For Better Or For Worse.

She landed in Ontario at about seven o clock local time. Clad in jeans and a tee, a long overcoat in her hands, she made her way to the luggage console along with the rest of the passengers. Like some people get high blood pressure when in the presence of doctors, she dreaded immigration officers. Nay, phobic was the word. She and the folks. So maybe actually it was a genetic thing. Ever since she had been a little girl and her mum had taken her on a trip to London. Mum was hard of hearing and wore a hearing aid at all times. Not being allowed to carry batteries, she was without the aid at the critical time that we were clearing immigration. From past experience i knew that a deaf mother was an extremely nervous and irritable mother. But the poor immigration officer didn't. The conversation went something like this,
Custom officer :" Madam, do you have anything to declare ? "
Profusely sweating, her hands clammy, Mom muttered hoarsely, " No, your, er..er.. highness."
Custom officer (peering suspiciously at her) : "Are you trying to be funny."
My hard of hearing mum, " Yes, sir, its quite sunny." Then seeing his expression, she gestured vaguely, "Back there in India, sir."
Custom Officer : " All i want to know is, do you have anything to declare ? "
Mum, with a weary sigh, " How kind of you, yes, i could do with a chair. "
Custom officer ( gnashing his teeth) : PLEASE proceed to the exit.
By this time a long line of passengers were chafing impatiently behind her, and the officer, in his hurry to see her go, turns and trips over mum's ample bottom, bent to retrieve her case.

After the mass of officer, case and mum had been restored to their upright status, we proceeded, if a trifle sheepishly, towards the exit, the hapless officer, having hurriedly retreated to the rest room to avoid the sniggering mass of humanity in his wake.


With dad, she had gone to Jeddah for The ritual of Umrah, literally the mecca of muslim pilgrimage. Wearing 'ehraam' ( a set of two sheets covering the top and bottom half of the body, with nothing, and i mean NOTHING else ) would render  any man irritable. My dad was the coolest, mildest person you ever knew. That is in normal circumstances. Add a custom officer, endless immigration lines, and an overtly cautious custom officer, flinging peoples' belongings around like confetti and the 'ehraam ? If, dear reader, you have been to the circus, and chanced to see the ringmaster free the lion, who then jumps on him and proceeds to run amok, you will know what i mean. He stormed to the head of the line, grabbed the bloke and proceeded to give him a verbal lashing, which fortunately for him was in English, not the officers' strong point. The man frowned, then struck his forehead in inspiration as he saw dad  gesturing wildly and clutching onto the bottom half of his ehraam.The next thing she knew, her dad had been escorted to the nearest restroom, still protesting vigorously, while she and her mum went equally mad, thinking that he had been arrested.


To revert to the present, it was with beating, nay wildly beating heart that she made her way to the nearest line for immigration. As her turn neared, she was amazed to see the courtesy with which all the passengers were being handled by the officer. Breathing a sigh of relief, she surged ahead. Finally she stood, in front of the actually very good looking blonde man, the officer, who smiled a warm smile and wished her a "top of the morning, ma'am." All her fears laid to rest, she beamed back at him. He smiled a  still warmer smile then held out his hand. Blushing she made to put hers in it, when he laughed a little and said softly, "Your passport please."

The passport ? "Ah, yes. Sure. My passport." The.. the  thing that she had had with her when she boarded, the thing that she had sworn to protect with her life to her neurotic parents. The thing that she was going frantic trying to find. She scrabbled on hands and knees, she searched high and low. A high pitched voice from behind her said plaintively, " Miss ! Miss ! Is this yours ?  I found it behind you.You must've dropped it." She looked up, a bedraggled mess, to  see this thin beanpole of a man, holding out the blessed passport. As she grabbed it with a whoop of joy, she looked around her to see the officer looking around him, a bewildered expression on his face, at the collection of woman things, including sanitary napkins lying strewn at his feet.  Going red in the face, she was on hands and knees again, grabbing her things, pushing them all back in the bag, as well as hiding her mortified face from the people sniggering behind her.

Airports ? Nah. She thought to herself. Why fight genetics.  From now on it was the train for her. Forevermore. For better or for worse.  

What Lies Within

Genteel. That was the one word in a nutshell that described him. In his late sixties, his was the face ones eyes went to, instinctively, when one entered the bank. Assistant manager said the job description plate on his desk. Easily the go to guy, for anyone with a problem. Always helpful. Unwaveringly courteous. No matter how agitated or belligerent the customer, his soothing yet authoritative voice, the sensitive handling of the matter, the look of perceptive understanding on his face always righted the situation.

Mr. Basu. He had worked his way up the ladder slowly. Over the years. From lowly cashier to PR, to head of PR. Many many years. A lifetime of hard work. His affable exterior disguised his ambition, as he rose up the echelon. Only one person stood before him and his promotion as the head. The manager of the bank. The nadir of his success. But he was a patient man. Hardworking and patient. Two qualities that had stood him in good stead.

At home, his life was tranquil. A devoted wife, with whom he had spent the golden years of life. They had raised two lovely children. Boys, both who now did him proud. One was a doctor, the other a journalist. At present, his wife having died the past few years, he was lonely, but content to play with his grandchildren. A nondescript man, you would say. Leading a nondescript life. Like so many on God' earth. Until that fateful day.

He had got up late. Monday. The first day of the week. By the time he reached the bank, he was late by a good thirty minutes. " Hey, babumoshai, " The not- so- young security guard stood up, his hand raised in an old worldly salute, "You are late today, " Basu frowned and peered at him. Was he daring to mock him ! Without replying, he proceeded towards his desk. As he prepared to sit down, he noticed that almost all of them were staring at him. His frown turned into a glare, as he turned to his secretary and snapped ( again, most unusual for him ) "Ki ? Shudu adh ghanta der hoyeche. Shorir kharap hoi na tor loker kokhon ? ( What ? I'm late by just a half hour. Don't you people ever fall sick ) His secretary shook her head mutely. Then nodded towards the cabin. The general manager's cabin. "They are waiting for you, sir." As he looked up, he saw a small group of three clustered in the office. The regional head accompanied by a young suited booted fellow and the manager. As the adrenalin started pumping within him, his mouth went dry.

He entered the office. The trio turned. "Ah, babumoshai. Kemon aacho ? " (How are you ?) Was there censure in his tone or had he imagined it ? His anxious eyes scanned the RM's face. "I'm fit sir, absolutely." he tried to make his voice sound more robust. Then curtly, turning away from him, the RM continued, " Meet your new manager. Mr. Sen." he indicated the suited fellow standing by his side. The next few minutes were a blur. He somehow managed to look stoic, resigned, when inside he was sick. As the two left, he emerged ashen faced and went to his desk. "Jol khaben ? "  (Will you have some water? ) The sympathy  in the secratary's voice was more than he could take. Struggling to regain some measure of control, he shook his head and moved towards the exit. A cluster of clerks turned rather guiltily away. His bete noir, the security guard drawled on seeing him, "What?  Leaving already Saar ? You must be sick today."

When the police arrived, they found him standing stunned. The gun belonging to the guard lay on the ground, as did the guard. His voice had an unreal quality about it when he spoke. " I must have done it sir. I'm sorry." Then sinking to the ground, eyeing the petrified office staff huddled behind their desks, almost speaking to himself, he said softly, "So very very sorry." He lifted up the gun, and before anyone could stop him, he pulled the trigger. The bullet went cleanly thru his tortured brain.

Indeed he had been sick that day, was the feeling all around later, or else babumoshai ? And anger ?

The Eyes.

All the seats were occupied, when he got in. An imposing figure. He was stout, thirtyish. Jet black hair, neatly gelled into place. Dark glasses shielding his eyes. The smart jacket in contrast to his work worn jeans. As he strode towards the wheel, and eased himself into the driver's seat, even the grandma's in the bus let out a sigh. Far cry from the drivers in their own country, India. Many a female  heart skipped a beat as he looked up into the rear view mirror, found almost the entire crowds eye's on him, and smiled. As if he knew the effect he was having on everyone. He knew the effect he was having on everyone. "Hi." The rich baritone befitted the man. It enhanced the persona, the sheer confidence that he oozed. Leaning forward, on the wheel, he continued, still holding onto everyone's gaze. "I'm Randy. I'm going to be your driver for this trip. I hope you enjoy it. There a few ground rules that Praveen here will explain to you."  The accent was polished, and to their ears, even exotic. As he sank back, giving centre stage to the tour guide, he looked into the rear view mirror, and squarely met her eyes.  The placid gaze turned to something akin to surprise, as their eyes met.

Chemistry. That which is defined as instant attraction between two people. As their gaze continued to hold, Praveen coughed lightly, bringing Randy back from his near reverie. He smiled and started the bus. The bus had started from London, and within the course of the next twenty days would wend itself through Europe. Eight countries. It certainly would not be boring, as it usually was, he decided. Now and then, he would allow himself to look into the mirror. Rich, dark brown curls blew around the curve of a dusky cheek. The eyes were liquid brown. He drove a little quicker, hoping to see her outside of the seat at the first halt that they made. They reached the hotel. The bus came to a halt. As the passengers rushed towards the door, propelled by full bladders as much as excitement, he was courtesy itself, proferring his hands to help the jet lagged travellers to alight. She was the last to alight. His attention caught momentarily by an old lady, he looked up to find her above him, so close he caught his breath at the face. Almost within touching distance. " Excuse me please ?" The melliflous voice belonged to her he realised. Hurriedly he held out his hands. The soft fingers barely touched his, as she got off the bus. Their was amusement in her eyes, as she realised the effect she was having on him. "Aarti." The voice was that of the old lady's. " Cmon, child." He felt, rather than saw her going away from her.

She walked slowly towards her grandma. Randy stood as if turned to stone. She was young. In her early twenties. An innate grace, an air of tranquility almost, separated her from the rest. As the days went by, he was more and more taken by her. By the fifth day, he would smile at her warmly, wish her  a good morning, to which she would give a soft reply and a small smile. The rest of the passengers too, were smitten by her, but she stayed aloof. Often, he would find her sitting completely still, staring into space, as if in a trance, as if she were a yogi. Randy found himself intrigued, thinking about her, studying her as she sat behind him. The grandmother on the other hand was gregarious, talking to her co passengers, sharing food and thoughts with them.

So the days passed. Randy waited for an oppurtune moment to strike up a conversation with her. She always eluded him, holding back or hurrying forward, while he tended to the others, almost as she were avoiding him. On the thirteenth day of the tour, they were in tranquil Switzerland. The beauty of the snow capped mountains towering over the serene, green fir treed landscape lightened the spirits of even the most seasoned travellers amongst them. Young and old alike frolicked on the Jungfrau mountain side. He was amused to see most of them clad from head to toe in the warmest of thermals, until his eyes fell on her. Clad in a thin sweat shirt, atop figure hugging jeans, she drew the eyes of most of the young crowd huddled in the snow.

The scream startled all of them. A small child of about four, dangled precariously from a small rock below the fenced embankment. The child must have slipped thru the bars and tumbled down the rock face. Like a slow motion movie, the mother lunged ahead, the terrified face of the child as she clung desperately to the rock brought the crowd to a stand still, as most people raced ahead to help. The desparate mother, ashen faced beseeched the child to hang on. As the emergency services swung into action, a small figure expertly and swiftly scaled the rock surface. Randy sprang forward as he realised who it was, who was racing to the child's rescue. The terrified scream rang out again as the small, numbed fingers of the child released their hold.

The terror on the mother's face turned to relief,as she realised that having reached the embankment below, the climber had caught the child even as she fell.

The child restored to her mother, the crowd clustered around the heroic figure of her rescuer, who strangely enough, after her initial calm had collapsed in a heap on the snow.The crumpled, delicate frame of the woman shook, as her grandmother sat beside her clasping the sob wracked figure to her bosom. Eventually, regaining her composure, the duo moved slowly towards the bus, as the crowd regained its holiday mood and spirit of adventure.

As they sat in the bus, Randy offered a bottle of water. Her eyes deep pools of pain, she spoke softly to  her grandmother, who then explained, " Her child was as old as the other, when she drowned. She was the spitting image of her mother, and an expert swimmer. But Aarti was unable to save her. Though she was sitting just by the pool, she got distracted momentarily, by a call from her work place. She never forgave herself, even though her husband eventually did. So here we are, trying to get away from it all." The sadness in the old lady's moist eyes, was almost palpable  " I'm fine now, naani. I really am." She spoke slowly, yet her melliflous voice was strong. "Today was a catharsis for me. God gave me a chance to save that little life, and i'm so grateful. Maybe now i can get on with the rest of my life." So saying she reached out a hand to Randy, as he took it within both of his, and raised it to his lips. Just for a moment they seemed to look right into each other's soul. Then she withdrew it hurriedly. " Can we please take a flight back to India tomorrow ? " Sorrowfully, he agreed.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. For Randy, his eyes kept searching for that one pair of mesmerising eyes. Eyes that had the power to reach his soul. Eyes that he would perhaps search for, for the rest of his life.

The Land Of His Birth

"Ai birru...The voice behind him was rough, guttural. As he turned to look back, a gentle nudge in the ribs egged him on. Then, exasperation writ clearly on his face, the man said, " Utarne ka hai k nai. Train akkha dinnaj idhar nai rukne wala  kya ?" As he hurriedly hopped off, the crowd in front of him surged ahead, almost pushing him back into the train, from which he had alighted. A timely yank from his bete noir, turned guardian saved him from that fate. "Kya Sir," the man chided, "Ye Bambai hai. Sub ko ghai rehta hai na, gutter main jitna keera nai, utna log rehta hai train main. " He laughed at his own wit. " Ok sir ? Bye, bye." So saying the man took off, blending in with the crowds. He stood getting his bearings. He was on Bandra station. Somewhere close by was his aunts' home.

Emerging from the station, he stood stock still. All around him was the stench of humanity in its various forms. A dog lay, asleep. Its body a muddy brown, from its foray into a pile of garbage seemingly extracted from a drain nearby, and left to rot. Beggars and vagrants, teemed all over the place, some asleep, some eyeing the crowds hurtling by. From fruits to underwear, caps to street food, everything was being pedalled in the narrow lane leading towards the main road. Drawing a deep breath, he moved as fast as he could towards the taxi stand. The first two cabbies, refused to ply by the meter. The third was ingratiatingly eager to have him. He smiled to himself as he pictured in his mind the crocodile he had seen in the zoo at Cologne. The one with it's mouth wide open. Almost hypnotising you to go close. He decided to walk it. Squaring his shoulders, holding tightly onto his haversack, he spent a minute, perusing the map of the city that he carried with him.

The small cry came from behind him. he turned around astounded to see nothing behind him, except for a garbage tin. Again the cry came. Persistant, breathless. To his horror he realised it was coming from the bin. Aghast, he hurried to it and quelling the nausea rising in his throat, he peered in. A small arm flailed out from beneath the unspeakably dirty refuge within. Furiously pushing it all aside, he plunged his hand in, even as the cry resounded again. Digging his hand in deeper, he first felt, then pulled out the small wisp of humanity, struggling to breathe. In wonderment, he looked at it. It was a girl. A tiny thing, abandoned to its fate. Struggling to control his tears, he almost tenderly wiped her wee body with his shirt. As fascinated as a father holding his newborn fot the first time, he looked down at her. Her bright eyes, huge, almost grey with the trauma she must have undergone, stared back dazedly at him. For a second, there were only two people in the world. Him and her.

" Apney India main aisaj hai, sirji. Jo nahi chahiye woh kachre main phenk dene ka." The wise words came from one of the crowd that had gathered around him.

It hit him hard. The pathos of his rescue. The tears flowed freely from his eyes, as he carried the child to the nearest hospital. Indeed, this India was alien to him. Having returned after a gap of nearly twenty years to his birth place, he realised that he could never belong here. He had been alienated. Forever.

What Would Roshan Say ?

Harried. Hurried. Like most housewives in the morning. "Hah. Homemakers ! is what Roshan would say. Big deal. " She scoffed to herself. "A servant is a servant by any name. Coming maaji, " she yelled across the house. " No need to shout, I"m not deaf !" exclaimed the old lady querelously. "Well, just a little hard of hearing," she admitted reluctantly. "Where's my hearing aid ? I can't seem to find it. " Smiling wryly, she pointed out that it was caught in maaji's hair. "Auntyji ! " The peremptory tones of the help resounded from behind her, "I'm leaving, you see to the kitchen now. You have to give me my pay tomorrow. With the raise."  Like a whirling dervish she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her. She glared at the shut door." Servants! What would Roshan say !"

"Maaaaa......!" The voice came from the bedroom. "What now !" muttering to herself, she hurried across to her son's room. The eleven year old, stood in front of the mirror. "Where's my gel ? And don't give me the ' You are too young to put gel ' spiel. All the boy's use it in my class." Sighing, she looked at him. "What will...."  "Roshan say ! " He completed her sentence for her. "I need it by tomorrow, okay ? Let me have the money by evening please." Another door slammed in her face.

 So the morning led to afternoon. "This bhaaji, is too bland, bahu. What would Roshan say, if you gave him this tasteless mess for lunch ?" She looked down at her one roti, in which the offending bhaji was wrapped. "Eat it maaji. " she said quietly. "It's good for you." The old man seated across the table looked up. " Eat it," he commanded his sullen wife. "It's much better than what you used to cook. You eat too, bahu," he said gently, noticing the hidden tear trembling within her lustrous eyes. "Roshan always says you are a fabulous cook. " The meal over, she retreated to her room, even as the television blared in maaji's room.

" Hey, baby, look what i have for you, " The deep baritone belonged to Roshan. As he dangled the watch she had long sighed over in the showroom, before her, she leapt up with a squeal of delight. The twinkle in his eyes, the love that shone in them added to her joy, as he gently took her wrist in his hand and strapped the watch on to it. Her eyes misted over as she went into the receeses of her memory hunting for sustenance, succor. " Ma ? Look what i have for you !" The voice was so like that of Roshan, she jumped up, then realised it was her son, his son. The next minute he was on the bed, arms wrapped around her, clumsily trying to wipe her eyes. " I'm there, no ? You just wait until i grow up, i' ll earn so much money, you will never have to do any housework at all, ever.I can't take dad's place," his voice choked a little, then hurriedly recovered. Now cheer up, do.." He beseeched. "Here! I brought   you your favorite ice cream. Choconut. As she smiled amidst her tears, they sat mother and son, mourning the man they had both loved. Clinging on to each other and his legacy of love.

Technically speaking..

Computers. Bane or boon ? At that moment ? Definitely the former.

There i lay amidst the debris. Spreadeagled beside me, knocked out completely was the technician. So you see, i brooded darkly, how are computers supposed to make life easy ?

The day had started well. Blithely unaware of what lay ahead, i sailed thru the day, waiting impatiently for the technician who would install the wifi and enable me to start the computer. After all, i was expecting an important mail from my friends. We had a holiday to plan, we were old chums, meeting up after years, at the exotic resort of Alleppy, Kerala.

 The door bell rang. I flew to the door. I beamed at the fellow standing outside, even as he beamed back at me. " Are you.... ?" I asked tentatively. "Yes, Ma'am !" he replied. " I'm here for the computer." Having let him in, I looked at him doubtfully,  all signs of the aforementioned beam erased from my face. Grimy shirt, bedraggled jeans, thinning greasy hair. All of five foot nothing. I asked him to sit, while I retreated to my bedroom, to surruptiously call the better half and confirm the said person was indeed who he claimed to be.

"Uh, huh.." was the better half's confirmation. So long as he gets the job done, I thought. Shrugging my shoulders, i led him to the box fitted outside my bedroom. He looked up, craning his neck. High up. So did i. We both looked up. Then at him. "Trifle high, huh ? " he tapped a finger to his forehead, then said, "No problem. You have a ladder ? "  Shaking my head, i replied in the negative. An awkward silence later, i suggested, " Stool chalega ?" The beam returned to his face. "Yes, of course, ma'am." I got the stool. Breezily, he whizzed up. Then looked down sorrowfully. His hand was still inches away from the box. "These electricians ! " he mumbled. " They attach very short wires. See! Even i can't reach." I agreed mournfully. "There goes the mail." We both stood observing a one minute silence. He was still strung up on the stool.

As he made to get down, my furiously racing mind came up with a solution. "I know !  Let's put  my small stool on top of that one. Then you'll reach it. " i rushed and got the small six inches high stool that stood in my bathroom. Perching one on the other, i  beamed at him, expectantly. Alarm writ large on his face, he looked at me almost beseechingly, then having a eureka moment of his own, he said."I'll do it, but ma'am, you  will have to hold on to the stool." Reluctantly, i went down on my haunches. Even more reluctantly, he climbed up tentatively. Both our lips moving in prayer, he inched up the stool, reached the box, and slowly, very. very slowly he fixed the wires in the box. Then it happened. He snuffled, he sniffed, then raising his head, he sneezed. People sneeze in different ways. Some do it almost apologetically. some merely grunt. Some let out the day's frustrations in that one uninhibited moment. Yes, dear reader, you hit the nail on the head. As He did. The guy sneezed. Humpty Dumpty would have been jealous of what happened next. He landed on the floor, even as i deftly ducked. But as luck would have it, the stools tumbled over my poor unsuspecting head.

So it was that the neighbours, the security, my half- dead laughing teen and my aged mother in law, hauled me up from the debris of stools and tools that had clattered down and dunked water on the poor guy's head. Once he spluttered to life, he took one look at the room full of people, grabbed his bag and fled the scene, muttering darkly under his breath.

The wi fi was still dead. That is until my teen climbed up and  switched it on. "Duh, mum. You write blogs, but you don't know how to switch on the wifi ???." I stood guilty as charged. 

The Role Reversal.

Both their eyes filled with tears. Hurriedly brushing off hers, she helped her father to sit. The once strong frame that had easily lifted both her and her sister on his shoulders, trembled slightly. She could see the pain in his eyes, his was physical, hers was emotional. Adjusting the pillows below his head, she set the tray before him. As he  made to lean forward, she took the spoon and started feeding him, coaxing each mouthful into his mouth. In between, he coughed. Hurriedly she bent and proffered the spitoon. A few flecks of the phlegm fell on her fingers, but she did not flinch, or react even. Dinner over, she wiped his mouth,tenderly, as if tending a child. Next came the sleep routine, when she brought his brush, helped him with his ablutions. Washing the toothpaste from his beard, she then dried him, lowered the hospital bed, adjusted his pillows and talked softly, reminiscising, telling him how his entire family was waiting to have him home again, until he drifted off to sleep. Curling up on the couch alongside his bed, she slept too, though fitfully, waking up each time he coughed and needed the spitoon.

They watched in wonderment, the couple in the adjoining bed. They watched her devotion to him, the love that shone from both their eyes as they talked. The aura of dignity around the old man, even at his most vulnerable, was almost tangible. They watched as she bent to make him wear his slippers, her slight frame bracing to hold him as she and the wardboy helped him to stand, to walk with the help of the walker. The adoration in her demeanour was plain to see, as she gently helped him to stand straight. What a handsome man he was! So tall, so friendly.. He smiled and nodded at them, greeting the man, the patient, with a "Hello, brother. How are you today? " as he slowly walked out of their shared room.

" You are an amazing daughter, " burst out the lady. "Don't you ever get angry, waking up at night ? Such devotion !" Then turning to him she said, " You are very lucky to have such a daughter, sir."

Turning to the couple, she looked at the lady and retorted, "No Ma'am. I was the lucky one. Think what an amazing father he must have been. He is. If i manage to repay his debt even by one percent, i will count myself lucky."

"Indeed," she thought to herself. " Those childhood days, were the best of my life, because of him. I was blessed that he was my dad. He tended me for twenty years, now it's my turn. Now it's my turn."

Cinderella

"When the going gets tough, " I grunted, "Unghhh, the tough get going. Aw, granny, c'mon ", I pleaded, pushing with all my might at the unrelenting backside. Gloomily, I surveyed the scene. One room, the one bed. The reluctant helper, myself, and the sulking old lady. Why oh, why, had i volunteered to help at the home for the aged. My friends, all the young people in the world, surely, were out partying, while i was labouring away at dirty bedsheets, with an uncooperating aged. An unappreciative, morose old lady at that, who thought she was the one doing me the favor.

It had all started with my conscience. Pangs of. What exactly was i doing with my life ? Partying, reading, then partying some more ! There had to be more to life then all of that. At that juncture, dear readers, i should have stamped on that conscience with hob nailed boots. I was all of seventeen, and i was me... Not some Buddha incarnate. I was also supposedly studying for my board exams. Did i even need to do anything else. I must have been out of mind, then, and someone should have hauled me off to the doctors, or better still the disc, instead of which i found myself sitting opposite a kindly matron, who, by means of lavishing praise on my poor unsuspecting head, enviegled me into a volunteer programme tending the aged at the Home, next to my college. So the upshot was, i found myself listening to the sound of my fellow teens, laughing raucously, or lounging around eyeing the newbies, while i toiled at ancient, smelly backsides. Bitterly, i beheld my best friend chatting up the girl i had staked for myself. Disbelievingly i saw them, fingers entwined gazing into each others eyes, while my old lady farted or burped benignly into my face. Life, was unfair. So unfair.

Then came the day of the prom. In spite of being otherwise occcupied, i managed to get me a date, a tux and courage to speak to the now that she had me snared, testy matron, who muttered under her breath about shirking teens, but gave me an off. But only after i had got my charge into diapers. So there i was, and there she was, a giant baby, with her privates entrusted to me. As i grappled with the mundane task of putting on a diaper on my old lady,  leaning across her in my desperation, the unthinkable happened. With a gentle sigh she did it. Right on my tux. As my date frantically pointed to her watch, from outside the window,then stomped off in a fury. The motion she hadn't passed for about a year, or so it seemed to my horrified eyes, as a stinking yellow stain spread across my snow white shirt.

Cinderella. That's how i felt at the prom. Gosh, yes! i did make it  after all, dear reader, so cheer up. My matron was not the gargoyle i had thought her to be when seeing my face she had burst into uncontrollable laughter, her ample girth not allowing her to roll on the floor. Within the hour she had procured another tux, her stunning niece and a private cab. I danced the night away, even as the other boys gaped at my girl, the most stunning one in the room. A day and a night, stuff that sticks in your memory and the grand children get regaled with.

The Beautiful Ugly

Was i ? Truly ? Ugly ...? By all rights, i should have been. I was tall, slim, very hot . But only from the neck down. It was my face that did me in. Small eyes, twinkling ones though, a nondescript nose, a full upper lip, the features were all good, but i guess, God took the left overs and put them all together in me. My best friend on the other hand. Pretty as a picture. So most often, i was the resident wall flower. The one to whom everyone came with their boyfriend / girlfriend woes. The resident shrink of college. Now, that's what you would call red hot. No? Sigh. You would be right of course.

Since joining college,  the date we had been most looking forward to was the ' Fresher's Ball .' To be held in ' Zinc ', the most happening disc in town. For the first time in our lives, we were going unchaperoned to a ball, where there would be boys ! You see our lives so far had been like the old black and white movies of yore, where women undertook the role of men.  Often we read of people struggling out of deserts to be confronted with palm trees, a placid lake with palm trees doing the swaying act. He staggers towards it, palms outstretched, his dust filled eyes, straining to behold the unbelievable, on his lips a prayer, his crazed, deprived mind, making his heart leap at the munificence laid out before him. You get the idea, gentle reader ? That was how we staggered into the disc, dressed in our daring best, teetering in our heels, our hearts roaring in sync 'Bring on the Boys !!'

Soon enough, all of the girls were on the dance floor, dancing wildly. The music, so loud, it made sure our feet wouldn't touch the floor. Alas, it was so dark that we could hardly see our partners. But feel them, we sure could. Mine seemed particularly out of shape from the panting i could hear, the hands clutching me were clammy, just like mine, i thought wryly. Then the lights came on. Blinking at the fierce onslaught  of bright flashing lights, i stood mouth agape. As did my partner. My best friend. My best girl friend make that. In fact, the dance floor consisted of almost all girls ! Bewildered, we turned and found the boys. Crouching over the bars, or should i say, cowering behind the bar. The glazed look in their eyes, had an element of fear. This otherwise docile bunch of well behaved girls, they knew  from everyday life had transformed into banshees, wild beings who gyrated wildly and set the dance floor on fire. " I mean what if we had raped them, for god's sake."

The rest of the night was good fun. The boys, realising that we basically were harmless, let their hair down, and the bravest actually matched their steps with ours. What is it about ugly girls ? There has to be something compelling about them, i guess. I wasn't allowed to sit for a single dance, as the boys actually cued up to dance with me. Like the most ugly one of them told me, "You're so wrong, you're right down beautiful." The beautiful ugly. How i love being one of them !

A matter of courage

I sat looking at her photographs. She was so beautiful she took my breath away. As if someone had punched me in the stomach. Pushing the laptop away, i hung my head in my hands and sat. Great sobs shook my body, as i  cried. Tears that seemed to come from my very soul. "Take this, and don't be a sissy." The voice was harsh, even as it's owner proffered  a tissue. "Every girl looks like an actress these days, with the right make up. Your wife is much prettier. " That was it. The dam within me burst. "But she's not the love of my life. Only Minnie will ever be that, " I shouted. " I loved her, don't you understand! I loved her! Like i never will love anyone else again. Ever! She was my soul, she was everything that was lovely and wonderful about my life. You took that away from me! You ! I hope you are happy now. Now that you've robbed me of my happiness forever." She shrank from me as if i'd hit her. Then held out her arms beseechingly, "I only wanted your happiness, son. All i ever wanted was for you to be happy. I'm your mom, for God's sake. " The door rattled shut as i strode out of it. Yes, she was my mom, and i loved her, or else i would have struck her.

I had always been a good son. Maybe too good. But for the life of me, i couldn't hurt her feelings, even when i was a child. My upbringing had been good. I had had the best of everything, being the only child, i had been pampered even. The bond between my mother and me had been strong, though she was too domineering at times. The rebellion struck when i entered my teens. I stood my ground even as she tried her best to persuade my dad to stop me from going abroad for studies. " You'll lose him for sure. Who will take over your business ?" she tried to reason with him. For once, both of us were united  and i left for the U S of A, for my masters.

Heady years, the best of my life, followed. From a callow youth, i grew into a man. My roomies, brutal as they were, taught me to stand on my own. For the first time in my life, i was getting my own meals, doing my washing, vacuuming my room and in spite of it all, i was loving it.

The party was for Christmas. I saw her as soon as she entered. The room seemed to light up with her presence. Tall, lithe,with long black hair flowing down her back, she was very striking. But it was her effervescent personality that had all the boys flocking towards her. For one of the dances, we were blindfolded by the girls, and had to choose our partners by touch. By some strange miracle, I tagged her. We never looked back. From the beginning she drew out the best in me. I found myself making scintillating conversation, dancing as i hadn't ever before. She was my cousin's bestie, and we soon became inseparable. However, it was a long distance relationship. She came from across the border, from Canada, where she studied. I was still bound to the states and with her in my life, deeply committed to my studies, as i started thinking about a future with her.

The day I graduated, I gave my parents the news. I was going to look for a job in the states, and that i was going to marry her. Which news instantly brought my parents on a long overdue visit to the States. Of course mom was reluctant about giving her consent. "Isn't she too dominating ?' to which my dad scoffed, " Huh ! Pot calling the kettle black"  and a sly, " I married you didn't I !"  But she knew when to acknowledge defeat and gave in. It was my turn to go meet Minnie's dad. Before me, he had been 'the' man in her life, and I was nervous. When her parents saw how much we loved each other, nothing else mattered to them, and so we were engaged, to be married. We decided we would settle in Canada, if I couldn't get a job in the States, what with the recession having hit us hard, and jobs being hard to get.

Meanwhile we were separated again. There i was completing my masters, while she was working, both of us full of plans and in touch any which way we could, be it cells, emails, skype. My visas were expiring though and i had to return to India. We both dreaded the fast approaching deadline and tried to spend every holiday together before i left. I did return, eventually but with the promise of fast rejoining her.

The cacaphony of Indian shores, the return to the easy way of life was morbid enough. Some days the distance between us seemed overwhelming. Six months more, and she would be able to apply for citizenship. Then we could marry and I could migrate. The dates were fixed, i could hardly contain my happiness. Her mom was flying down to be with her, to spend some quality time with her daughter before the marriage.

The next weekend they were supposed to go to the Niagara falls. Before that, she was going to a sleepover at a friends place. I was going trekking with my friends, to Leh. For the next week we were going to be incommunicado. I returned exhausted. It was almost midnight, and so I tried to enter the home quietly. Strange that the lights were on. Mum was sitting on the sofa. Dad was pacing. "Sit down son. There's been an accident." Dad's voice sounded grim. Minnie's friend had taken a wrong turn. The suv coming from the right had hit the car head on. The passenger side, where she had been sitting, took the impact head on. As the legs beneath me gave way, my one thought was that I had to be with her, I had to see her. "You can't. Not just now. She's critical. Her mum stressed that you stay away. At least until things improve. She's unconscious, anyway. Her lungs are punctured, ribs broken, and she has multiple fractures, which may never heal. " The next few days went by in limbo. I now knew the meaning of 'living dead.' She was  in that state physically, i mentally. I had a nervous breakdown, and was mercifully kept in sedation for the next few days. My pillar of strength was my mother. She looked after me as if i was a baby. She fed me with her own hands, slept on a cot in my room.

A week later i mustered the strength to call. Her mother, for some reason, disconnected the line. Strangely, that kept happening, until i was ready to explode. Now i was determined to fly out. "No." They don't want you there." Mum kept reiterating. Disbelievingly, i shook my head, "Why on earth ? " Mother took my hand in hers. "She may not walk again. Ever. She dosen't want to see you. Her parents believe that seeing you would only add to her trauma. For her sake, don't go there." Tortured, broken, i somehow lived thru the next few months.

I heard that she was in rehabilitation. I told myself that she probably hated me by now. How could i ever face her again ? What kind of a coward was I ? In my mind's eye, I saw her, sitting on a wheel chair, not wanting to face me. But I knew i'd do the same had i been in her place. Agonised, tortured, I stayed away, though I yearned to be with her.




Six months flew by in a haze of pain. It was then that i met my cousin, Minnie's best friend. I met her at a friends' place. As i hurried to greet her, she turned away, almost in disgust. "How's Minnie, tell me! You have to tell me !" I demanded of her. "She turned to face me then, thru clenched lips she retorted, " You ! You B......! How dare you ask me that. After what you did to her, how can you stand there and take her name, even. " Over the next few days, I pleaded with her to explain. She told me the facts. Mum had called her parents, after the accident, telling them that it would be best if I didn't see her.  That I was in shock, too and had had a nervous breakdown. She told them that since marriage for Minnie was an impossibility now, there was no point in her having an emotional breakdown, which was possible if she saw me. She told them that she was breaking the engagement on my behalf. I tried to call her, but it was too late. Her mum wouldn't pick up the phone. I couldn't find the courage, within me to go face her. Rani was a childhood friend, recently orphaned. She needed me and I needed sanity in my tortured existence.She was kind enough to marry me, though she knew about the tragedy of my former relationship. She made me make peace with my mom. But I never forgave her for all that both Minnie and I suffered.

Three years had gone by. I heard that she had overcome her disability with aggressive rehabilitation. Aqua therapy had wrought a miracle. She was able to walk. Supporting her like a rock, was her mom and an old friend in Canada. Someone who had always loved her, and was now marrying her.

I slunk back to the lap top. There she was, bedecked in bridal attire. She looked at me, serene, happy, deeply in love, from the photo. The title of the photo ? 'For better and for worse.' She deserved him, he deserved her. From the deep sadness within me, the tortured recesses of my mind there arose a spark of happiness for her. At least one of us was at peace.

Yogaga !

"A one.. two... three..." She swung gracefully, like a ballet dancer before me. Open mouthed, i stared. How could she possibly contort her body like that ?  With such grace too. "Hey mum, c'mon," she egged me on. You can do it too." I looked at her, my seventeen year old, standing slim and tall before me. In her leotards and high ponytail, she could have easily been a model for any yoga magazine. I looked down at myself. Fat, frowsy, wrong end of forty, yes. Stiff with the happy lethargy of years, huffy and so far content, yes. I smiled self deprecatingly at her. "It's easy ma, don't knock it till you've tried it," she cajoled. I looked down at my tires, so called love handles, then looked disbelievingly at her. "It's taken me years, to put all this on, If i lose any of it, i'll sag at all the wrong places and end up looking like... like Adnan Sami : thin cherubic face on a once fat body." She chuckled, so did i. " Besides, what if i bent like you, and got stuck, bent into two. Think how difficult it would be to cart me off to the hospital, just like that."

I was happy being me, i had such a loving family around to help me fetch and carry. Then one day it happened. I got the invite. It was an old  girls' reunion, at college. The friend who sent me the email, had posted a photo of herself, ( forty going on thirty ! )  She invited others to do so too, so that we could recognise each other after  the long gap of twenty years, and the travails of life, not to mention my penchant for walnut brownies. Peering over my shoulder, my teen carelessly tossed a " don't worry mum, your face is still almost the same, that is if you are going ? " I heaved myself to my feet. The time for action was now. I still had three months. I was going to knock some of my weight, and their socks off. The thin svelte, collegeite within me was raring to go. Go, i did. First of all to the kitchen. Over the 'Death by chocolate' cake i vowed, the next one would be at the reunion.

" Breathe in, breathe out, yes! Ma! You're doing great." Looking like the before and after versions we stood, our yoga mats in place. " Ah.... " she breathed in, "Ummm.." she exaled. "Ungh....." i lunged, "hrrrrrrr........." i panted, trying to reach the elusive toes. So it went on for a few days, much to the merriment of the hubby and the bai. But i was determined.  Once fired up about something, i rarely give up, specially the desserts, but i did this time. However i was not sure about yoga being the ideal thing for me.  All it would do was help me reach further down the table for food, no ? I reasoned, to get out of it. My teen disagreed. She had charted out my diet, and my exercise regimen, and with a role reversal i sulked about, made sure i followed it. I went for long walks, i even went up to the gym to enquire about a three month membership. After translating the fees into the number of five star meals they could fetch, i returned back to my in-house trainer, much more appreciative of her services.

The days flew by, each time my daughter caught me mooning over food, she banished the food, the recipe book, the magazine, even the maid,  whose lunch i was eyeing, contemplatively. The last straw, came sooner than later. There i was, at the unearthly hour of eight in the morning, standing still in the 'vrikshasan' or tree pose, while an irate maid, tittered sarcastically, then glowered and muttered trying to dodge around me with her duster. Doing my best to ignore her, i hung grimly onto my balancing act on one foot.  Unfortunately, her washcloth, as it was swirled furiously around my feet caught me off balance. I teetered. I  swayed, then reflexively flung an arm out to regain balance.  At the same  moment she rose, hurriedly, thoughts of my landing on her, making her leap out of the way with an agility i hadn't ever seen in her buxom frame. That didn't happen. What did happen though, was that as she stood up, she caught my flailing arm smack on the jaw. Our screams in tandem were followed by total silence.

When the neighbours peered in, they saw the lifeless body of my maid lying splayed on the ground, down to the classic tongue, sticking out of lifeless mouth pose. The poise of my teen restored sanity as she hurried to the kitchen, and poured a glassful of water on the poor maid's hapless head. "Aigo !" she groaned as she came to, rubbing her jaw which had swollen. Ice packs were called for and after she retreated back to the kitchen, we collapsed in a heap, my near hysterical daughter gasping stuff like " public hazard ma," and " oww, my stomach," as she clutched at it, staggering around, shedding great tears over my doubled up form.

Weightlifting. The fastest way to lose weight according to the net. So now i'm on to that. As for my maid. She's changed her timings to eleven a.m. much after i'm done with my regimen. The rest of the household disappears with alacrity, my teen guides proceedings from behind the long suffering sofa.

Gone two months, and yes, i can reach my toes. It's the thought of the 'death by choclolate' pastry that keeps me going. I'm going to have only desserts at the party. After i meet up with my friends. Also after the no hold's barred dinner.

Full circle

"Dad ! Dad!" The panic in the voice at the other end made my blood run cold. Taking a deep breath, i  replied, "What is it son, what's happened." All i could hear was deep wracking sobs, then, " Kumar.. Kumar..I.. I think he's dead. What should i do..?"


My son. The intrepid adventurer. He had left home that morning, with a biker friend, on a holiday to the beauteous, scenic Jharkhand. At twenty-one, the world was his oyster. Young, but very responsible, he had always been into sports and prided himself on fair play. Football and biking were the two major loves of his life at the moment. That was how i had been too, when i was his age, until that fateful day. 


It all began with a crazy challenge. The bike seemed an extension of my body almost, as we raced thru the streets of Bandra, almost every other night. I and my best buddy, Farukh. It was his birthday that day, the fourteenth of August, and he was in an elated mood. His dad had gifted him, the  bike he had always coveted, the bike of his dreams. "Let's do it buddy," I could still hear the lilt in his voice, as we stood near the bikes, donning our helmets. It was my turn to drive, since we had already reached the Expressway, and had to turn back for home. "But we shouldn't." i replied. "It's too dangerous, specially at night. " What he had been suggesting was that we return, driving on the opposite lane. " At our speeds, we'll be just a blur, c'mon man! Here i'll drive if you don't want to." The way his eyes looked, no burned, thru me, with a world of scorn and challenge in them, i gave in.


As we zoomed across the highway, i could hear his whoops of delight. It was then, that the head lights hit us. The truck coming from the opposite direction, veered towards us, and in that one blinding moment, my life was shattered, never to be the same again.


When i came to, i was lying on the road, besides the divider. Heaving myself up with a superhuman effort, i found myself sitting on the road. It was still dark. Still night. Stunned, for a moment, i wondered where i was. Then it hit me. "Farukh ! Farukh !". Hoarse with fright, my voice sounded like a whisper to me. I saw him then. From the way he lay on the road, i knew it was all over. Crawling towards him, oblivious to any danger to myself, i shook him first, crying out his name. Heart thundering in my chest, my body palpitating, i refused to believe the evidence of my eyes. Feverishly, i felt for his pulse. There was none. The bike lay mangled, twisted, like the body of it's owner. Putting my head over his, i wept, softly at first, then great racking sobs as hysteria took over. How many cars must have passed, i lost count. Not one stopped. Some even reversed before taking off, as fast as they could. Feeling for a handkerchief, to stem the flow of blood  into my eyes, obscuring my vision, from a probable head wound, i found my cell in my pocket. Dialing as fast as my fingers could, i found my dad's number  and called. Incoherently i explained what had happened. "I'm coming. Try to stay on the left side of the road. Be safe" The reassuring voice of my dad, steadied me." I remember, seeing the time. It was three a.m. 


When i came to, i was at a hospital. My parents sat beside my bed. They told me i was lucky to have survived, with just a superficial head wound, and a few cracked ribs. Since the doctor was my fathers' brother i had been admitted. No questions asked. "Farukh, dad ! Where's Farukh ?" I asked. "He is no more," my dad answered in a low voice. "His parents must have been informed by now." Bewildered, i asked, " But, but dad! Didn't you inform them ?" My father averted his gaze.


It was the biggest cover up of his life. They had come to the accident site, my uncle and him. They had picked up my unconscious body, and after ascertaining that Farukh was indeed dead, they had picked up all my belongings, and whisked me away. Of course, the police came, but my dad claimed that i had been simply dropped off to the hospital by a good samaritan, who had then left. The story that was then given to all our friends and my late friend's parents. But deep down, they knew. I knew, as did my conscience.


The office, when i was well enough to rejoin, seemed to reverberate with Farukh's presence, as it had when he had been alive and working in the cubicle next to mine. All the good times that we had shared, all the tricks that we had played  on the others as a team, replayed constantly in my head.


At first, it was subtle. A few snide remarks, some insinuations dropped here and there. Then came the boycott. People wouldn't answer when i talked to them. Colleagues who had been full of bonhomie before, left the room when i entered. No one would invite me for parties, anymore, or for movies. After a year, i could take it no more and had a nervous breakdown, after which i resigned my job. We left town, my parents and i. Relocated to Banglore. Life started anew. My counseller was an old wise man, who steered me back into my life with his kindly hand, and wise counsel. I put it all behind me. I thought i had until today. 


My life had flashed before my eyes, as with my son, i awaited the ambulance that would take his friend to the hospital. Life does give a second chance, i realised, for he lived, my son's friend. Now my son goes about campus, quite the hero, because he saved his friend's life, with his quick thinking, even though it meant having to face  the consequences and a tedious police case.


Older, wiser, i was grateful too. Life had allowed me to bury the ghosts, make amends. Yes, life had come full circle.   

The Pretender

He looked up at the clock on the Rajabhai Tower. Almost four. If she had left college by now, she would be here soon. Looking around him, he saw a number of students. Hungry ones. Crowding around Rajubhai, Sandwich Wala. Had the tower been named after him, he thought sardonically. Most of the students were his age. Clad in jeans, tees, the hip ones exuding attitude. The boys, eyeing the girls, clandestinely or openly. The girls, preening,  some talking too loudly to draw attention, some just eating hungrily. He was both. Hungry and seeking attention. None of the girls around, interested him. His girl. She was yet to come.

The car rounded the corner from Churchgate. It was a Honda, no less. Seeing it, he hurriedly rose to his feet, dusted off the back of his jeans, and stood waiting for her to alight. Waving off the driver, she walked towards the stall. Towards him. He stood, heart pounding, his eyes seeing only her. As if the rest of the world, had faded out. Long hair swinging, the rays of the sun playing hide and seek in it, she came. Clad in jeans, that highlighted her lovely long legs, she came. Swinging the satchel, onto her shoulders, dark, chinky eyes on the oncoming traffic, she came. In his mind, she was walking towards him, straight into his arms. The whiff of her perfume as she brushed past him, took his breath away. He walked alongside her, a little distance away, his eyes glued to her. Maybe it was her exotic looks, that captivated him. Or the perfect hair, not a single one out of place, or the perfect rose hued skin. Her very presence made all the rest seem drab to him.

Since the day, he had set eyes on her, he had dreamed of her. Waiting for a sandwich, he had seen her car first. Then she alighted from it.. A sudden gust of wind, blew her hair every which way, covering her face. With a firm movement of the hand, she collected it all, then held it back. As she strode off, it swung behind her, every perfect strand, adding to the sensousness she exuded. He had stood, mesmerised. Since that day, he had been smitten. The fact that she refused to allow her car near the her friends, spoke of her modesty, her need to blend. After having her sandwich with her friends, she went to the bus stop, with them, allowing them to catch a bus, before she made her way to her parked car.

Thereafter it had been his daily ritual. At four, he was so haazir, every, single day. From the past six months.

That day, as usual, he was at his spot. When she neared, his eyes closed, he stood inhaling the scent of her. "Excuse me." The voice was low pitched, melodious. His eyes flew open. He turned instinctively, to see if she was talking to someone behind him. Tiny smile playing around her lips, she indicated that he was in her path. Still smiling she moved around him, and was gone.

Her friends had gone, and she was making her way to the car when it happened. A  biker, helmet clad veered close to her. Behind him, an accomplice, reached out and grabbed her bag. "Oye !" The outraged cry came not from her, but from him. Picking up a stone he flung it with deadly aim. As it struck the biker, he fell off his bike. Running towards them, lunging across her, he picked it up, then grabbing her hand, he hustled her off, even as the crowd started to collar the thieves.

They stood a short distance away. Just him and her. " You ok  Ma'am ?" He asked hesitantly. The shocked look receding from her face, she nodded. Taking the bag he extended towards her, she held out her hand. Fingers trembling he clasped it in his, as time seemed to grind to a halt. Then she was gone.

He stood there hand still extended. Leaping over a parked scooter, he paused. Turning the mirror towards him, he looked at his reflection. Smoothing back the shock of black hair, he struck the pose of Arjun Kapoor, the latest heart throb. Pulling his faded tee over his torn jeans,  foolish smile lighting his face, he went on his way.

"Ai Pakiya ! Ai hero." Yelled the voice from behind. "Chal jaldi parking receipt de. Sapne baad main dekhna. " He laughed with sheer happiness, then got down to issuing it.  

The Tug Of War

She stood there bristling. "Dad. What would you know about girls' clothes? Why you hardly know about boys styles !" Having said that scathingly, she took one look at my face and the next minute she was hugging me close. Arms wrapped around me, she said, gently " That didn't sound the way i meant it to. I mean, dad i love you, and your the bestest dad ever, but if i wear those baggy jeans, i won't have any friends left in college. So please, next time ? Let me choose my jeans myself, ok ? " Sighing, i agreed, hugging her back, then reminding her to text me when she reached college. With a shake of the head, and an exasperated look, she was gone, her " Goodbye Dad," wafting elusively around the house.

Strange how suddenly teenage struck. One moment you had a sweet, trusting little child, who looked to you for everything, including clothes ! The next you had a rebellious teen, staring you down, and making you feel archaic, ancient. Everything about her had changed. From neat, parted hair, worn in two long plaits, she went to short, dishevelled crop. From skirts and  tights and kurtas, she went to slim fit acid jeans, washed, even torn at the knees and tees, much shorter than she had ever worn before. From books and more books, she went to facebook and the ubiquitous cell phone. From avid discussions we went to heated arguments. From our daily shared dose of dinner and who-dun-its, we went to solo meals, and double entendre sitcoms, that repulsed me.

It had never been easy, bringing up a child as a single parent. So i figured the best way to do it, would be to treat her as an adult. She had been five, when her mother chose to walk away from our lives, never to look back again. At first she clung to me, so that i had to take a flexitime job, before i abandoned it altogether, and discovered my calling in writing. From sleeping to the sound of the clatter of my keyboard, she grew to reading my drafts, over my shoulder. From baby, she bloomed to child, then teen. My best friend and worst critic, i lost to the vagaries of hormonal surges.

I left the home, after she did, going for a short walk to clear my head, and air my thoughts. These days, i had a lot of time, to catch up with my writing, which was good and bad. Good, because it was what i did for a living. Bad because, it was not as satisfying any more. My thoughts meandered around how i needed to take a "chill pill" as she put it, this vulnerable rebel who lived in my daughter's body these days. Yes, i had to learn to let go. My fledgeling was ready to fly the nest.

I entered the home to soft sobs, that came from the vicinity of the sofa. My heart skipping a beat, i touched her shoulder, "Want to tell me, what happened ?" With a sob, she sat up, then burst into tears. head buried into my stomach, she mumbled something that sounded like, " I've got it. I've got the scholarship to the institute." My heart did the sinking act once again. We had filled the forms together, for the two year course offered by the Institute of Journalism, Australia. Catch 22, situation for me, because much as i loved the thought of her following in my footsteps, i was not prepared to let her go. Not this early, anyway. She was just seventeen. I knew also that it would break her heart if she didn't get the scholarship. It was i who had taught her to dream, to follow her dreams. Ironical then that i should have to pay the price by losing her. Holding her close, unable to speak, i smiled, the tears that sprung to my eyes, betraying my mixed feelings. "I'm so happy for you," I said, when the lump in my throat allowed me to speak. "Go. It's the chance of a lifetime." Wiping the tears from her eyes, she half laughed as she reached to wipe mine. "You are such a cry baby, dad. Boys are not supposed to burst into tears at the drop of a hat."  True, but then, we'd laughed together as much as we had cried.

When my wife had left us for good, and a small hand had reached up to wipe my nose with a tissue, before planting a small kiss on it, i"d cried. The time when her best friend had moved from town, she had cried and we had drowned her sorrows in ice cream, two whole tubs of it. When i took her puddle hopping in the rains for the first time, we had laughed in  shared delight, when she had helped an old blind beggar, across the street, i beamed with pride. When i lay sick and shivering with malaria,  she had, against her grandmother's advice, sat beside my bed the entire night. When the first pizza that i made, got burnt, she solemnly ate the crust, declaring it to be the best ever, how she always praised my efforts at cooking, no matter what it tasted like.

How could i ever let her go.

The next two days were quiet. I retreated into my own world. Grieving at my loneliness, even before she had left. Worrying about how young and impressionable she still was. From her room came the furious clacking of the keyboard. Finally she emerged. "It's done, dad. I've confirmed my applications. For the Institute of Jounalism. Banglore. Seeing the shocked look on my face, she held up a hand. "I'm not ready to go. Australia's been in the news for all the wrong reasons, and so i've decided, im staying here. " Nothing i could say convinced her otherwise.  I held her close. She had grown stronger and more perceptive too, when i was not looking.  

The Hundreth Try

A hundred times she fell. A hundred times she picked herself up.
I sat there watching the kid. One year old  ? Give or take a month. Nappy clad, frail looking, boisterous black curls, bouncing on her head. Each time she fell, she bumped her bottom hard on the naked ground. On the table lay a jar of multi coloured sweets, which she was trying to reach for, unsuccessfully so far. "Get some sense kid, give up!" I said, more to myself then her. A small determined wisp of humanity, what gave her so much determination, i wondered. There she was again ! Heaving herself up, she stood, precariously balanced, gripping the table with small fingers, and then standing on tip toes she stretched the other hand towards the jar. This time, the table, under repeated assaults, lurched and she fell yet again. The small plastic jar, rolled over, falling conveniently in her lap. With a gurgle of pleasure, she clutched it to her. Crawling a safe distance away, she held the jar up. Turning it round and round, she watched the sweets roll around with the motion. She tried eating up the whole thing, jar and all, but it wouln't go inside her mouth. Thwacking it in frustration, she at last flung it aside and started crawling away. Unable to desist, i got up from my seat, opened the jar and offered the valiant thing a small duck shaped sweet. Giving me a big smile, she reached for it, and popped it into her mouth. "Thank you," I whispered to the fast retreating little bottom, "For teaching me a valuable lesson." I had just come to deliver a dress to her mother, but thanks to the baby, i was going back  much wiser, more determined then i had come.

The next day i made my way back to the pool. Three months. Three attempts, failed ones.Three consecutive years of my life. That was how long i had spent trying to learn how to swim. It was the month of May. Peak summer. In India, that's a blazing thirty six, thirty eight degrees and the pool was already warm by the time i got into it at ten. By now, every other person, old or young, amateur or seasoned, in the pool, was giving me advice, cheering or jeering me on. Tanned to a chocolate brown, in spite of my mum's liberal lathering of sun screen all over me, i had given it my all, but to no avail. "Give up kid," said a testy old lady, whom i had splashed inadvertantly as she swam her ten lengths. As the others laughed at my mortified face, i determined that that was it. No more

A student of psychology, i had just read about learned failure. A psychological concept, that explains why people who fail, find it difficult to try again.In one experiment a dog was kept in a closed cage. After frantically trying to free itself, it realised that there was no escape and settled down in one corner, tail tucked in, defeated in attitude and attempt. After a while it was taken out and put into a cage which had a lever which when pushed would open the cage. The dog however, went straight into the corner and settled down as before, making no attempt to explore this new cage or to free itself. Maybe i was a victim of my knowledge. Because in spite of giving it my all,every year, year after year, all that had happened was that i remained desperately trying to swim a breadth, without sinking. Even the coach, had moved on, giving up on me as a lost case.

Today was going to be different. Closing my eyes, i saw in my mind's eye, the baby, getting up, the minute she fell.  Repeatedly. It didn't occur to her that she could give up. Holding her image in my mind i plunged into the pool. Blanking out all else, i started out and............ Just kept going. Intent on my exertions, i was still aware of a presence beside me, swimming alongside me. Each time i'd come up for breath, a quiet voice, would say," turn your head. Good! keep going, just a few lengths more, " Exhausted, my arms motoring on, my world, a haze of pain, i finally touched the bar at the opposite end. Panting, my lungs bursting, my mouth drawing in great mouthfuls of air, i turned to look at my mentor. It was the old lady i had splashed ! Then she looked at me smiled, and started clapping. Soon, the whole pool was resounding, as all the people i had splashed/ kicked accidently, stood where they were applauding me. Beaming, my face a beetroot red, i'm sure under the tan, i bowed theatrically, before sinking underwater to do a cartwheel.

My real mentor ? That baby. 

An Unjust God.

The evening was cool. A relief, because the day had been sultry and humid. The setting sun, highlighted the buildings, that shone darkly against the orange, set- ablaze skies. A concrete jungle, with skyscrapers standing like warriors in a battle field, sizzling after a hot day. People seemed to have spilled out from them, relieved to escape into the cool breeze emanating from the sea. The promenade  was crowded. The joggers and walkers in their tracks and tees mingling with the just- loitering jeans clad youngsters, the couples sitting facing the sea, their backs turned to a relentless world pulsing by.

The lady walking her two magnificent labradors drew many an admiring gaze. The obviously well cared for and well fed dogs, impatiently pulling on the leash, had her half walking and half jogging, trying to keep up with them. More so, it seemed as if they were anxious to get away from the small almost emaciated stray that persistantly followed them, though keeping an almost respectful distance from them. Once or twice, it did come up close, when one of the dogs allowed it to, both sniffing at each other, until the labrador tiring of this intruder, issued a short sharp, warning bark and turned to rejoin its mate. It's mistress paused, then turned towards the stray.  As it hesitated, she went up to it, then going down on her haunches, petted it, patting it's head and offering a packet of biscuits. Her dogs, circled her protectively, softly growling at the intruder. As it eagerly devoured the proferred treat, the lady moved on with her dogs.

The young girl sitting on the side, had watched the scene pensively. Brushing aside the hair, falling on her pretty face, she sighed. " Children of a lesser God" she thought. She watched the stray, that having finished the biscuits, looked wistfully at the now distant dogs its tail still wagging, its body drooping.

As night fell, she herded her small cousins into the car, preparing to take them back home. On a visit for the summer holidays, the little ones ranging from three to eight had literally taken over the home. They were boisterous, but delightful to have around. As the car stopped at a traffic signal, the littlest one sat back, leaning forward to take off her skates. As she was doing so, her elder brother pointed a small finger outside, "Look !" he exclaimed. On the outside, peering in interestedly, was a little duo, a beggar boy clad only in tattered shorts, held up with a string, and a girl wearing an outsized frock. They were looking in, one in awe of the skates and the other in awe of the icecream, the kids inside were clutching.

In a split second decision, the lights were about to turn green, the young girl lowered the glass and handed out her as yet unopened ice cream to the kids outside. As the car started, the eight year old  leaned out and handed his half eaten one also to the boy. The car whizzed ahead with the eight year old now nestled in her lap. As she hugged him close, for his unselfish act, she thought to herself, "What a world. What an unjust God."

A comical interlude

"But Maaaaa!" The agonised wail followed me as i dashed deftly into the kitchen to avoid the confrontation that was about to follow. Nah. No chance. My teen could put a politician to shame, when she wanted to be loud and vociferous. " Birthday parties are for babies only. And it's a Sunday, for gosh sakes ! I'm supposed to be going out with my friends. What on earth am i going to DO there, tell me ! " The protests continued to drift my way. Seen a river in full flow in the monsoons ? Then you get the jist. Teethered as she was to the comp, her i pod was being fed its weekly quota of songs, she couldn't follow me to the kitchen. The tirade hence followed me there.

After hearing her out for the next ten minutes, i held up a hand. "Enough. The milk will curdle, with all these bitter complaints. You are coming. I'm not going to cook for you alone. Besides, Cousin Ummi, is a foodie. The food is going to be to kill for." The answer when it came was cautious, thoughtful almost, "Oh okay. But only for you." Then seeing the smug look on my face added a lofty, " Rich food. Ugh. it makes me fat."

As we got out of the car, first the heat hit us, then the din. It was either the AC confines or the loud music and din within. My teen, immune to noise chose the former. As we entered my cousin greeted us warmly, then caught hold of  Maria, my daughter, who was desperately trying to hide behind me. "Go and have fun," she commanded. "The party's started already!" Whipping out her phone, Maria pretended to be in deep discussions with a friend, until it actually rang. Turning a shade of pink, that matched the birthday girls dress, she reluctantly took the proferred baby from my cousin's arms and marched stagewards, darting murderous 'Now look what you've got me into' looks at me.

After all attempts at conversation were drowned  by the music, I sat quietly, a delighted husband beside me, "That's far louder, " he chortled, quietly to himself.  There was a roll of drums, heralding the arrival of the DJ, after which all was mayhem, as everything in skirts, or jeans, rather, rushed to be near him, he was that 'hot'! My harrassed turned delighted daughter, found herself chosen as his assistant. As the games heated up, one required collecting the maximum number of cell phones. All hell broke loose, as everyone's cells got mixed up. I found myself on hands and knees, clutching onto what i thought was mine, until i found my daughter doubling up, killing herself laughing, as she had helpfully retrieved mine already.

It was then that the baby deemed she had had enough. Setting up a wail, which almost drowned the music, she was hurriedly removed from the spot and calmed with her feed, after which the cake cutting was announced. As the proud father blew out the candles, he found that job was being partially done by the baby, whose pamper had gone askew. All hell, as i said before, broke loose, all over again. Maria, who had just recovered from the first bout, went into paroxyms of laughter once again, this time with half the hall for company. As she was glared at, the disgruntled baby decided she didn't want any part of it, and was hurriedly thrust into her new found friend, my kid's, arms. The DJ decided a spot of music could best quell the mayhem. He was right because even my teen, hurriedly moved off, baby and all to the back of the hall. As my eyebrows', disappeared into my head, she looked at me and said, defensively, "I can't help it, okay ! The baby's taken to me."

The last i saw off her before i went for my food, was the baby  vibrating  gently in her arms to the tune of the latest song, "Anarkali disco chali," apparently a well beloved song. "Her favorite song, she loves to dance to it," beamed my happy cousin, as she started a karaoke version of it, bang splat, in my teen's ears. This time I was the one who was rolling in the aisles with laughter, at the pained look on my kid's face.

Cinderella

He was all of twelve. God knows which line of the aristocrat family he came from, he thought bitterly to himself.  His dad, mom, even his sister were tall, fair with beautiful  light brown hair. The kind of looks almost all his ancestors had, the ones that lined the winding staircase of his huge bungalow, in Delhi. Whenever his sister entered a room, all the heads, mostly male,but a great many female too, turned in her direction. So mostly no one noticed his entry. His favorite place on such occasions was the loo, where he would seek refuge, in order to be spared the many introductions and bemused looks cast his way. What was worse, being the only son he was mostly called Junior, which inevitably drew comparisons with his regal father from people, and in which he was found sadly lacking.

Short, with swarthy skin, his too aquiline nose dominating his face, he bore no resemblance to his immediate family. Almost as if he was an outsider. "Oh, are you sure he didn't get exchanged in the hospital," sniggered one of his aunts, when she came to see him on his birth. Which story she unfeelingly, repeated regularly every year at his birthday dinner. "Only you were born at home dear," she would add callously. His world, then consisted of books, (Cinderella was his favorite) and music, in which he found refuge from the cruel world.

The first play he ever saw was an adaptation of 'Romeo and Juliet' that his father had taken him to see in London. He didn't know whether he loved Juliet more or Romeo. The thrill that ran thru his body, when he saw the two enacting the "Wherefore art thou Romeo?" scene was unreal. The beautiful Juliet, wistfully looking out at the dashing Romeo stayed embedded in his heart long after he returned home. Theater became his passion, as year after year, he would audition for any and every role in the school plays. Mostly he died a thousand deaths, first having to push himself in the limelight, then as the villain of almost every play enacted. In notoriety, lies fame, he consoled himself. But with every play, he grew in stature, as most times he stole the thunder from under the hero's nose. Which brings us to William. The hero. The stud. The lead actor of most plays. His fans were legion. All the girls in school, sighed over him, and vied with each other to be his partner in the plays. Aware of his looks, he made the most of them, preening before them, behaving like the star he knew he was going to become later in life. That was until the school drama teacher happened to enter the loo and found Junior  rehearsing 'Romeo's' lines. He watched, and found himself unwilling to interrupt, bladder permitting. When he had to interrupt, a red faced Junior fled from the loo, as if his backside was on fire.

The first time he played 'Romeo', a sceptical school, an insulted, an angry at being rejected, William and an apprehensive family prepared to watch his debut on stage as the hero. The first time ever.  

As the story unfolded, a strange thing happened. It was as if a spell had been woven around the audience. His charisma, his transformation, and passion had them  glued to their seats.Together with Romeo, they laughed, they cried. They loved, they lost.They exulted and agonised. In the end, they rose as one to cheer wildly, the valient figure who stood bowing on stage. It was the first time ever that even Juliet had been upstaged by her Romeo. But also busy cheering for him she neither minded nor cared. As for Romeo.   Cinderella  had finally arrived at the ball. Unreal. In the midst of a dream he hadn't ever dared to hope.

A star had been born.   

The Magic Wand

My first crush had been Fatty. How i admired the suave, quick thinking, self confident 'find outer'. In fact he had given me the courage to tackle dicey situations, so what if I was a child. Mr. Goon, the bumbling policeman was no match for him, never would be. My library teacher embodied Goon. She loved books as much as i did, but for some reason, she hated to lend the books to the children. She was so nasty, such a sour faced character that the children were petrified to even be in her class, leave alone ask for books. But even thru her, and hence via my love for books, i learnt a very valuable lesson.

It happened like this: One day browsing in the library, i discovered 'Anne Of Green Gables' and  was instantly hooked. Alas! My teacher thought otherwise. There i stood, a wee little thing, all of ten, my chin hardly reaching her desk, and i had the temerity to  choose something that was sooo beyond my years ?! She ordered me to pick a 'Noddy' or some other Enid Blyton. Though i loved Blyton, dearly, i stared back, my glasses glinting defiantly at her. Riled, she changed her mind, and told me, face thrust into mine, eyes glaring back, that i could keep the book. But. When i returned it, i had to tell her the story, as well as the meaning of any words, she chose to ask me.

Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, i nonetheless enjoyed the book, albeit going over each page for meanings i didn't know. My livid mom, threatened to go to the principal to complain about her, but petrified of the consequences, i restrained her. I entered the library, heart thumping so loudly i was sure she could hear it. There she sat, the embodiment of Scrooge ( the Christmas Carol one, certainly not my beloved 'Unca Scrooge Mcduck' ) Fingers crossed, i tried to hide behind the bookshelves, but alas, her eyes narrowed, lips pursed, she reached out a hand and drew me out. Then began the inquisition. As it progressed, i metamorphosed from a quivering bundle of nerves to a confident almost cocky figure, answering all her queries with a firm, if high pitched, voice. Feeling almost like Matilda vanquishing principal Trunchbull ( 'Matilda,' Roald Dahl) i stood my ground. Finally she backed off, teeth gnashing, bald pate glistening, directing her wrath at the poor soul whose turn was next. That day, i learnt to stand up for my rights, that might is not always right, and for these reasons,  the 'Anne' series occupies pride of place in my collection now.

She was awesome, Agatha Christie. Oh, how i adored 'Miss Marple' and loved Poirot wholeheartedly. Her books gave me a love for mystery. It opened doors that i hadn't even known existed. I  was on the outside, peering in, while i explored the human psych, vis a vis Christie. The whole household was in  an upheaval the  day my mum lost her precious diamond ear rings. My dear absent minded mum periodically had these spells wherein she misplaced stuff, which we then hunted for with great gusto, for it meant an icecream or two for all of us. But this time it was serious. As time passed, and they were not located, mum grew increasingly frantic. Then i got down to sleuthing. As Poirot would, i asked a few questions. When had she last worn them ? Two weeks ago was the testy reply. Where had she gone ? Had she returned very late? Which clothes had she been wearing ? The replies had been getting more and more terse, but at this last question her eyes lit up. "Oh, Of course !" she exclaimed slapping a hand to her forehead. Diving into her closet, all we could hear was incoherent mumbling from within, until she finally emerged triumphantly holdin aloft the said ear rings. Since it had been very late, she had slipped the ear rings into her dress pocket, intending to put them away the next morning.

Ah the 'Mills and Boon' phase of life. Was a boon to my hormone riddled teenage. Fortunately, there were no tall and dark and handsome types anywhere around, except in my dreams and so i progressed. To the world of Harry Potter. I had grown up with spells and elves and magic, but the magic these books brought into my life lasted seven years as i grew up dreaming big dreams, encouraged by all these fabulous people, both fictional and non, who enriched my life beyond measure. Enchanted with 'Scarlet', in love with 'Rhett Butler, i read Gone with the Wind as if my life depended on finishing it. Ah 'Roots'. Oh 'To kill A Mocking Bird'. No hero could however match the stature, in fact, i'm quite sure even my future husband will have a tough time measuring up to 'Mr. Darcy' of Pride and Prejudice. I so embibed Elizabeth Bennet, that it took my mum considerable patience to make sense of the old world English i started spouting, after reading it.

The world is my oyster now, as i dive into historical fiction. Hitler and the havoc he wrought on the Jews, their valient battles of survival as described in 'Exodus', The struggle for independance by the catholics in Ireland. The heroics and the violence that was the upbringing of Babur and the Mughul rulers of India.

Oh yes! Books have been the time machine which took me back and forth thru the ages. Oh, a last piece of advice, dear reader : Don't forget to smell the old tomes you own. That fragrance is magical, and not to be missed.  Books are the magic wand  i discovered, that helped me create my own magical world.

"So what if you are an only child," my mom often told me. "Books will be your companions. Your whole life."  I discovered that she was absolutely right.

Of Dads, Moms and Kids !

When is a woman most vulnerable ? When she is pregnant. I found that out the hard way. I had been happily sailing thru married life, on course, when the boat of life hit uncharted waters. One moment i was happily munching on deep fried prawns, the next i was holding my breath, clutching my hand to my mouth and racing off to the nearest washroom, like a cheesy heroine of a  B-grade movie. Something in the prawns, i announced to the smirking aunt in law, who sat next to me at the table. "Noooooo, beti !" was her knowing retort, " You !" she said accusingly almost, "Are in the family way. " As i frantically tried to shush her, my husband went from blue to purple to pink, as he realised the implication of what she was saying. We both sat stunned. " Don't believe her", i tried hissing to him, "It's just the prawns." But even as i was saying it, the waiter placed garlic chicken on his plate.  That did it ! I took off again, washroom wards as fast as the legs could go.

After that 'hit in the gut' feeling passed, i went from shock to disbelief to a strange contentment as i headed from denial to grudging acceptance. The hubby and i, we found ourselves sitting on the promenade of Marine Lines, watching sunsets and dreaming, talking animatedly, or sharing a nariyal paani, or just sitting, my head nestled against his shoulder, his arm around me, something we had'nt done since our engagement, a good six years ago. What really made me rub my hands in glee, was the role reversal at home. The transformation of 'Peter Proud,' i called it, as my husband stood at my beck and call, handing out basins, for the times i threw up, to glasses of water to my spectacles, even the TV remote. " Way to go,"  My friends, grrreen with envy, told me every so often.

Confined to the bed in the first few weeks, i fretted and fumed. Unused to this inertia, hyperactive me, chaffed at the bit. "All i have to do is go from bathroom, to i pad, to TV, the whole day,"  I grumbled to my patient husband. Wordlessly he beckoned me to the window. I peered to where his finger was pointing. All i could see was a crow, sitting in its nest. " I've been watching that bird. In four hours, it has shifted it's position, about twice." I should have retorted, "I'm not a crow !" Instead, I found myself crowing, "That's what we mom's are all about ! She's my hero ! "

As the stomach went from taut to bulgy, i went from confident to cantankerous. "See Karishma kapoor, who would believe she's got two kids," my hubby tried placating me. Turning my gaze from the mirror i glared darkly at him " So you don't find me desirable, anymore, huh ? Why can't you say so directly." As the poor guy retreated hurriedly behind his paper, i waddled off kitchenwards, a bitterly spoken, "quack quack' left in my wake.

But most days, i was in a world of my own. Carrying a real live human being inside you, knowing i'ts 'your baby'  in the truest sense of the word, is the biggest high in the world. I found myself observing children more closely. Cherubic ones in the park, where i strolled these days, were many, but even the kids playing on the streets caught my eye. One baby i almost picked up, was playing on a pile of stones lying on the street corner ! Aghast i looked at it, the great black eyes looking innocently into mine, it's little fingers and  bare feet, grimy and red. Only the sight of the mother, uncaring, sitting nearby, got me enraged. Do such babies survive, even, in these days of myriad infections? Or maybe they are the sturdy ones, who have an inborn immunity towards disease.

The next day, i was near an overbridge, when i saw three little boys, babies merely, ranging from one to three, holding hands and walking along. Following them, was a dog, a biggish stray, wagging its tail and trying to mingle with them. A little afraid, they tried shooing it away, "Ja, Ja ! " Shouted the eldest, was he even three?, pulling  the other two along. In an attempt to get rid of the dog, they hurriedly climbed the steps of the overbridge, the littlest one, resorting to crawling up it with both hands, and feet. As the dog easily climbed with them, the eldest one, seeing the fear on the other's face, turned, stood arms' akimbo and shouted " Teli ma ka ........ ! Hut ! " Did i hear right ? Good Lord ! i was half laughing, as i realised that he had just spoken the f word in lisping Hindi ! " He hardly knew how to talk, but he knew how to cuss.

So i entered a magical world. One dominated by kids and all things kiddie. My partner in crime, my husband was a 'changed' man,  from hard nosed business man, and dapper husband, he went to impulsive shopper, one who wanted to gift me the world, just because i was carrying his baby, and mushy father to be.

Having a baby, i knew was the best thing that had ever happened to us.

Hen pecked ? Who Me ???

There they all were. All ready to board the aircraft. All five of them. Dad, mom, grandma and two kids. Mum was dressed in western style clothing, pants and loose top, a trifle uncomfortable, she was so used to the Indian boon of a dress, the salwaar kameez. Pants ? Tight ones, specially, were so well... tight no? specially in the lower regions. With grandma casting diapproving looks at this transformation of her 'bahu ', she had to appear unconcerned, nonchalant even. Patting her newly coloured hair, with a sigh, she settled down into her seat.

A short distance away, sat her beaming husband. Everything was so under control. The family was excited. They were flying to Europe for the summer vacations, for the first time. After 'dropping' grandma at his brothers' home in London, they would proceed for their vacation.

The announcement to board had them on their feet in an instant. Running to join the queue, the man somersaulted over his mother's legs, then furiously glared at his wife for being slow. Hadn't he told her, they needed to board first, to  get hold space for their bulging hand baggage. Once on board, the luggage, kids and granny (still rubbing her sore legs) ensconced in their proper place, he was beaming once again. During the flight, when food was served, out came a plastic bag. Food that was not consumed disappeared surruptiously into its depths.

The  old lady across the aisle tried sleeping to drown the kids voices, as they ran to and fro. "Hey, young fellar, will you keep still," she tried reasoning with him. "Sorry ma'am, he is too restless, his first trip abroad, you see." the father tried explaining, apologetically.  The mum merely gathered him in her lap, and softly, slowly lulled him to sleep. Peace prevailed.

Ah. The hen pecked husband abroad. With family. On a vacation. What's the betting, first into the flight, first off it, first into the bus to the terminal, first off it, never mind granny's feet, kids or bulging bags. The one peering lifting the flaps of the luggage window over the conveyor, trying to see if his bags are next ? Yup ! Him.

You will recognise him dear reader, when you see the guy who runs around arranging his  family around the 'sights ' shouting, "photo khichon, photo khichon !" You will hear him as he anxiously queries, "When, toilet stop ? " of the bus driver, adding hurriedly "For my child. " You will observe that he closes his teenage child's eyes, when he sees a couple kissing on the streets of gay 'Paris.' He will carry the camera and the money belt, while his wife will lug along the kids and the other gear. He is chivalry personified as he lunges for the only available seat at the airport, then surrenders it to his wife, while he goes exploring the 'scenery.' He will chuckle to himself, as he hauls up an uncooperative foreigner, using the choicest expletives. In Hindi.

The guy who sucks in his stomach, and feigns an accent, when addressed by the pretty air hostess ? You guessed it. When she smiles indulgently at him and states, "Married, travelling with family" he will look around and reply, "Who ? Me?" in an injured tone of voice.

The only guy, who will help an old  British lady to locate and board her flight, on the interminable Heathrow airport, never mind that he risks being the last one to board his own ? Yes. Indian.
     

  

Life! The Great Leveller

This time he was scared. He lay on his bed, in his room. The one place that was so him. That belonged to him, from the worn much beloved sofa, to the ledge by the window, his eyes swept across the room, as if he were seeing it for the first time. The bookcase housed his precious collection of books, authors that he had grown up with, that had entranced him. From the classics, to the historical fiction, that he had so loved and treasured. On the walls hung the masterpiece, a copy of 'Creation.' He never tired of studying it, each time discovering some nuance to it that captivated him. That is why he had to own it, even if it was only a copy. To one side, the side with the windows, lay his guitar. The endless hours of passionate music, that transported him to the skies and beyond. Those nights, when the raindrops pattering on his roof, the dark monsoon clouds, towering over the city, while he painted them, were emblazoned in his memories.

How had he lived to be so old, he wondered. Tucked in his bed,  his life played out before him like a motion picture. He concentrated hard to remember his mothers' face, a good seventy years ago, when he was twenty, a callow youth. Strangely, he remembered best her voice, as she sang while doing her household chores. The smell of her, when as a child, she tucked him in bed. These were far more poignant, than events, he associated with her. After her death, his father had retreated into a world of his own, while he roamed the world, leading a bohemian lifestyle, the remnants of which stayed with him, in that he loved his leisure as much as he loved his work. Ah, Paris. The city that he never tired of going to. The city that he had romanced, the fine dining, the stylish girls, who had brightened his life. The Indian girl, he had mistook to be a Parisian, had brought Paris into his home, when she married him and came back to India with him.

Arm in arm, they had wandered the streets of Paris. With her vast knowledge of art, the city, she introduced him to a world he had known existed but never found. The small inns, the museums, the galleries, the meeting of east and west had been explosive. Until the accident.

He had driven the car that night, the drive to the hill station, was always fraught with danger, but he had driven carefully. Their little son, strapped in the seat behind was asleep. His curls, falling over his forehead, long lashes falling on silken cheeks, this baby was their greatest gift.

The avalanche was heralded by the first great stone, that raced down the hill and fell on the car cruising below, smashing into its roof. The three occupants were buried before, they even realised what had happened.

When the rescuers came, they found that miraculously, two of them were still alive. The mother had in death, crouched over the child, saving his life, even while her own was snuffed out.

Life. Had to carry on. A single father, he returned home, haunted by memories, but too busy being a parent to brood, except when he was alone, his son fast asleep in his cot. Tough times, but with the help of his father, who had offered to stay with him, temporarily at first, but permanently afterwards, he had coped. "This too shall pass, son," his father often said to him. "This too shall pass." It did. But he never returned to Paris.

In bringing up his son, he discovered his own father. The two men bonded, at first out of neccessity, then increasingly out of love and respect. His father mothered his son, while he worked to build up their lives. When he had died, he and his son now a youth himself, had grieved  together, helped each other to overcome their loss.

The heart attack came, when he least expected it too. But his fathers' words ringing in his ears, he had overcome it. After all, his son was getting married the next day. Now ten years later,  it had struck again. Did he have the will to get over it this time ? He didn't know.

"Dad ! Dad ! Wake up. You are going to be fine. I want you to be fine. We've some unfinished business to take care of, so i'm not letting you lie in this bed for long."

Four months later, he sat having coffee and croissants at the table by the street. The Eiffel Tower gleamed in the background. "Indeed, life was a great leveller. It gave back, even as it took away," he thought, a small smile playing on his lips, as he saw her coming towards him, her auburn curls bouncing behind her, her small arms stretched out to him. Yes, she was the splitting image of his wife, this little grand daughter of his. Her mum, speaking rapidly in French, was towed along with her as the child continued to run towards him.

Death could wait.