The Antarctica was finally ready 2 nights back. Unfortunately, my sleepy eyes could not focus and hence no final photo was taken. Yesterday, I heard from Ayushi that some boy mutilated the penguins and beheaded them.

Honestly, I was not bothered. I had done my job. The project was submitted on time. What happened afterwards was not really my concern. I only hope the teacher is considerate enough not to burden the parents with some more projects in February.

Now you know why I did not blog for some time. And why I want the little one to remain little for some more years. I do not think I can handle the digestive system of a frog. Or the drainage system of Harappa. Not again, please God.

What has stressed me more was that I was unable to reply to my comment thread on time for the previous post. When I told Ayushi my concern, she nonchalantly told me " So stop writing interesting blogs. No one will want to read them or want to post any comments on them and you will not have to reply to them any more." Where did she get her intelligence from? I wonder....

An Idiot's Guide to Opening A Wine Bottle And Having A Good Time

2010-01-17T02:26:00.001+05:30

Let me begin by saying that this post is meant for women only. Men do not need to be taught how to smoke, open various alcohol bottles and be an ace athlete. ( Like Tiger Woods). They are born with certain superior knowledge. Well, on second thoughts, this post is for all of you who think Bubbly is a girl's name.

1.Though not necessary, you need an occasion for opening a bottle of good wine. Mine was a Christmas party. Invite your best friend, her mother, your cousins and who ever you think wants to have a good time. Whatever it is, the husband has to be conveniently away,on some official trip.

2. Raid your husband's cellar/ bar if one exists. If not, you can always hop across to the nearest wine store. Please note, if you live in Delhi or North India, send your driver or any other male to buy a bottle. People there think women who buy alcohol are all immoral. ( 703 walli madam to badi looje chracter nikli, akele hi wine-shine khridti hai ji)

3. Buy the most expensive wine you can get your hands on. Even if your tongue can't tell the difference, your brain can. You and other people will experience more pleasure out of your wine if you think you are drinking a premium and pricey one.

3. I strongly suggest you buy some complex sounding, unpronounceable French wine, simply because they are supposed to be the best. I have been told that a Californian Merlot or the Italian Chianti can be just as good. If you are using your husband's credit card to buy your wine, do not discriminate and buy both.

4. Check if you have at home something that looks like a bottle opener with two arms spread wide and a bottom that looks all screwed up. That is your wine bottle opener. Chances are your husband's bar has one. If not, send your driver again to buy it. Even if you live in Mumbai. This work is boring and should be left to a male.

5. Get your glasses ready. Remember, wine drinking is an art and you must create an ambience. Never drink out of stainless steel glasses. It spoils the whole feel.

6. You are not supposed to chill a red wine as much as a white one, but if you like it that way, go ahead and do it. Remember your ultimate aim is to have a good time.

7.Always remember the accompanying food should be out of this world. If you can serve low calorie stuff, your efforts would be appreciated more by your girl friends.

8. At the right time, with a lot of flourish, present your wine bottle. By this time, you all should have had some mouth-watering snacks and some pre-wine gossip session on men, clothes, men, make-up, men, getting old, men, and careers. ( Not necessarily in that order.) And no, I did not forget to mention the kids, the omission was deliberate.

9. Now comes the difficult part, so pay attention. Look at the cork on the wine bottle with complete concentration. If you stare at it long enough and hard enough and if you say your prayers right, it might, just might, open all by itself. If not, then get that damned corkscrew and start working.

10. Keep the bottle on a table and hold the hands of the corkscrew. Make sure you are holding them hard. Then gently, but firmly, lower the screwed up bottom on the cork of the bottle.

11. Now hold the head of the corkscrew and twist the head as viciously as possible. If at that time you think of your arch enemy, the job gets easier. Make sure the wine bottle is securely held. You do not want to break it before you can even open it.

12. After some savage swivelling, the cork screw generally gives up and raises its arms in complete surrender. You have to be graceful in your victory. Gently but firmly lower its arms and pull. You will see the cork has come out of the bottle. Hurray.

13.Now ceremoniously pour the wine into the glasses and silently thank god for big and small mercies. Remember to clink your glasses and say cheers before you take the first sip.

Note: Resist the temptation to break the bottle on someone's head if you fail to open it. You just have to be good at the neck twisting and arm wrenching part. The rest is rather easy. If you can practice that move on your husband/boyfriend first, your chances of failure will drastically diminish.

If everything fails, you can just give up and have tea instead. And while you are having that beverage, just offer your heartfelt thanks that you were born in India and not in Europe and you do not have to do this every night before dinner. What a relief.

Wish List

2010-01-04T16:31:00.008+05:30

Another year has gone by.

A year, that was for me, rather good. But still, there is a lingering sense of dissatisfaction. I feel I could have done a bit more, achieved a bit more. I wish I had set some new goals and tried hard to meet them. I wish I had gone to new places, tried out some new tastes. I wish I had learned a new art, like pottery. I wish I had an exciting job. I wish I had read more books. But if wishes were planes, the beggars would fly...

I never make new year resolutions. I know I am incapable of keeping them. I prefer to make some wishes instead. If they are granted, I feel happy. If not, I know they were never meant to be fulfilled. After all, there is also something called destiny.

So this year again, I have made some wishes. Who knows whether they will be granted or not, but there is no harm in praying for fulfillment, is there?

So here it is, my wish list for the year 2010.

1. I wish I would have the courage to read Brothers Karamazov and War and Peace. Each time I pick up these two Russian classics, the task seems daunting. The sheer size of War and Peace has unnerved me in the past. I wish to read these 2 books in 2010. Though, I will require some hand holding for this.

2. I wish my children would start showing some respect to each other. They are constantly bickering and fighting. The older one tries to bully the younger sister. ( Ayushi, go get my books from the

table or else,.. or Ayushi, if I ever catch you behaving like this, I will beat you..) The younger one is not to be out done. ( Stop being so lazy and get your own stuff, or I already have a mother, I don't need another one...) I wish my older one would learn that bullying some one, specially when that some one is less than half your size, is not the most graceful thing to do.And I wish the younger one would realize that one could do with another mother in life, specially when that other mother is your own older sister.

3. I wish my husband would accept that it is almost impossible to know all the roads that exist in this city. That if he stops to ask for directions once in a while, no one, specially me, would think he was physiologically challenged. Think of all the fossil fuel we would save, not to mention time.

4. I wish there were companies that would re- employ educated and competent women who had left their jobs sometime back. I wish the corporates would understand that some women have to give up their jobs temporarily to raise their children. That these women can be dedicated and conscientious workers, though they may not be so young any more.

5.I wish shedding some extra kilos that I have piled up would be as exciting and as easy as eating yummy street food. No matter how hard I try, I can not go back to my former slim and fit self. I know it was the the food in Delhi and Amritsar that kind of did me in, but I wish the food did not stick.

6. I wish I could blog about general, mundane things, like the road in front of my house or the children playing in the park. Those who have the ability to write on every day things are in my opinion true writers.

7. I wish to learn more about technology. I am pretty much a dolt when it comes to any thing new. It took me months to learn about the computer and I still need help from my older daughter when it comes to more serious issues. Technology should not stupefy me, it should be able to make my life less muddled.

8. I wish I would be able to totally conquer my anger. I battle with belligerence and pretty much lose every time. I scream, I use hateful words and I snap back. What's worse, I hang on to my frustrations and never let go. I wish I had more control over my self. I wish I would learn to be calm and serene this new year.

9. I wish I could meet all my friends more often. There is nothing like talking to those people you have grown with, physically as well as mentally. I wish all of them lived near by and I could drop into some one's house unannounced.

10. And lastly, I wish I could open a bottle of wine effortlessly and gracefully. I wish I could show you what happened when 3 idiots -- a bottle of Merlot, a cork screw and I, met for the first time on a Christmas party. May be I will blog about it, if you wish for it.

So that's about it. That was my wish list 2010. Towards the end of the year, I will know how many of them have come true. I wish the year would end soon! And yes, I wish each one of you a very, very happy New Year! Have fun always.

Right To Life

2009-12-19T19:06:00.000+05:30

When I was about 15, a girl in my apartment committed suicide. She was nineteen.

She was not really a friend but I knew her well enough. She was a member of a club I belonged to and sometimes we all hung out together. After her death, we went to her house to offer our condolences to the family. Standing on her ninth floor balcony, from where she jumped off to her death, I could not stop shuddering. Everything looked tiny and small from up there and I kept on thinking what immense courage it took to jump off from that height. At that time, to me, suicide meant courage. I could never think of ending my life. Death was an uncertainty and I was not brave enough to face it.

Later, much later, I realized choosing death over life was actually an act of cowardice. No matter how painful her life was at that point of time, she needed to face it. She needed to examine her feelings, talk about them. She needed to fight for her life. One meaningless act, that perhaps took just a few seconds to execute, forever changed the life of her family. She left her parents, her brother and her sister, who she claimed to love with all her heart, guilt ridden and unhappy forever.

Life is all about meeting challenges. Just when everything is smooth, it throws a curve that leaves you a bit clueless. But there is no problem that a human mind can not navigate. We may get hurt, but we also heal. And we continue to journey on our path, knowing that there is always a new dawn, breaking somewhere, on this earth.

But what if our mind and our body did not decipher this truth? What if we permanently stay in a world which is always dark? What if we lose our ability to walk and to talk, to eat and to breathe, to know and to comprehend? What if we have to be kept alive by machines and modern medical marvel, completely stripped of our dignity? Suffering pain and trauma that will never go away? Do we still say that choosing life over death is the only right thing to do?

Aruna’s story, which is currently in the news, has left me in a moral dilemma. Do we have the right to decide to end the life of a person who can no longer decide for herself? Do we say that in her case, death is a better option than continuing her meaningless suffering? The hospital staff, which looks after her is vehemently against euthanasia. They have looked after her for the last 36 years with love. They can continue to do so for the next 36 years. But is this the life she would have wanted to lead?

I know that if I ever were reduced to a vegetative state, completely dependent on other people for my basic survival, life would lose its meaning. Life may be a struggle at times, but I know that it is worth fighting for. But what if I knew there would never be an end to my pain? Would it still be meaningful? Would it be wrong for me, or for any one for that matter, to seek a dignified exit?

The medical world is divided over euthanasia. Do we have any legal right to end somebody else’s life even if we know the person may suffer endless trauma day in and day out? There will always be 2 sides to this story. But I continue to believe that though I have the courage to face any challenges that life may throw at me, I also need to have my right to dignity. And my right to live a life that is not spent hooked up to various machines and force fed by well meaning strangers.

A cruel life or a merciful death…I should have the right to decide.

Maa on Facebook

2009-11-30T14:27:00.009+05:30

"This is Hema? The last time I saw her, she was in pigtails. Now she has a daughter who is that big!"

"Yes. And this is Shukla aunty, who still looks the same."
"Who is this?"
"Don't you remember? The Gaurs on the 4th floor? This is the daughter Ritu."
"How did you get the pictures?"
"Ma, this is Facebook. It is a social networking site. I found a lot of my old friends here. They keep uploading their pictures. And we exchange notes and greetings."
"How did you manage to locate all these people after so many years?"
"My friends found me through friends search."
"Our times were different, we had to send letters. And if the addresses got lost then that was the end of our friendship. Who are all these men?"
"Don't you remember my friends Dheeraj, Aziz and Ajay?"
"Of course I do, they were very sweet boys.This is Ajay? He looks like a panditji."
"That is because he is a panditji now. Well, almost. He has become very spiritual."
"Has he stopped painting? He was so talented."
"No, he still paints. Only, he paints pictures of gods and goddesses. Want to see some of his paintings? He has uploaded some of them here also."
"How come there are so many men here?"
"These are all my friends, ma."
"You have so many male friends? Does your husband know?"
"C'mon ma, I am an adult now. I can have male friends you know."
"Hmmph. This is beyond me, all these men and you. Is your brother also on Facebook?"
"Yes he is, but he is not my friend."
"What? You and your brother are not friends? Is that how I raised you? You do not want to be friends with your own brother?"
"Ma, he is not my Facebook friend. I don't want him here snooping on me. Moreover, if he has not sent me a friend request, it means he also does not want me as a friend."
"This is completely outrageous. I hope your husband is there in your friends list."
"Yes is, but he is not very active."
"What else do you expect? He is a very busy man. He will not spend time on such frivolous activities."
"Facebook is not a frivolous activity. A lot of very busy people are there on Facebook. It helps us to reconnect with all our old friends. It is just that your son in law is not the friendliest of person and does not have many friends. Hence he is never there."
"And what is this red heart doing on your page? It says you have a relationship request pending."
"D sent me a request to be my spouse on Facebook. I did not accept, so it is still pending."
"But he is your spouse. Why did you not accept?"
"I don't want him as my spouse here, OK?"
"This is totally beyond me. You and your strange ways. He is your husband, whether you accept him on Facebook or not. And what does Akhila mean here? Her relationship status reads as 'It's complicated.'
"It means that she is recovering from her divorce and is currently seeing someone.''
"O my god, when did this happen? She was such a sweet girl. I always knew her husband was a moron. How much time do you spend on this Facebook?"
"Not much ma, just log in to tell my friends what I am doing at the moment. Drinking coffee at the Barista, at home teaching the kids, like that."
"Who will be interested in knowing all that?"
"All my friends. They also keep updating, so I know about them too."
"Can anybody open up a page on Facebook?"
"It is called opening up an account and yes, everybody can."
" Is Vikram on Facebook?"
"Who Vikram?"
"You know, Mrs. Usha Reddy's son? They were on the 6th floor. remember?"
"Oh yes, I remember. She used to send us yummy tamarind rice. I don't know, why?"
"She once taught me to make mango thokku pickle. I forgot the ingredients. If her son is there, then may be you can ask him to be your friend. And then may be two of us could connect after all those years. She was such a fabulous cook, she made lovely chutneys and stuff. And she did ask me once how I knitted those cable sweaters. May be we can be friends on Facebook and share our stuff. Hey, if you are in touch with Mrs. Sharma's daughter, can you then tell her to make an account for her mom too? And remember Mrs Balakrishnan?...."

November and December are busy months for me. This is what my daughter Ayushi calls the 'guesting season'. As you have guessed, my parents are already here. I am also expecting my friend and her mother from USA, my cousin and her family from Muscat, my brother and his family from Kolkata. So I will be blogging sporadically till December. I will however keep reading all my favourite bloggers. So you keep blogging. Till then, bye....

Rootless In The City

2009-11-21T13:21:00.003+05:30

A city still commonly referred to as Bombay has been my home for the last several years.

This city was perhaps not what we had in mind when we planned a home for us. It was crowded, it was dirty and it was a chaos. On top of that, it was expensive as hell. We never thought we could bring up our children here, in this city, where land was at a premium. There was no open space for my children to run and play. No place where we could walk hand in hand. No place where we could sit back and relax and watch the time go by. Constantly moving, constantly bustling, there was never a moment of peace here. A lot of time we felt hopelessly out of depth. But slowly, I do not know when, this city seeped into our blood. The city became so much a part of us that it became hard for us to imagine living anywhere else. It became home.

But lately I have been wondering about our decision to stay here. After all, as some people claim, the city belongs to the Maharashtrians first and Indians later. As my name suggests, we are clearly not Maharashtrians. Having grown up outside the state, my husband and I also do not speak the language. We are outsiders here. We have taken the place of some locals who perhaps would have stayed in our flat. My husband perhaps has taken the job of a Marathi who would have got the job otherwise. Education, ability, skill; they all take a back seat. The fact is that we are not Marathi Manoos and we do not belong here.

So where do we go? Do we go to Delhi where I grew up? But we are not really North Indians. I can not speak Punjabi either. Does Delhi belong to the Punjabis anyway? We can go to Patna where my husband was born and brought up. But neither are we Biharis. We are both products of parents who trace their roots to East Bengal, now in Bangladesh. So do we go and stay there? May be we should migrate to Kolkata, after

all we are Bengalis even though we have never stayed there. We do not know the city as well as we do Bombay. Or for that matter Delhi. But that doesn't matter, does it? The fact is that we are Bengalis and we might as well go and live there.

Imagine how peaceful India would be then. No fighting for land. No fighting for languages. No fighting for culture.We can then fit our lives in to neat little labels. Chchat Puja in Bihar, Ganeshotsav in Maharashtra. They can keep Sachin Tendulkar, we will be happy with Sourav. Dosas in the south, parathas in the north, rosogullas in the east.There will not be any friction over culture, speech or festivals. Sheer bliss.

But the trouble is that when I see Sachin play, I do not see the Maharashtrian.. Just like when I hear Kishore Kumar, I do not hear the Bengali. I do not label APJ Abdul Kalam, Lata Mangeshkar, Amjad Ali Khan. Amitabh Bachchan, Narayan Murthy.... when I see them, I simply forget which region they come from. I only see the face of an Indian. But perhaps I am only one of the few who think like that.

So currently, I, with my fondness for Kanjivaram sarees, Sachin Tendulkar, Hindi movies and aloo parathas, am rootless in the city I call home. When I hear Raj Thackeray say that Mumbai belongs to the Marathis, I start to think, where do I really belong then? What label do I use for myself?

I am still thinking about it. I also keep thinking about one more thing. How many of you, while singing the National Anthem, ever think the song is in Bengali?

Lessons

2009-11-11T12:29:00.001+05:30

Everyday I learn.

I learn that my children are like a lump of clay. I have to decide whether to create angels or devils. Everyday I learn that it is easier to create devils. It is very hard to make angels. I learn that to preach about discipline and schedules, routines and time management is one thing. Practicing what I preach is another.
Everyday I learn that staying healthy is not merely an option, it is a necessity. That only a healthy mother can bring up healthy children.

Everyday I learn that more complex my life gets, more I crave for simple pleasures. That walking barefoot on a beach brought me more happiness than taking a limo ride. Seeing the first rain, feeling the sun on my back on a cold, winter morning, sleeping till late on a lazy Sunday have been more fun than shopping in Paris.

Everyday I learn that my parents need me more than ever. That my father is no longer strong and capable and he needs me to take charge once in a while. I learn that my mother who was my support for so long, is now dependent on me. Everyday I learn that my parents are steadily growing older. And I learn that no matter how old I become, I will never stop needing them.

Every day I learn. I learn that it is easy to hurt and to wound but is difficult to heal. That some hurts stay fresh forever and no amount of kissing them can make you feel better. I learn that it is easy to forget, difficult to forgive. That it is even more difficult to forgive ones own mistakes.

Everyday I learn that my body is slowing down. That this decline in strength is natural and inevitable. That this is just the nature's way of telling me to take things easy and not to rush through life. But everyday I learn that though I would love to sip a cup of tea and read the newspaper early in the morning, it is rather difficult to do so with two growing children.

I learn that though I loved being single and childless, it is not who I am anymore. I also learn that my years, my scars and my experiences are a part of me. That there is grace in accepting that colouring my hair will not make me 23 again.

Everyday I learn that my happiness and my joy depend on who I am and how much love I have. That my friends love me for what I am and not what I want to be. That the love I have received over the years can never be measured.

Every day I learn that I am truly blessed to be born, here on earth. To be surrounded by so much beauty and joy. To be a part of this unique planet. To witness the change of seasons, the flowering of plants, the sands of time. And everyday I learn that this is what really matters.

Header photograph by Ishita Gupta

Car Trouble

2009-11-04T13:45:00.000+05:30

The shining, gleaming car has landed me into big trouble.

Two days back, this innocent looking guy in the super market asked me a rather innocent question. " Which car do you drive?" Since then my life has been miserable.

"How could you insult my car like that?"
"But he asked me so suddenly. And all I could remember at that time was Maruti Esteem and Ford Ikon. Since I knew it was not an Esteem, I did the next best thing and I said we drove a Ford Ikon."
"I have never driven a Ford Ikon"
" But what's wrong with it? It is a car right? I forgot the name of the car you drive"
"How could you forget?"
"Oh for heaven's sake...you are acting as if I forgot the name of one of the girls"
"It's worse. An Ikon? How could you call my car names?"

I learned to drive when I was still in college. At the risk of sounding immodest, I drove rather well. There was a time I could actually drive better than him, but that was before he turned into an ogre and refused to let me sit behind the wheels.

" You jumped a signal for heaven's sake. Didn't you see the big red light?"
" Of course I did. I didn't see any hawaldar. So I jumped."
" What if he was hiding behind a tree?"
" Then I would have said' I am sorry officer' and batted my eye-lashes at him."

And that was the end of my driving days.

I had also been accused of being blind as a bat. All because I was trying to get into the wrong car.

"You almost got into the wrong car with the wrong man. Again."
" But it looked so similar."
" How can you say that? It was a different model. And moreover it was golden and not silver."
" The model was different? Really? It looked the same. And gold, silver, bronze...the metals are almost the same, right?"
"So in that case why don't you exchange all your precious gold jewellery with some silver ones?"

That kind of shut me up. For a little while.

"You let the kids eat pop-corn and Pepsi sitting there? Now look what happened to the leather."
" Stop being so fussy. It kept them quiet. Other wise we would have heard 'we are bored' every 5 minutes''
'' Eating and drinking here are a strict no-no. They have to learn that"
''OK Mr fuss pot. The girls will try to remember the next time. Now can we drive?"

So that shut him up. For all the way.

I love long drives. I enjoy the feeling of power every time I get behind the steering wheel. I love cars for the freedom that they bring. But I do not get emotionally involved with them. My husband on the contrary probably has a name for his precious car. He also probably kisses it 'Good morning' and 'Good night' every day.

" This is just a set of wheels with a tin body."
" Are you mad? This is more than a set of wheels with a tin body. Look inside the engine to learn about the car"
" Don't tell me you judge women by looking inside their minds"
"Are you accusing me of being shallow now? Of course I look into their minds. I did not marry you for your tin body."

The arguments continue.

Over these seventeen years of marriage, there have been quite a number of cars, starting with a second hand Fiat. There have been words exchanged over all of them. But this time was apparently a blunder. My husband feels I have severely insulted his pride and joy by calling it an Ikon. He feels I have hurt the car's feelings and he is threatening me with dire consequences if I do not apologize to his car.

Over my dead body.

Oh, before you people fill up my comment box in support of my husband, let me tell you another thing. He once seriously considered buying a Merc over a flat in Bombay. Now who is the crazy one in the relationship?

My raison d'etre

2009-10-27T17:47:00.000+05:30

The soft cry was what made me conscious.

When I looked around and saw only happy faces, I knew every thing was all right, but still, battling anxiety I asked, "All fingers in place?" My mother was so engrossed, she did not hear. For the new dad, it was love at first sight. Even if the baby was born limbless, he perhaps would not have cared. And my brother and the cousins who had gone there to support me, the less said the better. One look at the baby and they forgot all about me.

Ishita's birth was a celebration in my family. She was the first grandchild. To witness her birth, at least 15 members of my family had turned up. Wait a minute,probably there were more. Ask Sujata, she might have the right number. I was drugged out of my mind (thank God) and have no recollection whatsoever. I am not good with numbers even when I am not giving birth anyway.

So, after a while, when I realised there was no help coming from my mom or my dad, I yelled. "Hello, does anyone remember I exist?" My husband came hurriedly to my side and said, "Need the doctor? Will call." And disappeared again.

She was the cutest baby born in the family for a long time. Actually, she was the only baby born in the family for a long time. My brother's son, who was next, came 4 years later. For 4 years, she enjoyed being the only one, pampered and loved, spoiled and cosseted. The initial years, which kind of merge in my mind, were the years of discovery. Witnessing a tiny infant, slowly growing up to be a beautiful girl. Nature's greatest miracle.

Over the years, I have tried to be a teacher, as well as a mother. Teaching her to stand up after she fell. Teaching her to talk. To read and to write. Teaching her to respect every individual, to show love and kindness...but a lot of the time, the roles were reversed. It was she who taught me to be patient. It was she who taught me to be unbiased . To find pleasure in the smallest things. To find laughter in Disney characters. From her I learned that every day was a new day and nothing was commonplace. There was joy to be found even in chasing a butterfly.

She is still teaching me. I have learned lately that my love is not always unconditional. At times I am guilty of loving less.That I am capable of harsh words.That though I am her staunchest ally, I am also her worst critic. From her I learn every day that motherhood is not easy, specially when you are a mother of a teen.

So there are slammed doors and angry tears. Ugly skirmishes and yelling matches. There are hurtful words and lack of understanding.But there is also love, beneath all the overwhelming thoughts.

Over these 14 years I have realised that my daughter is the central point of my life. Though I did not set out to be a full time mother, this is what has made my life rich. She is the motive for everything that I do and being her mother is the identity I have carved out for myself. And when I see her happy, vibrant and smiling, I know I have not done a bad job.

Happy Birthday sweetie-pie.May you get everything that you wish for in life, including that i-pod. But don't wish for a boy friend just yet. There's still some time for that.

Like may be when you are 28?

Borders

2009-10-24T18:08:00.000+05:30

Of the three communities that suffered the trauma of Partition the most, I belong to one of them.

Though my grandfathers on both sides had come to India a few years before Independence, both had properties and firm roots in East Bengal. They used to refer to their native villages as "Desh" or homeland. My father's family went to the ''Desher Baari'' or the ancestral house to celebrate Durga Puja every year. But suddenly, one fine day in August, a hurriedly drawn line by some British gentlemen, told them that they could no longer go back to their homes again.

Displaced, landless, jobless, hoards of traumatic relatives reached my paternal grandfather's house. My grandfather's older brother, was so shattered by this forced migration that he never recovered from this shock. Along with his home, his livelihood and his sense of belonging, he also lost his mind.

My parents might not be true refugees,but my in-laws were not so fortunate. A single cruel blow of fate and both were left homeless. My mother in law at times, reluctantly and haltingly tells us how she, along with her siblings, had to hide in various places when the furious mob attacked the village. How, despite the tremendous hardship and resistance, the family decided to stay back for another year just because her elder brother was taking the matriculation exams. Leaving Dhaka would have meant discontinuing his studies as the family did not have the money to send him to school in India. There, in his school in Dhaka, he used to get a scholarship. Even now, she gets traumatised when she sees a crowd of people. In her mind, the friendly scores of people at Indian railway stations turn into hostile and angry mob out to attack her. She is not alone. In every household of East Bengal refugees, there are men and women like her, who still desperately try to suppress such painful memories. Along with these, they also try to suppress the memories of lush green fields, mango orchards, fishing in village ponds, numerous rivers and their scenic villages. Calcutta, with its numerous concrete houses, narrow bylanes, smoggy skies and so many people, never seem like home.

Growing up in Delhi, one could not ignore the existence of the Punjabi migrants who came as refugees to the national capital. Perhaps their story was the most violent. The mass exodus between the divided state saw countless deaths .Each one more painful than the other. The murders, rapes, and brutalities had gone on for months in the name of religion on both sides. I heard stories of ordinary men, like my tailor, the local grocer, the fathers of my friends. How they all travelled, loaded in trains and bullock carts,army trucks or on foot. Such a long distance, without food, without water. Always in fear of their own neighbours who had suddenly turned into their sworn enemies.

I became close to some Sindhi women only after coming to Bombay. Of the three communities, their loss perhaps is the most unmeasured. They came into a country which was formed on linguistic lines. Here, they not only had no state, they had no one who spoke their language, no one who followed their tolerant Sufi belief, no one who followed their culture. After the trauma of losing their language, their culture, their territory, they also had to go through the indignity of hearing once that the word Sindh had no place in our national anthem as the said teritory lay in a hostile nation. The house where I currently stay, belonged to a Sindhi lady. One afternoon, while chatting, I discovered her mother had crossed over to India when she was pregnant She got separated from her family in that chaotic period. All alone, at the age of nineteen, with a group of migrants, she travelled to Bombay by ship. From there, she went on to Madras, where her husband had found a job. Much later, through intensive search, she managed to locate her lost family.Even now, at the age of 80+, this courageous lady stays there, all alone, after her husband's death. Her story, gave me goosebumps. I wondered what I would have done, if I were in her shoes.

The rest of the Indians, who perhaps without thinking label the Punjabis as aggressive and pushy, the Sindhis as cunning and miserly, the Bengalis as timid and reluctant to leave their comfort zone, do they ever try to learn the psyche of these scarred people? I wonder.

No matter how much we try to shake it off, the past stays with us. No matter how much we say that the Partition is over and done with, it still continues to scar us.. As long as we have people still living with us who were directly impacted by this tragedy, it will continue to haunt us. And if we ever forget the trauma it caused, there is a danger of this happening again.

I took my children to Amritsar to show them the Golden temple and the Wagah border this Diwali. At Wagah, I expected heart break and silence and found jubilation and Bhangra beats instead.. A synchronised show of mock hostility. Patriotic songs. Euphoric dances. A loud and passionate cry of Bharat Mata Ki Jai or Vande Mataram once in a while This was not the cry I had expected. This was not how I had imagined the border to be. I thought people would shed tears and lament. Light a candle for peace. Try to make sense of something that was so unnecessary. But this was almost a celebration. This brought laughter. What about the lives lost? Does anybody want to remember?

I looked around and saw most people in their 20s, to whom Partition meant nothing. The iron gates that stood between the two nations did not stir any passion. The people from the other side did not arouse any interest.

Perhaps this was better. We have come a long way since Independence. Unlike my parents' generation who always said India lost both her arms at the time of Independence, we have come to think of India as a whole nation and not as a fractured one. But what about the painful memories? How to heal them?

On my way back to the hotel, I kept on hearing my mother in law's voice in my mind. " Tui amake ekbaar Dhaka te niye jaabi? Amar boro dekhte ichha hoy" ( Will you take me to Dhaka once? I wish to see it one more time.)

How do I describe the exaggerated pomp and show that takes place in Wagah every day, to her? What will she think of this border? Will this ever make sense? Will she ever think the border is a happy place? I really do not know.

The India-Pakistan partition saw the largest migration in human history. Nearly 10 million people lost their homes. A million lost their lives.

Various videos of the Wagah retreat ceremony are available on youtube.You can have a look if you are interested.

These are some of the images that our camera caught. The last shot is of the flock of birds that kept flying from one side to another. They, unlike us, knew the real meaning of freedom.

Pretty young things dancing on the GT Road, the highway to Lahore.

The Indian stand, looking at the show.

The border gates, dividing the nations.

The gates have opened.

Some ridiculous show of superiority I guess. You can see the Pakistanis on the other side.

Showing the thumb to the enemy?

The actual fence, electrified.

The birds.

Questions

2009-10-11T05:27:00.000+05:30

If Obama can win the Nobel, what why could not Gandhi? Was his contribution to world peace less?

(My brother-in -law to all his Facebook friends, after the Nobel Peace Prize was declared this year))

If Einstein was so intelligent, then how come did he not know his hair looked like Mt Etna on a bad day?

( The owner of a salon to me, when I told her I wanted a hair cut that would make me look intelligent.)

If money grew on trees, would we have cut them down? And would we have put our apples in the bank?

( My daughter Ayushi, on being told she had to eat some fruits every day.)

Why do you have to throw your sense of humour at me while I am driving?

(My husband to me , when I asked him why the slowest traffic at office time was called rush hour.)

Why didn't you invite me to your wedding?

(My daughter Ishita, while looking at my wedding snaps, when she was 3)

Do you like to cook, clean, sew and solve mathematical problems?

( My mother-in-law to me, when she came to 'see' me for her son)

If god does exist, then does that mean that I do not?

(One of my husband's cousin to us, who was an atheist)

If I go away on a 15 day break, will you all miss me? And will you guess the place I am going if I tell you there is a beautiful temple there?

( Aparna to all her readers, just before going off to her vacation)

Those Speechless Moments

2009-10-07T00:00:00.003+05:30

She was just two and a half.
For a school programme, she was asked to dress up in a saree and mouth a really long dialogue.
The conversation went like this.

Me : Baby, can you say '' I am Sarojini Naidu?"
Baby : I am Sarojini Kaidu.

Me : Sweetie, it is not Kaidu. Say I am Sarojini Naidu.

Baby : I am Sarojini.

Me : Ok, will do....

The day of the programme daddy and mommy went to see Baby perform.

Teacher : Now comes Ayushi, dressed as ...who are you honey?

Baby : I am Sarojini Nagar market.

Me :
Then she turned three. And the conversation went like this.

Baby: Mama, why is Krishna always standing like this?

Me : Like what baby?

Baby : With one leg crossed?

Me : That's his pose for playing the flute.

Baby : I think he needs to go to susu and he is trying to control himself because there is no bathroom.

Me :
And this happened when she was 5.

Me : Baby,come here. I will take your photograph.
Baby: Can I paint my teeth with your glitter nail polish first?
Me: Whatever for?
Baby: I want my teeth to sparkle and shine when I smile at the camera.
Me:
And then she turned really intelligent when she was 6.
Baby: Mama, who are these men?

Me : This is Ratan Tata. And this one is Adi Godrej.

Baby : What kind of parents did they have?

Me : I think pretty good. Why do you ask?

Baby: They were cruel to name their children after trucks and almirahs. Do you think their friends teased them in school because of their names?
Me :

And this conversation happened just two weeks back.

Baby: Do you think I can celebrate my birthday in the place that opened recently?

Me : I don't think so. That is a place for grown ups.

Baby :Why do you say that?

Me: Because what they serve is not meant for children. They serve what adults like.

Baby: Oh! you mean they serve drugs and alcohol?

Me :

Exactly 8 years ago, more or less at this time, I had looked up and seen the beaming face of my doctor." Congratulations," she had said.
Then she had tried to look sombre. " Did you want a boy?"
I had looked around and seen the anaesthetist taking off her gloves. She had smiled and winked at me. The paediatrician was still holding the baby and she had seemed completely enamored with the new born. I had also seen the two nurses who had tirelessly helped the doctors.
Through out the process, the doctors had discussed amongst themselves the most comfortable yet fashionable shoes to wear in the hospitals. They had discussed the challenges of working mothers. Their parents and their special needs. And had cracked jokes. I did not know whether they did all this it to keep my mind off my anxiety. Or that was how they always worked.
Incidentally, I was also vaguely aware of the presence of two males during my ordeal. One had become so nervous that he almost destroyed the corridors of the hospital with his pacing. The other one was the orderly who had wheeled me in. Did I want a boy?

That was my best speechless moment as a mother.

The Eighties Girl

2009-09-29T18:08:00.015+05:30

1980.

The year when my life and India's destiny changed forever.

Baba was allotted a government quarter in Minto Road, Delhi. The people staying there were rather ordinary. Middle class. Warm. Friendly. They came from different parts of India. Tamil Nadu and Maharashtra. Punjab and Bihar. A kind of mini India. I made friends with a girl from UP. Do you want to play?" was the first question asked. Who asked? Who answered? All we knew was that by the end of the day, we had formed a deep friendship. I stayed in that government colony for more than 10 years. The friends I made then are still my lifeline.

That was also the year Sanjay Gandhi died. We did not really care about politics, my friends and I. But we did hear some snippets of adult conversation. Emergency. Turkman Gate. RajivGandhi. Only later we knew how important these words were to our country.

1981.

It was the year of love. Sapna and Vasu. Bunty and Pinky. Charles and Diana. I fell a little bit in love with Kumar Gaurav. My mother refused to let me see Love Story the second time because she thought I might get ideas and elope with someone. I was so upset that I locked myself in. My mother broke open the door and spanked me. I was angry, tearful, dejected. Back in 1981, my mother was all powerful. And I was not even thirteen.

1982.

That was the year of excitement. Asiad was the hot topic. Appu was the lovable mascot. And Doordarshan was changing colours. From a drab black and white, we went shocking pink .Bright blue. Dark green. Deep orange. The experts had yet to figure out how to control the colours and contrasts. Or perhaps like little kids, they also got a little carried away seeing all the colourful possibilities. For whatever reasons, our eyes had to undergo a lot of trauma. The TV set was manufactured by the Electronics Corporation of India. It took ages to switch on. We waited with bated breath to see the first flicker of colour. There was also no remote. Did we care?

1983.

A year of possibilities. A car that was mass produced, transformed our roads. A frozen frame showed the reigning screen god's brush with death. And a cheeky, spunky devil from Haryana lifted the World Cup. The initial matches were considered so insignificant, India's chances were considered so remote that we did not even send a camera crew. But for the semi final and final, we were glued to the TV. Occasionally we lost signal from London. Occasionally the pictures were grainy, but we saw our men, who dared to dream, finally lift that huge cup. '83 was the year we started believing in ourselves. We believed we could buy a car. We believed we could fight death and emerge victorious. We believed we could beat West Indies in cricket and be world champions....well, may be that was still, a little bit unbelievable.

1984.

If the previous year had hope, this one had tragedy. Starting with my board exams in March. The syllabus was humongous. There were too many subjects. But who said the life was easy? To celebrate the end of the boards, my parents took us to Srinagar. And then the nightmare began.

The Indian Army stormed the Golden Temple. Curfew was imposed and we were stranded in the Jammu- Punjab border. 5 days of living on the roads. Extreme heat. No food. No doctors, (we all got heat stroke) and most important, no bathrooms anywhere. I wonder whether the young people who have grown up taking for granted ATMs and credit cards, cell phones and internet, ACs and plane travelling, will ever be able to fathom the trauma my father went through when his money ran out. He was a long way from home and he did not know when this would end. After 5 gruelling days we managed to reach Delhi and found it simmering with resentment. The same year in October, Indira Gandhi was gunned down. And the city I loved, burst into flames. From our 7 storey building, we saw the red sky. Heard horrific news of the riots. The schools and colleges shut down. Young boys like my brother, patrolled the colony at night to stop possible rioters. The immense love and respect Hindus and Sikhs had for each other, was gone in a heart beat. Sanity took a long time to return.

1985

We saw Ravi Shastri driving his Champion of champions' prize on the huge Sidney cricket ground that year. His team mates had crammed into the car. Some were also on top. It felt like we were taking that victory lap ourselves. The first world cup win was considered to be a fluke and that year we felt vindicated. That was the year we heard about a car called Audi for the first time.

1986.

A year of growing up. That was the year I went to college. The difference between the claustrophobic school and the fun loving college was palpable. New environment, new teachers and new friends. The year's chart buster was "That's what friends are for" and we could not have enough of the song. This year we also saw the Challenger space shuttle burst into flame and the vivid, horrifying image stayed in our minds for a long time.

1987

That year, every Sunday morning at 9.30, the whole of India came to a virtual stop. We made it a point to sit in front of our neighbour's TV (most of India were still to acquire one) and watched Ramayan. The roads were deserted. Trains, buses and taxis stopped running. People rescheduled their appointments and all of us caught the Ramayana fever.

A year we learnt 2 Russian words. Glasnost and Perestroika.

1988

My brother could not stop raving about the young girl who danced to a strange song that went like Ek Do Teen... For one full day, he lost his ability to speak and went mooney eyed on us. He would lie down and stare at the ceiling and sigh once in a while. I kind of empathized with him since I felt a bit like that for a young actor who was playing the role of a Fauji in a serial of the same name.

That year, I also went to Rajasthan with my college friends, my first trip without my family. Has there been any other state with so much history, art, colours and passion? Not in my eyes.

1989

A year of filling up forms for higher studies. A year of contemplation. A year of sitting down with friends and family to decide on a career path. There were so many avenues, so many options. We saw the Berlin wall fall and realized impossible could happen. We saw the gutsy students protest at the Tiananmen Square and felt bravery could come in many forms.

That was the year I finally grew up.

I know this has been a long post. But I had to write this one when Blunt Edges said “So you belong to THAT generation?". Yes I do. Those were the days my friend... I also could not resist putting this video clip here. I do not know how many of you will have the patience to see this one. Those of you, who do, let me know how many faces you recognized. They were the faces of the eighties.....

Eat, Pray, Enjoy. And Wait For Next Year.

2009-09-22T11:43:00.010+05:30

Durga Puja to me was never about religion.

I admit I grew up listening to the story of how the Goddess destroyed the evil force. I learnt the songs associated with the festival. I heard Birendra Krishna Bhadra's narration of the story every Mahalaya morning. I more or less knew the rituals and traditions associated with the Puja as my family in Kolkata performed this momentous occasion at home. But still, to me , Durga Puja was never about just rituals. It meant shopping, gorging on food, watching Bengali movies in the pandal, eating bhog and flaunting all my new dresses to my non- Bengali friends. In short, it was all about fun.

Those of us who grew up outside Bengal, the Puja was the only occasion to connect with our roots. The fun started almost a month before the Puja. We would get the dress materials as Puja gifts from our relatives. My mother and I would spend hours discussing the dresses. We would pour over the design books at the tailor and finally select the ones that both of us liked. In the days of no Shopper's Stops , Lifestyles and credit cards, shopping was admittedly more fun. We had to constantly watch our budget and at the same time keep an eye on fashion. It was another matter that in the eighties, fashion was more often than not, a complete disaster.

My best friend, who was from U.P., was perhaps more excited about the Puja than I was. Immediately after Puja, she would borrow all my clothes. The ones that she liked the most, she would keep permanently. If I protested, she would make an identical one for herself and then would wear it all the time. Fed up, I would stop wearing mine. She would then come and take that one also. This continued for years.

The Durga Puja was also about Uttam Kumar and Suchitra Sen movies. The Puja Committee would rent out the latest hits or some old classics... depending on the money collected that year for entertainment. As we were perpetually short of money, all four days of the Durga Puja, starting from the shashthi (the sixth day of the Navaratris) to navami, (the ninth day) we would sit on the dhurries ( or shotoronchi as we call it in Bengali) and watch Uttam- Suchitra scorch the 16 mm. projector screen. This was one mega movie marathon. Every night there were 3 movies screened. We never complained about the discomfort of sitting on hard ground all night. We also never complained about the heat, dust or mosquitoes.. We were too busy having fun. The lights would come on every time the projector operator changed out the reels. We would stretch out, yawn and walk a to the food stall. That was the only time we got to sample the Calcutta style rolls and mughlai parathas. And the ghugni (the Bengali version of chchole) was too good to resist. A few cups of tea to wash every thing down and we were ready for some more on screen romance. I remember once during a movie, we were left very confused when we saw a dead man walk after we saw him die just five minutes back. Later we realized the operator had by mistake shown the wrong reel first.

My friends could never understand how we could eat non-vegetarian food during the Durga Puja. For the Notrth Indians, the navaratris meant fasting and giving up on non-vegetarian fare. In our case, it was just the opposite. The more fish cutlets, the better. They would accuse me of not being spiritual during the holy days and I would just nonchalantly carry on eating. How could I explain to them that to us, eating a sumptuous plate of kosha mangsho (a kind of mutton curry) was almost as spiritual?

All four days of the Puja we ate out. The bhog , which was a simple fare, was served in the pandal every day. At night, we went pandal hopping and ate every thing the different food stalls had to offer. Dhakai paratha, luchi aloor dum, vegetable cutlets... my brother and I had to taste simply every thing. Once we also had some thing called ice cream bhaja ( fried ice cream). It was ice cream coated in a batter and deep fried. To be honest it was not as appealing once the novelty wore off.

The four days would simply fly away and on Vijaya Dashami day, we would all be a little teary eyed. I always resented my brother that day because he got to be on the truck that carried the idol for visarjan. For lesser mortals like us, there were buses. No matter how much I pleaded, I was not allowed to enter this all boys club. By evening, the banks of Yamuna would be full of idols from all parts of Delhi. The drum beats, the last aarti, the fragrance of incense... the sight was indeed magical.

In the evening, we all would meet for the Vijaya Sammelani, touched the feet of elders and sought blessings from them. We would eagerly wait for the invitations from most of them. "Come tomorrow to my house for Bijoya" actually meant" Come to my house and eat as much as you like. " Huge amount of goodies would be consumed and by night we were too tired to move.

There would be sadness in the air after the Puja but we knew we would meet again few days later for Laksmi Puja, (those yummy home made coconut laddoos) And then there was Kali Puja (Diwali) in another 20 days. My North Indian friends came home with their Diwali feast. Then Bhai phota ( bhai dooj). Although I complained bitterly that day because my mother would make my brother's favourite dishes. And some where tucked away in the middle, was Eid. Some of my friends would lovingly send some home cooked authentic Biryani. My brother and I felt like we had died and gone to heaven. And before we knew it, it would be Christmas (oh, those plum cakes and puddings!) and then New Year. The new beginning would bring some more festivals.

Life goes on. Celebrating a new festival almost every month. That is India. Aashche bochchor aabar hobey. It will happen again next year.

Survey Shaam Shantir Bhavatu

2009-09-15T14:06:00.003+05:30

So I took one of those surveys and found I was a helicopter.

I have to say I was disappointed.

I so wanted to a be a Mercedes Benz. Cruising at 150 kms per hour, without hitting any bumps or craters on the road. Giving every body a joy ride through life. Playing some soul stirring music. Looking at the map just once in a while to figure out where exactly I want to go. But no such luck. I am a chopper. That means I possibly make a lot of noise that bother my near and dear ones. They perhaps have to duck every time they see me land. My presence probably just blows them away. They surely hate me. And who can blame them?

The survey seemed pretty harmless when I took it. I did not know it would pack such a devastating punch.The very first question was if I wanted to put my children in day care. I said no thank you. I am a stay at home mom.

Then it asked if I checked my daughter's cell phone messages. Considering my daughter does not have a cell phone and all her messages come to my mobile, I said yes.

This one was innocuous. Do you accompany your children every where? Indeed I do. The city roads are not safe for young children. I mean, would you not accompany your 14 year old daughter to her tuition class at 7 pm? The class is not near. And it goes on till night 9, so I bring her back home too. Do you mind?

The next one was straight forward. Do you let your kids go online without you supervising? No, never. And to be doubly sure, I have kept the computer in my bedroom. So they are in my room whenever they use it. I will be that way till they are legally old to watch porn. Which in my opinion will be never.

I think the next one was what buried me. It asked if I helped my kids in school work. Of course I said yes. I am an educated person, fully equipped to handle any queries (except any pertaining to physics). Why shouldn't I help them? And if I don't, do you think my mother in law will ever forgive me? Her precious son was a gold medallist through out his life.My daughters are dumb according to her. ( All due to poor mommy's defective genes) If I do not help them to perform well, they will have to hear how daddy won medals and cups at school and how pathetic it is not to do well in academics. I never want my kids to hear that. So there.

And the last one was absolutely useless. Do you always keep track of your kids' friends, their activities and their class schedules? Yes, yes, yes. I know their friends, where they live,what they do, what books they are reading currently, their phone numbers and their parents' cell numbers. Any problem?

So now you all know the result. I am a helicopter mom. I constantly hover over my kids and bug the hell out of them. Apparently, I do not let them make their own choices and constantly suffocate them with my over-protectiveness. I am so devastated to know this. My mother in law on the contrary is sure to be a Porsche. She sent her only son to a hostel at sixteen and has never stayed with him till her husband passed away, which was just three years back.

So to make sure peace prevails in my household and my children learn to be independent and confident individuals, I have decided to turn into a new transport. So no interference from my side, no reminders of any class activity, no dropping and fetching to wherever. To help me go through this difficult time, I have taken to fervently praying every day. May good befall all. May there be peace for all. May all attain perfection. May all be healthy. May all experience what is good and let no one suffer. Aum Shantih Shantih Shantih.

It is going to be so damn difficult.

Broken

2009-09-06T12:45:00.000+05:30

All around her, Priya saw only colours.

Purvi, looking gorgeous in pink, drawing the colourful alpana. Saniya, looking breathtaking in blue, talking to some guests. Rukmini, a vision in yellow, painstakingly arranging the flowers. They were so lovely, the orange marigolds, the red roses. And then there were those gifts, wrapped in cheerful colours. Happy, bright, vibrant colours. So different from the grey that had permeated her world just a few years ago, when Arun died.

Priya knew if she turned around, she could see Arun's face. He came to her everyday, encouraging her to live her life. Telling her not to lose hope.His face was so real to her, still . The forehead with two deep vertical lines, an endearing feature that showed how much he frowned when he thought. The sharp nose. The eyelashes that would have made any woman proud. His slight smile. That beloved face, with just a hint of a beard. "My 5 o'clock shadow" that's what Arun called it. Priya used to laugh. "How come your 5 o'clock appears at lunch time? Like you, your shadow also hurries through life." She would gently caress his face. How she loved to touch that face.

"Would you like to have something to drink?" Startled, Priya looked at the woman who asked her the question.

"Are you from the groom's side?" Priya was desperately trying to recall her name, not recognizing her at all. And why was this woman wearing white? White was a colour of sorrow. Today was a happy day. She was getting married today.

"My name is Padma, I am here to look after you. Are you feeling comfortable?"

Priya nodded. Looking at the revelry around her. The music. The dance. The laughter. The sound of bangles and anklets. Sounds so different from what she had heard a few years ago.

The wailing siren of the ambulance cutting through the silent night. Priya sobbing, clutching Arun's hand. The swinging doors of the emergency. The frantic conference of the doctors. The mechanical beeps of the machines attached to the still body. All sounds of grief and helplessness. If Priya tried, she could still hear them. If she tried harder, she could even hear the sound of her endless vigil beside her lover, who was slowly fading in front of her eyes.

"Come, sit on the bed. Why are you crying?" Priya was again jostled back to reality. Why couldn't this woman in white leave her alone? Why did she have to disturb her memories of her last few days with her only true love? Priya knew she was only trying to help. Perhaps trying to take the place of the mother who was also snatched away from her just days before Arun's death.

A scream. That was what Priya remembered most when they told her about her mother. They said she was coming to visit Arun in the hospital when the car ran her over. She was coming to ease her daughter's pain. Priya still heard that scream in her nightmares. Her young vibrant mother, suddenly snatched away from her when she needed her the most. And just a few days later, Arun was also lost to her forever.

"Hey Priya, dance with us." Her joyous friends tugged her hands and forcibly took her to the middle of the room. Priya smiled, looking at the faces of her friends. Purvi, Saniya, Rukmini. The pillars of her life. Her support, her strength. The friends who took her out of the cesspool that was her life. They had come after her mother's death. Quietly sharing her grief. Offering her support. " Dance Priya, dance." Amidst cheers and happy bantering, Priya caught the sight of two more people who mattered in her life. Arun's parents. These two gentle, loving souls who took her under their wings. Loving her unconditionally. Keeping her with them. Crying with her. Trying to laugh with her. It was because of them she had the courage to build her own life again. Because of them she consented to marry the young man who was so often there at their house. Today also, they were with her.Priya could see them, just beyond the glass door, talking to a sombre faced man. Was he the groom's father? He looked grim. And who was the man next to them? From a distance, he looked a bit like Arun.

"Priya, come and sit down here." Priya ignored the command of the woman in white and went towards the window. She looked down at the busy street and saw the endless stream of cars. Life went by, no matter what. Was she doing the right thing? The man she was marrying was not Arun. She twisted the ring on her finger. The simple ring with a single white stone. She turned her finger, trying to catch the sunlight. She desperately needed sunlight in her life. She was so tired of living her life in the dark. She needed to feel whole again. She twisted the ring on her finger, slowly at first, then faster. The play of light on her ring was almost hypnotic.

"Come away from the window Priya, sit here. Your family will be here soon." Priya did not pay attention to the voice. The woman in white. That hateful colour. The colour of the walls in the hospital. The colour that was Arun's favourite. The colour of the sheet that covered her mother's lifeless body. She hated it. She saw the white stone on her finger and tugged at it. The ring slowly came off and fell. " My ring! Please, somebody, my ring fell!"

"Come away from the window Priya,"

"Where Priya? Where is the ring?" Her friends were trying to peep over her shoulder.

"Oh, there. Just on the ledge. Go get it. Priya. Just reach over and get it"

"No, Priya step back."

"It is your engagement ring, get it Priya."

"Priya, step back"

"Jump Priya, jump. Get it now. Jump.

"Nooo, Priya...doctor...doctor help"

Lying on the bed, Priya slowly tried to focus on the people around her. A woman in white. A grim faced man. A woman sobbing.

"We tried so hard to bring her back amongst us doctor. But she has been slipping away ever since her mother died. She just could not get over the shock of seeing her mother lying in a pool of blood"

Priya tried hard to listen to the voices. Arun, that was Arun's voice. Calling her to join him where they would all be happy together. Her mother. Arun. She.

"Mr. Sharma, This is an acute stage and she needs to be monitored constantly. She has started hallucinating and hearing voices. The lines between her reality and unreality have blurred. She is capable of harming herself and others. She needs expert help. I hope you will make up your mind after this episode."

Priya glanced around the room, searching for her friends. Purvi, Saniya, Rukmini. Friends who came only when her world was dark. Her support. Where were they? She saw the retreating backs of her mother. And Arun. Were they leaving too? She needed them so badly. Her eyes slowly closed, shutting out the room, the voices, the people. They always left her.

The old couple slowly emerged out of the hospital. Drained after the lengthy admission procedures. Their tired steps faltering at times. Each holding a hand of the son. Seeking support. Perhaps giving it also. The young man tightly held the mother." I loved her so much Ma. I tried so hard to bring her back to us. But in the end she forgot me too."

" I know son., I know."

" May be if the father had not abandoned her when she was small. May be if I had not been taking so ill at that time." He tried to voice his thoughts, trying to make sense of the bewildering world of his love.

"Yes, Arun, I know."

Holding their son's hands tightly, the man and the woman started the slow journey home.

This is my first attempt at fiction, unless you count those few stories I attempted writing in my school days.

ZB (who else? He will be the death of me one day) challenged a few of us to write this story. As he gave us the story line, the characters, the names, the beginning, the end...in short every thing and asked us to strictly adhere to it, there was not much left for me to do. But I could not stick to the original plot completely. And I did not kill Arun. My blog is a happy place and I could not see a man dying here.

Sorry ZB, I cheated. Am I disqualified?

The Homecoming

2009-09-01T15:54:00.000+05:30

Ladies and gentlemen, I am honoured to meet each one of you.

I read my wife's blog while I was in Tel Aviv and could not suppress a smile. It gave me immense pleasure to read about her plans to destroy all my worldly goods. After 17 years of togetherness, I can claim to know a little bit about her. She does not have a violent streak and I knew all my possessions would be safe. ( Although I admit I counted the CDs once I reached home.)

I must say some of her ideas were pretty fierce. My gratitude goes out to all those who tried to reason with her and asked her to spare my CDs and my IIT ID card. Of all the things I possess, I cherish my IIT certificate and the ID card the most. That degree is my pride and joy. Both the certificate and the card are now tucked away in a safe place, away from my wife's eagle eyes. The Blu-Ray player and the DVDs have also escaped her wrath and for that I am grateful. I can be a pain in the wrong place if I do not have my weekly dose of Marlon Brando. The Godfather series is intact and I am thankful to the Almighty for giving my wife her forgiving nature.

I also read all the comments this particular post drew. This was a daunting task as there were quite a few of them. Some were amusing, and some made me think a bit.There were a few issues I felt I must address here. Hence the decision to write this post. My wife gladly agreed to lend me this space.

I do not always teach my daughter. I just guide her when she needs help in Mathematics or Science. Similarly, my wife teaches her if she needs help in Geography or English. We still do not know what she will ultimately decide to study. Although there is no pressure from our side for her to achieve a certain percentage, we have tried to instill in her the value of an all round education. Moreover, if I have the required expertise on a certain subject, why shouldn't I guide her? Why depend on an outsider if I can do the tutoring? It also gives us the chance to spend some time together as father and daughter. As parents, isn't it our duty to pass on our knowledge and wisdom to our children? So to all those who felt that we should let her study on her own, let me just say that I would prefer it if my daughter approached me for any problem, be it physics or any thing else, rather than go to a stranger. My daughter is quite independent. But she knows that her parents are always available in case she requires help.

The second issue concerned the branded items. It is only after my wife wrote about them that I realised there were some expensive items I have acquired over the years. Although most of those things, like the shining, gleaming car and the LV bag have been given to me by my company, there are some good things I have bought myself. I passed out of my college when I was 20. Now I am almost 46. All these years I have worked very hard to reach where I have today. I have gone through my share of local trains and unreserved travel in sleeper class coaches. I also cannot get over the fact the Louis Vuitton bag as well as the music system cost not just more than a return New York ticket but also more than the apartment my parents bought during my father's last few days before he retired. Ditto for the Salvatore Ferragamo ties - each cost more than my dad's last drawn salary. If I fly first class today, it is because I have earned it with my hard work. So, to the younger generation, let me just say that there is no short cut to success. If I am proud of my possessions, it is not because of their brand value. It is because I bought them with my own hard earned money. Sure, the IIT degree helped, but so did my willingness to work hard. Someone up there was more than kind to me.

On a lighter note, let me just say that the lady who suggested I watch a Ranbir Kapoor or a Fardeen Khan movie as a punishment was spot on. I would do anything to escape watching these two gentlemen, including watching an episode of Rakhi Ka Swayamvar. So if there really was a prize, you will be a winner.

So thank you ladies and gentlemen for reading this bit. I am glad to be back home, defending what is rightfully mine. So sorry there was no actual award. I was also a bit relieved to know that my wife did not think of offering herself as a prize. Now that would have been a disaster, for me as well as for you.

To prove that I was actually working very hard, I am sharing some of my memories here. If it seems like this was a tourism trip - let me tell you it was not. The business addresses that we visited were so heavily guarded (even some of the employees carried handguns - I am not joking) that I had to not only leave my camera behind, but my cellphone as well. Hence the pleasant pictures only - for you to enjoy.

The ultimate fusion of religion - you have a minaret of a mosque on top of the room where Jesus had his last supper and then King David's tomb below. I can tell you that I sorely missed Vishwa Hindu Parishad here ! Some combination !!

The famous wall in Jerusalem which separates the Jewish and Arab settlements. The Jews are giving it back to the Arabs in style what happened to them during WW II.

A view of the Mediterranean Sea from Herzeliyya beach.

This is the tomb where the shroud of Jesus was found.

The wailing wall - the most sacred place for the Jewish religion. This was part of the original temple.

Jerusalem is not just about religion. The night life rocks as well.

These are the caves where the Dead Sea scrolls were found hidden.

The Dead Sea - finally. It is a crazy experience. I could actually sit on the water in "Dhyanmudra".

The Dead Sea again - you can see the "running horse" image on the hills - which are actually in Jordan.

Israel has an identity of its own. It has a great survival instinct - it exists right in the middle of the Middle East - surrounded by unkind and at best hostile Arab nations. It became independent about a year after India - but the progress is awesome. As I left the city through Ben Gurion airport (and landed smack into the hands of the famous El Al security) , I could not but feel a deep sense of respect for the country and its people.

P.S. I know the pictures are small. I would appreciate it if somebody can tell me how to enlarge these photos.

Vengeance Is Mine

2009-08-24T11:43:00.000+05:30

My husband has committed the ultimate betrayal.

He is flying away, leaving me in utter despair. Didn't he say all the vows just a few years back? In sickness and in health, in maths and in physics??? Well, he has definitely forgotten all about them and is leaving me to deal with my daughter's maths, physics and computer science exams. All by myself.

My daughter is in class IX now and her exams are a pretty serious business. I am a whiz kid when it comes to Political Science. Environmental Science is also not too bad. Biology is another science I can manage, but when it comes to Computer Science or the most basic of the sciences,Physics, I turn into the Archie Comics character, Big Moose. A complete duh. So I was very happy when he promised me that he would always be around whenever it came to teaching these two dreadful subjects to our daughters. But I guess I was fooled by some good manners and a sincere voice. Women, never ever trust these ambitious over-achievers. They are never there when you need them.

I could ask for help from Deepika, my next door neighbour. But that poor woman is buried in work and her own daughter is also in class IX. My other friend Preeti could have come to my rescue too, but this IIT Mumbai faculty has gone to IIT Madras on a sabbatical. So I am in deep, deep trouble. My daughter and I would have to go through these troubled times together and I am feeling utterly incompetent. Though I must confess that more than feeling helpless, I am feeling furious. How could he abandon me when I needed him the most? Does he even know how it is,when one is feeling enraged and helpless at the same time? Well, I guess I can always show him. I am spitting venom here.

So I have been thinking and plotting about all the ways I could get back at him. After going through all the possibilities, I have shortlisted some options.

1. I could nuke his CD collection.
One day, when I had no work, I sat and counted his CDs. He had exactly 323 discs. One by one I could put them in the micro-wave and sit and enjoy the show. So all his Pink Floyds and Led Zeppelins, Eagles and Aerosmiths, BeeGees and Jethro tulls and the countless others could go. I think I will save the Abba. I am rather fond of it.

2. I could auction his gleaming, shining car on ebay and give the money to charity.
He is extremely attached to this inanimate object. Since he has kept it rather well, I think I can raise a good amount.

3. I could give away all his DVDs to the local video library.
There are approximately 200 of them.Some of them are Blu- rays. Better still, I could give them away as prizes on my blog. Whoever writes the wittiest comment gets the entire Godfather series. Or the Die Hard series. Old timers please do not lose heart. There are also some classic Hitchcocks. And those world war 2 movies like Where Eagles Dare and Guns of Navarone.

4. I could give away his precious Louis Vuitton bag to my maid.
I mean why would any man own a bag that costs more than an air ticket to New York? Crazy. This is not a punishment, this is saving him from sheer embarrassment. He will thank me for it.

5. I could give away his ties to the kids.
They can tie the ends and make a skipping rope out of it. I know some of them are Ferragamos, but anything to keep my kids happy. They have been clamouring for a skipping rope for quite some time now.

6. I thought of tearing up all his thick Harvard Business Reviews and make paper boats out of them, but I could not see myself destroying books. So I let that idea pass. But I thought I could may be tear up his most precious possession, his IIT id card. That has any way become pretty yellow with old age.How is that one for revenge?

My pure and uncomplicated mind ran out of ideas after this one friends. So I am seeking help from you. Please let me know if you have any more innovative ideas.

I promise you I will be grateful to you for your precious suggestions. What's more, I will even give an award for this.

Whoever comes up with the best idea for my revenge, will get 6 original Murano glass wine goblets that he bought from Venice. I am not telling you the price of these glasses if you are not sitting down. And to sweeten the deal, I will give away the 12 year old Johnnie Walker Black Label that he is saving for a special occasion.

Please let me know fast. He is coming back next week from the phoren shores.

Pass It On. And Don't Return.

2009-08-19T16:07:00.000+05:30

The only time I won any thing substantial was when I was in class V.

I was told to go to the Principal's office one morning. Wearing the pristine white uniform and shaking in my black polished shoes, I was desperately trying to keep my heart beat down. She called me in, handed over an envelope and said,"Congratulations...keep up the good work". The envelope contained Rs 25. I was thrilled. But unfortunately I could not keep up the good work. Unless you count the lascivious glances and few comments like ' o meri chchamak chchallo' as winning, my entire student life was completely non-happening in terms of winning.

I did win my husband in the biggest gamble called 'arranged marriage' though. My best friend felt it was my "pichchle janmon ke punya'' and his " saat janmon ke total paap" that made me hit this jackpot. ( With a friend like this do I really need an enemy?) But hey, a win is a win, right?

Some of you might say that giving birth to 2 precious girls, who are reasonably intelligent and talented, as winning too. But let me tell you friends that I worked damn hard to produce these 2.

And since both of them are still in their formative stages, I am still to figure out whether they are my assets or liabilities. Right now the scale is tilting slightly towards the liability side.

Even after 17 years, I am yet to win my mom-in-law's whole hearted approval. She still remembers and sighs over a letter from another girl's parents. The letter got lost in transit. The Indian postal department had gone on a flash strike and the letter was never delivered. Meanwhile my aggressive and pushy parents pounced upon the hapless boy and the rest is history. Sigh. Such a tragic tale.

So as I was saying, I have a pretty pathetic record when it comes to wins. Therefore I was jolted out of my complacent self when I won not one but two awards recently. The first one was from eye-in-sty-in, who has since then metamorphosed into Spike. My only fault was leaving some inane, silly comments on his posts. He decided to punish me by giving me this award. I am calling it a punishment because like Amir Khan, I had decided not to accept awards, (unless it is from the President of India, a la Amir.) But this smart chap threatened to boycott my blog (like the media) if I did not pick this one up. So here I am Spike, but let it be known that I am doing it under duress. Moreover the award is not even in English. Still, see it prominently and proudly being displayed here. Happy? I still feel your sometimes goofy, sometimes intelligent comments are better than any award that you can ever give me. But thank you very much.

I am passing on this award to the bloggers who I really enjoy reading.

Sakshi, who has an amazing sense of humour and makes even the simple sound extra-ordinary.

SJ, because she is one whacky person and I always wait for her next post. ( Hope this one will bring you out of your self-imposed exile)

Kavi, because his lyrical writing touches my heart every single time.

Sucharita, who is one of my favourite writers in the blogosphere and she is really, really good.

The second award came from Meira, another bindaas writer. Her writing has a carefree, effervescent quality that I like. And I was honoured when she gave this to me.

This award I thought of passing on to the first four people who comment on my post. After all this is supposed to be an award for those who inspire me and nobody inspires me more than the people who comment on my posts. But then I thought it would be grossly unfair to the four commentators in the middle or the last four commentators. Hence I am giving this award to

Sujata ( you can call it nepotism, but it was she who inspired me to blog in the first place)

Nona, this amazing man is a prolific writer and inspires me to manage my time.

Suman, because he writes on very unusual subjects and it is always a pleasure to read him.

ZB, because he has inspired me to write quite a few posts in the past.

And finally to Jyothi, because a working mom of two fast growing children can truly be inspiring.

Thank you Meira, for this beautiful award.

So please pick up your awards friends and and pass them on to those deserving bloggers who inspire you to write better.

This award giving ceremony reminds me of a game I used to play in my school. I used to sit on the last bench, hit the head of the girl in front really hard and say, "Pass it on and don't return."

One by one the girls would knock the heads of the girls sitting in front till the knock reached the girl sitting in the front row. She would sit quietly, swallowing her anger and I would snicker, sitting at the back.

So now you know why I never won anything substantial in school!

A Cup For The Maid

2009-08-15T18:02:00.001+05:30

Last month I finished reading 'A toss of a lemon' by Padma Vishwanathan.

It is an epic family drama that spans from 1892 to the 1950s. It is the story of a Tamil Brahmin woman who got married at age 10 and was widowed at age 18. Though I found the novel monotonous at times, it offered me a peep into a world that I would not have explored otherwise.

The book at times almost celebrated the Brahminical way of life and heightened the community's superiority over the other castes in British India. Reading it, I could not help draw comparisons with the social structure prevailing in Bengal at the same time. The caste structure was not as rigid in Bengal due to the tireless efforts of reformers like Raja RamMohan Roy, Vidyasagar and Vivekananda and the Brahmo Samaj. I could not help feeling a bit triumphant over my state's progress into modernism at that time.

Casually discussing this issue with a Bengali friend and revelling in our progress, I happened to go to her kitchen for a glass of water and could not help noticing something. A separate cup kept for the maid.

This was a common practise in most Indian families. My joint family house in Kolkata, where Iwas born, there were separate plates, glasses, cups kept for the family help. The help were treated with respect. They were paid well and every basic amenities were provided for. But the servants did not sit on our beds or sofas, did not use our bathrooms and always drank tea from separate cups kept specially for them.

In Delhi, where I grew up, things were not much different. The domestic workers were more professional and paid better their their Bengali counterparts. They demanded a lot more privileges. Holidays every month. School bags and shoes for their children. New clothes every festivals, but they knew that when they drank tea, they would have to drink from a cup meant for them. And they would have to sit on the floor if they wanted to rest for a while.

Was this casteism? Perhaps not. Even if they were Brahmins, there would have been separate utensils for them. It was more likely discrimination based on their economic status. Most families thought being poor meant poor hygeine. They were also subtly reminded of their economic status...apni aukat mein raho...was almost a catch phrase.

Years later, when I bacame a mother, I kept a girl to look after my first born. She would bathe my child, feed her, take her to the park. She loved my daughter selflessly and took very good care of her. She had almost become a part of my family. One day, I found my daughter sharing her food with her. Later when I reprimanded my daughter for doing that, my wise three year old said, " If didi is good enough to feed me, she is good enough to eat from my plate."

I was stunned. I never expected my daughter to pick up this very glaring case of discrimination being practised in a middle class, educated household. It was such a profound statement coming from a small girl. I was so disturbed by her blatant and harsh statement that it took me quite a while to recover. I felt my daughter was accusing me of being unfair and a snob. I felt small and demeaned. I was deeply hurt. May be because I knew it was all true. A few days later, I threw the cup and the plates I had kept for her. Afterwards, I felt immensely relieved. I felt I could finally practic what I preached her. When I told her I did not discriminate on the basis of caste or economic status, it would not be an empty statement. It was a major load off my chest.

But I know, even now, many educated, well read Indians, who take pride in the Constitution that proclaims that India is a Sovereign, Socialist, Secular Democratic, Republic and there are Justice, Liberty, Equality and Fraternity for all, do not really adhere to these beliefs. They pay their maids handsome salary to look after their children, give them expensive Diwali gifts, buy them cell phones to call their homes. But they deny them basic human dignity. They bar them from sitting on their sofas and their beds. And they keep a separate cup for them at home for their tea.

On my country's 63rd Independence Day, I wonder, how many more years it will take for us to achieve our real freedom.

Freedom from discrimination. Freedom from prejudices. Freedom from inequality. And the freedom to share our love with our own people.

Jai Hind.

Work, Tension And All That Physics

2009-08-10T06:15:00.000+05:30

Trrinngg....the vibrating alarm sent a wave of pressure fluctuations through the atmosphere. Though the reasonably high sound waves entered my ear canal and caused my eardrums to vibrate, my brain was totally incapable of changing its state of rest. A complete inertia.

Nudge, nudge...my husband's elbow prodded my arm. God, how I hate these external forces acting on my body.

Some how I managed to drag my lethargic body to my daughter's room. She had been suffering from nausea, high fever,cold and cough for the last 2 days. My magnitude of thoughts had become totally vector quantities. They ran 100km per hour into one single direction. What if it was swine flu? I kept my palm on her hot forehead thinking the heat energy will flow into my cooler body. Let her heat loss be equal to my heat gain. Let the Fahrenheit thermometer show less than 102 degrees. But hard luck people, no such thing happened. And not just that, since my bare feet were touching the ground, all the negligible heat that might have flowed into my body flowed back into the earth, contributing to global warming. Disgusting.

It was 6.30 am. The kitchen duty called. Had to make breakfast for the younger one. Then send her to school. So much work and pressure. Phhuut..the hard shell of the egg hit the granite counter. The enormous upward force on the egg made it lose its downward velocity. The egg shattered and broke apart. What a mess. And what a waste of energy.

Breakfast done and one child sent to school, I pushed 2 slices of bread into the toaster and waited for the toasts. I guess I could tell you how the coils grew red, producing infrared radiation. How the electrical energy changed into heat energy and dried up my bread slices. Or perhaps I could tell you how the microwave oven generated electromagnetic waves which made some water move. And how this friction built up the heat that ultimately boiled that water for my tea. Or perhaps you would like to hear about how my knife, the simplest mechanism present in my kitchen, transformed my energy to do some gruesome work against an innocent apple...but nah, I think I will spare you all that details.

I would rather tell you what happened after I switched on my computer.. The machine, based on integrated circuits, that always came alive at my set of instructions. I could not wait to see how my readers had reacted to my latest post. THUDD. Incase you are wondering friends, that was the force of gravity that acted on me, bringing me rather mercilessly on terra firma. How pathetic! The comments had dwindled. Less than half of what I had expected. My last post was that bad? The less I say about Newton's third law, the better. Action and reaction were equal and opposite. Garbage in, was garbage out. Or was that input and output?

I was thoroughly depressed... I really could measure my tension in pounds-force. Translated in English, it meant my tension gave me a pounding and forceful headache. I could go on about how my day went after that, but I really have some work and I do not have the time. So may be some other day, when my universe is not so chaotic. Till then, bye.

I have been itching to this post ever since ZB said women are stupid when it comes to physics. What can I say ZB, you are spot on.I never understood physics and I never will. But I am wondering what my next door neighbour Deepika will say about this. She is a student of Delhi College of Engineering and is teaching physics and maths in a premier institute in Mumbai. Or my other neighbour Preeti, who after completing her B.Tech from IIT Madras, went to MIT to add a number of letters after her name. She is currently in Mumbai as a faculty in IIT.

Oh, and about the black hole, we women not only know what it is, we live it. It is that space in our lives that completely infiltrate us, sucking us down and majorly overwhelming us. No ray of light seems to guide us and we are left to navigate this all consuming blackness entirely alone. The body thermostat malfunctions, our sense of humour does the vanishing trick and a load of depression settles down on our shoulders for what seems like forever.

We call it menopause.

A String For Him

2009-08-04T18:08:00.000+05:30

Once there was a small boy, who thought insects were fun. Specially those large cockroaches which could fly.He wanted to share his enthusiasm with the little girl so he held a bug with it's feelers and brought it to her. Of course he could not understand why the little girl screamed and almost fainted. Strange!

Then there was that time with the baby mice. How incredible those creatures were! Specially when they were just born and could not even see. He could observe them for hours. But would she understand? The moment she saw the tiny wriggly things she yelled so loudly that the neighbours came to check. Was the girl crazy or what?And what about the day she was eating so slowly that he lost his patience? When mom came to check, she saw both plates empty and the little girl crying. Why for heaven's sake? He only ate her share so she would not be late for school. He was trying to help. But did she understand? Nah...girls are the strangest things.

Once the little boy grew up a bit and the girl was no longer so small, he thought they could be buddies. So he thought he would practice his newly acquired Kung-fu skills on her. Haii-ya...one straight kick up the girl's chest and she simply collapsed on the floor. How uninspiring! Did mom understand that she was the one at fault? She did not try to duck or defend herself with an answering kick. He was just trying to emulate the cool moves shown on 36 chambers of Shaolin. But did she appreciate it? You bet not. Such a sissy. Still, she was not really that bad,in fact she was quite okay for a girl. Moreover all her friends were a little crazy about him. When he played cricket outside,all her friends would say, ''Oh! that is your brother? Will you introduce me to him?" He felt 10 feet tall. But did she ever introduce? Not ever. She said," What? You want to know my brother? But why? He hates taking a bath and stinks when he sweats!" Sisters are such a pain.

As he grew up a bit more, he stopped being a pest and turned more into a guide. He was the one she asked the questions to. 'What is the meaning of homosexual?' Who is an illegitimate child?' He blushed purple while answering but never shied away from telling the truth. After all he was the older brother and he took his responsibilities very seriously. So he answered the occassional awkward questions, escorted her to movies, took her to her friends houses at night and taught her chemistry when she appeared for the board exams. Of course it was another matter that he suffered from an anxiety attack that rendered him completely useless on her exam day. But still...

Over the years, the brother and the sister sparred over the TV remote and books. Friends and family. The last aloo paratha and the precious imported chocolates. They fought and made up. They laughed and they joked. When it was time for him to leave home,she cried.When it was time for her to leave, he gave his blessings.

They witnessed each other's mariages, birth of their children, ups and downs, pains and pleasures. As time passed, their lives changed. They now lived in different cities, with different people. Few things in life remain the same.

But each year,on a special day, she sends a special string for him. He responds by sending his love. The string binds them together and reminds them of a childhood spent together. A childhood that had fun, laughter and happiness. A childhood that was carefree and joyous. And most important, a childhood that was full of love for each other.

Some things in life, still remain the same.

This post goes out to all the brothers. You made our lives miserable but fun. Growing up without you would not be the same.

This is also for Dada, my elder brother. Happy Rakhi.

Happy Friendship Day

2009-08-02T15:35:00.000+05:30

Few years back, when my mother had to undergo a cataract surgery here, I left the entire responsibility of my 2 daughters, my aging father and my whole house to 2 of my closest friends in Mumbai. It helped that we were also neighbours.

Without hesitation I could leave my daughters in their care, knowing they would be very well looked after. My friends here have been my support, my strength and my cheer leaders. Without them in my life, this city would not be the same.

Today, on Friendship Day, I just want to say thank you, to all my friends, for all the love you have unconditionally given me. I am indeed blessed that you are a part of my life.

And the online friends that I have made since I started blogging, what can I say?

You all have been my sunshine when I needed light, and my shade when I needed soothing. I simply can not imagine my life without you. So take care everyone and stay connected.

God bless you all.

Jai And Veeru Sing Ganesh Vandana

2009-07-28T09:13:00.000+05:30

A lot of you have appreciated my previous post on my American Desi guests. Since my creative juices have dried up completely due to too much time spent in the kitchen, I thought I would share with you an incident that involved these guests. I am again being theatrical here and I am again warning readers. People with low tolerance for high drama, may skip the post.

This Is A One Act Play.

Star Cast : Andy (formerly known as Anand in India.)

Lady ( His wife)

D ( Andy's college friend)

Aparna ( D's wife and a 'thinker')

Jai and Veeru (Andy's sons)

Thamma ( D's mother)

A Saturday morning in D and Aparna's house in Mumbai. The guests are replete after a sumptuous breakfast. (Parathas this time.) Everybody is happy and relaxed. Thamma is trying to converse with Jai and Veeru in her broken English.

Thamma : You have many friends?

Jai : Yeah. Some.

Thamma: You play? What?

Jai : Mostly PS2.

Thamma is bewildered and trying to figure out what kind of game that is. Veeru, who has been flipping a book, suddenly seems excited.

Veeru: Hey mom, look at this. I have to do a power point presentation on this guy, remember?

Thamma : ( Appearing extremely pained) Don't call him a cow. He was one of the most elevated souls of India. His name was Swami Vivekananda.

Veeru appears confused and D is suppressing laughter.

Aparna : You have to do a project on Vivekananda for school?

Lady: No, no. They go to a Sunday Shloka Class. He is supposed to do a presentation there. They are learning some prayers and Sanskrit shlokas. They have also learned some bhajans.

Thamma (impressed) : Can you sing a song for us?

Jai and Veeru : Sure.

(They straighten up and start to sing in chorus.)

My friend Ganapati I bow down to thee.

Elephant faced Ganapati I bow down to thee.

Andy and Lady look proud. Thamma is shocked into silence.

Lady : The teacher in their Shloka classes also tell them stories from Panchatantra. The boys also learn about the history of India and her people. I want my boys to know their roots.

Andy : Moreover, with globalisation, who knows where my children would be working . If they ever come back to India, I want them to be comfortable with the culture and people.

Jai and Veeru are mean while continuing with the song;

Large bellied Ganapati I bow down to thee,

With laddoo in my hands, I bow down to thee.

Thamma :(unable to bear the song for much longer) They teach you to sing bhajan in English?

Jai: Yes, because we do not understand the Hindi words. Since the kids all belong to different parts of India, our teacher thought English would be better. She taught us this song and told us the story of Lord Ganesh.

The song continues;

Son of Shiva Parvati I bow down to thee...

Andy : The reason we are here is because we are organising the boys' 'Upanayan' ceremony in Kolkata this time. This is going to be a large affair. All my relatives are coming. Some in fact from as far as Australia and Switzerland. The kids will know their relatives, will get initiated into their heritage and culture. They are extremely excited.

The people in the room are talking about the coming ceremony. Jai and Veeru still singing. And Aparna is thinking....some men, who left their homeland for a foreign country, many, many years ago, in search of a better life, a better education, still are clinging to their roots and heritage. How many Brahmins in urban India have an Upanayan ceremony these days? This archaic and castist practice somehow no longer find many takers and rightfully so. Most of us have stopped eating puris for breakfast, reserving it for special occasions. Most of our kids are growing up without learning Sanskrit shlokas and Panchtantra tales. Our kids rarely do a presentation on Swami Vivekananda. And far, far away in pardesi land, some people are desperately trying to teach their kids about Indian values and culture. May be instead of Aparna's ridicule, they deserve her understanding. After all, this is also about loving one's homeland.

However obscure it may be.

The strains of 'Mouse is your companion I bow down to thee' fades into the background.

The curtain falls.