The best and worst of times...

- 500 words
-- Begin with "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times"
-- Reimagine not this time, but some other time from your lives that can serve as analogy for this day, time and place.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, that December of 1998. My husband was recovering from a health condition that had kept him in and out of hospital from mid-August. He had just about started going to his office for a couple of hours every day. My father was in hospital in distant Delhi, recovering from a heart attack, diagnosed in early December. We were in Ernakulam. My older son was in Delhi, in his first year of college, sharing hospital duties along with my sister and my mother. The 26^th was my father’s birthday, his seventy-sixth. I’d been remembering him since morning, sad at the thought of my active, cheerful father being confined to a hospital bed, and that too on his birthday.

We had been in regular touch over the telephone since my husband’s first hospitalization in August.  I had the support of my children, my sisters-in-law, aunt and niece-in-law, as well as a good friend, each of whom had come to stay for a while, as needed. My younger son, not yet nine, was well looked after. We also had wonderful neighbours and friends who were there for us.

Around eleven that morning, my son called, telling me to come, that Nanaji was critical. After calling my husband and asking him to book my ticket, I called up a friend in Fort Kochi whose mother had been staying with her for a while, and who had become a kind, motherly, aunt to me, asking her to request Auntie to stay in my home and look after the recovering patient and the younger son. (My friend’s baby daughter was almost a year old at the time). She came over and oriented her mother to my home and kitchen as best as she could.

That flight, from Kochi to Delhi, was probably the most excruciating flight of my life. I managed to convince myself that the husband would be well looked after, but I didn’t know whether my father would even be around by the time I reached his bedside. Our nephew picked me up at the airport and drove me straight to the hospital.

Within a couple of days my brother came down from England, and my Chacha and cousin came from Chhattisgarh. My sister had been ill, and was told to stay home. We had to move the patient from the government hospital to a private one for medical reasons. My cousin and I spent hours in the waiting room of the private hospital, waiting to show Dad’s reports to the cardiologist.               The closeness forged in those hours has only grown deeper. I remember Dad thoroughly enjoying the ambulance ride, sirens blaring, feeling like a VIP. The cardiologist had asked us to pay the hospital bills, and get government reimbursement later. I remember a neighbor coming to the hospital lobby and handing my mother a bundle of cash.

There was help at each and every stage, for which I remain eternally thankful.

A Fascinating Person

---500 words about a person who fascinates (fascinated) you.

Mathangi Krish, Gouri Dange, Paromita Vohra, Sneha Annavarapu, Veena Mani,

As the days grew warmer, it made sense for me to walk earlier in the mornings than I used to. That is when I first noticed him, walking on the winding paths of our colony garden, R.K. Laxman’s common man grown old. To add to that endearing image was the cotton scarf that he had tied under his chin. There was something very appealing about this old man, who became a part of my morning landscape.
As the days warmed up, the scarf vanished, revealing a bald pate surrounded by a fringe of white hair. Thick glasses, a dull cream dhoti and kurta, and thick navy sneakers worn with dark gray socks were his everyday garb. After a few sightings I started wishing him, on my first round, with a silent ‘namaste’, which he equally silently reciprocated. I inevitably walked clockwise, and he walked anticlockwise, so of course our paths had to cross a few times. Since we were living in Covid times, close encounters of any kind were not desirable, and whenever our paths were due to intersect we would try to shrink into the hedges that lined our path. He would also hold his proximal arm behind him, to minimize the chance of an accidental bump. The only time I ever spoke to him was yesterday, when I pointed to his shoelaces and said, “Uncle,pheetey khule hain”. (Your shoelace is untied). He mumbled an acknowledgement and we both continued on our respective ways.
He walks with stooped shoulders, also bending forward from the waist. His walk is a strange dancing shuffle, which propels him quite quickly along his way. After I’d done a couple of rounds, I would spy him sitting on a particular low wall. The day I was very much later than usual I would, to my chagrin, see him sitting on ‘my’ bench, where I sat and did my knee exercises.
A couple of times I saw him leaving the park with a man whom I recognize but do not know. I assume that he is living with his son. I also assumed a rural background, though I could not envisage him as a patriarch. He looks as though he had been, for much of his life, a younger brother, someone who has bowed to the commands of others. He didn’t look as though he could ever have been strict or authoritarian: perhaps even his own children called him Chachaji rather than Babuji, which used to be common in joint families. (Both my grandmothers were universally known as Chachi). I can also see him as a benevolent grandfather, as someone whose lap grandchildren clamber onto, demanding a story or a toffee from his special stash, or just five rupees to buy an ice-lolly with. I can see him absent mindedly petting his son’s dog. Is he modern enough for his daughter-in-law to not have to cover her head in his presence? I hope so.
I hope he never knows how much thought he has inspired!

Repair, renew, rethink

--- 500 words
---- Title "Repair, renew, rethink"
----- Must revolve around one material object either as focus of the piece or as metaphor
---- Write in the manner of a DIY lesson.
Mathangi Krish, Gouri Dange, Paromita Vohra, Sneha Annavarapu, Veena Mani, Shyamala R Edwards

The Fabric of our Lives
One of the byproducts of middle class prosperity has been the proliferation of garments in our wardrobes. I remember, as a child, my mother having one lovely plummy-purple silk saree, with a thin gold line at the border, which she wore for all winter weddings. For summer functions she wore a mauve chiffon with a cream lace edging. The rest of the time she wore pretty printed synthetics and a few ‘home’ cotton sarees. For family weddings, we got new clothes, but they were brand new ‘everyday’ clothes, no single-use glitter and bling.
I once read about a man who was very frugal in his needs. At any given time he would have two cotton dhoties that he alternately wore until they were no longer wearable, when he would hang them up as curtains on his window. Once they were too threadbare for that, he would use them to wipe the floor of his dwelling. Once unusable as mops, he would roll the shreds of fabric into wicks for his lamp.
Given the pressures of waste and greed on Mother Nature, many wise souls are trying to refurbish used fabrics. Friends and family exchange garments, and traditional art forms involving recycled fabric, like Kantha work and patchwork are regaining popularity. We used to use layers of worn out silk sarees as the top part of cotton filled quilts. The NGO Goonj has been doing excellent work in this field, with complete utilization of donated materials.
Imagine, if you will, a large pile of clothing. (Perhaps you are Marie Kondo-ing your wardrobe!) Sort through and segregate what is wearable, either by self or others. Keep aside what you think you will wear, put the rest in the ‘To Donate’ pile.
Identify the flaws in the unwearable pieces. Can they be rendered wearable by simple repairs like the replacing of buttons or simple darning/patching? If so, segregate into the repairable pile.
Your favourite Ikat top has, by some tragedy, developed holes in strategic places. It can no longer be worn, even with repairs. You look at it. And at another top which has faded in several places. Can these two combine into a pair of cushion covers? Or shopping bags? Bags sound more useful, especially since we are trying to reduce the use of plastic bags. Layering the Ikat over the faded fabric gives a pleasing effect. The small, visible holes can be concealed with simple embroidery. Are you brave enough to unpack your sewing machine, which has not seen the light since it was packed up for your move from Kolkata, almost seven years ago? If yes, you are a true champion. If not, go to the roadside tailor who sits under a tree outside the housing society gates. A fabric bag or two will come to life.
Become a bag lady, i.e. one who always has a bag or two in her handbag or pocket or in her vehicle. Make bags. Give bags. Use bags.

Clinamen v.3

----- 500 words
----- write about any piece of art that moves/ moved you
----- cannot use the words "transcendent", "ethereal", "divine", and "sublime"
------5:30 pm

Perhaps moved is the wrong term. This was a work of art that stilled me, art which kept me with it for a long, long time.

This was in late 2017. We had gone to the USA for our second innings as grandparents, and, shortly after that major event, went holidaying in Denver, Seattle, and, finally, San Francisco. After a couple of days spent with our nephew and his family in the suburbs, we moved to a hotel in Union Square. After we checked in, our nephew kindly dropped the spouse at the train station (he had a meeting somewhere), and left me at the doors of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. It was a day full of much magic and fabulous art, including the art of Diego Rivera, Edward Hopper, and so many others. I went slowly from room to room, from exhibit to exhibit, some strange, some marvelous: all amazing experiences.

And then, in a large room, a circular blue pool, with a light brown wooden surround. A low wall, perhaps a foot above the ground, at the edge of the surround, with a large gap, or opening in it, a doorway, as it were, to the pool. Several people were sitting on that low wall, seemingly enchanted by the installation. Inside the pool, several flat bottomed white porcelain bowls of different sizes, floating on the surface of the water, moving along on invisible currents, chiming randomly as they did so. They gently chimed when they touched, and then moved on. The sound was soft, gently compelling me to sit and stay awhile. How random were the encounters of each bowl, how utterly unpredictable! I tried following one particular bowl for as long as I could, but it was a difficult task. Our human interactions seemed as random, as governed by chance, as the interactions between the bowls. I submitted to the experience, allowing myself to be completely absorbed in the magical, musical clinks as bowl struck bowl.

This soundscape, called clinamen v.3 (2012-ongoing) was created by the French artist Celeste Boursier-Mougenot. The title is derived from the Latin term used by the Roman philosopher Lucretius to describe the unpredictable nature of atoms, in his poem, The Nature of Things. (According to Wikipaedia, Clinamen is the word Lucretius gave to the unpredictable swerve of atoms. He means that these atoms don't just fall down, but because of the swerve collisions happen.^[1] Lucretius wrote that without this slight swerve (atoms) would "fall like raindrops and never touch and the world would have never been made".^[1] Lucretius was the first to write about Chaos theory.^[2] )    

Atoms or people, to me it seemed much the same. All encounters, ultimately finite. Ultimately unpredictable. All random. What forces were at play here, I wondered. Never had I thought, that of all the wonderful art I have seen in my life, I would be so utterly and totally enchanted by a small round pool of water with bowls floating in it!        

Chinese Whispers!

-- 500 words
-- "Chinese Whispers"
-- Hide the names of two films in your text
Mathangi, Gouri, Paromita, Sneha, Veena

Aunt N: Mukul spends a lot of time in Mumbai these days, doesn’t he?
Rani: Yes, Auntie, what to do? All his clients are based there. He has to be there.
Aunt N: Why don’t you move there too, Rani? It must be so difficult for him alone out there.
Rani: I’m still working, Auntie! He started this consulting business after he retired. The children are busy with their own lives. He comes home when he can, I go there when I can, and we do talk every day. He’s enjoying this new challenge.
x-x-x
Aunt N: Rohit, I think Rani should move to Mumbai soon.
Uncle R: Why Didi? Do they plan to move?
Aunt N: Mukul has been there almost since he retired. She won’t leave her job. She said he’s enjoying something. But I don’t think husbands should be left alone to enjoy anything, even if they have retired and aren’t young anymore. Suppose he falls for some young heroine out there? After all, Dil Hi To Hai!
Uncle R: Didi, Mukul is very sober and sensible. Don’t worry yourself unnecessarily.
Aunt N: Rohit, Rani is your favourite niece. I think you should warn her, tell her she must move.
x-x-x
Rohit: Reena, my darling child, how are you doing?
Reena: Fine, Papa, sab badhiya. What’s happening at home? How is the family?
Rohit: All well, generally. Mukul is consulting in Mumbai now, and my big sister thinks that Rani should move there before he falls for someone else!
Reena: Papa, Bua‘s brain is fully Golmaal. Rani Didi and Mukul Jiju are as close as can be. Didi will retire soon. Maybe Jiju winds up his projects before that. Anyway, it’s up to them entirely.
x-x-x
Reena: Gayatri bachcha, how are you doing?
Gayatri: All cool. Actually, no, Maasi. Going mad writing my thesis chapters. It never ends. What on earth made me even want to do a PhD?
Reena: This too shall pass, then my darling will be Dr. Gayatri Chopra! How are Didi and Jiju doing?
Gayatri: Fine! I miss Papa! He’d get up early, give me my coffee, get my day started. Mamma really can’t get up early! She just about manages to make some breakfast before she rushes off to work. But it’s okay.
x-x-x

Rohit: Namaste Didi. How are you?
Aunt N: I’m as okay as one can be at eighty two. All joints aching. But tell me, what news?
Rohit: Nothing much, Didi. Reena spoke to Rani, she’s struggling with her Ph.D thesis, misses her dad. Rani is busy with her work. Mukul might take a break for a while so he can give Gayatri moral support.
x-x-x
Auntie N: How are you, Rani?
Rani: All good, Auntie.
Auntie N: What good? I told you to move to Mumbai. Now I hear Mukul is leaving his business and coming back. A man can’t manage alone.

Rani holds her head in both hands, phone blabbering away on the table in front of her.

Something about myself!

Today's prompt:

-- 500 words
--- Responding to the question: "Tell me something about yourself"
-- 5:30 pm

I am that weird woman who insists on smiling at total strangers in her residential colony only because they look like people she knows. Or, because if you’ve seen someone every day at the same time and in the same general area, you can ‘know’ each other enough to acknowledge each other. Six years here, including a couple of years of team work with another smiler and greeter, and we have a much smili-er colony! I’m sexist enough to only smile at strange women, though, but also ageist enough to greet anyone who looks old, according to me! And I have found, invariably, that the older people always respond. I also like dogs and babies, both in general, and as ice-breakers on colony walks!

I sing nonsense songs to my far away grandchildren. I think I get away with it because the spouse tunes out my voice anyway, most of the time! (If I took God’s name as often, I would have attained Nirvana by now). It is not an active missing, I think. I know that I wouldn’t have the energy to deal with them for long periods of time anyway. Maybe I’m trying to send them a constant supply of granny love across the oceans, I don’t know. I do know that I’d die of embarrassment if they heard me!

I talk to recalcitrant objects in my home, as well as to the damn pigeons. I actually caught myself threatening to slap them this morning, those shameless pigeons. And yet, I am not blind to the beauty of their iridescent, bejewelled neck feathers either. I just don’t want them pooping on my floors and stomping on my plants. Our printer only listens to me: it has to be coaxed and coerced to perform. Our music system, the famous Bose ji,  also the subject of several blog posts, (https://dipalitaneja.blogspot.com/2008/07/me-and-mrbose.html , https://dipalitaneja.blogspot.com/2010/04/taming-boseji.html      https://dipalitaneja.blogspot.com/2012/01/sre-and-boseji.html)   is highly selective about what it wishes to play. KL Saigal and Pankaj Mullick CDs have been consistently rejected in recent days. Today Boseji was kind enough to play one particular Mukul Shivputra CD, having rejected another two, an Ashwini Bhide Deshpande, and now, the wonderful Kalapini Komkali, singing a beautiful Raga Nand.

I listen to music when I’m happy. I am strangely happy in these strange days, enjoying the peaceful companionship of my spouse. It’s a far cry from the rather frenetic life he was leading, which would also exhaust me, even though he would be away for much of the time. We are both busy with our own stuff, mostly in different rooms, but it’s still companionable. Of all the genres of music that I do enjoy, I think that I love Hindustani Classical vocal the most. As an untrained listener, the poetry of the ‘bandish’ seems to anchor my attention. Sometimes, though, I don’t have much choice in the matter: Boseji rules. I am, however, aching to see my children, despite seeing them on video calls. I pray that I can hug them soon.

Dreamscape

- 500 words
-- Sketch the contours of a dreamscape
-- Your piece must begin with "Once upon a time" and end with "happily ever after".
Deadline: 5:30 pm
Tagging Mathangi Krish, Gouri Dange, Paromita Vohra, Veena Mani, Sneha Annavarapu.

Once upon a time I listened to Kumar Gandharv sing Sant Kabir’s ‘Sakhiya’. And then, of course, I listened to it again and again, until it joined the collective of the songs and the poetry that have become a part of me, that I specially need to remember when my world is proceeding on a track that I don’t quite like. It describes the dreamscape I want to inhabit, and yet do nothing to reach. The abode of my beloved is truly unique, with the absence of all that is familiar. It is a magical world. Would it be fair of me to translate it here? I don’t think so. And yet this remains my ultimate dreamscape.
(Let me link you to the song, the lyrics, and the translation, in case you are interested).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sho8H8HSEfg
http://kabir-sant.blogspot.com/…/sakhiya-wah-ghar-sabse-nya…
All my earthly dreamscapes, though, seem to be set outdoors, with birds chirping, trees, and running water: a stream which I am young enough and fleet enough to cross, hopping over the rocks to get to the meadow on the other side. A meadow full of soft green grass, dotted with flowers. A few shahtoot (mulberry) trees, laden with juicy purple fruit, once again trees which I am spry enough to climb. I am joyfully, joyously, aware of the beauty of my surroundings, the pleasant cool breeze, the fragrance of the flowers and field, the gurgling of the stream, the accessibility of the fruit, the weight of the satchel I am carrying: book, lunchbox, water bottle, all senses potentially satiated. Do I wish for company, for a soul mate, a beloved to commune with in the lap of Nature? My dream is, so far, joyful in its solitude. Thou beside me in the wilderness? No thanks. I don’t even want anyone to be concerned about me. My spirit seeks a freedom from all bonds, all expectations, even from love. For now, at least. For the length of this dream. And in this beautiful, unpopulated world, I hear the strains of Bach. The sounds of the very Universe. My soul is nurtured, joyful. There seems to be no concept of time in my magic place. The day remains cool. The sun is neither ascending in the sky, nor descending. I can be in my dream world for as long as I choose. I am perched in the fork of a shahtoot, reading, and occasionally reaching out for the sweet, juicy fruit. Somewhere within, though, I am aware that this is not my reality, there is a world beyond this which is piercing through my blissful state of being, reminding me of a very real world of love and relationships, responsibilities, chores, walks and exercise, reading and writing and cooking, the home of my earthly beloved, the one to whom I pledged my troth a lifetime ago. I switch off the alarm, and get ready to start my day. A brisk walk, and it’s time for tea with the one who constitutes my happily ever after.