Jai Ho.

The little girl sprang up as soon as her mother called. She had been awake since a long time. Today was the most special day of her life. All her life it seemed to her, she had waited for this day. Today she was going with her father to the town for the first time in her life. Her whole life, since she had been a baby, she had waited to go with her dad on his bi annual visit to the town. "When you are ten years old, sweetheart," her mother promised each time she pleaded with her. "You have to be able to carry your provisions, and help your pitaji with Vishnu, the horse."

As soon as she was ready, clad in her one new salwaar kameez, thick shawl thrown around her shoulders, she raced out of her home, the little cottage that nestled high in the Himalayas. "Hut, hut !" she commanded the bewildered goats that milled around her, demanding their feed. Brushing them aside, she raced ahead, then tore back and stopped, facing the rising sun, arms folded, head bowed. Hurriedly mumbling the Gayatri mantra, she flew back towards her dad, as he stood waiting, holding the reins of the impatient horse. Putting her leg lithely on her fathers' outstretched palm, she swung herself onto the horses' back. Clutching the bundles of wool, her father handed her, they started the journey. The narrow mountainous paths were treacherous, winding and going downhill, there progress was slow. Eyes shining with excitement, her strong young body, thrilling to the horses clip clop, she was oblivious to everything, even the glorious vistas that lay before her. The mountains retreated in the distance as the valley drew close. "Pitaji ?" she asked hesitantly, "My cousins, do they go to a big, big school sitting in Tayaji's car ? Can i go see it , while you finish your work ?" The father smiled indulgently, "Yes beta, i will take you to their home first. I should finish my work by sunset, and then we can go home. "

As they entered the town, the path grew crowded. One after another, cars whizzed by. Both Indu, for that was her name, and her father, kept a firm hold on the horse. Soon they reached her uncle's home. Her father's eldest brother, he had left the mountains as a youth and had made his home in the valley, trading in the wool that his brother supplied to him. After his marriage to  a local merchant's daughter, he had prospered greatly. No amount of convincing, however, induced his brother to leave the mountains.

Built of red brick and mortar, with sloping roofs that shone in the mid day sun, the house itself was imposing. "Namaste, taayaji taayi, " she shyly greeted her uncle and aunt, bending to touch their feet, the mark of respect accorded to all elders. "Namaste beti. Jeeti raho." was the aunts' half hearted response, even as her uncle gathered her up in a bear hug and swung her around. Exclaiming about how pretty, she looked, he called for the servants' to get the guests some lunch.

Soon enough his two children, a daughter and son were also summoned. Surly at first, they warmed to their 'country cousin' as they showed her around their home and rooms, pleased with her cries of delight as she admired their clothes and their jewellery, their toys and books.  A drive in the car was next, as they took her to the fair with its rides and shows, the likes of which she had never seen in her whole life. Soon enough it was evening, and time to leave. Ashamed to climb aboard the horse, she asked her father, if she could walk for some distance. He agreed and she said her goodbyes, wiping the small tear, that somehow escaped from the corner of her eyes.

Back home, her parents noticed a marked change in her, Gone was the enthusiastic, easy to please little girl, whose laughter had everyone smiling. She tried, for the sake of her parents, to be happy, to smile and laugh at their efforts to please her, but eventually she retreated to her room and sat there, lost in thought. "Life is so unjust ! Why couldn't we have also lived in the town ? " The thought plagued her, incessantly. "I'm going to marry in the town and live there forever."

"Indu, come out ! See who's coming !" Her mum's voice had her racing out of the small attic, she called her room. There was the shiny red car, climbing up the mountain path, scattering the petrified goats and sheep, chased by a multitude of small, breathless kids running alongside. The small lamb, that had been grazing by the roadside had been separated from its mother. Reaching down from the slowly moving car, her cousin grabbed it by its legs, and dangling it upside down, laughed excitedly, as it bleated pitifully. In a flash Indu, reached the car. Grabbing the lamb from his hands, she cuddled it in her arms, containing her anger somehow. Restoring it to its anxious mother, she then stood as her parents welcomed them in to her home. She could see them exchanging looks as they stared at the simple, rustic interiors. What shocked her most was that all they said by way of greeting was a "Hi, uncle, aunty."

Offered a tall glass of buttermilk, they declined opting to have coke instead. Indu, eager to show them  her surroundings, offered to take them to the small lake, a short distance away, where the fish leapt out to eat the pieces of bread that were dropped to them as feed. Going downhill, she was delighted to hear them shout and frolic. The lake was calm and serene. Her cousins boisterousness, however frightened the fishes, so that none of them emerged. Bored,  much to Indu's horror, they started to throw stones into the pool. Enraged the local fisherman chased them away. "We're too tired to climb up there now, Indu. Why don't you send the car down ? " As she climbed up, she looked back to see them sitting on the ground, throwing empty packets of chips and bubblegum wrappers from their pockets. Sighing she carried on climbing, "I'll have to come later and pick it all up. What if Hari, the bull eats it ?"

The next day, her mother arose to see her little daughter standing on the slopes outside, doing the surya namaskaar. Her sweet voice, singing the Gayatri mantra rang out, thrilling her parents, "Ah! That 's our little girl. Back to her normal self. Thanks be to Hanumanji.  Jai Ho."

The God Of Small People.

The diety gazed beningnly at the rich, slightly obese business man, standing  barefeet before him. With him, was his daughter in law and son. Heads bowed, garland in hand they stood, waiting for the priest to complete his incantations. After they were over, the man reached out to take the 'thaali ' from his son's hands, and handed it to the priest. On it was a packet, obviously money wrapped in a bright yellow cloth. "She will bear a son, this time, won't she ?" he almost pleaded with the priest. "If the mother goddess is pleased with your offering, then surely yes, she will bless you with an heir. Was not your son born as a result of her benedictions, and your piety ? " replied the priest.

Hand raised, the priest placed it on the lady's head and blessed her. Going down the steps of the temple, they met the couple. In his arms he carried a child, his wife followed close behind, weeping copiously. Unable to restrain herself, the daughter in law asked what was wrong. "He has got pneumonia, madam. The doctors say that he will not survive if  we don't admit him, in hospital. We don't have the money for that, so we have brought him before Mataji. He will live, if she blesses him." The impatient business man, having reached the car shouted for her to hurry up. " Maaf karo !" exclaimed her husband brusquely, pulling his wife's hand and hurrying her down the steps.

As the couple entered the temple, they were met by the priest. "Have you brought an offering, ?" he asked, looking down at the almost unconscious  child and the delirious mother. "Put it in the thaali, there."  His wife, hurriedly emptied the contents of her saree pallav in  the thali. In it there were flowers and a coconut. Eleven rupees, all that they could spare, were also put in it. "Bring more the next time," chided the priest." For Mata's darshan and prasad you need much more." All that they were allowed to do was ring the bell hanging at the outer door, and hope that mata had heard their plea. With the clanging of the bell ringing in their ears they retreated. Pushed out by the crowd behind, they sat on the steps, offering a small bottle to the child, when a man came up to them. He had been helping the priest with the aarti.

Surruptiously dropping a small bright yellow bundle in the woman's lap, he was gone, before they even realised it. "Panditji  has sent this. Mataji's Prasaad." were his softly spoken, hurried words, before he loped towards the temple. Opening it they found within, a thick wad of notes, wrapped in the same cloth, the business man had given earlier to the priest. Kissing the steps of the temple gratefully, they were gone, hurrying to the nearest hospital as fast as they could go.

A month later, the business man was back at the temple. In his hands, he bore triumphantly the son, the heir  he wanted. After the child had been blessed, the offering upped to two lakhs this time, was made. As they prepared to leave, the daughter in law, again sighted the poor couple. Nudging her husband, she indicated that now she would like to give them some money. The business man, having heard her, nodded benignly and strode over to the poor couple. They sat, holding a healthy looking baby, happily watching him play, kicking his little hands and legs in the air, gurgling at his father. The mother looked up to find the business man standing over them, in his hand he held out a wad of notes. Slowly she stood up, folding her hands, she bowed before him, then indicated a hapless mother sitting with three small kids, begging passers by for money to feed her kids. Then she sat down firmly. her back turned to him. "When we needed money, Devi Mata gave it to us, sir," said the father softly. "Now she needs it " he said, also indicating the same beggar.  

Wherefore Art Thou...

"Tan doley, mera man doley.. Mere dil ka gaya karar re..... Kaun bajaaye basuriya...

So sang soulfully, the heroine in the film, her voluptous body covered from head to toe in a saree. So sang wistfully, my old parsi neighbour, looking longingly at the widowed punjabi lady living in the building across.

"Jawaan hai mohobbat, haseen hai zamana... Lutaya hai dilne khushi ka khazana." The shy reply from across, had him beaming, as he took charge of his day, the lilting voice bringing a spring to his step.

This antakshari was an every day affair, an innocent one, that had all us neighbours smiling and trying to guess the reply. It had started the day they won the antakshari for senior citizens in the annual society gala. Paired together at random, the jugalbandi continued, after uncle crooning his usual ' song of the day' got a hesitant reply from across, that had him galvanised, thereafter. Never again did his day start without a song.

This was until, his son came to stay with the old man. Too shy to sing in his presence, the old man contented himself with looks and sighs, as the voice across dried up, too. The son settled in contentedly, during which our songsters stifled, gloom pervaded the society as a whole. One day, his neighbour decided to take matters in his own hand.. He went to the son and explained the situation quite succinctly, adding " Kai ko kebab main haddi ban raela hai, bhai. Tu bhi ja na walk pe roz subah. Teri sehat ban jaegi, and uncle ka gaana ho jaega."

With bated breath we waited the next morning. The son, clad in tights and tee sailed out of his home, went running round the corner, to all intents and purposes gone, leaving the field clear.

Aunty across emerged to, ostensibly hang the washing, peering sadly across. " Aane se uske aaye bahaar, jaane se uske jaaye bahaar..." Sang uncle lustily, as fifty delighted faces popped out of their balconies, "Bari mastaani hai..Meri mehbooba...Meri zindagani hai, meri Mehbooba..

The response from aunty was prompt.."Yaad teri aati hai, mujh ko bara satati hai.......Zid ye jhooti teri , meri jaan le ke jaegi...

The sun emerged bright and strong, as did the smiles all around. God was in his heaven, all was right with the world.

Reprisal

"Hi sweetheart ! How wonderful to see you again ! " gushed my cousin Rebecca. "Quite the lady now, eh ?" winked Shamoel, her brother, nudging his sister as he eyed me from top to toe. "I know what you were trying to hide that night, " he grinned, evilly at me. "Now, now, leave her alone." Sarah, my uncle Isaac's daughter stepped in smoothly. "She might just fly into one of her rages, and throw you out bodily." There they stood the pack of them, hounding me, and i was transported back into time.

All of seven, i stood facing them. Clutched behind my back, was my precious ' Ellie', the small stuffed elephant that i slept with every night. "Grab it !" hissed Shamoel, as he and his sisters closed in. Up until then, i'd been terrified. But with Ellie being threatened, all my neanderthal instincts emerged. Screaming at the top of my voice, i launched into him, butting him in the stomach with my head. Caught off guard, he was propelled  halfway across the room, though he was double my size. "Rachel !" I could still hear my shocked Aunt Agatha, as she entered the room. "Stop ! What on earth do you think you are doing ? Let him go !" To my shock and dismay, she berated me, and commanded me to hand over Ellie to Shamoel, as a punishment for hitting him. For the first time in my life, i disobeyed an elder and pushing her aside, i fled the room.

Later, my dad hurt and uncomprehending asked me to apologise, and i did, looking only at my aunt as i did so, totally ignoring the smirking Sam aka Shamoel. My father's sister's son. Those days we lived in a joint family. Because my aunt's husband was a ne'er do well, we always ended up having her brood over for the holidays. We children, my sister and i, greatly resented having to share all our stuff with our cousins, mainly because they resented us too, for living in the city, thus having access to a better school and better living conditions, as well as parents who doted on us.

Now almost twenty years hence we stood, gathered at his sister, Miriam's wedding. " None of the enemity, the resentments have lessened,"  i thought a trifle sadly. "Too many bad memories getting in the way." "Baggage you must shed," my saintly sister tried to convince me. Sam was now a well to do business man, Rebecca equally well off having married into a wealthy family. They stood there sneering at me, whereupon, my sister stepped in neatly, admiring Rebecca's diamonds, while Sam flashed his new iphone.  My son, a techno geek at seven, stood behind him looking longingly at it.

A few hours later, we were done with the dinnner and seeing off guests when Sam rushed in to the room. "Where's my iphone ?!" an apoplectic Sam, almost shouted. "I can't find it anywhere!" As heads turned to look at him, and people started to look around, he turned around and saw the kids, his son and mine, sitting with the 'lost' phone. Unfortunately, just then it was in my son's hand as he was explaining a particular function to his admiring audience. In a flash, Sam reached the kids and flushed with anger, grabbed it from his hand. "This is not a toy ", he thundered. Then sneeringly, "Just something i would expect from Rachel's son. Go ask your dad to buy you one, instead of ..." What he had been about to say, we would never know. His wife who had been sitting beside the children, stood up, her face red with embarrasment, "Sam!" she exclaimed. " I gave it to him. You were asleep and there were six missed calls, which no one could access. This child offered to read them for me."

My son looked up at Sam and said," Sorry uncle."  Drawing my little boy to me, my eyes moist, i remarked " You owe him the apology, Sam. But then you owed me one too, all those years ago. " Only my aunt Agatha had the authority to proclaim, "Shame on you, Sam."

My reprisal was complete.

Memory Lane

The old lady, looked up at the steep climb and sighed. "What have you got yourself into, this time ?" she scoffed at herself. Then hitching up her long skirt, she started up the path, slowly, painstakingly. She paused once, to look around, and smiled. This was what she had been hunting for, the place that time forgot. "Why is there a timelessness about mountains," she wondered. "Maybe because man cannot move mountains, the really high ones." she reflected. The small ledge looked inviting and so she sat, more to admire the breathtaking beauty of the place, than to rest.

It was a clear day. The horizon was flecked with puffy white clouds, small, moving reluctantly across the sky, as if loath to leave this part of the world. "Maybe there spirits are as uplifted as mine, just to  be here," she thought.The mountains, the 'sons' of the Himalayas, towered in the distance. Majestic, reaching up to the skies, the  grandeur of the sheer white terrain, pristine and overwhelming in its beauty. Below, lay the valley. The ox bow lake of some long winding river, clearly visible. The green of the meadows around it shone in contrast to the brilliant blue of the river. The sigh that ran through her was one of sheer pleasure. The last time she had seen it, it had been just the same. In her mind's eye, she had returned to it many a times in the countless years that had passed since she had been a teen.

Kurseong. "Darjeeling is where all the tourists head,"  Shielu had said." This place is special, virgin, and timeless in its beauty," she claimed. So it had been, that three teens and one adult, had headed for this 'back of beyond' tea garden, nestling in the hills, leading to Darjeeling, the all too famed, hill station in West Bengal. Just done with the board exams, they had burst free from the shackles of school and exams. This was the ideal place, more beautiful to them, than the finest resort of Switzerland could have been. Amidst the rolling hills of the tea plantation, they lived in a wooden house, built almost on the edge of  a hill. During the days, they wandered the sheep trails, exploring and revelling in their serene surroundings. Here nature reigned supreme.Tall junipers, swayed gently in the wind, sentries watching over the neat rows of tea shrubs spreading down the hill, as far as the eye could see.  The headiness of the mountain air, brought the rose to their cheeks, and wings to their spirits, as they soared, with the eagles that circled the mountain tops in the distance. Evenings were spent blissed out in the glass outhouse, the mists rolling in from the distance, almost as if blanketing their tired bodies from the chilling cold, enveloping them eventually, gently dropping the darkness from its folds.

Enchanted nights followed, as to experience  absolute darkness, they switched off the lights and sat, quiet, savoring the near zero darkness and sound. Crickets and fireflies, regaled them with a gentle son et lumiere. The caretakers, short, unobtrusive, local Nepalis, served them hot food that though simple, was delicious because it came from gardens tended by them the year around.

"I have since, toured many a resort, the Swiss one included, but the enchantment of  Kurseong was seared in my memory, spoiling me for any other place. Indeed i have been fortunate." she thought," That i am alive to come back. Shielu, that bosom pal, having met the maker, when very young. I am the survivor, the torch bearer, who returns to pay homage, to a life that embodied innocence, a long lost youth, a soulmate friend." The clatter of footsteps, bounding down the path, roused her from her  reverie. Half smiling, she turned to see the little girl, skipping merrily along the path, the small Lhasa Apso, running at her heels. Small, with the rosy cheeks characteristic of the hill dwellers, her two thick brown pigtails swinging behind her, she was the epitome of health. The dog, a sturdy pomeranian look alike, was the perfect companion, one who would guide her home.

She watched her disappear down the bend, and prepared to go her way, so that she reached the guesthouse before night fall. The near zero degree temperatures at night were not conducive to her old bones, anymore she was thinking, when she heard the thud, followed by a volley of barks. As fast as her old legs would allow, she went down the path . The little dog ran frantically back and forth, as the child stood, whimpering with fear on a small rocky ledge jutting out from just below the steep side of the hill. Obviously, she must have tripped and been catapulted over the edge of the bend, as she rounded the corner. The dog, torn between fetching help, and staying with her ran to the old lady and snapped frantically at her heels. "If i don't do something quick, the child could fall over," she thought her mouth drying at the very thought.  Calling out for help, as loudly as she could, she propelled the dog towards where she hoped was home, above, urgently commanding him to fetch Maa, the universal word for mother.

Almost an hour passed, to her it seemed like an eternity, before they came, the robust men of the mountain. The sight they beheld was awe inspiring. There lay the old lady on the path, her body splayed out on the chilled, stony path. She wore only a thin blouse and pyjamas, her face was almost blue with cold. Her skirt fashioned into a rope, was held strongly firmly in one hand, the other end of which was clutched by the child who clung to the wall of the cliff, looking up at the old lady. The child, wrapped up in a voluminous sweater, thrown to her by the lady, was listening to her, as she talked to her in dulcet tones, singing songs and holding her attention, so that she wouldn't look at the sheer drop below her.

Later the old lady sat wrapped in blankets, her feet soaking in hot water, trying to make light of her heroic deed that evening. Her grateful hosts made sure that she was well looked after for the rest of her stay there. "God," she thought, "Works in strange ways."

"Maybe she was the reason, i was propelled here, half way across the world, and at my age, too!" A rescue act going down, memory lane! Not bad for your age, honey!" she laughingly acknowledged to herself.

The Dream

Breakfast. The first absolutely vital thing i think about as i awake. The fragrance of the cinnamon jam, the sizzle of the eggs, the scrumptious brown of the buttery scones. A great breakfast inside of me, and no task is daunting, or humdrum. Cup of tea in hand, senses organised the rest of the day begins.

As i stride around the corner of the street, intent on my morning walk, i see them. A motley crowd divided into men, women and children, the children heading the line.  Ragged beggars all, including the old and ailing and differently abled, they sit patiently, their hunger almost palpable, as they devour, with their eyes, the food being cooked in front of them. There is a sense of urgency about them. Sitting on their haunches, they resemble a group of runners ready to take off from the blocks as soon as the whistle sounds. Which it does. The man blowing it has a staff in his hands, with which he herds the first five or ten in line inside the eatery. This is the 'bhatiyar khana', the hotel run by cooks, that cooks for the poorest of the poor, churning out a basic meal of flattened bread, or roti, and a gravy, day after day, meal after meal. Of course it was dependent on the charity of passers by, the affluent devout or the charitable who gave money to feed one or ten as their means permitted.

Even the most hardened of hearts would be touched, seeing the small girl, her precious packet clutched to her chest, as she runs with it to her grandmother, sitting under the flyover. Oblivious to everything else around them, they eat, carefully sharing the meal between them, with the grandmother pretending to be quite full, after a few morsels. She watches fondly, as the child then hungrily devours her portion of the roti. There are many such homeless and hungry, the shadowy have- nots that live homeless on the streets, surviving on the charity of the haves.

As i wait with my child for the school bus to arrive, i notice a small sleepy little boy, sitting in his car, waiting for the driver to come. His mother sits beside him, a sandwich in her hand, coaxing him to eat. After much wheedling, and threatening by turns she manages to feed him half the sandwich, the other half of which, he knocks out of her hand with irritation. As the car moves off, the little two year old who had been watching hungrily, from the pavement half crawls, half walks towards it, and snatches it up, stuffing it into his mouth right away.

That afternoon, i am at a five star hotel, meeting a beloved nephew, who is in the city for work. As we have tea, i cant help seeing the extensive spread laid out for the afternoon buffet. The kids at the next table, are uninhibited, as kids are wont to be. Plates groaning with food, they hurry from table to table, piling on food, which is pecked at, then discarded and discreetly cleared by the hovering attendants. The desserts counter stretches, from one end to the other of the long hall. Having done justice to the varieties of cakes and ice creams, replete, they shuffle from the restaurant, heading for their rooms. At four, the staff is busy winding up the meal. What, i wonder will be the fate of the 'leftovers' ?

The next day, as i walk briskly around that same corner, i stop short in amazement ! The crowd of beggars at the roadside eatery is huge, a mob, that is battling to get inside. What is even more amazing is the food laid out on the tables inside. It seems to me that the buffet of the five star, is laid out in the eatery, and the beggars were fighting to get in ! The din was unbelievable, the cops who have been called in to control the mob, are themselves gorging on the food, their duties forgotten. I rub my eyes in disbelief. Am i dreaming ?

"Breakfast mom? You're late today, " admonishes my teen gently, rousing me from my sleep. You bet i was. Dreaming.

1940.

It was noon. Her pains had started from early night. The household, its routines suspended, hovered around her. The month of May, the heat was numbing, but patiently, her anxious husband, kept the vigil outside her room. The prayer beads moved restlessly in his hands, as he prayed that she deliver soon, and give him his prized, long awaited heir. Daughters, he had six, three of whom survived, and who now, at the tender age of ten and eight, tended to their mum. The little one, only two, lay fast asleep on the 'khaat', the swing cum bed, in the outer hall.

For her however, it was only her third child. At the tender age of fifteen, she had been married to her dead sisters' husband. Who better to look after the two motherless children then her younger sister ? Never mind that she was fifteen herself ! Uneducated, an orphan, the decisions in her life were taken by her brothers, and so from playing barefeet, in the sand outside her home, overnight she went to being a wife, part of a big joint family. Her first was a daughter, the third for her husband. The second she was about to deliver.
A subdued scream from inside ( women in those days, kept a cloth handy, which they stuffed in their mouths, to  prevent their screams from reaching the ears of the elders, and others who lived in the joint households.) sent the women scurrying inside, to attend to her. Even in the throes of excruciating pain, she could hear her two sister-in-laws, giggling and talking. "Hah ! exclaimed one. "One more daughter, what's the betting ? She won't ever bear him a son." The midwife, who had been alerted earlier, was sent for. Soon a mild commotion erupted as basins of hot water, sundry clothes and  medical equipment travelled back and forth  from the kitchens. A last scream resounded from within. Then all was quiet. Unable to restrain himself, the patriarch, paced outside the closed doors, as countless men have thru the ages.

The door opened, the midwife emerged. One look at her triumphant face, and he knew finally he had a son. "Alhamdolillah, God is great !" he exclaimed. Soon the baby was handed to him, by one of his sister in laws, and he bore him out proudly, to his brothers who sat outside. Triumphantly, he held the child aloft for all to see and admire. A jug full of milk, was brought forth from the kitchen, and the baby's tiny feet washed in it. After all he was the seventh child and a male. A bonny child, who screamed lustily as he was restored to his weary mother. Though she was young, only twenty now and slightly obese, her eight pound baby, had exhausted even her considerable reserves of energy. Uncaring she slept.

She soon grew to enjoy her confinement. All she was expected to do for forty days was rest and feed the baby, and eat herself. Having a son, she was now on par with the rest of  her sister in laws, and she enjoyed the envy directed at her. After all, her child was the best looking of all the sons in the family, fair, healthy and growing bigger by the day. He seldom was any trouble, specially after the maid brought her the 'goli'(tablet). The one which she powdered and smeared on her breasts so that after a feed, he slept, almost until noon. Her daughters, she hardly paid attention to. Girls played outside the home until six or seven, when they were sent to the madrassas, where religious training was imparted more than the three R's. Once they reached puberty, or class seven, whichever was first, they were married off to suitable boys. The boys were packed off to the city, at twelve, to join their fathers' business. She went on to conceive twice more. But the raw papaya, eaten in the third month, took care of the pregnancies both times. She miscarried and that was that. Her husband, content to have had a son, knew nothing of this, as for six months in the year he lived in the city. Fifteen years older than her, he was a workaholic, who lived in the city with his brothers, while the woman stayed behind in the village with the children. She, too, lived in the village home, and indulged in her twin  passions : prayer and the fetish for cleanliness. Time flew. The son, at twelve was packed off to the city, to continue his education in the city. The first question his mother asked him when he went home for holidays was, "Have you brought your return tickets ? When do your holidays end ?" Followed by, "Be sure to wash your feet before you come in." What was a mother's love ? What you hadn't ever got you never missed, he would tell his wife, who lived with and in, mortal fear of his mother. Now, a prepossessing, dowager, who couldn't abide babies, not even her grandchildren, she ruled over her household and it's occupants with an iron hand. Babies, and their mums were banished to the upper storeys, and allowed to cross her threshold, only after they were ten and above.

1940. The world, as our grandparents knew it. 

The Gift

I saw him first, when i looked into the mirror. All of ten, maybe twelve, his thin frame bent over the shop window that he was cleaning. Something about him caught my eye. He was after all the same height as my son, and i was trying to buy clothes for him from the 'mega sale' in the shop in which he worked. Trying to, i say, because any mother will vouch how difficult it is to buy clothes for a teen. I stood poring over the t-shirts, picking each one up, measuring it for size against myself, trying to judge whether it was just the length he wore. Not too short, or too long. not too jazzy, yet colorful enough to go with the blue of his jeans. People who say girls are tough to shop for ? Don't have teenage boys.

I looked up yet again to find him looking at me, his eyes met mine. He grinned cheekily as if he knew my dilemma, and i couldn't help smiling sheepishly back. Next thing i knew, he was gesturing furtively at the tee shirt i was holding, and shaking his head indicating a firm 'no'. At first, i was indignant and turned my back to him. But i dropped the offending garment back and rifled thru the selection again. Seizing one that had seemed loud to me, i turned around with it and found him smiling his approval. Caught up with the game, i then picked out three to four t shirts, my teenaged cohort, giving his stamp of approval from outside, or disapproving as the case may be. In no time at all i had done with my shopping and headed towards the exit.

Outside, i beckoned to him, drawing a chocolate bar from my bag, i offered it to him, along with a ten rupee note. Giving me a mock bow, he delicately took both from my proffered hand, offering to carry my bags for me. I refused his offer, saying a 'thank you' to him, to which he replied graciously, "Welcome Ma'am." As i sank into the cab, i was amazed at myself. I realised i might have been a tad foolish to have trusted the judgement of a street urchin, for my fashion conscious teen. After all there was a world of difference between them.

With trepidition, i took out the clothes i had bought and displayed them before my son. Immersed in his i pod, i usually got a grunt or two of approval from him if he liked my choices. As the black tee, with the nike logo emerged from the bag, he sat up straight, and looked at me wide eyed. When i withdrew the faded blue tee with the bright blue football print, he gasped and took out his headphones. As the red with the Che Guevera print followed, he grasped it with both hands. But the one that had him ecstatic was the grey, with a brown stetson hat printed in faux leather on the front. Posing in front of the mirror, the tee shirt draped around his shoulder, his eyes sparkling, he drawled, "Stranger ! What have you done with my mother?" Hugging me he exclaimed, " Best stuff, you ever bought ma, love you!"

The next day, i was back at the shop. The boy was nowhere in sight. Searching for him, i asked the shopkeeper if he knew his whereabouts. he shrugged, saying he just appeared when he needed money, did a few odd jobs, then disappeared. "Probably comes from the slums, nearby, ma'am."

Disappointed i emerged and was still looking around, when i saw him standing a few shops away. Frail, but standing upright, leaning against a door jamb, he stood whistling softly. A lump in my throat, i stood in the shadows, watching him. What was it about him ? Attitude, i guess. The attitude that he wore as a defence against the world, attitude that masked his vulnerability. The street smartness of the street urchin. Too small to take on the world, but doing just that. His survival instinct, honed by the vicious, uncaring world in which he lived.

Today, i beckoned him. Surprised he looked up, then came towards me eagerly, engaging grin in place. I handed him the packet i  had brought for him. In wonderment he looked at me, then opened it eagerly. As the identical tee shirts that i had bought yesterday, but in different colors today, spilled out, he turned away from me. Lost in his gifts, his hands holding the soft fabric against his cheeks, his face awestruck, he turned back, his eyes searching for me. Seated in the car, i  waved at him, then drove off. His face glistening with tears, the cocky facade, replaced with a wondrous joy, i had more than received his thanks. Instead he had enriched me in a way i could't begin to comprehend. 

Shor In The City

" Aawaz de kahan hai, Duniya meri jawaan hai," The melodious tune, sung a trifle hoarsely, by my grandad, had me wincing. A song i associated with my childhood, my dad hummed it as he bathed, or tinkered with the electrical equipment at home. Mom, of course, would put in her tuppenny bit by smartly reminding him that indeed it was silent, the bell he was repairing. But now, listening to it at high volumes, emanating from the television, i didn't have the heart to intervene. But, i headed inside to get my earmuffs. Only they were already on my long suffering spouse's ears. My daughter, was happily listening to Justin Bieber and lustily joining in the rendition of "Baby, Bayby, oh....Baybeee.. "

Hurriedly, i retreated into the kitchen. It was a sunday, and i guess everybody was 'chilling ' out, as my son put it. Once there, i immersed myself into the recipe for my stew, and didn't look up when my maid trooped in. "Kitchen clean karne ka hai, mum." Young and impressionable, she was into mimicking my teenaged daughter, and made her voice suitably high pitched, blending in the hinglish with ease. All was quiet for some time, until i realised that from near my feet somewhere was blaring "Chikni chameli, chhat pe akeli pauwa chhadane aayee.." Exasperated, i gestured for her to turn down the volume of her cell phone. When i realised that that was not happening, i looked down to see a curvy bottom, the saree tucked in between, maharashtrian style, shaking to the latest bollywood hit song, even as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, on all fours. When i protested, she pointedly yelled that i was obstructing her, and would i please go elsewhere.

Once again i backed out, and decided i'd rest my weary ears, with a spot of meditation on the terrace. Sighing with relief, i sat contorting my  protesting legs in the lotus pose(I was new to it, and the years of indulgence weighed heavy,pun intended!) A minute later, i jumped out of my skin, as the loud jangling of a guitar, strummed by my novice teen neighbour, erupted from the adjoining balcony. Seeing my pained expression, the sadist pointed to his bandmates who were preparing to assail the colony with drums and a boy who was much infatuated with opera, but sounded like Bianca Castafiore, of Tintin fame, on a bad day !

Next thing i found myself screaming, "nahi......" almost like a hindi film of heroine of yore, when faced with the villain, as i  dashed down to my granmother's room, the one with sound proof windows. As i flopped into her armchair, my eyes closed wearily,I felt a tap on my hand. It was gran And she was holding out her newly acquired i pod and head phones. "You look tired beta, here listen to some bhajans. So relaxing."

I reached out, strapped on the headphones, and leaned back weakly on the chair. Only i forgot to switch it on. If you can't join 'em, lick 'em, i say.

The Last Straw.

"Why dosen't she ever smile, mum ?" Kids. Sometimes they so hit the nail on the head. I had been trying from days to figure out what was so strange, so different about the maid. She had been with us for a month now. A shadow like presence, who turned up regularly for work, every morning without fail. That was the second odd thing about her. Previously, every person that i had employed asked for at least three days off in the month. Not this one. Each morning at about nine, i would look up to see her entering my home. Quietly she would go about her work. The only time i saw her animated was when a neighbour asked her if she would clean her home for her, a biggish task because painters had just finished painting her home. She was promised the meagre sum of Rs. fifty, which was quite miserly for such a job. Before i could intervene she had accepted it.

Trying to dissuade her from doing it, she looked me in the eye and said, "Ma'am, if i do this, then my children will have dinner tonight." Nonplussed, i protested that she did take food from my home everyday. The bitterness in her voice was evident when she replied that her man took it all. He usually was voraciously hungry after he returned home drunk. Six hungry children looked on, while he ate not only what she had brought  from the various homes where she worked, but also what had been cooked in her own home. If she didn't give it to him, he would thrash her and the children in a murderous rage. When i offered to pay her on a daily basis she refused saying that that helped to pay her monthly rent and sundry small expenses. After finishing the work at my home, she scouted around everyday for menial jobs, so she could take home a daily ration of a little cooking oil and a few vegetables with which she fed her children.

How could a person enter such a trap ? How could she marry such a brute ? Live with him for so long ?

The answers were complex, rooted in evils of culture and society that warped their lives like coils of a snake wrapped around a hapless animal.

She was the fifth in a line of six. (In India, when people don't have anything else, they have children. Future wealth, specially if they are sons. Girls had to be given dowry, which the son 'earned' back when he married.) Since no one was willing to marry a near penniless girl, she was gotten rid of by marriage to a man double her age, a widower. An alcoholic, he relied on her to feed him every night when he returned home after drowning his daily wage in drink. Six children later, she worked night and day to merely feed them. "Why don't you divorce him ?" i asked naively. "Who will then marry my girls ?" was her reply. "Such things are not approved of in our community, madam !" she said.

A few months later, she came to me asking for a loan. "I need it for my daughter's marriage, ma'am." Aghast, i asked "Isn't she only seventeen ?" Her answer was a stony "yes." The groom she told me was a young man, poor himself, but willing to forgo the dowry. "Why ?" i couldn't help being suspicious. As if her legs had given way, she collapsed and sat down weeping copiously. Then came the tirade. "He's a drunkard too, and polio afflicted, but he dosen't want any dowry. That's why ma'am. If i don't marry her off now her fate will be worse than that of a whore. Her father will deflower her in one of his drunken rages, and then nobody will ever marry her." Close to  tears myself, i told her "Bring her here. I will employ her, keep her in my home. You don't have to marry her off at all." What she said next was the last straw. "But madam, we are not allowed to do that. My mother-in- law, her family will never agree.Who will marry her? "

I gave her the money, and that was the last i saw of her. Who could save her from the quicksand, the quagmire of her life. Not even Allah himself.

Fools Paradise

"Come on. You're so totally in control. After this you'll probably never get the oppurtunity. Just this once, indulge, live life for yourself. Do what you want to do. You'll be so guilt ridden it'll make a better husband of you !"  
"Do you even know what you're doing ? Do you love the babies or not ? Would you risk their future for..for this fling ? You know Sunaina. She's very possessive about you. She sacrificed her career for you. Is this even worth thinking about ? What if she finds out ? What if she leaves you ? What will your friends, your family, say?"

Sighing, he leaned back on his chair. All the dilemmas of life, had forever been analysed thus, comic book style, in his head. On one side the devil and temptation, on the other the angel, halo and all. Sugandha, or Sue, as she called herself was seduction personified. She could have any of the males, who  panted after her, in office. But of course, she wanted the one man she couldn't have, the boss, himself.God knows he had resisted her subtle overtures. Until now.

The conferance, in Goa, had been a success. He was on a high, career driven, ambitious, life lived on the run. Marriage to his sweetheart had been heady, until the babies happened. Somehow, their paths had branched out. When he returned home at night, after a gruelling day at the office, all he wanted was the bed. To sleep on, 'crash' was the word he liked to use. Sunaina, was understanding at first, then frustrated, then indifferent, as the years went by. In eight years, he had gone from strength to strength, rising up the corporate ladder until he garnered the finances to go it alone. Now he was the head honcho, the boss. King of his domain.

Where had he gone wrong ? Why was his life this empty ? Sunaina was still beautiful. She had thrown herself into gymming, and he was the envy of most of his mates. But at night, when they lay on different sides of the bed, back to each other, the space between them resonated with their angst, their loneliness, their lack of communication.

So now, he was going to explore this space. He wanted to know, if he was attractive to a woman as sensous as Sue. Tonight, he would find out.

Sunaina, stretched her cramped limbs. She would have to freshen up, before she went to meet him. It had been tough to leave the children with her mum, but it was now or never. She had to take the time out, do this for herself. She had had enough of being taken for granted. After a long time, she felt excited, alive. Ready to take on the world. As the flight landed in Goa, she gathered herself and her belongings and alighted from the plane.

The restaurant was dimly lit. The music, soft, beguiling. She sat at the back of the restaurant, almost in the shadows. Every sense was alert, watching them. As they rose to join the couples on the dance floor, his hand glided, hesitantly at first, down her back. As the lights fell on them, one could almost feel the chemistry between them, palpable, building up. He was in uncharted waters, drawn inexorably towards the quicksand of his desires, wafting towards the unknown, drowning in her liquid eyes.

She sat as if turned to stone. She had planned to surprise him, but what was unfolding before her eyes had her petrified, benumbed. When the music stopped she found she had tears in her eyes. Getting up, she retreated, then made a dash for her rooms. Every fibre of her being urged her to go to his room. Wait for him, confront him, scream at him, like she had wanted to sometimes, when he slept soundly, even as she lay awake, wanting, craving the intimacy, that had once been such a vital part of their marriage. Resolutely, she got to her feet, redid her face, then called the front desk. She was going to wait for him. In his room.

The door swung open. Footsteps, familiar ones resounded in her ears as she sat on her haunches, crouched within the balcony. Heart thudding, pulses quickening, senses afire, she waited. Did she even want to confront him ? Was he worth all of this, she could just not demean herself like this.

No. she couldn't go thru with this charade. "Mata Hari, I'm not !" she told herself. Getting to her feet, she called out, " Rajeev !" as she moved into view of the bedroom.

He sat on the bed stunned. Sunaina stood before him, equally stupefied. "You're alone!" she exclaimed. Bewildered, she looked around the room, before collapsing in tears, her body wracked with sobs.

The dance had ended. As they headed back to their table, he looked around self consciously. A glint of electric blue caught his eye. The couple on the table across sat holding hands, a two year old perched on the man's lap, looking wistfully at the floor, as the music started again. "They're playing our song," the lady exclaimed as the haunting strains of 'The Titanic's' love song floated across the room. Rajeev could see that they were longing to dance, but the baby was restless and they would have to leave. "Excuse me," he found himself saying, " Do you want me to hold her for you ? Im good with babies, i have two of my own. " Gratefully, they got up, and handing her to him, they went to the dance floor, eyes only for each other. The baby, sucking her thumb sleepily, nestled her head against the velvet of his coat, the soft fragrance of her filling his nostrils. He had almost forgotten how amazing it felt to hold a baby. When they returned, they thanked him profusely, and were surprised to have him thank them instead. "I was living in a fool's paradise, thank you."

Only later would he realise just how much he owed them.

Some People Laugh..

Don't get me wrong. My kid loves me, more than any kid loves her mom, and she's a teen too boot ! Which goes to prove exactly how great, if immodest, a mom i am. But for some reason, she displays this queer attitude when we are together outside the house. She tries to pretend she's not with me. But it wasn't always so. I think that happened soon after the party we attended, the one where the 'page three' types had descended on us.

My husband's associate had invited us to the inauguration of his Restaurant. After partaking of the endless snacks, we were getting quite bored, when the celebs started entering. Suddenly my slouched, restless kid was sitting up straight, eyes a glitter as she took in the short dresses, the careless curls, the bold look of the models and small time actors streaming in. It was late though and time for us to leave. Unfortunate that the 'hot' young TV actor got into my path as i leaned to take my leave of the hostess. Something about the material of my starched salwaar kameez, drew his thickly gelled hair to it like a magnet. Blithely unaware of it all, i straightened and walked off, pulling my dupatta up, and snagging his hair into it. With a small yowl and a glare, he disengaged both his hair and the PYT, read pretty young thing, hanging onto his arm, and stalked off. My teen, walking behind me died a thousand deaths at my close encounter of the first kind and vowed that she would never take me to a party again !

Funny thing, as you grow older you tend to shed a few inhibitions on the way. Don't you ?
Then there was the time we went to see a movie together. It was a comedy, and the climax was so funny that everybody around was laughing aloud. Except my kid, whose discomfiture changed to ire, when she saw people around me laughing because i was laughing !

Yes, a lot of our fondest memories our associated with the movies. Until she stopped going with me. Everyone knows how funny that Salman Khan movie was. The climax had people falling over the cliff and hanging onto each others legs, with the girls doing a rescue act. It was so funny, we were laughing even after the movie was over. My problem is that i double up when i'm really amused. Well. one moment i was laughing hard, the next i was sitting on the lap of the teen behind. That was where i landed when i tripped, getting out of my seat. That was it. The death knell of our movies together.
  

Friends

"Don't have anything to do with him. You can't take this relationship anywhere." Jeev was so emphatic. My best friend, i hated to admit she was right. "But it feels so right, i have to find out whether he is The One for me." The heart after all listens only to its own dictates. "Its a dead end, because he's already married. He's not likely to give it all up. Men are like that only. " A trifle bitterly, she added "They want to have their cake and eat it too." I reached out to hold her hand, then. She ought to know, she had taken such a long time to get over that idiot, Rohan. "Trust me on this, please Sammy. I Know. Lets go for a holiday, then when we come back you give him an answer. Believe me, distance gives you a new perspective." So we left the next week, for Darjeeling and the most amazing girls only holiday i ever went to. She was right too, for i came back and switched jobs. Far away from 'Mr. Right', who was already romancing the girl who replaced me. I met them, at 'our' usual haunt, the CCD near the station.

What would i do without her.

I'd first met her in school. A newbie, she broke tradition when she was elected school President. No, she was'nt tall and statusque. She was on the contrary short, bespectacled. But so were Alexander The Great, Napoleon, Hitler. Oh, she was destined for great things, i was convinced. Like me, she dreamt big, unlike me, she took life by the scruff of its neck, and plunged headlong into the murkiest waters, only to emerge unscathed, with a band of admirers to boot. Of whom i was one. Only i was honored, because she chose me to be her best friend, confidant. So i followed her in awe, inspired and amazed at her energies.

We both started learning Spanish. She mastered it. We both started guitar lessons, she formed a band, i became the cheering audience. We both dreamt of opening a library. When she opened one, i chose the name: Book Nook, and became the first member. She was me, and i was her.

We had both thought that i would succumb first, but she found her dream man first, and was married soon after. Within the year she had conceived the child she had always wanted. In parting she gave me the most wonderful gift ever: my favorite music, English, Classical, country and rock, Hindi ghazals, film.  Prerecorded on twenty cassettes, neatly listed and labelled, packed in an exclusive leather case.With an accompanying Sony Walkman. I was dumbstruck, because i couldn't ever have competed with that. All i could give her was a book of Art works that she had forever coveted.

I teetered on many a pit, she gently guided me back. Yet she never really intruded. We both married the man of our dreams. We both lead lives in different cities.

Life was not always rosy. When i had the accident, and was laid up for eight months, she was with me. It was she who inspired me to write, convincing me i had the talent to do it. When i lost the child i conceived after eight years of marriage, she was beside my bed. Physically, mentally, she infused her strength in me, wiping my tears with the gents handkerchief that she always carried, coaxing me to embrace life again. "Go, get your drivers' license, learn to drive a car, it's the most cathartic thing you will ever do." It truly was.

In all its myriad hues, i faced life, Jeev made it so easy for me. All i had to do was visit her grave, and sit there for a while. She even made me lose my fear of death. You see, i lost her soon after she married and died of a brain tumour, in child birth. But she lived on in me. All the tribulations that i faced, were overcome because she was with me. I lived life as she would have. It helped that i had her amazing gift with me: the gift of everlasting friendship.

Hindi Anyone ?

"Uska bumper thik hai (Her bumper is fine), " looking placidly at me, the nurse assured me. "What ?!" was my incredulous reaction. She repeated it for my benefit. Seeing my bewildered expression, she pointed to gran's rear and said it once again. "Ah. Oh." Realisation dawned, and when she left the room, i burst into peals of laughter, much to gran's annoyance, (how dare we make fun of her 'bumper'). I tried to explain that she meant pamper, only her south indian accent was the culprit. "Try to make sense of her instructions, 'Gaana nai gaane ka '!"  Gran retorted. Before i could ask gran why on earth was she singing, she shook her head and said, "She meant 'khaana nai khaane ka'. I was supposed to have a fasting blood sugar test !"

Once in Mumbai, seeing a commotion on the streets, i saw that a Bengali was on the verge of being beaten up, by a gang of taxi drivers. Protesting loudly he kept trying to explain to a bewildered public, " Oorie baba, bahot gondogol hai ! Hum Bhorli bola, to ye bola nai jaega. Hum usko ' Bhai,' pucha to ye saala,  humko bola, bhai bolo ya mai baap! Nai jaega to nai jaega. " Back and forth i turned as interpreter, trying to placate both and explaining that he wanted to go to Worli, not Borivli, That he was asking the taxi driver, 'Why', not Bhai,  he wouldn't go. "Arrey sahab ! To aisa bolne ka na." Shooing the still protesting bong into his cab, he screeched off.

My jeejaji was on a business trip with a Punjabi, who always had an eye out for good looking girls. Stopping at a restaurant for lunch, they ordered a fish curry, rice. Eyeing the lone, girl on the adjacent table, he commented, "Hot kudi, no ( Kudi means girl in punjabi) ? " The next minute, he was hauled up from behind by her irate, six footer Sikh husband, who demanded to know what he had just said. Fortunately for him my quick thinking bro in law, did the rescue act, assuring him that he was talking of the curry on their table, which lay steaming on the table.

As for Mumbai.When i first got here, many seasons passed before i got used to the famed bumbaiya hindi. "Kitna kanda daalu baidey main ?" asked my maid. Seeing my bemused expression, my husband helpfully told her "Ek." Kanda was piyaz, baida was eggs, according to the hindi I didn't know. I once surreptiously called hubby dear to ask him what the cabbie meant when he said, "Jaldi, baitho, madam. Patli gali se khisakna padega, wrong lane main ghus gaya. "

Waiting for a train at V T station, i overheard a Bihari talking on his cell phone. "Ticketwa, batwa main daal diyan hai. Pahonch ke cell maar dijiyo."

Taking the cake was the irate Parsi, whose car was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. "Arrey mua! Ullu ka Pattha,  kai ko reverse maarta  hai. Kidhar ko ghusaaega gaari ! Arrey, koi is ko le ke jao re. Khaali ,peeli  kai ko dimaag out kar raela hai.!"

Greek anyone ? It's easier.