of this and that

A little whimsy

2012-02-01T10:26:00.003+05:30

We drove past a shop sign the other day that said Sur-o-bani Musical Shop.
I was utterly charmed by the very thought of a musical shop.
I could imagine it humming a tune to itself under its downed shutters.
Or dancing a little jig, or just tapping its feet to a really good tune that it happens to hear.....

Celebrating Spring!

2012-01-28T16:15:00.002+05:30

The SRE is travelling once again, so I managed to attend only a small part of the Dover Lane Music Conference this year. The younger son and I did attend most of the final night, and what a night it was- we heard absolutely wonderful music from master musicians- Ustad Amjad Ali Khan on the sarod, the vocalist Manjari Asanare Kelkar (whom I'd last heard about eight years ago), the wonderful N.Rajam, who makes her violin sing, and, finally, Pandit Jasraj, who sang just before dawn broke on Republic Day.

Today is Basant Panchmi, celebrating Basant, our very own springtime, a joyous season indeed!
Bengal celebrates Saraswati Puja today, a day devoted to the worship of the Goddess of Learning.

Our folk songs and classical bandishes have many compositions featuring the beauty and joy of spring. Here is Pandit Jasraj, singing a delightful bandish in Raga Basant, in which all the other ragas are part of the baraat, the bridegroom's procession, while Raga Basant is the dulha, the bridegroom!

A Refreshing Change: The Reluctant Detective

2012-01-21T20:38:00.005+05:30

One doesn't think of murder as a laughing matter. More than one murder, even less so. But when two murders happen in close proximity, near the housing complex in which the protagonist Kay Mehra resides, they become the raison d'etre for what is often a hilarious book.
Anyone who is familiar with Kiran Manral's blogs will recognise her self-deprecating humour, her patent exaggerations, her child's (former) speech patterns. Many of her concerns as a parent come through in the book: Kay Mehra's dread of Parent Teacher meetings in the school, for one, the child's desire for junk food another!
Detaching from the blogspeak, so to say, the book still holds true. The chapter headings themselves make you smile: In Which There is Never Anything to Wear, Close Encounters With the Police Kind, In Which Much Gaping at a Superstar Happens, In Which There Is A Typical Suburban Weekend, and so on. What is interesting is the effortless ease with which suburban life is painted, with detailed sketches of minor and major characters. Kay's compassion, empathy and her apparent psychic sensitivity make it imperative for her to get to the bottom of the murder of her fellow morning jogger, Sheetal Jaiswal, with whom she has just a nodding acquaintance. So nodding, that even the regulation condolence visit is a complete farce!
At the decent hour of 11a.m.,around five of us put on our white condolence and flag-hoisting and political meet purpose regulation salwar kameezes and appropriately mournful exzpressions and landed up at the E wing lobby, congregating like a flock of chattering seagulls. We took the lift up together in hushed silence though. The bereaved husband, however, does not entertain the women or their condolences, and they leave his doorway feeling most unsatisfied.
Kay reminisces: In the two years Sheetal Jaiswal had passed each other in the mornings, all we had done was crack an occasional wary smile at each other, not a single word had been exchanged by us,.........yes, it was true. She hadn't had any friends. What a miserable life she must have led:no friends, an antisocial husband, and weight that refused to shift itself.

An encounter with the complex's resident TV star Meena has Kay in form: I was torn between wanting to shoot her in the head for being so unbelievably slim, and asking for her dietician's number.
A few paragraph's later, she says, of Meena: I had always envied her life, national fame, a career to die for, no one to answer to, and the freedom to call for takeaway every single day of her life. And I was sure Meena envied my life in a way I couldn't understand, and definitely didn't want to understand on days when the child had me tearing my hair out in bunches........
And after the Parent Teacher meeting, Kay says: I love my food, I love buffets. When the two come together, especially after times when I am emotionally drained and hurting, like this, when I have had to sit through half an hour of being told why the child is well on his way to delinquency.......... I need food that was deep fried, and desserts which are steeped in sugar.

Kay seeks the help of an old school friend of hers, Runa, who happens to be a private detective. Since no one is paying for the investigation, Runa insists that Kay does the legwork, which is something that our dainty, lady-like protagonist finds rather unsavoury: This was a completely new twist of events. I was not cut out for blood and gore; I was a delicate, mincing creature, who, had I been Victorian, would have to move around with smelling salts in my skirts.
Runa, however, insists: Ask around. Ask the neighbours about the lady who was killed. Ask the security guards of her building.Ask her maids. If you spot the cops who came to meet you, ask them about progress in the case Go to where she was found, look around, see if there is something you can find.

Kay reluctantly does follow Runa's advice, leading to the capture and arrest of Sheetal Jaiswal's murderer.

A brilliant first novel, light hearted, yet accurate and oh-so-honest in it's portrayal of modern-day urban life. The various characters are sketched in with deft strokes, and of course you have to love Kay, with her struggles with her weight, her clothes, her son, and at times, her strong, mostly silent spouse.
Looking forward to many more books from you, Ms.Manral!

Akatha Kahani: The Event

2012-01-19T00:26:00.016+05:30

Photographs courtesy Mallika aka Eve's Lungs

Since Saturday evening I've been trying to find the words to express what was, essentially, inexpressible. Not only is the Akatha Kahani an untellable story, the experience of it is also very hard to describe in mere words.
I can give you the bare bones of it- three women: an author, a singer and a dancer share their experiences and understanding of Kabir and how his couplets, songs and teachings have impacted their lives. All three of them relate their individual experiences. They sing together, in amazing harmony. The poetry and the wisdom of Kabir, unaccompanied by any musical instrument, set to the compositions of Kumar Gandharva, creates magic.

The first few couplets speak of the need for a Guru, a teacher, one who can show the path.

Avdhoota yugan yugan hum jogi speaks of a timeless, joyful spirituality.

A gentle request to the restless mind is soothing:
Dheerey dheerey re mana, dheerey sab kuch hoey.
Mali seenchey sau ghada, ritu aavey phal hoey.
(Slowly, slowly, oh mind, all will happen, but slowly
The gardener may pour a hundred pots, but the tree will bear fruit only in season)

Jhini jhini beeni chadariya is a beautiful song in which Kabir speaks of the Creator as a master weaver, who weaves an exceedingly fine cloth. One can imagine Kabir at his loom while he sings this.
The body, of course, is mortal, and one day the soul shall leave it: Ud jaayega hansa akela.
Archana's expressive hands and eyes brought tears to many an eye while this was sung.

The three singers' voices combine in a haunting harmony to evoke the powerful attractions of Maya, the great swindler: Maya Mahathagni hum jaani.

A final dance, to the song Nirbhay Nirgun Gun Re Gaaunga, is uplifting and beautiful.

The programme is over, and all of us are deeply moved by it.

I have rarely been at such a loss for words- this brief account is merely factual- it is far removed from the actual experience of Akatha Kahani.

I would like to express my thanks to the Almighty who orchestrated all the events leading up to this Untellable Experience.

My heartfelt thanks to Jaya, Bindhu and Archana for far far more than this beautiful programme.

Edited to add: Sue reminded me of this beautiful song which Bindhu sang on special request:
Naiharva hum ka na bhave. Bindhu's voice is rich and deep and truly beautiful.

Akatha Kahani

2012-01-13T00:02:00.003+05:30

Last July, I had blogged about Jaya Madhavan's book, Kabir The Weaver Poet.
Thanks to my reader Peccavi who is a friend of Jaya's, I heard about Akatha Kahani.
I am delighted to inform you that Jaya and her sisters will be coming to Kolkata for a performance at my home, this Saturday afternoon!
We need your good wishes. More later.

Good morning, Sunshine!

2012-01-12T12:02:00.004+05:30

Today is bright and sunny and crisply cold, after days of miserably bleak skies, clouds and drizzle, and cold clamminess which sometimes left you sweating, sometimes cold, but always, always, missing the sun.
I learned yesterday from a dear friend that a young, school-going relative of hers has been suffering for a few years from severe headaches and migraines, and despite numerous tests, nothing could be diagnosed. Finally, he was found to have a Vitamin D deficiency. Since he is very sensitive to the heat, he rarely sees any sunshine, and spends most of his time indoors, often in air-conditoned rooms. A colleague of the SRE has also been diagnosed with the same problem.
People who work nights, or who spend most of their waking life indoors, please make sure you get at least a small dose of sunshine everyday.

People who live in the extreme North, where winter nights are extremely long, may suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) owing to lack of sunshine. The acronym seems so apt.

Even though I try to not let my well-being get affected by something as unpredictable as weather, and may complain about the extreme heat in summer, today I am just so glad to see you, Sun! Don't disappear again, please.

The SRE and Boseji

2012-01-07T18:21:00.006+05:30

The SRE and Boseji have, between them, made a monkey out of me.
We had attended a programme of Sufi music in early December, and had picked up a couple of CDs from there. One was a beautiful collection of Kabir bhajans sung by Shaunak Abhisheki, and the other a fusion of Indian bamboo flute and Spanish guitar. The SRE tried playing the fusion CD in Boseji, but Boseji didn't want to play it. I was busy doing something (presumably useful) elsewhere in the house, so I'm not quite aware of the complete sequence of the interaction between the man and the machine. What I was told by the SRE was that the CD was stuck inside Boseji and was not emerging from his maw. I pressed the eject button on the remote a few times, switched the plug point switch on and off a few times, and gave up. Since my dear sister-in-law and her husband were visiting us the very next day, Boseji was wrapped up in an old tablecloth and put away in a suitcase till further notice.
It was only today that I remembered Boseji and the stuck CD. I extricated him from the wrappings, connected Boseji to a plug point, fiddled with the remote. 'No Disc' was what the machine said, but I didn't trust Boseji's pronouncements, so I carted him off to the service centre, complaining of a stuck disc. The service guy called me into the examination room, played a random CD on the system and told me that neither was there a CD inside of Boseji, nor was there any other problem. That was great news, but where on earth was the CD??? Had it dematerialised somewhere? The younger son just got home yesterday from his travels, and was telling me of his future plans for Boseji, for when the parents were sick and tired of him- he wouldn't use the CD player at all, but would connect Boseji's terrific speakers to other music sources. Maybe Boseji was terrified at the thought, and had obliterated the CD into non-existence.
The SRE was called, was pleased to know that Boseji was well, but started worrying about the disappearance of the missing CD. By then I was quite sure that the SRE had absent-mindedly put the CD in some other cover and completely forgotten about doing so. Imagine my chagrin when I finally get home and find the missing CD inside its very own cover!!!!!!!
I am now playing it on the little Philips player, so at the very least I can hear it before I reinstate the temperamental Mr.Bose, who may or may not chose to play this particular record!

The Key Chronicles

2012-01-01T19:58:00.002+05:30

The SRE and the house key have been a source of worry when I travel without him. On my latest trip to Hyderabad, though, he did me proud! He even unlocked the house with his own key when we got home at 2.30 a.m., as my flight was delayed by nearly four hours, and my baggage was, strangely, found on two separate baggage belts, which added to the delay.
Kolkata's winter was on our side- it is far easier to slip a key into a coat pocket after unlocking the door than putting it back in the laptop bag. I had, of course, stuck a note inside our front door telling him to check his pocket for the key before shutting the door, as well as one on the wooden cowherd on the shoe cupboard that faces the the front door, telling him to replace the key in his pocket immediately. So far so good! Of course he had to tease me on Friday morning, saying that he was going to play golf and wasn't going to wear his coat, but fortunately he didn't get locked out.
He has also derived an ingenious solution to solve the key problem during the summer months as well, in case I decide to travel on my own. The house key will be attached to a long string which will be sewn into his trouser pocket. He will only wear one pair of trousers for the duration of my trip, so that necessitates a short one, or else I will have to get several keys made and sew them into various trouser pockets!!!!!!

Wishing you all much love and laughter in 2012!

Paon mein Chakkar!

2011-12-27T13:40:00.005+05:30

Which loosely means having lots of travel written in your footly fate.
I do have a small black dot on the sole of my left foot, and seem to have spent a lot of my life galumphing across the world. Tomorrow I head out for a brand new city, on my last expedition of the year. This year I visited several cities I'd never visited before, including Darjeeling, Vishakhapatnam, Raipur (on my second ever visit to Bhilai, after a gap of decades), Dhaka, Singapore, Pune, and, finally, Hyderabad.

Let us see where the coming year takes us!

All good wishes for 2012, my dear readers. May Life be good to you and your dear ones.

A cold morning

2011-12-16T08:30:00.002+05:30

My walk takes me
past sleeping dogs
curled into commas
against the cold
while young pups
are up and about
exploring the world.

Do take a look!

2011-12-15T13:08:00.002+05:30

My friend Yasmeen is painting some wonderful pictures on her new blog http://artyasmeen.blogspot.com/

Do check it out.
Truly awesome art.

The AMRI Fire

2011-12-10T14:15:00.003+05:30

A friend of mine lost her father in this utterly shocking, senseless tragedy.
He called her at 4.30 a.m yesterday morning, telling her that he was suffocating.
She rushed to the hospital, as did her sister.
When we met her today, her greatest sorrow was that she could not save her father.
He had fractured his femur, and was in the ICU awaiting surgery.
He was over eighty, and a heart patient, who had lived a full life.
An active man, unable to move because of his fractured thigh bone.
But to go this way?
To be brought down from the third floor by a crane, in a sling, probably already dead of suffocation?

All because we do not strictly enforce safety regulations.
Corruption and callousness rule.
So many lives have been lost.

My mother stayed in this hospital for ten days.
My father was treated here in the emergency room.
I am thankful, always, that they both died at home.

People are born and people die, every single day.
Accidents happen.
So do natural calamities.
But something like this is horrendous, simply because it didn't need to happen. It should not have happened. Such a tragedy should never happen again, but it will, as long as ignorance, callousness and corruption remain.

I am numb with fury and grief.
How many more deaths will it take for our systems to work as they should???????
How many??????

Happy and Busy!

2011-12-05T07:04:00.002+05:30

We have family visiting us!
We spent last evening talking and laughing, before, during and after our meal, and the laughter
was precious, the kind you can only share with those who are yours.........

An Unforgettable Voice

2011-11-29T07:10:00.001+05:30

Although Ustad Sultan Khan was a renowned sarangi player, I was enchanted by his warm, gravelly voice, which I first heard in the film 'Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam', as he and Shankar Mahadevan sang "Albela Saajan Aayo Re," a song based on Raga Ahir Bhairav.
He later accompanied the singer K.S. Chitra in the extremely successful album "Piya Basanti", and Sunidhi Chauhan, Shreya Ghoshal and K.S. Chitra in the 2006 release, Ustad and the Divas.

He passed away on the 27th November after a prolonged illness.
RIP, Ustad Saheb.
Your voice is truly unforgettable.

Morning meeeting

2011-11-29T07:03:00.002+05:30

Three women,
domestic workers
in crumpled, colourful cotton sarees
wrapped around their shoulders
against the early morning chill
in animated conversation
each holding on a leash
a pug, a Lhasa Apso and a Labrador.
The pug and the Apso look bored
and somewhat suspicious
while the Labrador wags his tail
and smiles a benevolent smile.

After the break!

2011-11-23T10:33:00.007+05:30

My travelling boots seem well and truly stuck onto my feet!
Sue and I spent a delightful weekend with Aneela and her family in Dhaka, and were heartbroken when we left the adorable Arhaan in tears at the airport. He insisted that I was Sue, much of the time!
Shortly after our return, I tagged along with the SRE to Singapore where he had a conference to attend, while I had a wonderful time with Moppet's Mom (whom I'm trying to convince to blog again) and the delightful Moppet and Munch, whom I last saw in 2008, when young Munch was a babe in arms. This lazy blogger will now post a few photographs of Singapore, just to tell you that I'm back, and will try and write again when I have the house a lot more organized than it is now.
The Cavenagh Bridge, one of the oldest bridges in Singapore. Now used as a convenient foot bridge between the Museum of Asian Civilisations and The Fullerton Hotel.
The Christmas lights are already up on Orchard Road!

Another bridge, as viewed from the one in the first photograph.

This beautiful elephant stood majestically in the lobby of the Asian Civilisations Museum, which was absolutely wonderful to visit. (Thanks for the great suggestions, Moppet's Mom).
It is part of the wonderful Elephant Parade, which is trying to to attract public awareness and support for Asian elephant conservation. We saw many beautiful and colourful elephants all across Orchard Road and other places too.

More when I'm better organised, folks. Now to get back to clearing up stuff!

Wheeling around!

2011-11-05T22:41:00.004+05:30

My friend Salil (of Saliloquy) has been a joy and an inspiration ever since I got to know him some years ago.
I am sharing, with his permission, a blog post of his that I love:
http://salilchaturvedi.blogspot.com/2011/10/silsilah-of-wheelchair-travels.html

Do read the article he has linked to, here, for a little piece of sheer joy:

You will love his wheelchair! I quote:
My wheelchair prefers the outdoors. Over the years, it has travelled down mountains, explored jungles, gone up a river by boat, watched sunsets on beaches, crisscrossed the Western Ghats, ferried across the Brahmaputra. It has also hopped onto airplanes, trains and jeeps, and once rolled itself all the way into the Ganga, my protests notwithstanding.

Passport Photograph

2011-11-02T07:35:00.003+05:30

I rarely approve of any of my passport photographs. I usually look grim, or most unhappy, and I normally cringe when I look at them. On my recent visit to my Chacha's home, however, I found a copy of my very first passport photograph, taken when I was not yet two years old, which I am delighted to share with my readers. I had to be bribed with a five rupee note, which I am holding on to quite firmly, to have this photograph taken. Yes, I know I'm looking grim!

The other face of kind and loving men

2011-10-28T00:05:00.005+05:30

It isn't just husbands who are perpetrators of domestic violence.
As soon as a daughter/sister grows out of her childhood,
she becomes
the repository of the family honour,
An honour so flimsy and so weak
that it requires the protection of whips and steel
and guard dogs, and locked rooms
and watchful eyes that follow her every move.
God forbid that she speak to a male classmate
Even an innocuous chat can be misconstrued
as violating the family's honour.
An inquisition may follow
that leaves her stunned and furious and defiant
and ready to defy such diktats.

The paranoid create what they fear the most
perhaps fearing their own inner demons,
part of their own pasts.
For whatever reason, the girl remains
a prisoner of archaic beliefs,
her mother and sisters too, recruited as jailors
all in the interest of her own future happiness
where marriage to a good boy
(never a man, I wonder why)
chosen by the family is the only acceptable option.

The father whose daughter dares to consider
someone else suitable for matrimony
is devastated.
He cares for his daughter so much,
he cannot let her jeopardise her future
And this doting father, who always but always loved his little girl
thrashes her mercilessly with his belt,
the buckle piercing her skin,
the leather strap bruising her tender flesh.

He is, however, a much kinder man
than the one who gets his daughter's beloved killed
or drives him to suicide
Or threatens him/bribes him
to leave his daughter alone.
Or the brother who kills his own sister
for daring to love.

Guide your children well, dear sirs,
your sons and your daughters........
guide them and teach them and trust them,
and let them go out into the world
Well armed with wisdom and courage
with faith in you, and faith in your love.
Please don't imprison them
in the cage of Family Honour.
It cannot be more precious to you
Than your beloved child.

Happy Diwali

2011-10-25T12:04:00.002+05:30

The SRE is abroad, and I'm holidaying with my dear Chacha, Chachi and their family.
It's a wonderful break!
Wishing you all a wonderful Diwali and a fabulous year ahead.

When is violence truly violent???????

2011-10-19T00:02:00.004+05:30

The very thought of domestic violence is chilling. It is something that should never happen. And yet it does, in many homes, in all social classes, with varying frequency. My questions here are very difficult ones- does a single act of violence signal the end of a marriage? Should it? What does a couple need to do to be able to go beyond it? Can they? Is physical violence more demeaning than verbal violence that goes on and on, destroying the victim's self -esteem? There are so many many questions, and no simple answers. So much depends on the earlier nature of the relationship, the perpetrator's genuine remorse and horror at his act, the victim's own assessment of the situation....

A few examples from real life, names obviously changed. After a huge verbal fight, Ria is screaming and threatening to jump off the terrace. Amit catches hold of her arms, but her struggles are violent and the parapet is low. She is in real danger. Amit slaps her hard, and she collapses, trembling, in a heap on the floor, not quite believing that Amit hit her. She has, herself, hit him several times, but since she is a woman she doesn't think of it as abuse. Amit feels terrible about hitting her, but feels that he had no choice. What do you think? This relationship didn't last, despite several attempts at rapprochement.

Manasi and Vinay have been married for a while. Manasi was head over heels in love with Vinay, he perhaps less so. After the initial euphoria faded, he lost interest in Manasi. Since they were staying with his parents, the occasional kitchen dispute would occur, and would add up in Vinay's mind as yet another black mark against Manasi. Gradually his disenchantment with her grew, as did the distance. Manasi tried to do anything she could to gain his attention, including going out with male colleagues in the evening and coming home after having a drink or two.
When 'provoked' by this attention-seeking behaviour, his only response was to hit her. When this became a regular pattern, a heart-broken Manasi went back to her parents, and the couple divorced.

Dipti is deeply ashamed that she actually hit her beloved husband when he kept nagging her to drive when she didn't want to. He thought he was boosting her confidence as a driver, but she was exhausted after a long day and just lost control. She shocked herself with her action, and is still contrite about it, though she has been forgiven long ago.

Ramesh has slapped his wife a couple of times, is grieved about it, but feels helpless at times. She will go on and on and on about whatever is upsetting her (usually his mother) and there is no way she is willing to stop. He is ashamed of his actions, and yet does not know how to deal with the situation. Rani does not feel that she has provoked him- she feels that all she wants is for him to listen to her vent without getting enraged. Neither of them feels that their marriage is over, both of them are trying to learn to communicate without anger, although they know have a long way to go.

Mita remembers her father banging his own head against the wall- that would be the only way her mother would stop ranting when she lost her temper. Although he never raised a hand on his wife, the children would be terrified. Was this a violence on his family? He injured himself, but the entire family was pained.

When a spouse deliberately breaks things to express his/her anger- does this count as domestic violence??? The classic stories cover breaking china and glassware and remote controls, TV screens etc., undoubtedly better than hitting a spouse, but nonetheless damaging. The funniest story I heard about this was when a friend's mother was throwing plates and glassware on the floor and breaking them, and her spouse was handing her things to break. Despite her rage, she would calmly put aside the more valuable items, like the Pyrex dishes, and then take the next proffered plate and smash it.

Many of these couples are perpetuating behaviour they have seen in their own childhood. Some of them recall violent physical fights with their siblings in their childhood, which continue with their spouses in adulthood. Adulthood requires us to control our hands and fists, and yet many of us have smacked our children at some point of time or the other. Smacking , slapping, hitting or punching anyone is not desirable behaviour. Nothing justifies it. But surely a single/occasional episode does not/should not signal the death warrant of a relationship in which both partners are willing to learn and willing to change.

Compositions

2011-10-17T19:51:00.003+05:30

A bowl of lantana flowers at our hotel in Vizag

Coffee table and kilim, at home

Recent Reads-The World Beyond

2011-10-09T12:51:00.007+05:30

The World Beyond by Sangeeta Bhargava is a beautifully told love story set in Lucknow in the 1850's.
It opens during the Ramzan fast, where the protagonist Salim, (an adopted son of the ruler) and his cousin Ahmed are looking at musical instruments in a shop in Chowk, one of the oldest markets of Lucknow. There they encounter a pair of eyes and hands (the figure being clad in a burqa) , which leave a lasting impression on the young Salim. They do encounter the lady again, and a common love for music, both Indian and Western, brings them together. This involves a large degree of secrecy and intrigue, as there is little or no interaction between Oudh's nobility and the British outside the official world of treaties and negotiations. The home lives of both Salim and Rachael are depicted with great charm, and the minor characters all ring true.
Do check out Sangeeta Bhargava's blog for excerpts.
Wajid Ali Shah has to leave his beautiful city and moves with most of his entourage to Kolkata. (The kingdom of Oudh was formerly protected by the British under treaty, and was finally annexed by them, and the Nawab was exiled to Kolkata). The iniquities of British rule are clearly spelled out. The destruction of a once beautiful city, the cruelty and violence perpetrated by both sides, the brutal attacks on the Residency in which many women and children were also killed, all are depicted vividly. Despite the widespread death and destruction, despair never rules, and in the saddest and hardest of times, the human spirit and love triumph. The book reads easily, with characters that are all too human, and descriptions that bring alive the splendour of the Lucknow of the nawabs. Daima, Chutki, Nayansukh, the ever hungry Ahmed, Begum Hazrat Mahal, the protagonists Salim, aka Chhote Nawab, and Rachael Bristow, the English colonel's daughter, are beautifully delineated.
History comes alive in these pages.
I think I particularly loved this book for its portrait of a city I have lived in and loved, much of which has been destroyed, yet whose past imbues its present with a flavour and a fragrance that is unique to Lucknow.

The blurb reads:
1855, Lucknow. As tensions simmer in the heat of colonial India, a prince of Avadh and an English woman defy their societies' prejudices to fall in love. But in a world where private happiness is at the mercy of wider events, even as Salim and Rachael are drawn closer together, their privileged lives are about to be torn apart. Trouble begins when the British annex Avadh and banish the king. Determined to recover what is rightfully his, Salim seizes the chance to fight back when a small mutiny flares into bloody rebellion against British rule. As unrest spreads across the subcontinent, the ancient city of Lucknow proves one of the most dangerous places to be. Torn between their loyalties to each other, their families and the opposing sides that threaten to raze the city to the ground, can Salim and Rachael's love prove strong enough to rise above the devastation surrounding them, and survive together to a world beyond?

The World Beyond is published in India by Rupa & Co., and is available on Flipkart.
Also published in England by Allison and Busby

Vishakhapatnam Views

2011-10-08T09:14:00.005+05:30

A view from Thodlakonda.

From one of the many parks dotting the beach road

A stream outside the Borra caves

Each coral was at least one foot across

My gallant archer, outside the tribal village museum at Aruku Valley

The SRE and I spent his Puja break in Vishakhapatnam, aka Vizag, a city I had long wanted to visit because of its fabled vistas of both the sea and the mountains. It more than lived up to our expectations. We relaxed, strolled along the beach, lazed, and then, of course, had to have a day of driving in the hills!!!! These were not as steep as the mountains in Darjeeling or Bhutan, but were hill roads nevertheless- not scary, but rather tiring, especially when you encounter lengthy traffic jams both while going to and returning to the beautiful Aruku Valley.
The people we met were warm, courteous, and hospitable. We had only one encounter with Andhra style cooking, a dal fry at a restaurant in Aruku Valley, which was probably the chilli-hottest dal we've ever eaten.

We had a lovely time, and I want to visit many more places in my beautiful country.

A Prayer for Non-violence

2011-10-01T15:19:00.007+05:30

An initiative to raise awareness about violence against women has been started by a team of bloggers, who had also brought us CSA Awareness Month this April.
Domestic violence, (and other spheres of violence against women) is like a mythical beast that many of us have faced, all of us are aware of, and one which many of us would like to sweep under the carpet and pretend that it doesn't exist. Sad to say it exists, gets huge media coverage, and seems to grow from strength to strength, and yet, even if we know that a woman has been beaten by her partner, we hesitate to even ask her what really happened. She hesitates to confide in any one, neither wishing to be perceived as a victim, nor wanting her spouse to lose face. With repeated beatings, she may even begin to believe that it is her fault. It can even be fatal- many women lose their lives to domestic violence.
Violence per se is a function of the ego, of frustration and rage that knows no boundaries, of physical power over the victim. Violence is perhaps a latent part of each human being, hard-wired into us as a measure of self defence, originating at a point in human history when fight or flight was the key to survival. When, however, a survival mechanism becomes a tool for oppression and subjugation, something is seriously wrong. When violence begins to define a relationship, that relationship is doomed.

I love what OJ has to say:
My brand of feminism, in addition to my personal experiences, does not permit me to only call this Violence Against Women. Hence the sub-title Women Against Violence. And, I fervently hope, men and transgenders too.

Yes, we truly need all humans to be against violence! It solves nothing, and adds vastly to the burden of human misery in the world.

Non-violence was central to Gandhiji's beliefs.
Let it be central to ours as well. Practicing non-violence as a way of life may just transform this often cruel world we live in.
If only...........

The Puppies

2011-09-30T15:39:00.004+05:30

According to my daughter's latest bulletin, the two brown puppies are females, while the dark one is a male.

Even more brand new!!!

2011-09-30T09:04:00.007+05:30

The mother with the newborns
The proud father (on the left) and uncle.

Our family's youngest dog, the beautiful black cocker spaniel Mahi, delivered her first litter yesterday. The mother and babies are doing well, but since she is not letting anyone near them, we don't yet know the sex of the puppies. One of them didn't want to suckle, so has been fed by a dropper- yes, he's a boy, who has been named Piglet (for now, at least).
The vet had said that the pups were likely to be black, since it was likely to be the more dominant fur colour (the father is the pale gold American cocker spaniel, the bigger dog in the picture), so we are very pleased to see the little golden brown pups.

More puppy updates as and when I get them!

Brand New!

2011-09-28T19:03:00.005+05:30

My old computer has finally retired, after several attempts to revive it over the last year or so.
During the last couple of months I would actually give the CPU a tight slap to start it, poor thing. It would also spontaneously shut down, which was, as you can imagine, extremely annoying. The monitor's colours had been looking quite ill for about a year, and there were many programmes that were next to impossible to use on it. After much thought, I decided to get a new desktop, rather than a laptop.
My younger son and one of his friends have done a marvellous job in planning, buying, assembling and installing this new beauty. They have also loaded it with some wonderful music. Thank you, boys.

Our first computer was bought in late 1995, I think- an HP Beanstalk. I still remember the mouse being completely out of my control the first couple of times I tried to use it. It was replaced about four years later with a model that connected to the telephone line, and e-mail became a part of our lives. Domestic internet usage was limited in those days, and the kind of instant connectivity we have today was unimaginable. The third one was bought from Chennai, when we were living in Gummidipoondi- I used that for about seven years! That was the machine on which I started blogging (the one which has just been made redundant, poor thing), and which gave me access to some wonderful writing and some great friends. I wonder what changes will occur in this new machine's tenure!

Guilt Trip

2011-09-24T20:13:00.004+05:30

The Bride wanted to know if this malaise (of mommy guilt) affected moms in a different generation from hers. I'd say that it was endemic!
The first time you accidentally poke your poor baby with a nappy pin, you die of guilt. (The fact that the said baby was wriggling away to high heaven is completely besides the point). The baby who was safely immobile, suddenly rolls over and lands on the floor, screaming. The infant who tumbles out of your arms and falls, and throws up........ remembering all this will induce guilty nightmares, I think.
Then the years of school, and homework, and unwilling to do the said homework children and your reaction to them. Smacking your kid because he/she didn't lay out his school uniform the night before and is now hysterical because the wretched school tie can't be found in the morning rush.........
The scared faces of your kids when you and the spouse are engaged in a gargantuan fight. You wonder how deeply you are scarring them, but the battle continues....
It goes on. The reasons for the guilt may change, but the guilt remains. With grown up kids, again, you can feel guilty about practically anything.
The SRE and I had gone to Bhutan last July. Our tickets were booked, and we were leaving early on a Monday morning. The youngest kid was home from college that weekend, and I also had a house guest whom I had to entertain. The son was not too well on Saturday evening, and on Sunday morning was running a high temperature. Our doctor was consulted and medicines were started. Our guest was sent to the airport with the driver. We seriously contemplated cancelling our trip, but were duly scolded by the unwell son. We thought we could drop him to the hostel on our way to the airport, but we had a very early flight, so that didn't make sense either. My trusted maid works only part time, but she promised to look after him and feed him, and said she was just a phone call away, if he needed anything after she had left.
The driver was also given a shopping list of soups and fruit to buy for the invalid. I knew that the boy would be miserable all alone and ill, but he insisted that he would be alright and that we had better go as scheduled.
We called him as soon as we landed at Paro, we called him from Thimphu. I'm sure we were calling him with irritating frequency. We were pretty miserable holiday makers ourselves until we spoke to him on Tuesday afternoon- he was much better and was back in the hostel. (Afterwards he did acknowledge that being all alone and ill was no fun at all).
Talk about a guilt trip.
I don't think you can ever be immune to mommy guilt, even when your kids are adults, leading there own lives, running their own establishments. If you are aware of anything wrong in your child's life, it's probably your fault anyway!

Of Flipkart, mysterious disappearances, and two scatterbrains.

2011-09-19T10:10:00.003+05:30

The narrow table in the dining room as it was in 2008.
The same table, as it is today.
Our bedroom window sill, and Boseji's corner.

In recent months, Flipkart has become my new best friend. It is just so easy to order a book online and have it delivered to your doorstep in a couple of days! Flipkart has made me forget both my beloved lending library and my main reason for borrowing books from the said library- not enough space in any of our bookshelves. This reasoning has never appealed to the SRE, though- he is an inveterate book buyer. (I'm not quite sure whether he ever finishes a book, or whether he absorbs it by some kind of osmosis, but that is almost completely besides the point).
A narrow table, which used to have decorative thingummies and a fruit basket on it has become a bookshelf with the help of bookends, but is also overflowing. My bedroom window sill is laden, as are other odd surfaces, as you can see in the photographs above.

When the older son was visiting us this summer, Amitav Ghosh's River of Smoke was gifted to him by the fond parents. He read it at top speed, and I borrowed it from him, knowing full well that since he would not be taking it back with him to the USA, the other kids and I could read it at leisure. I read it, and lent it, along with The Immortals of Meluha, to Sue. It came back a while ago, and was kept on the narrow table along with The Secret of the Nagas, a more recent acquisition, courtesy Flipkart. I'm sure you know that River of Smoke is a large book, not easy to lose, but that is exactly what I did.

I was talking to the oldest child a few days ago, and since the youngest kid will be travelling to Delhi by train this October, we decided that I would send several books across with him, including River of Smoke. I pulled out several books that I had enjoyed from my window 'shelf', and dumped them on the narrow table. I was, however, puzzled to find River of Smoke and its companions missing from there. Being me, I vaguely wondered where the books were, and then got busy doing something else.

At the back of my mind, though, there was a niggle. Where were those three books? I looked into all our various bookshelves, even under the cloth covering the narrow table, and in some random unlikely places just for fun, but there was no sign of them.
The younger son had been away from Kolkata, so he had hardly been home, but I still asked him, this weekend, if he had, perchance, borrowed them. He said that he hadn't, so I let my brain worry a bit more.
This morning I asked the SRE if he'd seen them. He said he remembered seeing them on that very table, but had not touched them. He wondered if the maid had cleared them away. That, I said, was not possible, because she never touches our books. He looked at his half-unpacked-since-Thursday-evening-suitcase lying on the bedroom floor, and asked me to look in there, and of course there were no books to be seen. (Quite surprisingly, he hadn't bought any on his last trip). We remained most puzzled, and realised that there had been no recent visitor to our house who could have possibly taken the books- the last non-resident, non-family, non-regular worker was the electrician, repairing and replacing a ceiling fan which was moaning and groaning away to high heaven, making so much noise that it was impossible to live with.
An unlikely book pincher, we thought. There had been no guests, either.

The SRE thought that either we or the books were now in a parallel universe. I thought that maybe they had chosen to dematerialise just because I was planning to send one of them off to Delhi. Such things have been known to happen, especially in my life. We were pottering around in the dining room, and wondering what could have possibly happened, when I suddenly remembered . I flicked aside the curtain above the divan, and there was the missing threesome, all present and correct. If I could have kicked myself, I would have. Once again, it was the Cleaning Monster's fault, coupled with her general absentmindedness. Since I was sick and tired of seeing piles of books all over the place, I thought of commandeering the dining room window as an interim book shelf, and at that time the only extra books on the narrow table were those three, and they managed to be completely hidden by the curtain. (In the first picture you will see a single curtain, in the second you can see one of a pair, drawn back to let the light in).

I do try very hard to be organised, but ours is a big household, and if something is not kept in its designated place, it can be very difficult to locate. And cleaning sprees, or clearing up stuff in a hurry, can lead to some major displacements. I still shudder to think of the time I'd managed to misplace all of our life insurance policies. Phew. Yes, original LIC policies, which I had cleared away into the unlikeliest of places. However, (thank God for this), I'm not the only one. One evening I gave a slim plastic folder of credit card statements to the SRE, who had needed them for income tax reasons. Within minutes, though, the folder went missing. He was sitting on the bed, and the folder was supposed to have been kept in one of the drawers of his bedside table, but it was nowhere to be found. We went through all the drawers, and he hadn't moved from the bed, but there was no sign of the wretched thing. We gave up in despair, wondering anew at our foolishness and the malevolence of inanimate objects, and went to bed. The next morning I was, once more, inspired. I pulled out all the drawers and found the folder lying bent, at the back of the chest which the drawers slide into. Bah. The drawer was so full that the poor folder got squeezed out of it. No malevolence, no dematerialising, and no parallel universe.

I am absolutely convinced that we are made for each other. And that we also need a competent secretary, archivist and librarian in our home.

Sewing machine "hospital", Nahan

2011-09-15T18:46:00.002+05:30

The Confusion of Being Us

2011-09-09T19:48:00.003+05:30

The golf course at the Tollygunge Club

The SRE and I have dovetailed certain idiosyncracies into a strange pattern that usually suits both of us, but sometimes has innocent bystanders wondering at our sanity. This morning was a case in point. The specific idiosyncracies relevant to this morning's fun are as follows:
1. The SRE hates carrying a house key if he can possibly help it.
2. I'm paranoid about taking my personal house key out of whichever handbag I'm using at the time, so if, at any time, I step out of the house without my handbag, as, for example, when I go for a morning walk, I take the 'spare' key.
3. I do not take my mobile phone out for a morning walk.

I left for my walk at five thirty a.m., not quite sure whether or not the SRE would go to play golf or not, although he had planned to. When I got home, the car was still there, so I asked the car cleaner to come up and take the car key. The car key wasn't in its usual place, so I went into our room to check. There was no sign of either the car key or the SRE. (Yes, I even knocked on the bathroom door). His wallet, however, was lying on the dressing table, which was odd, because he needs to carry it to pay his caddy. (Besides the minor fact of his driving licence also being ensconced within it). I was rather puzzled, then looked to see if his golf clubs were in the house or not. They weren't, so I tried calling him on his mobile phone. I kept getting his caller tune, but no SRE.
Picking up the spare key, his wallet and my phone, I went downstairs to look for him. The car was still there, and the car cleaner said that he was walking around the building. The watchman told me he was in the lane outside our building, and there he was, trying to call me on my mobile phone.

The poor man was most relieved to see me. He had come down at six a.m. and realised that he had left his wallet in the house. He started heading out on the route I regularly follow, but then realised that Nature seemed to be calling, so he thought it prudent to walk around our building.
Unfortunately, if you walk in a more or less circular path around a building, there is a great chance of missing someone walking in through the single pedestrian gate, especially if that person doesn't know that he or she is being looked for. It would have been simple enough for him to tell the watchman on duty to tell me that he was walking around the compound and waiting for me. I think he had too much on his mind to think of such simple solutions, poor man. After several rounds he probably thought that he was more likely to find me in the lane. Also, he wasn't answering my calls, as his phone had been 'silent' since the important meeting he'd been attending all of yesterday. An unanswered ringing mobile phone is something I find truly nerve-wracking.

I think we were both quite overjoyed to finally find each other. He did go and play golf, with his wallet! I am seriously thinking that both of us need to change a habit or two, to prevent such chaos from happening again. Knowing us, though, we may well find some other way of totally confusing ourselves.

To my mother, on Teachers' Day

2011-09-05T17:27:00.011+05:30

My oldest child calls up on Sunday morning with a huge smile in her voice.
She is returning from a two and a half hour breakfast meeting with Ma'am, who was in Delhi for a short while.
I'm smiling too, inside my heart.

I am proud to be a part of this wonderful lineage of teachers, even if it's been years since I taught a class.

I recently came upon my mother's old school certificates. She had completed what was known as the Vernacular Lower Middle in 1940, and the Upper Middle in 1943, growing up in a small town in U.P. By the time she passed her upper middle school exams, at the age of fifteen, she was already married, taking care of an ailing mother-in-law, who did not survive for long.
Her firstborn, my brother, was born when she was a little over sixteen years old.
My sister was born when she was twenty five, I when she was twenty seven.
My parents spent their early married life in fairly turbulent times. They were staunch nationalists, and would go and hear Gandhiji speak when they could. My father managed to study as well as work in a government office, and had graduated in 1953, thirteen years after he had passed his high school exams.
In 1957 my father was selected for a posting in England. He sought his father's permission to leave the country, and was told that he was free to go anywhere in the world as long as he could take his family with him.

My earliest memories are of our house in Teignmouth Road, of my mother helping us make clothes for our toys, particularly for our golliwog. And satin drawstring purses from remnants. I remember being utterly fascinated to see how turning a raw-edged piece of sewing inside out gave it a smooth finish.
In 1959, my mother attended English language classes. We remember her textbook, Essential English. I also remember not feeling happy the evenings she wasn't at home. Her fondness for learning didn't abate- she did baking courses (despite never eating cakes or eggs) and lampshade making courses. In the early sixties she did her Montessori training, and my sister and I were absolutely fascinated by her neat 'homework', files and boxes of flashcards. We used to love going to her school when we could. She would ensure that we learned Hindi from her, against our inevitable return to India, despite our protests. There is a whole lifetime of memories associated with her, far too many to write down here..........
There is so much I have learned from her, despite the inevitable differences which often cropped up between us as I grew up. But, as a young child, I could not have wished for a better teacher.

Lost and found!

2011-09-02T20:01:00.009+05:30

The SRE and I have a strange relationship with Salt Lake. It is a part of Kolkata that we have to drive past every time we go to the airport, we know people who live there, and the youngest child even goes to college there. There are parts of it we are somewhat familiar with, and are able to reach with relative ease, but these are few and far between. It is, in theory at least, very well planned, with few traffic lights within the area, instead of which there are innumerable straight roads (rare in Kolkata colonies) interspersed with equally innumerable roundabouts.
Here is a map which shows you the layout of this township.

The SRE and I first got lost here a few years ago when we went to drop young Suki home after watching Sue act in Proof. Suki guided us to her home, and also gave us clear instructions on how to get out of Salt Lake, but being rather dumb and befuddled by the darkness and roads which all look just the same, we managed to get ourselves well and truly lost. Since it was late it was also hard to find someone to give us directions, but we eventually got back onto the main road, and back home.
Early in 2010, a good friend of the SRE was in town. We sent our driver to pick up the couple and bring them home, and then dismissed him. The four of us went to the club where we were all meeting yet another couple for dinner. We decided to drop our friend and his wife back to Salt Lake, and actually managed to follow directions and not get lost. What a triumph!!!

A short while ago we learned that a dear cousin of the SRE and her husband were moving to Kolkata, and were staying, for the time being, in a guest house in Salt Lake. I went over one morning and spent the day with her, my trusty driver locating the place with relative ease. We called them over for dinner with us on Saturday evening. I did ask them to stay over, knowing fully well that locating their guest house at night would not be easy. However, they decided to go home and the SRE insisted on our dropping them there. We did get very near to their place before we got majorly lost in the grid of straight roads and roundabouts that is Salt Lake, since the cousins are also very very new to the place. A few confusing/confused directions were taken from a stray cabbie or two, and we deposited our most relieved guests at their gate. After which we proceeded home, getting misguided by the lack of street signs and stray guides who gave us the most flimsy of directions. We ended up several kilometers off track ( my only comfort being the fact that our petrol tank was full), when we reached a broken down road which had a metro line being built over it. This brought us to the Salt Lake City Centre, from where I more or less knew my way! One wrong turn and a u-turn to correct it, and we were back on familiar, known roads. Such awesome relief! I think I've told you before that I am the family navigator, but it is a role that I find exceedingly stressful now. I still like to follow the routes I'm driven on, and to note to myself the landmarks on the way, and the SRE doesn't utter a cross word either, but I feel huge silent waves of unease emanating from the poor man when he doesn't know which way to go.

Being lost and found that night got me thinking very seriously about life and beyond, and how important it is, if one is to tread unfamiliar paths leading to something worthwhile, to have a road map, and a guide to help you understand the way, and how to overcome the perils on the path. Ustad Amir Khan's wonderful dhrut bandish in Raga Marwa comes to mind-
Guru bina gyaan na paavey. Here is Rashid Khan singing this beautiful, meaningful bandish.

Going through the various journeys of a single lifetime, one encounters many guides and teachers. Even within a single relationship, one is both the teacher and the taught. The other day the SRE had to pay an emergency visit to his dentist, on a day when the driver was on leave, so I guided him around the long way that I knew well. He needed to make another early morning trip the next day, and proudly called me from the clinic, having got there comfortably all by himself. I felt most proud of my dear pupil! I cannot even begin to list the number of things he has introduced me to and taught me about, areas in which I am now reasonably competent.
Children, friends, enemies, strangers, pets, Nature.........all can teach us valuable lessons.
And if, like me, you are lucky enough to have Ma'am as your teacher, you can never be lost for long! In the most difficult of situations her wisdom and common sense shine like a beacon, guiding you through the trickiest of life's situations.

Truly, as the Adi Shankara said in his Gurustrotam:

Guru Brahma, Guru Vishnu, Guru Devo Maheshwara. Guru Sakshath Parambrahma, Tasmai Shri Gurave Namaha.
(Translation: Guru is the creator Brahma, Guru is the preserver Vishnu, Guru is the destroyer Siva. Guru is directly the supreme spirit — I offer my salutations to this Guru.
Source: Wikipedia)

Happy Fourth Birthday!

2011-08-29T18:46:00.003+05:30

Of This and That is four years old today!
Happy 4th Birthday, Blog.
Here is one of my favourite photographs, the leaves of an Indian almond tree.

I wonder where you are now, Lali

2011-08-28T01:18:00.003+05:30

Three years since you left this mortal coil,
Do you find juicy, challenging cryptic crossword puzzles
in your little corner of heaven?
Can heaven even be heaven for you without fodder for your
phenomenal mind?

It's supposed to be just the soul that rises,
way above mere thought and other functions of life,
but who really knows???

This other world I imagine you inhabiting now
has crossword puzzles and sharp pencils,
and a mother who makes sure
her son's life is on track, in the world she left long years ago.
Her beloved is with her now,
and together forever, they look over a densely wooded lake
hearing the bird calls at dawn and dusk,
and he plays his ragas to her, and she translates Rafi songs....
And always, always the crossword puzzles,
an ironic passion for one
who rarely uttered a cross word.

My imagination fails magnificently,
I can only see you as you were.
I can only pray that your soul is at peace.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Rest in peace.

26th August, 2011

My Contrariness and other travel tales

2011-08-24T19:54:00.009+05:30

I realize that I am far more difficult to please than I ought to be. On our recent break, we spent some time near Nahan, at a resort in Jamta, in Himachal Pradesh. Believe me, I love being in the mountains, or hills, as these were. What I hate is getting to them. Driving on hilly roads is, to me, utter torture. I no longer get car sick, but I hate swerving as each bend approaches, and the narrowness of the hill roads scares me no end. It so happens that in the past year or so, we have been to Bhutan, Darjeeling, and now Nahan. Ideally, I'd like a helicopter or a cable car to take me directly to whichever mountain resort we are visiting! I marvel at the people who live in the hills, also at the people who carve roads out of sheer mountainsides. The SRE has my profound sympathies- he had to deal with my (I insist) uncharacteristic grumpiness!

Actually being in the hills, though, is a different story. It is cool, and tranquil, and beautiful. The air smells fresh and lovely, and the people all seem gentle and courteous.
Lotuses in Renuka Lake
The turtle enjoyed his snacks, as did the big fat fish in the lake!
A glimpse of heaven!
Badolia Falls- a temple in a waterfall, between Jamta and Renuka Lake.
Did I tell you I love pine trees?
The colours of the lantana- Nature is so generous here.

EDUCATION ENABLES

2011-08-19T19:49:00.005+05:30

Having got back a few days ago to a house musty and fungus-ridden due to heavy rainfall while we were away, and a computer that is not behaving very well, I'm being rather lazy about writing a fresh post. However, I am posting something that I'd meant to post as soon as I'd first read it. This is an article by my dear Chacha which I think deserves a wide audience. Please do read and comment.

EDUCATION ENABLES
Getting a suitable domestic help in urban areas in India is becoming increasingly difficult. Since we are having a servant quarter to offer to the likely candidate, we were placed in a slightly better position. So when Verma family, husband, wife, a son, a daughter, and a grown up brother of the husband offered to move in, we had an internal debate. Oh! What a large family. They will gobble up our water and electricity resources, and considering that they may have occasional visitors too, our house may become some sort of a serai. Eternal noise, with the rumbustious younger siblings fighting daggers drawn, as is customary, was another issue for consideration. But the family appeared to be neat and clean, with good reputation, as Mr.Verma was known to us for some time as a good and popular sweetmeat maker of the area. The grown up brother was a contract worker in the steel plant, Mr.Verma engaged mostly in his cooking assignments outside the house, children likely to be away in their respective schools, the bespectacled wife who was our main target for being appointed as the maid-in-waiting appearing to be sufficiently dim-witted; this was the combination which could be acceptable inspite of having large number of parts. There being no other alternative available at that point of time, we said, yes, and the crowd marched in pronto. This was some five years ago.
Mr.Verma was totally illiterate. I offered to teach him the Hindi alphabet, as a starter. But he was adamant in not learning, for he considered that he was a good cook only because he was illiterate, and even a rudimentary knowledge of letters will separate him from his art irrevocably. His wife could read and write a little bit of Hindi, but also appeared to subscribe to the theory of proficiency in cooking and literacy being incompatible to each other. We were informed that the children were earlier forced to join the school by their uncle, who himself did not have a formal education, but was an avid reader of Hindi newspapers. This guy appeared to be the most reasonable of the lot. The son, however had a surfeit of his father’s genes and never put his mind to studies. Only the daughter, who was about thirteen years of age, was good in studies and showed some promise in this direction.
After about one year of their having joined us, Mr.Verma started developing ambitions of making it big, and assembled a mobile fast-food stall. The shop became something of a hit in course of time as the quality of fare served was quite good. He borrowed more and more money to keep the joint running, and expanding it further, without knowing how to regulate the growth of his business, or where to stop for a breather. The end result was that he failed to timely repay the instalments on the loans and got into the debt-trap irretrievably. One fine morning after intense pressure was mounted by the loan sharks for repayment, he just disappeared, never to show his face again in this city or anywhere in its proximity. The loan givers pestered his family members for several months, confiscated the mobile cart and then faded away from the scene, realizing that nothing more could be achieved by knocking at our doors. All this time we shielded the Verma family as they were serving us loyally. The maid was working quite sincerely doing all sorts of odd jobs around the house willingly, although she was visually-challenged, and was drawing a princely sum of two hundred and fifty rupees per month from the state government, as compensation. We had developed sympathy and sense of protection for the lady for the misfortune of her husband having deserted her, and for her infirmity. Other family members also were doing their bit in running our household. A sort of equilibrium had thus been achieved. And then suddenly, another bolt from the blue struck the Verma family. The youngest member, the ten-year old boy, could not withstand the pressure of studies and constant exhortation of elders to do better on this front. Following in the footsteps of his father, and having inherited from him the habit of usurping others’ money, he too disappeared to an undisclosed destination with some four thousand rupees in his pocket.
We were all deeply upset, and his mother was simply devastated. She stopped taking any food, and was crying all the time. Her husband who left her about a year and half ago was a grown up man and could take care of himself, but the son was a mere child, she used to tell everybody. Was he able to feed himself? Did he have a shelter over his head? Was he even alive?, she went on thinking on these lines and the thoughts used to be followed by fresh bout of crying. I contacted the local City Superintendent of Police along with an influential friend of mine to lodge a formal complaint about the missing boy, and sought his help in locating the boy. There was no result. I came to know later-on that such complaints are not followed up vigorously as the Police have to handle more serious assignments in their normal work schedule. We did our best to console the maid, but she became something like a zombie, and lost the will to live.
A local shop keeper who is also a family friend of the Vermas brought a good news one day that he had seen the missing boy a day earlier in a nearby town, where he had gone in connection with his business. The boy is working as a waiter in a road-side eatery, he informed, and when he addressed him by his first name, the boy disowned his own name and just bolted from the place. The owner of the eatery was quite helpful and sympathetic, and surprised the boy by arranging a meeting with his mother and uncle next week in his own shop. The boy although cornered, refused to return home, but agreed to remain in touch with his mother by telephone, and occasionally visit her at his convenience. This too was a big relief to the beleaguered mother, as she found her son hale, hearty and happily living his own life; and she came back home quite satisfied.
The girl-child in our psyche is not only a non-asset, but a positive liability. She has to be kept under close supervision lest she goes astray, and married off at the first opportunity. So, why spend money in educating her? Our maid servant was firmly convinced of this philosophy, and didn’t like her daughter studying any further. We tried our best to convince the lady otherwise, giving her several examples, including one from our own close family when the daughter looked after the ageing parents with great love and care till their last days. We even agreed to bear all the expenses of educating her daughter as long as she cared to continue her studies. The mother reluctantly agreed, but the girl was quite enthusiastic about further studies. She passed her class twelve examination in first division last year and then did a course to acquire proficiency in computer application. Her education continues even now for a bachelor’s degree in commerce, and on computer-application, on part time basis. She came to know from her friends that there are many openings for young educated girls in the hospitality sector, in malls which have mushroomed in the state capital during the last few years and in a multinational fast food joint, the branch of which had opened in our neighbourhood recently. She applied for the job, and due to her good educational record and knowledge of computers, she was selected in all the establishments. Both her mother and uncle were quite upset by this development, as once the girl accepts the job, they thought they will lose all control over her, and maybe she could fall in bad company due to lack of their supervision. The girl had by now achieved the age of eighteen, and was mature enough to take her own decisions. She dug her heels in for taking up a job, assisted indirectly by us; and as a compromise formula she was allowed to join the fast-food outlet, which is situated close to our house. The gross salary offered to her in this place was the least of the three options, but still more than the combined take-home pay of the other three earning members of her family.
In a short time, she developed good credibility in her place of work, due to hard work, her basic intelligence, pleasant personality and courteous behavior. Her fast-food shop which was a favourite destination for my grandchildren anyway, became more so because of the personalized care now being given while servicing their order. Orders for supply of food items are being accepted in this joint telephonically, but sometimes we place the order personally also, as the shop is situated close by.
A few days ago, I walked into the shop, and asked the manager to call Miss Verma. The manager who had seen me on earlier occasions also chatting with this girl did not take kindly to this request. He said, “Sir, I will call her, but tell me why you want to meet Miss Verma? And how do you know her?” I liked his protective instinct, as there are a few young girls working in the outlet; and it was good of the guy to feel responsible for them. Meanwhile the girl also came out from inside the shop, and overheard the query of the manager. I could read the concern on her face, as my reply could lead to lowering of her social status amongst her colleagues. I said to the manager, “Son, this young lady shares her residential address with us. Her mother is our governess, and she manages our household. I have come here to place order for some food items.” The manager seemed to be satisfied; and so was the girl, as evidenced by the broad smile on her face. I took the seat at a corner table, waiting for my order to be processed. And having nothing better to do, I started having some random thoughts, with the Vermas centre-stage.
God Almighty has ordained that all features of the universe should have balance, and so should the sex ratio of human race. For every male child born somewhere, a female child also takes birth such that parity is maintained on overall basis. Any act to artificially disturb this balance by termination of pregnancy with female child can upset the societal fabric of the race, and is fraught with grave danger. Still, when a girl child is born in many regions of our country, it is an occasion of great disappointment, particularly when it is the first or subsequent issue. The fact is, and it has been proved time and again, that daughters are more affectionate, devoted, helpful and loving towards other family members, and specially towards the parents. The preferential behavior towards the male child has therefore to end. On the literacy front, the percentage of literates to overall population of India has increased from 12% in the year 1947 to 74% in current year, which is an encouraging figure. But the literacy figures of males and females in the year 2011 are 82% and 65% respectively, which again shows a bias against females. The percentage of formally educated persons, of both sexes, has also to increase exponentially. History has shown that no nation can advance towards leadership position till its citizens, both men and women, are well educated. Unfortunately, in many parts of the world, women are oppressed, kept under wraps, insulated from education and treated as second class citizens. Such societies can never raise their standard of living or make a mark in the comity of nations; in science and technology, in sports, in humanities, in literature, in healthcare or in any branch of human endeavour. For example the nationalities of Nobel laureates or Olympic medal winners can be seen for comparison. It will be found that higher is the level of education, more stellar is the performance. This message has to go down to people, loud and clear.
Suddenly I heard my order number called on the intercom system, loud and clear. I picked up my parcel of food, paid my bill, and made my way home.
Author: S.S.Seth
Published in Daily ‘HITAVADA’ on Sunday, July 17, 2011

Taking a break

2011-07-29T22:27:00.003+05:30

My computer has given up the ghost, and I have limited access to the SRE's laptop.
We will also be away for a while. See you all after Independence Day.
Take care, and God bless.

Strange are the ways......

2011-07-21T12:36:00.004+05:30

by which Providence ensures that you get what you need, even though it may not be what you think that you want.

I had been in Delhi a while ago. I had borrowed a book from my daughter to read on the flight, and had kept it in my suitcase, as I was going to buy a gift for my young nephew whom I would be seeing en route to the airport, and did not want to carry a book in my handbag while visiting a book shop. I also bought myself a few more books, and in the general confusion of leaving the House with the Three Dogs, all the books were packed into my suitcase, apart from what I'd bought for my nephew.

I thought I'd buy a book or magazine at the airport- I knew that the terminal had a good book shop, Odyssey, which was fairly well stocked. Unfortunately, it was no longer there- most of the shops in Terminal 1D, (apart from the many restaurants and food shops) had apparently packed up and moved to Terminal 3. Ah well, it wasn't the end of the world, I could survive for a few hours without something to read. But there in the corner of the building was a toy shop, which I decided to examine. A couple of shelves held some children's books, which I browsed through. And there was the treasure that had been waiting for me, something the very existence of which I was unaware of: Jaya Madhavan's "KABIR The Weaver-Poet." ( The following is from the Tulika website)

KABIR THE WEAVER POET by Jaya Madhavan

Rs 150.00 (within India)
US$ 9.50 (outside India)
English ISBN 81-8146-168-1

Mystic weaver, radical reformer, loved and hated equally in his time . . . the simple wisdom of his pithy couplets, the famous dohas, makes him one of the most frequently quoted poets even today. Yet Kabir the person remains an enigma.
This brilliant novel traces one day in Kabir’s life, from Daybreak through Midday to Nightfall. Threading fact, legend and poetry into a superbly structured narrative, it etches Kabir’s compelling persona against the backdrop of fifteenth century Banaras — a period that mirrors quite remarkably our own troubled times. Spare visuals before each section continue Kabir’s own favourite metaphor of weaving, a delicate tapestry of the city unravelling as the day progresses. Kabir the Weaver-Poet is a landmark in contemporary writing for young readers and old — thrilling yet gently emotive, incredibly blending high drama with the mesmerising calm of Kabir’s beliefs.

144 pages, 8.5" x 5.5", black and white, soft cover, for 12 years and above

I am so glad to have found and read this book- it is so simple and so profound, with an absolutely delightful narrative structure, and a compelling insight into Indian society, both that of a few hundred years ago, and of the present day. And of course it deals with Sant Kabir, whose timeless writings are as relevant today as they ever were.

This post was inspired by Peccavi, whose comment on the post 'Remembering Kabir in Istanbul' reminded me of this wonderful book.

Crossword Confusion

2011-07-15T08:32:00.003+05:30

There are days when the mind boggles itself by its stupidity. In recent months, I'd found The Hindu crossword puzzle completely beyond me, and had given up on it. While reading the paper a couple of days ago, one clue seemed solvable, and was, and, to my great delight, I found that I could do about half of the puzzle. Next morning I was on a roll: I checked and completed the clues I couldn't do the previous day, and attacked the fresh crossword. (The SRE was travelling, so I had more morning time than usual). The maximum length of a word can be fifteen letters. One of the fifteen letter clues was 'quisling quality'. I knew immediately that it had to be 'treacherousness'- yes, it is fifteen letters, you can count them out! The trouble was that it wasn't fitting in its place in the grid.
I did many more words, but was left with a handful of unsolved clues, including this. I decided not to break my head over this and wait till the next morning's paper.

Can you guess why I couldn't fit it in? Because I was spelling the word as 'treachourousness'.
I wonder why the old brain was exhibiting such quisling qualities.
I didn't even think of checking the spelling in the dictionary. I am most annoyed at my treacherous brain. It needs a lot more exercise, methinks.

Remembering Kabir in Istanbul

2011-07-05T11:55:00.008+05:30

On our way into the city from our hotel in Taksin, we'd pass Hotel Hansa, with white swans gracing the edifice.
This always brought to my mind this Kabir bhajan:

Ud Jayega Huns Akela, Jug Darshan Ka Mela

( The swan will fly away all alone, the world is just a fairground to observe)

It seemed particularly apt, even in purely worldly terms, for us wanderers far away from home, enjoying the sights and scenes of a country not ours.

Things I've Never been Able to Understand-VI

2011-07-05T11:49:00.002+05:30

How can the SRE leave his battery operated toothbrush 'on' after using it?????
(How he obsesses about one particular model of battery operated toothbrush is another story altogether).
Methinks the bathroom challenges him in several ways.

Pehlee Tareeq!

2011-07-01T18:28:00.002+05:30

When I was a little kid, the first of every month meant listening to this song on Radio Ceylon early in the morning :
Din hai suhana , aaj pehli tareeq hai,
Khush hai zamaana, aaj pehli tareeq hai

( Such a beautiful day, it's the first of the month
Everyone is joyous, it's the first of the month).

The first of every month was meant to be pay day, a day of celebration and joy. In our credit card world, perhaps it doesn't mean so much. I do remember a time when my household was run on a shoe-string budget, and the prospect of the first of the month brought great joy to us all. The kids would get their pocket money, there would be enthusiastic grocery shopping, and careful planning for whatever occasions that particular month would hold.
The first of each month meant many things to many people.

For me, it remains a point of honour to pay whoever works for me, on the first of every month.
The first person to be paid is the car cleaner, who comes to our door to collect the car key.
I can be sleepy and absent minded early in the morning, but if I remember the date on the previous evening, I keep his money under the car key, all ready for the morning, and his delighted smile makes my day.

Around the first of every month is when I need to order our medicines for the month.
Groceries can be bought randomly, almost ad hoc, but I'm uncomfortable till I've sent the list of our prescription medicines to the chemist.

It's a day of new beginnings, one twelfth of a new year, perhaps, but, nonetheless, a day of newness and renewal.

This month I'll
walk more, eat less,
save more, spend less
swim more, read less.........

There will be some changes that you hope to make, and some that just end up as good resolutions.

Half of 2011 got over yesterday, people. A happy second half of 2011 to you all!

Tell me, what does the first of the month mean to you?

Baggage Belt Musings

2011-06-25T09:32:00.002+05:30

You think your suitcase
is easy to spy,
rolling along the carousel
But can you really tell
that it's yours
when it's turned turtle?

Poor disorientated thing
Doesn't call out your name
You can almost see it
Struggle to be
Right side up,
once again,
and recognizable!

And the toughest is the
first in, last out part
you wait and you wait
with so many doubts
wondering if you'll ever get
the bag, and how
will you manage if you don't?
What will you need to buy at once,
what can be borrowed,
what can be done without?
More bags emerge,
Hope renews....
And you wait and you wait
with a dwindling crowd
witness the joy as each person
grabs his or her bag,
reunited!

At last, your bag appears
You yank it off the belt
with a prayer of thanks
check the tag,
(even though you know it's yours)
and gladly leave the world
of baggage belts
Until you check in your
baggage on your next flight.

The rain came pouring down today

2011-06-17T11:04:00.007+05:30

The rain came today in full force,
here, in Kolkata.
(Yesterday was just a gentle prelude
a "quality of mercy" kind of rain.)
The maid didn't come.
Couldn't, actually.
And in this age of cell phones,
she could phone and tell me
long before her
regular ETA.

The older son is here
and he kindly offered
to do the washing up
But I declined.
Kumar Gandharva's
Nirguni bhajans,
delicious droplets blowing in
through the open door
and a cool breeze
all added up to
Zenful dish washing.

Making Complete Asses of Ourselves!

2011-06-14T20:44:00.007+05:30

A good friend of mine wanted to see the new Rituparno Ghosh film, 'Noukadubi', so we decided to go and see it this afternoon. Neither of us has any great knowledge of Bangla, but another non-Bengali friend of ours had seen it and thought it easy enough to follow, although she couldn't grasp the Tagore lyrics that are an important part of the film.
There were, of course, no sub-titles either.
We knew, even before seeing the film, that boats capsize in a storm, and there are identity mix-ups, as in those days (circa 1920) marriages took place sight unseen.
The film was absolutely beautiful. The visuals, the costumes, the period flavour of the interiors, the beautiful cast, poignant music, all added up to something wonderful.
Except that we could not follow the story.
My friend tells me that I snored a couple of times.
I told her to nudge me the next time I did so.
I struggled to keep my eyes open, and my friend yawned frequently.
We emerged from the hall feeling extremely stupid.

I came home and consulted my current fount of all wisdom, the internet. I found a few good links that told me the story, which I promptly sent to my friend. At least we know now what we'd seen, even if rather late in the day!

P.S: I particularly like the Upperstall synopsis and review.

Edited to add: The friend who had seen it and followed the movie had been able to do so because (she told us later) that she had read the story before going to see the film!

I am

2011-06-09T19:24:00.008+05:30

This post is not about Onir's brilliant movie, which hits you hard with the truth of each of the four stories. Do see it if you can.

The Soul of Alec Smart has tagged me for this, and it seems to require a lot of introspection and even more revelations about me. I wonder if I even know myself so well..........

Every phrase needs to be completed with three answers about yourself. Easy to figure as you go.

I am

Mostly easy going, as long as you don't tread on my toes.

Paradoxically fond of having both lots to do and nothing to do.

More anxious than I care to admit.

I want

Peace and quiet. I hate noise in residential areas.

To ultimately live in a house of my own, so that I don't have to keep moving myself and my worldly goods across the country.

To get rid of a lot of those worldly goods!

I have

A family that means the world to me.

Wonderful friends who have enriched my life unimaginably.

A deep sense of gratitude for all that is good in my life.

I wish

That the world was less of a mess in so many terms- wars, environment, corruption, gender inequality, hunger and poverty, education.......

That I had the will power to be a lot lighter, and much less of a glutton.

That I knew a lot more about a whole lot of things. Well, I'm living and learning.

I hate

Violence in any form, especially mob violence.

Oppression and injustice, and the growing divide between the haves and the have-nots.

Fanaticism and fundamentalism.

I fear

Mob violence.

Natural calamities.

Debilitating illnesses for self and loved ones.

I hear

The sound of birds chirping every morning and at dusk.

The pain of others, which I try to alleviate but often cannot.

An undercurrent of intolerance, injustice and unfairness in the conversations of many.

I search

For missing/misplaced documents/keys/my husband's reading glasses/things that are right under my nose.

For inner peace and harmony.

For my role in this particular stage of my life.

I wonder

At the beauty of this world- of mountains and forests, trees and birds, babies and young children, wrinkled old joyful faces.

At the incredible depth and vastness of Hindustani classical music.

At man's inhumanity to man.

I regret

The grief others have caused to their dear ones, including me, by their lack of foresight and/or prudence.

My inability to smoothen the paths of those dear to me.

My lack of motivation to achieve cherished goals.

I love

My family and other animals!

Nature in all its glory.

Music of many kinds, movies, theatre, dance, art, literature- all things that enhance and enrich lives.

I always

Double check my house keys before stepping out of my front door.

Carry a large handbag.

Have extra strong sugar free mints in the bag!

I ache

For a more peaceful world.

For my late brother, who predeceased our parents.

For my children when they face tough times.

I usually

Walk 4-6 days a week.

Drink lots of water.

Keep my house reasonably tidy.

I am not

As fit as I'd like to be.

Very forgiving. I take my time.

Confrontational if I can help it.

I dance

Rarely now- I used to 'waltz' with my son when he was young.

When I want to express my freedom and joy at being alone.

When the beat gets inside me- I've been known to do a little jig in malls if the music's right.

I sing

Brilliantly in the bathroom!

Old Saigal songs.

Less than I used to, thanks to the discriminating listeners in my family!

I never

Say never: you never know what Life will make you do.

Wear synthetic materials if I can help it.

Manage to be as organised as I'd like to be.

I rarely

Offer unasked for advice.

Wear make up.

Wear high heels now- my feet are getting crabby:(

I cry

When I lose my temper.

At some memories of loss.

At suffering I cannot help heal.

I am not always

Kind.

Patient.

Perfect.

I lose

Things that are right under my nose, then I'm agitated till I've found them.

My cool, sometimes.

Perspective, sometimes.

I’m confused

By this tag!

By instructions on electronic equipment.

By many of the applications on my phone, most of which I choose to ignore.

I need

Many more bookshelves.

Less books. I do buy some, but I'm also a library user, but the SRE buys books quite compulsively.

A house with fabulous storage facilities and no clutter.

I should

Pray without ceasing.

Be a little less morbid than I've been recently.

Eat less.

I dream

Of Sant Kabir's 'Ghar Nyaara'.

Of not being diabetic.

Of being above such mundane things as chocolates!

This took a lot of thought and a fair bit of time. Whoever is inspired by this, please do take it up!

What the SRE did while I was away

2011-06-05T12:58:00.003+05:30

1) I had kept his house key in the Photon toggle pocket of his laptop bag, and told him where it was.
He comes home on Tuesday night and tries opening the front door with the toggle. He finally does get in, of course!
2) I had left a list of instructions stuck on the inside of the front door, written in bright red ink, headed with the words 'House Key.' (The rest were reminders to make sure taps, lights and fans, gas, air conditioners, doors etc., all were closed/switched off before he left the house).
On Saturday morning he locks himself out of the house without the house key, car keys and laptop bag. I guess that after two days the notice on the door ceases to register. Fortunately there is a spare key with our next door neighbours, and they were also at home, so a crisis is averted.
3) The SRE was in town for a couple of days and away in Durgapur for two days and one night. He managed his meals successfully, with a little 'phone-a-wife' for moral support. There was some food in the fridge which was successfully warmed up, consumed, and the leftovers were also put back. Eggs were cooked, so was Maggi. On Saturday he ordered in pizza, and very kindly kept some for me.
4) On Saturday evening he managed to twist his knee while playing golf. The driver picked me up from the airport, and I get back to find the SRE in pain. We've been icing and elevating the knee. Fingers crossed that it's nothing too serious.

All in all, not a bad report, but not a brilliant one either. I do think that my reluctance to leave him, garnered over the decades, is more or less justified. What do you say, gentle readers???

Chasing the SRE

2011-05-30T22:03:00.003+05:30

out of the house is what I plan to do this week! I need to go out of town for a few days, and I prefer to travel when the SRE is also travelling. Since he travels so often, it should not be too difficult to synchronize our travel plans. So, last week our separate itineraries were made, and we were supposed to be returning to Kolkata on the same flight this Saturday. But the powers-that-be decided that this was way too simple, and the SRE was asked to cancel his visits to distant towns.
Long years ago, every summer would see the kids and I leaving the man for a couple of weeks at least, visiting grandparents in different towns. At the time, the SRE was mostly resident, his sister lived about a kilometer and a half away, and he would also manage to feed himself sometimes- I would stir fry and freeze veggies in small packets, which he could pop into a boiling pan of Maggi noodles. I think he managed to cook eggs, too!

I am sure he was quite vague even then, but he seems far more scatterbrained now. I feel that he needs someone to take care of him and make sure that taps and gas cylinders and light/fan switches and air-conditioners are closed firmly and switched off. Even when we come home to an empty house together, and I am taking the key out of my handbag, he will ring the doorbell. I wonder whom he expects to open the door.

I have gently suggested that he move to the company guest house for a few days, but he has decided that going to Durgapur and working over there will suit all concerned. I never thought that the day would come when I'd actually be glad that he will be spending a few days away from home. Talk about a vested interest!

Lessons from mommyhood!

2011-05-23T19:32:00.005+05:30

The Bride tagged me to write about ‘what mommyhood has taught me’.

The tag:

It’s been a while since us Mommybloggers came up with something to celebrate, well, mommyhood, so the lovely Monika and I came up with this. A tag that has us list out five lessons of life that Mommyhood has taught us, these could be sweet, bitter, funny, touching, whatever. These could be survival tips or cooking tips, or something as simple as the best thing to get puke smell out of hair.

So, the rules are simple. Put the badge up. Write out five lessons that Mommyhood taught you. And tag five mommybloggers.

It's kind of hard to believe that my kids were ever babies, but of course they were, decades ago.
So, as requested, I'll try and share my perspective as a mother of grown up kids.

1. If marriage helps knock your ego into a more streamlined shape, having kids gives it the kind of hammering it may never recover from!
When they are tiny, these wordless, utterly dependent creatures teach you to put another person's needs first. You may be dying of lack of sleep, of hunger or thirst, or even just to go to the loo, but it is possible to fulfill your needs only when the baby lets you.
You want to protect them from hurt and injury, but you can't always do that. It is easier to console the child with a scraped knee or the one who needs thirteen stitches in his chin than the one with a broken heart. You still do whatever you can to help them heal, even if it doesn't really seem to help. And you still ache for them. If they are far away from you and ill or miserable, your helplessness and grief knows no bounds. I think that even if you are an atheist or agnostic, having a child will often times see you praying with all your might for the child's well being.

2. They can teach you so much about their world, and enlarge yours exponentially. Listen to them talk.......
I know that I wouldn't be blogging, or listening to Sufi music, or aware of Latin American literature, or have some absolutely silly jokes in my head that make me smile whenever I think of them, if it wasn't for my kids. What you receive from them is priceless- love, affection, tremendous support during difficult times, endless demands, hungry friends......
A variety of experiences that enrich your life in unimaginable ways. Yes, my older son and his friends actually helped us sneak into an Abida Parveen concert!

3. They enlarge your circle of relationships as they find love and significant others of their own.
The family enlarges to include their loved ones and their families too.
Having kids does sensitize you to other children- you grieve and worry for the child's friend who had an accident, or is ill, or whose parent is ill, or even for the random children you read about in the newspapers.

4. They reassure you immensely sometimes that you brought them up more or less okay!
When I saw the tenderness with which my kids spoke to their ailing grandparents, it was like a warm soft blanket around my heart! Whenever they do well in life, it feels wonderful, far more than an achievement of one's own.

5. When they fight or disagree with each other or hurt each other, as siblings inevitably do sometimes, it really breaks your heart. You can't play favourites, and you can see each child's perspective, and you are utterly helpless till they ride it out and are friends again.

6. One extra, bonus lesson: Insanity is inherited: you can get it from your children!

The five moms I tag are:
1. Yasmeen, who is my contemporary and can tell you about being a mom to her two lovely grown up daughters.
2. Yashodhara, who has twin baby boys and one very lady like young daughter.
3. Mona, whose pre-school daughter and toddler son keep her really busy.
4. Surabhi, who is the mother of the delightful Sanah.
5. Nitya, whose son Arjun is a delight, with his own unique perspective on life, the universe and everything!

Real Beauty

2011-05-22T12:49:00.007+05:30

Mountains, trees, rivers, the sea
Oceans, rivulets, birds
clouds, the majesty of nature
the tiny perfection of a puppy,
a kitten, a baby,
flowers.

The scars I bear,
of not just the babies I bore
but the other surgeries I had,
those scars affirm Life.
The years added to my life
enhance my soul,
the scars are an integral
part of me now.

My aunt is no more
but I remember her smile,
slightly down turned on one side
from a paralytic attack
Her hair combed into "cat ears"
over her forehead,
in her own particular style.
She was beautiful to me.
I never saw her upset,
(well, only once in all those years)
or lose her temper
She was wise, and kind
and strong,
Looked up to by all.
The menfolk in her family,
Husband and sons
Would do her bidding gladly
Because she always
made sense to them.

(The story goes that
She was so lovely
that once he saw her
in their neighbourhood
the young man decided
to marry only her, and
no one else.
It was a long and happy union
A template for many to come.
He outlived her by some fourteen years
sustained by the memories
of their life together,
with a strength and grace of his own).

She wore her saree
the old fashioned 'seedha palla' style,
and was so disciplined herself
you would never dream
of not being so around her.
A natural teacher
you'd learn from her
whether you really
wanted to or not!!!!

Even when she was ill
with breast cancer
she never lost her perspective
or her sense of humour.
The last time I met her,
some months before she died,
She'd been making small
quantities of different pickles
revising for her next birth, she said.
I said, surely your mother
will teach you, in your next birth.
No, she will wear jeans and
work in an office,
I'd better practice
my recipes myself!

I've known so many people in these
many decades of my life
Who are so good looking,
the eyes perforce
linger on their faces
but when I think of real beauty,
it is this aunt who first comes to my mind.

The above blog post is part of a competition hosted by Dove, Yahoo!India, and IndiBlogger.

Mrs. C's Lament

2011-05-19T08:43:00.002+05:30

Old and almost bedridden now,
Mrs. C mourns the death of her brother in law
whose passing no one told her about,
thinking her too frail to bear this loss.

He was a toddler when I got married,
I brought him up, he had no mother,
he would cling to my legs,
asking to be picked up.

When my first daughter was born
He'd insist on carrying her
Though he was pretty small himself
He'd be very careful.

I lost that daughter some years ago
And I survived that loss, didn't I?
And my husband as well, two years ago
And I'm still here, aren't I?

I'm going to die sooner or later
(and I'd rather it be sooner, lying here,
watching the fan go round and round
is no great fun, let me tell you).

What would it matter if I went then,
When my brother-in-law died?
The whole family thought I wouldn't be able
to bear this last loss....

They meant well, but how I wish
That I could have seen him one last time
And sent him on his last journey
With my eternal blessings.

Diabetic Reverie

2011-05-14T13:35:00.005+05:30

Whenever I wear this ring
I remember the ruby droplet of blood
on the fingertip
I pierce with a lancet
for my home blood test.

Dear Blogger

2011-05-14T07:53:00.002+05:30

Please get well soon.
Some published comments have disappeared.
You are not available for several hours each day.
Please be back in the pink of health again soon.
In the meantime, my apologies to those whose comments have disappeared.
Hoping for the best,
Dipali

Dil Boley Harissa!

2011-05-12T11:15:00.001+05:30

A friend and I went grocery shopping yesterday afternoon. After dumping our many bags in the car, we went back into the mall for a cup of coffee. Since we are both fond of trying out new things, we looked at the snack bar and saw something called a cheese and harissa bun. I asked the boy at the counter what harissa was, my chief concern being whether it was vegetarian or not. He assured me that it was vegetarian, and said that it had coriander leaves etc. in it. We decided to share one, and asked for it to be cut into two pieces.
Well, my friend and I sat down and waited for our coffee and snack to arrive. We were wondering if harissa had anything to do with hari (green) chutney. One bite told us otherwise. It was fiery hot with not a speck of green. My friend opened out her portion and scraped out what looked like at least a teaspoonful of chill flakes before eating it. We decided that we owed it to subsequent customers to enlighten the boy at the counter, so we did. He was most apologetic, which was not really the point. We both felt that whoever is selling a product should have accurate, basic knowledge of what he is selling.

Of course I came home and asked Googleji what harissa was.

According to Wikipedia: Harissa is a Tunisian hot chilli sauce commonly eaten in North Africa whose main ingredients are bird's eye chili peppers , serrano peppers and other hot chillis and spices such as garlic paste, coriander, red chili powder, caraway as well as some vegetable or olive oil. It is a standard ingredient of North African cuisine, most closely associated with Tunisia and Algeria but recently, commercially produced Harrissa also making it inroads into Morocco and the Arab Gulf countries, Egypt, Mashreq and Turkey.

It was really really hot and spicy. Well, now we know.

Of Mice and a Man!

2011-05-09T14:05:00.008+05:30

We got home late on Saturday night after watching the movie "Chalo Dilli." (A decent, enjoyable movie, by the way).
The SRE felt like listening to something.
Now Boseji's table has a very small part of our music collection- some albums of poetry, but mostly bhajans, which we keep in a box to save them from the dust. God alone knows what the SRE felt like listening to at that point in time. He scrabbled about, and managed to find an MP3 disc of film songs, which were duly listened to.
The first photograph shows the results of his search.
The second is what the table usually looks like, on any 'normal' day.

A spouse of many decades is a privileged person, who does not get scolded. He gets teased instead.
"There must be a great big mouse in here, who messed up all the CDs."
The SRE grins and says, "Yes, we need a great big mousetrap."

All I can say, in the immortal dialogue of countless Hindi movie wives,
is "Tum nahin sudhrogey."

The Bonus Month

2011-05-07T12:59:00.005+05:30

By the beginning of May last year, my father was rapidly sinking, and seemed to be in obvious distress, breathing with difficulty despite our keeping him on oxygen for much of the time. I called in his physician, who examined him, and gave him just another forty-eight hours to live. He also prescribed a morphine patch, to ease the acute discomfort. I called my sister, who flew in the next morning.
On the afternoon of the 4th, which was the second day, a close friend came to visit. The three of us were chatting, having tea, and exchanging our rather sombre thoughts, when we were all jolted by a mighty roar from my usually soft-spoken father. He'd woken up from a nightmare in which the home nurse was apparently trying to poison him. He said he didn't mind dying, but refused to be murdered!
I somehow managed to soothe him, explaining to him that it was just a bad dream, and that the home nurse was the last person who would murder him, because she was attached both to him and to our household, and that both the day nurse and the night nurse would be bereft and without work for a while at least if anything happened to him. His doctor came to see him, and thought that this recovery was nothing less than a miracle. I seriously wonder if this bonus month was God's gift to the home nurses, who seemed to be very attached to our family, and especially to Daddy. My sister and I were, somehow, resigned to his inevitable departure- once Mummy was gone, we could see that he had completely lost his will to live.
As it happened, Dad's doctor went away for a couple of weeks towards the end of May. I consulted him once over the phone. Somewhere within me, I knew that he would not see my father again.

A Deliberate Blemish

2011-05-07T11:04:00.007+05:30

This is the kilim we bought in Istanbul last year, which is now finally on view in my sitting room.

Kilim, a word of Turkish origin, denotes a pileless textile of many uses produced by one of several flatweaving techniques that have a common or closely related heritage and are practiced in the geographical area that includes parts of Turkey (Anatolia and Thrace), North Africa, the Balkans, the Caucasus, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Central Asia and China.
(Source-http://www.kilim.com)

We went kilim shopping in Istanbul with a Turkish colleague of the SRE.
After a glass of delicious home made lime juice served by the shopkeeper, and the painful business of choosing one kilim that both of us liked, we decided that this was the one.
Which is when we noticed the small dark blue section in the corner, an obvious defect. We were about to reject the kilim because of this, when the shopkeeper told us that this was a deliberate blemish.
I thought that it was probably a nazar-battoo, against the evil eye. (Turkey is full of these amulets, called nazar. So is Egypt!)
The kilim, however, was not woven with its own nazar, though.
The deliberate blemish was a humbling reminder that only Allah is perfect, His creatures cannot create perfection!

A Strange Dream

2011-05-06T17:27:00.004+05:30

This afternoon
I dreamt that we were in
a hotel somewhere
packing to leave,
and I look round
making sure that
there's nothing left behind
And I see a bag and/or a pillow
that we need to take
(Dreams are vague like that)
The toilet flushes
and my mother emerges
and I hope that she doesn't ask
"Where's Daddy"?
because I know he's not there,
and I don't know how to tell her.

Many thanks!

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

Rayna gave me this lovely award a long time ago, after which I sat on it for a very long time, almost a year :(
Thank you, and sorry for not having acknowledged it for so long. I think it is much too late to pass this on, but let me thank Rayna herself for bringing so much sunshine into my life with her brilliant writing, wonderful photographs, delightful sons, incredible warmth and her kindness.
I am glad to have you in my life, and hope to meet you in the real world someday soon!

Sanand gave me The Versatile Blogger award just a few days ago. He does not blog very frequently, but his personal integrity shines through in whatever he writes.
Thank you for considering me worthy of this award. I am supposed to share some little known facts about myself, which is difficult, because I'm sure I've shared all the shareable stuff already!
Let's see what I can rustle up:
1. I can survive for days without watching any TV at all. I also act very dumb around the TV- I watch very silly stuff when I do watch. I need to watch it at least a little more intelligently than I do now.
2. I optimistically pile up newspapers to read again, and then never get round to doing that. Most annoying, since I love my Sunday papers and never manage to do justice to them.
3. There are some people whom I actually find repugnant, whom I find it very difficult to interact with. It might not be their fault, but......
4. I love doing up my house. Very simple stuff, but a lot of thought and effort goes into it.
5. Since I can be very lazy, I'm happy if the SRE travels for a day or two. Longer tours get very lonely though, so I go in for huge cleaning/tidying projects which tire me out.
6. I can happily re-read books that I like, even immediately after finishing them the first time.
7. I'm very fond of lightly steamed vegetables!

Having shared these rather inane facts about me, let me proceed to the good part: passing on this award!
Yasmeen Sait is an old friend but a recent blogger, who writes about various aspects of her life, of different cities, of fascinating people. I love being connected to her life through her blog.
Kiran Manral needs no introduction. She can write about anything from weddings to weighing scales with great elan. She is one of those people who actually make a difference to this often terrible world we live in. Her commitment to what she believes in is just amazing.
Choxbox and I started blogging around the same time. She writes about food, kids, cities, museums, books, her contribution to society and so much more, and generates huge amounts of positive energy. I haven't met her yet, but I know I will, some day.
Uttara writes brilliantly on Hindustani classical music, gardening, law, politics, feminism, dogs, her many travels, and so much more. Definitely versatile!
And last but not least, Salil Chaturvedi, whom I am proud to call my friend. His blog is a delightful storehouse of poetry, photographs, plants, nature, very profound philosophy, and so much more. The award may not mean very much to him, but is an excuse to send my readers to visit him.

Street Abuse

2011-04-26T12:49:00.004+05:30

This happened yesterday afternoon. I was walking down Park Street after paying my mobile phone bill at the Airtel outlet, hoping to see my friendly fruit-wallah there with some good guavas. (In season he has excellent jamun, and often has rose apples and a beautiful, hollow yellow fruit that tastes of rose petals). Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a man who wore filthy clothing and looked deranged crossing my path, and before I knew it he had spat upon me and continued on his way. It was obviously upsetting. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped my neck, thankful that his spittle had not landed on my face.
Given the fact that he looked both filthy and crazy, I had no intention of confronting him. (Neither did anyone else, obviously). I wonder what triggered this unwarranted attack. I was wearing corduroy jeans and a top with three quarter length sleeves, and dangly earrings. Maybe I was looking happy- the weather was good- cloudy with a good breeze and wee driplets of drizzle.
Whatever the trigger, I hate to say that I am quite sure that despite my being in my mid-fifties, it was a gender based violation.

My fruit-wallah was on the far end of that stretch. He commented on my not being my normal self, and when I told him of this episode, he said that the number of crazies had greatly increased. I did buy some excellent guavas and the rose-petal fruit.

When I reached my car I sat and briefly messaged a friend about this event, was duly sympathized with and tried to forget about it. I obviously haven't succeeded in doing so.

Most intriguing!

2011-04-24T21:24:00.004+05:30

On our way back from Delhi last week, we saw a girl in a very heavy bridal outfit on our flight, which landed after ten p.m.
I wondered at how terribly uncomfortable she must have been, in that heavy lehnga and jewellery. It seemed rather strange. According to the SRE, there was just one couple escorting her.
Maybe she was getting married late that night in Kolkata. Maybe she'd escaped from an unwanted wedding. (In which case I'm sure she would have shed some of that jewellery).
The SRE had far more sinister scenarios in mind.
Trust us both to worry about something that is really none of our business!

Still making the children's charts!

2011-04-20T08:55:00.004+05:30

We just got back last night from a wedding in Delhi. My oldest child thought that it was too good an opportunity to miss!

On CSA- a brief note

2011-04-10T18:50:00.004+05:30

Sexual abuse is insidious, pervasive, and can lurk in the most unexpected corners. As a young child, I never understood why my mother was so particular about never leaving my sister and I alone with male cousins or uncles. If we were staying at my aunt's house, my aunt would be very much there. My sister and I were never ever abused by a family member
As students using public transport in Delhi, we lived with unwanted touches and pinches and gropes, which were sickening but impersonal. Catcalls on the road were also ignored, although most annoying.

Unfortunately, I could not offer the same protection to my own girls. On separate occasions, we had to leave each of our teenage daughters with friends, as they had important school exams to deal with and we had to leave town for a few days, and the couple we left them with were close friends of ours. It was only much much later that we learned from the girls that they had both been groped by the man in question. I was horror struck. The episodes had not occurred while the girls were staying with them, but in a far more daring and insidious fashion. On one occasion we had all been sitting in our friend's front garden, when our daughter offered to make coffee for all of us- given that we had all been very close the girls were quite familiar with my friend's kitchen. A while later the man excused himself- we didn't think twice about it, thinking that he needed to use the washroom. Many years later our daughter told us that he went into the kitchen, tried to fondle her breasts and told her that he loved her. I cannot imagine how shocked and upset the child was. The saddest thing was that she kept this to herself, not even confiding in her own sister till much later, when a similar incident occurred with her sister, with the same man.

By the time we got to know about it, these people had left our town, and our girls were much older, no-nonsense women. It still saddens me immensely to think of these episodes.

The number of people I have met who have been pawed at or groped by their own uncles or grand-uncles is legion. I wonder how we can protect our children without making them totally paranoid about the possibility of abuse. Young boys are also not immune to sexual abuse. In The God of Small Things the entire tragedy was, to my mind, almost directly caused by the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man molesting Estha, and frightening him even more because the child had told him where he lived.

How do we successfully protect our children's innocence without making them fundamentally suspicious of everyone?
It's a question to which I still have no answers.

Edited to add: After reading several heart-breaking posts over this month, the one thing that comes through is that parents' need to listen to their children so that children feel that they can share anything and everything with them, confident in the knowledge that their parents will love them and cherish them and protect them, come what may. Goofy Mumma made a very valuable statement in her post here :one cannot be friends with both the victim and the perpetrator.
As parents we have to be prepared to make that choice, and cut out known perpetrators from our lives, whatever the cost, in order to provide the least bit of justice to our children.

Give blood, save a life

2011-04-01T14:19:00.000+05:30

I was reading this post by the redoubtable Ugich Konitari, about her experiences with blood donation and blood banking, and my own experiences of blood donation came whooshing out of my memory bank!
The first time ever was when I was a few months short of eighteen, the official age when you can donate blood.
My mother had been hospitalized and needed several units of blood. My father and my sister were the first to donate. One cousin came forth. His older brother didn't come, allegedly because his wife said "What will happen to our daughter if anything happens to you when you give blood?"
Given that more blood was needed and I was a willing volunteer, my blood group was tested, haemoglobin levels were fine, and I went through my first experience of giving blood. I do remember feeling a little light headed when I sat up, after it was over, but once I'd consumed the carton of juice and biscuits that were given to me, I felt fine and that was that!
After that there was no stopping me. Any blood donation camp in college would find me in the forefront, and it was nothing out of the usual for me to donate a unit of blood every few months.
After completing my Master's degree, I went to work as a lecturer in a college in a small town in Uttar Pradesh. Among my colleagues was a physiology teacher, married to a doctor. It was a women's college, with perhaps a dozen or so lecturers. When a blood donation camp was organized in the college, we needed at least one staff member to volunteer, in order to encourage our students as well as reassure them that it was perfectly safe to donate blood. Of this dozen odd women, some were too old, some were underweight, and a few were anaemic. The physiology teacher and I were both fit to volunteer, but the lady refused to do so, because she had children!!!!!!!! I was appalled- on what basis was she teaching physiology to her students if she had no fundamental knowledge of the physiology of blood, and how soon it regenerates. That she was married to a practising physician made it even more annoying. We had a successful drive, nonetheless!

Marriage and childbirth happened. A debilitating illness also occurred, in the course of which I was hospitalized and also received two units of blood.

As the years passed, the regularity of donating blood went down, but I was always willing to give blood to friends and family members who needed it. After an interval of a year or so since my last donation , a notice in our daily newspaper caught my eye, in which an army officer required my particular blood group for his ailing mother. It seemed to be calling out to me, so I went down to the army hospital and met the officer, and he escorted me to the blood bank. To my utter chagrin, the nurse couldn't find the vein in my arm. I was utterly disheartened, but agreed for the nurse to try a blind prick. You can imagine my joy when a vein was found and the blood emerged! The officer's mother recovered, and I received a very warm letter from him subsequently.

Many years later, a family member required large volumes of blood and plasma for a major surgery. I can never forget the kindness of those strangers who donated blood for this dear one.
Giving one unit of blood may not be a huge act for the donor, but for the recipient it is often the gift of Life itself.

There are, sadly, some religious communities which prohibit blood transfusions. A few months ago I heard of the highly preventable death of a person from such a religious background. I wish that their beliefs could be revised.

I'm now unable to donate blood because I'm on medication for various conditions and am probably too old as well. But if you are of the right age, are not anaemic or underweight, please do donate blood. You give just a little blood, and gain immeasurable good will. You are also given a card that entitles you to receive blood, if you need it for yourself or your family if you are a donor at a blood bank.

It is not difficult. Find out if you are fit enough to give blood. If you are, please do so. And do encourage the people you know to donate blood too. Think about it, talk about it, write about it. Each bit of information will help.

Strange bedfellows

2011-03-30T21:50:00.004+05:30

Cheek by jowl at a discount counter in a local bookstore

Metamorphosis in the age of cellphones

2011-03-27T22:42:00.006+05:30

I always thought of myself
As a polite person,
often a pushover,
mostly a wuss.
But now I have changed,
driven to rudeness
by the people who call
on my cellphone at odd hours
asking for,
nay, demanding my attention
whether I wish to listen or not.
They think that I am obliged to listen
to each of their schemes to wheedle
more money out of me,
since I am their 'existing customer'.
I wish I had never enrolled in whatever
investment plan it was
Just so that they would never call me,
and ask me questions that I feel no need to answer.
I tell them that I have no money to invest,
But they refuse to believe me,
And insist on unreeling their spiel until I am rude
to them and then pointedly disconnect.

When they wake me up from a well deserved siesta
(or even an undeserved one-
a siesta is precious, nonetheless)
And expect me to remember all
sixteen digits of the number of
the credit card I rarely use,
I snap, and feel unhappy about it afterwards.
Yes, they are only doing their jobs,
but who has decided that
harassing people over the phone
will actually drum up more business?

I'm a bit nervous of being rude to people
who have legitimate dealings with me
So I'm living on the edge
with this new found rudeness
Don't mess with me.
I won't listen to you unless
I feel the need to.
I know you are only doing your job
But it doesn't give you the freedom
to call me any time you choose.
My phone is mine, and it stays on
for people dear to me,
people whom I know,
people with faces, part of my known world.

Why don't they mail me
if they have anything deserving of my attention?
I can politely ignore e-mails,
or respond to them,
as I chose
without turning into this
nasty person whom I don't like very much.

The Brilliance of Moi!

2011-03-22T12:49:00.002+05:30

Kolkata is going from hot to hotter in the space of the last few days. The son came over last evening, and plonked on his favourite couch, only to discover that the air-conditioner in the drawing room was not working. With great efficiency I called up Samsung Customer Care this morning, and spent several minutes lodging my complaint. When we reached the heart of the matter, i.e. the model of the said air-conditioner, I discovered, to my utter chagrin and embarrassment that the machine in question is an LG product! Ooooops:(
Please tell me that I'm not the only person in the world to have done this!

Book Review: The Vague Woman's Handbook

2011-03-21T11:35:00.012+05:30

Devapriya Roy's first novel is an appealing look at contemporary urban life through the eyes of its female protagonists, one young and one middle-aged, as well as a few vignettes from a male point-of-view. Just this morning I was visiting Parul's blog, in which she is talking about the annoying fashion of naming anything written by a young female author as 'chick-lit'. Devapriya's book most certainly should not be categorized as such.
Mil Chatterjee is twenty-two, and in the opening chapter is searching for the location of the office in which she will appear for her first job interview. She has married her college sweetheart in defiance of all the parents concerned, since he had decided that he wanted to get married 'now or never'. Logic does not work with a young man in that particular frame of mind, and so Mil, in a tremendous leap of faith, marries this young scholar who is working on his PhD at an obscure institute of defence studies. There is great charm in Devapriya's writing about the life of a young couple in Delhi, who are not really of the city and yet are learning to live there, Mil with her non-existent sense of direction, and Abhi with his reliance on Google maps! Both of them are too proud to take any financial help from their parents, and Abhi's fellowship cheques always reach him late in the month. The nosy landlord and his family, the maid (who sounds most inefficient), and the trials and tribulations of housekeeping by youngsters who have little or no idea of home or finance management are fun to read about.
Mil's youth and dreaminess are central to her classification as a vague woman. Despite being married to the love of her life, she is deeply unhappy at being estranged from her parents because of this. Although her mother still speaks to her occasionally, the conversations normally end up with tears or shouting or both. Her father, whose pet she has obviously been, doesn't communicate with her at all. The disapproval of Abhi's parents, particularly his mother, also adds to her angst. Abhi soldiers on, trying to deal with his responsibilities as a married man, not quite appreciating how his decision to turn down a full scholarship to a prestigious American university has suddenly reduced his worth in the eyes of the world, his parents and Mil's parents. What is beautifully conveyed is both his awareness of and acceptance of Mil's fragility in this brave new world they find themselves in. His impatience can make him take strange decisions, sometimes, like the time he and Mil go furniture shopping!
Despite being an hour late for her job interview, Mil actually does land the job, on contract, and is befriended by her colleague, Indira Sen, a widow in her early fifties, who lives in a rambling house with her college going daughter, water and washing obsessed mother-in-law, paternal uncle and her extremely dominating mother. Indira is not at all in control of her life- she is mild mannered and finds it hard to stand up to anyone, especially her mother, and has landed herself in a terrible mess- she owes several banks huge sums of money on various credit cards and loans, and despite paying off minimum amounts due every month, finds her debts increasing exponentially. The situation is so bad that collection agents have started visiting her house and frightening her mother. Indira and Mil are enjoying tea and chocolate cake together in Indira's office, when her mother calls and launches into a powerful tirade against her daughter's spending habits and the dire consequences the entire family is facing because of these. Mil cannot help overhearing her friend's side of the conversation- Indira's vulnerability somehow catalyses a far warmer friendship than would otherwise be likely. Despite her general fragility and vagueness in dealing with her own issues, Mil helps Indira face up to her credit card problems and gets her started on solving them. The fact that they are both foodies also helps cement their friendship!
Each character rings true, although Indira's mild-mannered mother-in-law, Ashamayee rarely figures in the story and is really a vague sort of character, poles apart from the stock mother-in-law figure. As a grown woman who has to move back to her parents' house when her husband dies, Indira's loss of autonomy is tangible. She finds joy in being out of the house as much as she can, and her office is a home away from home for her. She overeats, loves to read, is a messy housekeeper, and is a warm and empathetic friend.
Abhi is a passionate follower of a website called the Desh Defense Forum, and his real and virtual battles with members of this forum often occupy his thoughts. And yet, his observations on the nature of married life are often poignant:
Happiness had come and gone and come again over the next few weeks, in moody fits and starts. Extreme joy was followed, Abhi had noted, by the tiredness of new beginnings, of building from scratch, of worries that never seemed to cease. There were the cheques that never came on time from the institute. There were the parents - all four of them - who silently strolled the house with unhappy footsteps. There was all the growing up, all the responsibility that sometimes became an invisible monster in the room, taking up all the oxygen and eating all the food. But sometimes everything would be as light and airy as bubbles in the air.

Of course Abhi and Mil are of great interest to their neighbours.
The first time Abhi and Mil had fought satisfactorily, that is, accompanied by a banging of chairs and a banshee-like wail, everyone in the neighbourhood had been rather relieved that these two bookish types also fought like cats and dogs............. It happily confirmed their opinion that the romance- manifested in cheek-to-cheek dancing in candlelight during load shedding, the shadows hugging the peeling white walls of the house, the reports of rabid discussions over a book as reported by the maid,................ the romance was rapidly deteriorating into spousehood.

In essence, though, the book left me with the conviction that however old or grown up or mature we may think ourselves to be, the need for parental approval and love always remains. There are no villains here- Mil's and Abhi's parents, and even Indira's overpowering mother, Charu, all have their child's best interests at heart. There is much working out of karma for each of them before resolution is attained.
A delightful portrayal of contemporary urban life, evoking much thought on the nature of our core relationships.

The Vague Woman's Handbook by Devapriya Roy, published by Harper Collins, 2011.

Happy Holi

2011-03-20T13:18:00.004+05:30

Seven neighbours got together for a tiny Holi celebration in the building garden. Many residents were away, the children were all celebrating elsewhere. But one lady took the initiative, called all the available residents and arranged for thandai and gujiya. Which made it a colourful little Holi for us. Thank you, K, for turning just another Sunday into a festival!

The Uncertainty of Everyday Life

2011-03-11T23:33:00.003+05:30

A calamity of any kind underlines how tenuous our lives really are. Yes, we still hope and plan for the future- not to do so would be foolish. At the same time, one needs to accept that our so-called 'normal' lives are fragile indeed, something to be grateful for, however mundane they may seem.
On hearing of the terrible earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan today, a verse from Sant Kabir kept coming to my mind, again and again:

Saans saans par naam le,
Vyatha saans mat khoye
Kya jaaney iss saans ka
Aavan hoye na hoye

Roughly translated:
Take God's name with every breath you take,
Do not waste a single one
Who knows whether that breath
Will be your last or not....

Of course it is not practical or possible or even sensible to not focus on one's work or studies or even leisure activities, and pray all through the day. But surely, in the dailiness of our lives, there are routine activities that can be done with our minds focused on the One above, who holds each second of our lives in His hands. Let us not take our lives for granted, or rather, let us strike the necessary balance between taking them for granted and simultaneously accepting the fact that each day could be one's last. A tricky balancing act indeed.

My sincere prayers for those who have lost their lives, and for those who have lost their dear ones in this terrible natural calamity.

Birthday Girl

2011-03-03T11:03:00.007+05:30

Our darling Mahi, the youngest of our grand-dogs, celebrating her first birthday with her friends.
Wish we'd been there!

Of a non-snoring spouse and a fried finger

2011-02-28T11:44:00.005+05:30

In sympathy with young Sue here, I managed to fry a finger yesterday.
Of course, it was all the SRE's fault, or rather, his office's fault. We knew that the SRE had meetings this weekend, which is annoying anyway- quite apart from my weekend being less entertaining than it is when the man is around, I strongly feel that the poor SRE needs his rest!
He had been working till very late on Saturday night, and, oddly for him, didn't sleep well. I woke up a couple of times and found him reading his iPad. (These days news of Libya is very very high priority in our house-he enters the house and switches on the iPad and tells me the latest from Tripoli). Since he wasn't snoring, something was obviously amiss, so I slept badly too.
He'd forgotten his laptop at the office, and at 6.30 a.m was getting ready to go and find it. I decided to tag along for the ride. Laptop retrieved, it was time for tea and newspapers and breakfast, since he had to leave for office again at nine. (Since he seemed quite stressed out, I didn't want to tell him that the laptop wouldn't have waltzed away between seven and nine in the morning, and he could have as easily retrieved it when he was in office during his scheduled working hours. We do not put across any opposing points of view when the man is stressed. We have learned this the hard way, over the decades). He was kind enough to go to office by taxi, without protest- I didn't want him to drive alone late at night after another hard day of meetings, and he was, most surprisingly, amenable to my suggestion.
The youngest child was home. Though, given his holiday sleeping and waking patterns and the SRE's schedule, he could only meet his father on Friday evening. During our dinner-a-deux on Saturday (the SRE was dining with his colleagues) the son and I were talking about how delicious ghee is in some foods, and were remembering kadhi with a topping of chilli powder heated in ghee. And so, instead of our default options of rajma or chholey for Sunday lunch, kadhi and rice was the plan.
The son got up around noon, and I told him that he could have some pakodas with his coffee, so that he'd have an appetite for lunch, which we would hopefully eat by two o'clock.
I made the batter and fried plain pakodis for the kadhi. Chopped up an onion and a potato, a green chilli and some coriander leaves and added them to the plain batter. I sprinkled a little chaat masala on the first batch and handed them to the son. The second batch was made, and I tried a couple- they were delicious. During the final batch my sleepy mind was distracted by some stray thoughts, and whoosh- hot oil splashed onto the poor ring finger of my right hand.
I did ice it, and yes, it's a lot better now, and the kadhi with the chilli-ghee was delicious. What I want to know is, can I fairly blame the SRE and his office for this fried finger or not?

When the saints go marching in!

2011-02-24T22:16:00.002+05:30

Louis_Armstrong_Danny_Kaye.wmv
3848K Download

A dear friend mailed me this link.
It is great fun! Enjoy.

This Sunday morning

2011-02-20T11:21:00.003+05:30

This Sunday morning
isn't over yet, but it has a little
joy that overflows,
that I'd love to share.
We woke up late enough
to feel rested, and I decided
that tea and morning papers
would be had in the sitting room
so I'd be able to read
newspapers
unsquashed by the man.
Two cups of tea each
Four Sunday papers
which I never manage to read
completely,
but long to do so
(and keep aside in
an ever growing pile
which is ultimately dumped
and not read)

We listened to Kabir,
A beautiful rendering
by Rajan And Sajan Mishra
and ate breakfast before ten
By which time Rashid Khan
was singing Malkauns,
a beautiful devotional bandish
'Tu hai Malik mera'
The spouse took a newspaper
to read in bed
And promptly fell asleep
snoring and a-roaring
while I heard, with joy,
the drut:
'Aaj morey ghar aaye balama'
In a positively sublime
ironic harmony!

From the flower show

2011-02-17T16:14:00.002+05:30

Nani's Lemon Pickle

2011-02-11T18:55:00.004+05:30

It's the time of year
to make the lemon pickle
that I make from my mother's recipe,
a pickle that I've been making for years.
(The only one that I make now-
gone are the glory days
when the children were young
and I'd make at least seven or eight
kinds of pickle every year).

Lemon pickle that I'd manage to sun
for the fifteen minutes a day
of sunshine that the
guest room window gets
every morning, these years in Kolkata.
The only pickle that my father
could eat, these last few years.
Made with no oil, no vinegar,
moderate spices and
the weight of tradition.

Last year our lives were in a pickle,
of illness and hospitals and nurses
and oxygen cylinders and nebulisers.

This year, the younger daughter
asks me if I'm making
Nani's lemon pickle.
I hadn't planned to, but
when a child reminds you
of something that you used to make
You know you should take a hint,
and proceed.

I bought seventy-five beautiful limes,
plunging into baskets full of them,
choosing the best
at Lake Market yesterday afternoon,
and had them weighed.
Soaked them overnight,
and then washed and wiped them dry
this morning.

I sat and cut them,
remembering the time,
in another city, some years ago
when my mother cut them for me
perched upon the dining table.
( My dining table thanks me
for my kindness in not attempting
to sit on it anymore).

I measured out the salt,
and took out the last of my
treasured 'heeng',
the wonderfully strong asafoetida
that my Maama,
my mother's younger brother
used to get for us.

I remembered getting the news
of his sudden stroke
on a train, and how he barely
survived for a day after that.
The sorrow of bearing this news to my mother
little knowing that barely eight months later
I would bear the news of another death,
of her firstborn, her only son.

I wondered if she and my father
have been able to catch up with
their siblings and the friends and relations
who've gone before them.
Party time, somewhere!

In the meantime,
the nascent pickle looks forward to its
daily dose, (for at least a month)
of fifteen minutes of sunshine.

Edited to add: the approximate recipe is in the comments section!

On the SRE's birthday

2011-02-08T18:53:00.007+05:30

All these bouquets reminded me of Mehdi Hasan's rendering of Saleem Gilani's lyrical lines:
'Phool hi phool khil utthe mere paimaane mein
aap kyaa aaye bahaar aa gai maikhaane mein'

May this birthday mark the beginning of a wonderful year! Happy Birthday, my dear SRE.

To the girl in the courier office

2011-02-07T14:15:00.004+05:30

I've known her by sight
For the last few years
she always has a smile
and a pleasant word.
Our brief contact is
always pleasant.
Today, I said to her,
You are looking tired.
Are you not well?

No, but my father passed away
suddenly, a few days ago.
He was eighty two,
and a heart patient,
He died peacefully,
during an afternoon siesta.

This girl's father-in-law
had died many years ago,
she never knew him.
So she asks her husband
How can you bear to live
without your father?
I don't know what he says,
But I know what I know

That we have no choice in such things
And the older generation going,
in the fullness of time is but natural,
Not to be mourned endlessly,
But to be remembered with love,
and gratitude.

I'm glad that your father
didn't suffer
And that you can remember him
as he was,
not transformed by endless pain
and suffering into a living skeleton,
The broad shoulders
once perched upon,
a distant memory.

The vacuum will always be there
but we do live.
Live we must,
Until our own turn arrives
For ashes and dust

At Kolkata airport

2011-02-06T12:35:00.003+05:30

This was a Tata Indigo with yellow on black registration plates. We wondered what had happened to it- the youngest child thought that it was a taxi that had given up the ghost, waiting for a passenger who never arrived.......

Give us this day our daily bread!

2011-01-28T22:43:00.004+05:30

The lentil soup in Istanbul was served with these gigantic naan like breads.
So, for all our globe-trotting, I was a very happy desi vegetarian, happily partaking of my dal and roti in what was almost a dhaba in Taksin Square.

Harmonies in blue and white

2011-01-28T22:01:00.003+05:30

I have always loved block prints in shades of blue and white. Seeing walls full of tiles in these colours at Istanbul last year was a wonderful experience.
My latest bed cover, bought in Delhi this winter, bears a distinct resemblance to the tiled walls!

New Year: Rants and more

2011-01-19T09:54:00.007+05:30

Ladies who brunch!
Such lovely flowers, in the same garden.
Winter plumage!

I spent most of New Year's day ranting and grumbling and muttering under my breath, because some misbegotten people in one of the neighbouring buildings were celebrating what might have been a wedding, with shrill music, all day long. The following weekend, the little Hanuman temple at the head of our lane was the site of a marquee and loudspeakers, half the road was blocked, and there was noise all through the day. A political party here decided to celebrate Swami Vivekananda's birthday week with various programmes, including a blood donation camp. Besides this very worthy cause, they also install loudspeakers on all the electric poles in the area, playing the Swami's speeches, and on this weekend we had no choice but to listen to them. You wouldn't believe that I chose to rent a flat on this particular road because it is very very quiet, almost a cul-de-sac. I say almost, because one end has a very very narrow path between high walls, and only two-wheelers can ply there. Today it is, thankfully, normal, and my brain is relaxed enough to write!

Rant over! A new species of morning walker has been spotted on XXXX Avenue. No, it is the same old walker, but with new winter plumage- I present to you the Red-scarfed Woolly Headed Dipali! Yes, the early mornings in Kolkata are actually that cold, especially when we are out there by six a.m at the latest! Late mornings are bright and sunny, and there are beautiful flowers abloom everywhere. Being out in the sunshine in winter is really a pleasure.

I love winter, and I do hope it doesn't vanish too soon.

Unforgettable Food

2011-01-08T12:58:00.002+05:30

Unforgettable is the food that you did not/could not eat at a particular time. We have all had hundreds and thousands of meals and snacks and desserts, eaten, digested, and largely forgotten.
As we say in Hindi- "khaaya peeya hazam kiya".
Can you remember what you ate last Monday evening? Unless it was a special occasion, when you just might remember what you had. I do remember last night's dinner, but only because we had gone out, and had pan fried noodles for the very first time.

A few days ago I was chatting with some friends, one of whom was annoyed because the members of her joint family had finished up her anniversary cake while she was at work, leaving a very tiny bit for her husband and herself. Another friend recalled an episode from her college days. As a post-graduate student, she was sharing an apartment with several other girls. As per their normal practice, on the midnight ushering in her birthday, she cut the cake which all the girls had got for her, which was shared and consumed. Her aunt had also brought her a Black Forest cake, which was untouched, as they had all eaten well. Imagine my friend's chagrin when she came home from college the next day to find two measly slivers of Black Forest left. She must have had several helpings of Black Forest in her life after that, but the unfairness of her flat mates still rankles.

As kids my sister and I would torment our poor mother by constantly raiding the larder and gobbling up all the goodies she had so painstakingly prepared. We were greedy kids, and didn't think of all the effort that had gone into those snacks, which should have lasted longer than we allowed them to. If she thought she had some goodies kept aside for guests, she was usually disappointed, and occasionally embarrassed. We were, sadly, quite shameless, and persisted in our greedy ways.

The one thing that I didn't eat that I can still recall after some forty odd years is a pretty pink and yellow pudding at an aunt's house. My father was fond of this family, and since I was his tail, I would inevitably tag along when he visited them. On this one occasion my sister came along too. (She was usually busy with her own pursuits, being older and probably less 'vela' than I was at the time. I think I was just more sociable, and of course I was Daddy's tail). After some sundry conversation, a tray with the pretty bowls of pudding was brought in and served. My father took one. The tray was offered to my sister, but she kept refusing. Perhaps she was feeling shy.
It was, of course, offered to me too, but, simply because my sister didn't have it, I felt honour bound not to have it. Several polite refusals later, my poor aunt gave up, wondering possibly what had got into this usually good eater! I was, of course, very annoyed with my sister.

So tell me, do you, dear readers have any such unforgettable foods?

Made for Each Other aka Dumb and Dumber

2010-12-29T08:46:00.004+05:30

A friend gave us complimentary tickets for the film 'Tees Maar Khan', so we went to see it this Sunday evening. The less said about the film, the better. Inane might be sufficiently descriptive.

We had a good Chinese meal in a restaurant in the mall. Of course the SRE had to mildly annoy me by constantly checking on the messages on his phone- a part of him is always at work! While driving down from our third floor parking spot, my cell phone rang. The call was from the SRE, who was sitting next to me, driving the car. I disconnected and laughed, "Why is your phone calling me? Very strange."
It rang again. I disconnected it again, wondering at the vagaries of mobile phones.
In the meantime, the SRE checked his pockets, and realised that he had left his phone in the restaurant. I called his number and was answered promptly by the restaurant manager. Since we were halfway down the slope, I told the SRE to proceed downwards while I rushed back to the restaurant, and gratefully received the man's Blackberry from the smiling manager.
Now how did he know what my number was? The SRE has listed me as 'Wife', and since I had gone out alone that morning, we had exchanged a few calls, so 'Wife' was up there in the recent calls!

I don't know if this particular restaurant is jinxed. The SRE had dined there with a colleague after watching a film while I was away earlier this month, and had left his car keys there, and had a merry time looking for them........

Quite apart from this joint stupidity, we had a great time at my niece's wedding. On our second morning there, while waiting at my sister's house for the rest of the family to assemble for the havan, some of us were sitting around after having had tea, when I thought that the contents of the huge fruit basket sitting on the dining table should be used. So a niece and I peeled some oranges, someone chopped up some guavas and served them with chaat masala, some grapes were washed and served. The dozen or so people assembled there were all enjoying this 'fruitful' session, when the SRE plaintively asked if I'd promise not to laugh at him if he told me what he really wanted to eat just then. Of course I never promise not to laugh at him, but I did ask him to speak up! What he wanted to eat was mooli, the white radishes that are an integral part of a North Indian winter. My sister had none at home, but the neighbourhood Mother Dairy vegetable vendor was barely five minutes away. An expedition was mounted, consisting of the SRE and spouse, a cousin's daughter, her six year old son, and the cousin's young daughter-in-law. A couple of kilos of radishes, a few slender carrots and some fat juicy limes were procured. Two large platefuls were served, one with chaat masala, one with salt and pepper. Happy munching over, it was time for the havan to commence.

Long may the SRE come up with wishes that are so easy to fulfill!

December is a busy month

2010-12-15T23:44:00.002+05:30

There's a whole lot that has already happened- a golden anniversary (my oldest cousin's); a cousin's daughter's wedding was held on the same day, so I missed that and attended the reception in Kolkata along with the bride's parents and brother, who stayed with me. Then the merry visit of some close friends. The SRE was travelling, and also did these ridiculous day trips, which involve getting up at unearthly hours for him to catch the first flight of the day, and coming back late the same evening. And if these trips occur on a Sunday I most strongly disapprove. (I still get up and make him a cup of tea, though).
We are leaving for my niece's wedding tomorrow, and will be back after a week.
Let us see what the tail end of the year holds for us all.
Au revoir, my gentle readers. Take care.

Stringing along!

2010-12-02T07:39:00.002+05:30

The 'patua', or jewellery stringer, is still part of the North Indian market scene. New Market in Kolkata has a few patuas, usually sitting outside large jewellery shops. Not only do they string your pieces for you, they also have a large array of colourful necklaces and bangles and earrings for sale.
On a recent visit to the patua, I sat on a small stool and gazed in fascination while he did my work. I have a beautiful black and gold pendant, strung onto golden thread which had become dull with use. I planned to have it put onto thin strands of tiny black beads. The patua first measured out the length I wanted, and told me how much it would cost. Then he slipped what looked like a crooked curtain ring onto his big toe, essentially a large hook, on which he pulled out sufficient lengths of black thread. He then slipped my pendant onto a nail on his work table, and attached the threads to both hooks. What was totally fascinating was how he transferred the tiny black beads from their original white thread to the black thread. You'd think it would be a lengthy process involving a very fine needle and eye-straining concentration. But no! The man clipped and then combed out, with his fingers, the ends of both threads, twined them together, and simply pushed the requisite length of black beads onto the locket thread. He repeated this process several times, and then fixed the strings and pendant onto the closing tassel. All this in between dealing with customers who were looking at and buying his 'pearl' bracelets and necklaces, answering his mobile phone, and drinking tea! His work space is actually tiny, perhaps six feet square, with a neat display of ready products, plus bundles and boxes of the materials needed for his trade. He has to dig through many bundles to find what he needs, but does so with equanimity, knowing that he has all that he requires.
When I asked him if I could take a photograph of him, he readily agreed, saying that many foreigners have photographed him.

Some of our traditional craftsmen, like the local dyers, (the rangrez of so many classical bandishes) make our lives so colourful and so simple, and, of course, do not charge very much money. Long may they prosper!

One year ago today

2010-11-25T09:36:00.004+05:30

By this time today, last year, our lives had changed, irrevocably.
The morning began like any other morning. I may have skipped my walk, as the previous day had been extremely busy. The SRE and I had gone to Bangkok for a conference the previous week, and my sister had been staying with my parents during our absence. She had planned to leave on the day after we returned, but owing to one or other of the eternal threats of bandh or strike on the Monday, decided to go on Tuesday afternoon. A dear friend had lost her father, and there was a ceremony for him on the same day, so I went there after leaving my sister at the airport.

I remember meeting my mother in the kitchen early in the morning as she was taking the tea tray to her room.
A while later, I heard my father call for me. (The home nurse used to come in at 8 a.m- this was about fifteen minutes before that). He told me that my mother seemed to be stuck in the bathroom. I wondered if the lock had jammed, and went to open the bathroom door. The door opened easily, fortunately not locked. My mother was sitting on the floor, parallel to the wall facing the commode. The floor was quite dry, but the porcelain cup she used to dilute her shampoo in lay shattered on the ground, and there was blood everywhere. The SRE and I managed to get her onto her bed, and covered her as she seemed to be in shock. Our GP was called, and he promptly came and examined her. At that point he could not say for sure whether she had a fracture or not. He prescribed painkillers, and asked me to observe her till that evening- if she was still in severe pain, I should take her for X-rays. The home nurse was told to give her a bed pan when required, and not let her get up.

The SRE was sent to his office, lunch was prepared and other routine jobs dealt with. In the afternoon I went to buy sufficient provisions for the week, just in case. I came back home and found that Mummy's pain had not decreased. I called my orthopaedic surgeon, and he advised me to take her to the hospital and get the prescribed X-rays done, and then he would examine her. When she left the room, I don't think any of us realised that this was the last 'normal' farewell she would ever say to my father. That same night, once she was admitted in the hospital with a broken neck-of-the-femur, her delusions and hallucinations began.

In retrospect, I am quite sure that she did not slip and fall in the bathroom. Having seen my father through two hip replacements, and essentially being a careful person, she was really cautious with her movements. What had happened would have been something intrinsic to her body- perhaps a TIA, perhaps a heart related event. Whatever the cause, and whatever she suffered in the next three months, seems like God's mercy- she did not have to see my father's slow and painful decline. Although she had wanted to take care of my father till his last breath, I don't think she would have been able to bear to see him suffer as much as he did. Even while she was in hospital, her delusions mostly centred around my father's care- was he properly covered, was he wearing his socks, had he eaten, why were his things not in their proper place.......

She used to wish that spouses could depart this world together. I have a feeling that she was taken first so that she could get things ready for Dad, make the way ready for him. I can quite imagine her nagging the workers in the Great Beyond to make sure that things are just right for her dear husband...........

For me, though, today was the beginning of the end.

On the street where I live

2010-11-23T10:46:00.003+05:30

The Bauhinia is blooming in all its glory. There is a pleasant nip in the air in the morning, and my morning walk is sheer, un-sweaty joy! The fans are still running, but I think the air-conditioners can now declare their annual break. My silk sarees are out, as are my shawls, in readiness for further chill. The youngest kid finds Kolkata winters an apology for the season, but to me this weather is glorious- an autumnal climate, perhaps, but so very pleasant.

In Pune this week!

2010-11-18T12:21:00.010+05:30

I am pleased to inform you that my friend Sukanta Basu is having an exhibition of his paintings in Pune, at the Waves Art Gallery. Please do visit.

Opening on 19th Nov. 2010, at 6:00 pm

on view till 27th Nov. 2010, 10:30 am to 8:00 pm

(Sunday Closed)
(http://www.wavesartgallery.com/exhibitions/sukanta_basu/default.asp)


Curator: Raju Sutar
Please click here to view the show online
'The Source Unknown' by Sukanta Basu Waves Art Gallery Pvt. Ltd., B 204, Parmar Trade Centre, Sadhu Vaswani Chowk, Pune 411001 +91 (20) 40064059 curator@wavesartgallery.com www.wavesartgallery.com Opening on 19th Nov. 2010, at 6:00 pm on view till 27th Nov. 2010, 10:30 am to 8:00 pm

Book Review- By The Water Cooler

2010-11-16T19:17:00.000+05:30

Here Be Dragons!
Parul's second book is out! By The Water Cooler is the quintessential fairy tale, transposed to modern corporate Mumbai. There are fire-breathing dragons, obnoxious slimy creatures, a damsel and her handmaiden, an extremely unlikely fairy godmother, an unexpected Prince Charming and so many many more interesting and convoluted characters- the CEO's assistant who sees herself as a top-class spy, for one! Parul tells us a rich and rollicking tale, in exquisitely crafted and hilarious words. I found this hard to put down, and sighed a contented sigh when I finished the last page!
I thoroughly enjoyed the desi touches, like the Sutta Club, the Apsara-named flatmates Urvashi and Menaka, the Great Indian Wedding which Tanya happily manages to plan out in detail during office hours........
With deft strokes, Parul conveys the nuances of single desi living- Mini's umpteenth phone call to her mother for her alu-tamaatar recipe, her calls to her father which inevitably boost her morale, the flood in the flat, the 'borrowing' of garments....... little vignettes which are humorous, and also very real. Like all good desi mothers, Mrs. Shukla is hoping for a suitable boy to materialise from somewhere, although Mini refuses to allow her to look for one, since she believes in love.
Although quitting is always an option, our Mini Shukla is no loser. With grit, determination, and good luck thrown in, her dragons are tamed. Of course there will always be others around the corner.........

Diwali 2010

2010-11-07T15:39:00.002+05:30

I don't know why I'm doing this, but

2010-11-02T20:32:00.007+05:30

I am in the throes of some rather obsessive cleaning and sorting out. I've been at it for several days now and there is still loads to do, but I think I'm getting there! I am, normally, a member of the out-of-sight, out-of mind school of thought as far as this is concerned, where I can happily tidy up all visible signs of mess, and then forget about them.
But my drawers and cupboards are protesting, tired of this overload, so I've finally got my act together, and am ruthlessly sorting out and chucking out whatever I can. Which, strangely enough, seems to be releasing endorphins into my system, and I'm actually enjoying the process.
My household is more than thirty years old, and despite various moves over the decades, during which a whole lot of things are disposed off, we seem to be breeding stuff. Strange stuff that may never be used, but which doesn't want to be thrown away on the specious grounds that you never know when you'll need it. That you will be unable to find it when you need it is another matter, of course. Of the various kinds of stuff, paper is a villain in my house. There are papers, and then there are important papers, and also very very important papers, like income tax returns and financial documents. Although we have more than thirty drawers of various sizes in the flat (yes, I just counted) , we do not possess a filing cabinet or dedicated cupboard. For a decent sized apartment, we have woefully inadequate storage.
Maybe it's us, lugging our accumulated possessions across the country........
Maybe it's the SRE, buying strange objets d'art from across the globe- some beauties, some horrible dust collectors.......
Maybe it's the younger son, our weekend resident. He loves to create things out of waste materials, and then the waste materials keep sitting there.......
Maybe it's just me- my father was a terrible hoarder, and I seem to have taken after him in several ways. Some of my youngest child's toys have been kept for posterity. A trunk full of children's books is a treasured possession, which also has some of my own childhood tomes. Some things are too precious to even think of giving away, though I wonder if they will be in good enough condition for our grandchildren to read. The now rarely played cassettes are waiting for the day they will be converted to CDs.

I need to throw out all the unused and now obsolete cell phone chargers that are sitting pretty in one drawer. Two brand new packets of the joora pins my mother used to use. Old magazines which I want to re-read, but I know I never will. Three and four tier stainless steel tiffin carriers. Will we ever use them again, I wonder? Fliers from Dominos with discount coupons. No, we don't have to buy their pizzas. The four-in-one music system which gave up the ghost soon after
Mr. Bose made his appearance. The emergency light which stopped working soon after my father passed away. His electric shaver with blades that needed replacing but then weren't because the home nurse would shave him with disposable razors. I'd once asked the SRE to buy some nice bedsheets from Thailand. Unfortunately, they are fitted sheets which are difficult to fold properly and which are a little too big for our bed, so they have rarely been used. The tiny broken terracotta elephants which lurk in a corner of the sideboard. The list goes on and on.........

Thankfully, something has motivated me, and I'm at it for hours every day. I need to follow my sister-in-law's policy of cleaning out one drawer or one shelf every single day- all the time.
I wonder if I will suddenly develop the discipline to do so. But in the meantime, each clean drawer is a triumph.

I didn't think of this as Diwali cleaning when I started out, but now the weather is pleasant and cool and there is festivity in the air, so I think it has morphed into Diwali cleaning!

Happy Diwali, everyone.

Chacha on Sunset Years

2010-10-30T09:49:00.001+05:30

It's a long post, but a wonderful one- please do check this out.
http://ssseth-gupshup.blogspot.com/2010/10/welcome-sunset-years.html

A Crocodile on the Nile!

2010-10-25T10:21:00.005+05:30

On the deck

Sparkles on the water

Pretty please!

That, my friends, was the only crocodile we encountered on the Nile. We spent four days cruising down the magnificent Nile, from Luxor to Aswan. Photographs are being sorted out very very slowly, but will follow soon.
We had a lovely room on board, with a large bed, a seating area, a fridge and TV (with hardly any channels, but enough for the SRE to have something to channel surf) plenty of wardrobe space, and, best of all, two bathrooms. Tiny, but one each!!!! What more can one ask for?

Book Review- Come, Before Evening Falls

2010-10-19T22:53:00.006+05:30

Manjul Bajaj's book, "Come, Before Evening Falls" has the distinction of being the first book I ordered from Flipkart!
That apart, I read it soon after our July visit to Bhutan, so the opening chapter, in which the founder of the village travels to Bhutan for the second time in his life (in what was then a journey of several months) immediately resonated with me.
(It was only on visiting Bhutan that I learned that it is a largely matrilineal society).
Set in the Haryana of a century ago, in a village that is named after a stud bull, Kala Saand, this book depicts rural Indian life with great authenticity.
The protagonist, young Jugni, orphaned at an early age, loves her home and her village, the beauty of the family's farmlands, and her beloved Dadi. Her widowed older uncle, her Tau, marries her Chachi when her younger uncle dies in battle. (The men of the Jat community mainly earn their living as farmers and as soldiers serving in the British army).
Tau is a leader in his village, and is progressive in his thinking. In order to improve the educational standards in his village school, he sends for a young master from another village. Raakha is an unhappy young man, the product of familial rape. He loathes his father and his aunt, and is always infuriated by the way in which his mother, his younger brother, and he are treated. His father is a rich landowner, favouring his other sons, and ignoring or refusing anything Raakha dreams of or aspires to do with his life. Raakha gets educated thanks to his maternal uncle ensuring that he goes, first to a gurukul, and then to college in Lahore.

Raakha is a progressive and enthusiastic teacher. He is also ambitious for others, and encourages Tau in his political ambitions, seeing himself in a more than advisory role in the future.
There are many social changes afoot- Tau's older son, Lena Singh, is stationed with the army in Bengal. Along with several fellowJat soldiers, he is planning to wear the janeu (sacred thread) in defiance of army diktat. His father feels that such a move would be unwise, and unfavourable to the community at large. Dadi agrees with him, because Guru Nanak refused to wear the janeu when it was offered to him.

It was lovely the way Dadi told that story, of Nanak at nine years, refusing the sacred thread. Beaten down by his stubborn refusal, his father's purohit had asked him at last what kind of thread the boy wanted and he had answered he wanted one made of the cotton of compassion, spun with the thread of contentment, with knots of continence and twists of truth.

Raakha, however, wondered what Nanak would have done if the janeu had been denied to him, rather than offered to him.Was it still your dharma to play according to the rules, to behave like a gentleman, when you knew the dice was loaded against you from the start?What was the duty of a rightful man in a wrongful world? Was it to douse one's anger or stoke it? Was he to speak soft words of logic asking for justice that no one would hear, or was he to stand on the pulpit, shout and raise a red flag of protest that everyone would notice from afar?

Jugni is initially repelled by and also attracted to Raakha. He soon comes to respect her clarity of thought and her integrity. Inevitably, the youngsters do fall in love. Jugni is tormented by opposing inner voices, wondering which voice is true to her real self. She is well aware that her relationship with Raakha is doomed even before it can begin- besides not having any land or wealth, he also belongs to the same gotra. In any case, she has grown up well aware of the dangers of love- one of her earliest memories is of her older cousin Sheilo crying out late one night to her mother to save her 'Maa manne bachha le! ' Jugni never sees her after that, nor is she ever referred to. She recalls other village girls who have committed suicide, having brought dishonour to their families. And yet, she and Raakha do share a deep, though clandestine friendship. When Raakha abuses his father, she stops him."He is your father, his blood flows in your veins.When you abuse him you dishonoour yourself..............Can't you see, Raakha, that your father is not here? The only person you are hurting in this moment is yourself."

The book moves at an even pace, depicting many interesting details of rural life a century ago, such as the special garments given to a bride, and the seven kinds of vessels that are given to her, the way a prospective bride's height is measured, and how she is critically examined for 'defects'.
The political atmosphere of the period is volatile.The Arya Samaj is an emerging influence. Many changes are afoot. Raakha's interior monologue when he receives his first quarter's salary, fifteen silver rupees, besides telling us what this not-so-princely sum can buy and cannot buy, also gives us a glimpse of city life.
In Lahore fifteen siver rupees would have bought him a pot of tea in fine porcelain cups with saucers on a silver tray and finely cut cucumber sandwiches, at the new restaurant off Mall Road..........Or it would buy him a bachelor night in Heera Mandi in the company of friends, good liquor and a clean whore.....

Each character is lovingly depicted with a light and sure touch. Jugni and Raakha, Dadi, Tau, Chachi, the various cousins, Raakha's long suffering mother, the barber's wife, the potter's daughter, all come vividly to life.

Beautifully crafted, (and also elegantly printed), Manjul Bajaj leads you through a rivetting story, to an ending which stuns you and leaves you gasping for breath.

Come, Before Evening Falls, by Manjul Bajaj, 2009, Published by Hachette India

New Driver!

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Parul's new book- By The Water Cooler

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Parul's new book is expected to be out in November. Her second book, By the Water Cooler, follows her second baby who is a little over five months old.
Parul deals with motherhood and the resultant mayhem with great aplomb, and also manages to write books as well!
Her first book, Bringing Up Vasu, was a hilarious account of the trials and tribulations of early motherhood, and featured several unforgettable characters. (I live in mortal fear of getting as fat as the nanny who Had to Be Extricated from a Really Tight Spot). She and her spouse have bravely brought forth another baby, Ragini, whom she sometimes refers to as Raagu-face. Her monthly letters to her daughter are utterly delightful.
Parul is also hosting the following:

By The Water Cooler Contest

You need to write a post telling a story or an anecdote based in an office. It could be about you, your spouse, kids, neighbour, whoever - it just needs to be based in an office. It can be funny, serious, somewhere in between, but it needs to be based in an office. It can feature a single protagonist or multiple characters, but it...yes, I know, you got it.
You need to link to this post
You need to put By The Water Cooler in the title of your post
You need to leave me (Parul) a link to your post in the comments section
If you don't have a blog, leave me your entry in the comments section and it will be counted

PRIZES - Five autographed copies of By The Water Cooler are up for grabs. The five best entries will be decided by the esteemed M so please remember to pick up your grouses with him.

LAST DATE - October 31st, 2010

Almost home!

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We got home last week, but are off again to celebrate my sister-in-law's golden anniversary.
Back next week.
Let me leave you with one of my favourite pictures from this trip- a kitten near a gate in the Topkapi Palace, Istanbul.