Suddenly, One Day.

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

"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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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*

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Love, Like, Hate, Adore.

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...