My little-or perhaps not so little-niece, Jayati, is an interesting kid. All of twelve years, this young lady knows her mind and is very focused. In fact, a lot of times, she even tries to know other people’s minds, in the sense that she’ll plan things for them down to a T and then expect them to oblige. That doesn’t work a lot of times as, in these days of independent thinking since age 3 or less, no one wants to do something s/he doesn’t want to.
But what truly endears the kid are her warm, caring ways. From the time she was really small, she would make lovely cards for us on birthdays and special occasions, would always remember to call and thank us even if we did something very small for her and has always been very perceptive of people’s needs and moods. Coming from a kid 7, 8, 9 years of age, this was no mean quality. And of late, her sensitivity has been amply borne out by the beautiful poetry she composes-truly unbelievable for one so young. The depth of feelings she captures and the topics she chooses to write on have left us amazed.
But at the end of the day the kid is a kid-just that. A loving, caring kid who invests a great deal of herself in people –she has the ability to do a lot for folks who matter to her.
And thus it transpired that on Monday, she wanted my sister to bake a cake for her school friend, whom she wanted to ‘surprise’ on her birthday the following day. Now if there’s one thing my sister can claim, in terms of culinary prowess, it’s her ability to bake superb cakes. She makes the very Best-there’s no other word for it (perhaps, as she herself humbly explains- and as her family never tires of reminding her- because all her cooking talents get concentrated into baking that one gourmet item) So Jayati’s request was not uncalled for, especially as the occasions when she had carried cake as part of her lunch had always left her pals licking their fingers……….however, for my sister, it was a fairly tall order at the end of a week day, bogged down as she is with heavy responsibilities and long hours of work. And without prior intimation, mind you (in the government that’s pretty unthinkable I would say!) But mothers are mothers and the occasion was special, so, tired though she was, she agreed to do the needful.
A yummy chocolate cake-the very pinnacle of her repertoire- was duly baked. As it happened, in an effort to help my sis, my brother-in-law enthusiastically put the baking dish into the microwave oven. However, he placed it on the top shelf instead of the middle one and therefore the cake was crustier and of a darker chocolate hue than it ought to’ve been. Immense dexterity was brought into play and the object was inverted gingerly into a round, ornate box-the exquisite work on which would, it was hoped, distract the consumers from the unhealthy tinge of the cake. This strategic move also successfully concealed the burnt portion as it magically became the base, instead of the erstwhile top, and though it was considerable reversal of fate for the self-same top, it was a veritable lesson in military camouflage!!
It is another matter altogether that after all these precautions were taken, the dear girl informed my sis that she had asked for vanilla flavour in the first place! Adhering to the time tested philosophy of che sera sera, we’ll let that pass and move on to the more interesting happenings of the day.
Having done her good deed for the day, Leena, my sister, was feeling at peace with herself and was fondly visualizing the moving scene that would unfold in the school the following day, when delighted and dewy-eyed, the birthday girl would taste the chocolate delight and embrace her loving friend for the thoughtful gesture. Quite caught up in her reverie, she suddenly became aware of a loud wail somewhere in her immediate vicinity. Always quick on the uptake, she sprang to her feet and rushed in the direction from where the sound had emanated. And sure enough, it was young Jayati, sobbing away inconsolably. Marvelling at the mercurial change in demeanour-and feeling bewildered at what could have wrought such a drastic swing of moods so fast-Leena started her inquisition. Seasoned though she is at crisis management and handling tough situations- confusions and mix-ups being an integral part of the bureaucratic world- she was still taken a back when she made sense of the situation. What seemed to filter out-in bits and pieces- between racking sobs-was that the birthday gal was throwing a party to which all and sundry had been invited but not our loving protagonist. Any number of calls asking her if she had been invited had been received and the heartless world seemed to be mocking at her plight.
Now this was definitely a piquant situation and Leena’s heart went out to the child-but there was nothing that she-who organized international meets and conferences with enviable élan-could do about it. She felt helpless, watching the child cry and trying to console her that this happened to all of us sometime or the other. Parties and do s we were sure of being asked to, sometimes left us out in the cold, but her reasoning cut no ice with a twelve year old who had so set her heart on greeting her friend and spreading joy and sunshine in her life. It was a cruel anti-climax that the very same ‘friend’ did not seem to even consider her in her immediate circle of friends. Had Jayati possibly miscalculated the quality of their friendship? Were they simply ‘lunch-time buddies’ and not really close friends, Leena wondered? She tried questioning her but drew a blank, given the incoherent words and recurrent sobs.
At this point, I, who had so far played the role of the quiet listener admirably, decided to butt in with a query. As the surprise-springing had been planned for that very day and the news of the dear niece being dropped like a hot potato had cut me to the quick-I expressed the mean hope that the cake had not been taken to school then. The girl surely hadn’t deserved it, I reasoned.
No, I was informed. The cake had duly been carried to school. All the heartbreak of the previous night notwithstanding (Bless the child and the touching innocence of a childhood that knows no rancour.) And did the birthday girl appreciate the surprise, the super-thoughtful gesture …you may well ask!! For-and here’s the wonderful catch to this saga of love and tears- the said girl chose not to turn up in school that day!
Of course, with the native wisdom and resilience of the young, the other girls consumed the cake with alacrity but Jayati remembered to bring back a few slices so that her parents and sister could also taste the same.
And the post script to the whole merry event was that the birthday girl hadn’t invited anyone till then. These over-zealous gals had been going into a tizzy calling one another and checking if anyone had been invited, when the formal invite hadn’t been issued to anyone!! And since no one had thought it fit to mention that she had not been invited either, it caused such unwarranted misery.
The poor girl has most respectfully invited everyone to her party which is due tomorrow (anyone game?)……..and here's a toast to over-enterprising youngsters with super active imagination!
The Case of the Surpriser Being Surprised; eh!!
Monday, December 3, 2007
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Passenger from Frankfurt
Frankfurt 4.40 PM and the sun was already disappearing over the horizon. I looked at my watch incredulously. The days were so short here! I was filled with surprise.
On my way back from a cousin’s wedding in San Jose, I had boarded the plane after a well-deserved 90 minute break at Frankfurt. The flight from LA had been uneventful but the connecting flight from San Francisco before that couldn’t have been dubbed uneventful by any stretch of the imagination. The very thought of it gave me the creeps all over again…………………
That was on the 29th October, two days before we were scheduled to return to India from LA. Having gone to San Jose for a cousin’s wedding, we were all in high spirits most of the time-literally and figuratively. That day was particularly delightful as the bride was to come home and-like all marriages where one is on the groom’s side-there was an air of triumph, an unspoken exhilaration that stemmed from the fact that there was a new addition (acquisition??) to the family. The entire baraat was on cloud 9 as the bride and the groom started off, from SJ to San Francisco, in a spotless white limo, duly chaperoned by four little boys of all shapes and dispositions. The mood was festive, the colours we wore vibrant as we waited for the newly-wed couple to arrive
In short, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
We-my brother, sister-in-law, their kids, my sister and I- were in a bit of a tizzy as we had to be a part of the celebrations while keeping a furtive eye on the watch. Because we needed to catch the afternoon flight to LA and though suitably enthused by it all, couldn’t help experiencing slight trepidation each time we sneaked a glance at the watch and saw the hands crawl inexorably closer to departure time and the bridal limo still nowhere in sight. Finally, when the suspense was getting almost deadly, it loomed on the horizon and all the rituals were fast forwarded in the vain hope that we would be able to bless the bride and present our gifts to her. The sumptuous lunch ordered from an Indian restaurant and organized on the 19th floor of the posh apartment had to be consumed too, so all in all; we were in the afore-mentioned tizzy. So much so that despite meticulous planning, my sis-in-law and I had to leave for the airport resplendent in heavy saris, instead of the jeans and tee shirts we had very practically and thoughtfully kept on top of our hand baggage.
We set off for the airport merrily enough, in two cars being driven by the groom and another Friscan cousin, well in time for the flight after all. It is another matter that we discovered that a Laptop had managed to get left behind in another van and an SOS of sorts had to be made to Chris, our American brother-in-law-a new entrant into the fold-and he rushed to the airport post haste, bless him. Pretty close but all said and done, we managed to check in eight items of baggage in the nick of time and proceeded for security check with forty minutes still to go.
What with all the song and dance of putting one’s jackets, purses, footwear, besides every conceivable metallic possession, into trays that are scanned, x-rayed and what not, the six of us took fairly long to clear the queue. Or almost clear it. For when I approached the frame through which everyone has to walk for the metal-detection test, I observed that my sis-in-law had been signaled to stand on one side of the line. Why, I was not able to understand. Nor did I have the time to figure it out because no sooner had I walked through that all important door than the red lights began beeping in a mad frenzy. I was as surprised as the next person and before you could say metal detector I had been waved to a separate place on the other side of the line. It seemed that the beeps indicated something sinister about me. Soon, my sister was made to join the not-so-merry threesome, except that the two of them had to stand on one side and poor ole me on the other. The chappie responsible for all these acrobatics was standing stolidly in front of us-an inscrutable expression on his face- refusing to divulge why we were detained and not doing anything further about it. The desperation on our faces kept increasing by the minute and my brother and his sons who had cleared the inspection kept waving their hands at us gesticulating furiously that time was running short. To our repeated queries the surly fellow would say that the beepers had gone off in my case and the other two “needed to undergo further security check” (was it her green sari??). No reason beyond that. A classic case of ours not to make reply, our not to reason why…….till finally my brother managed to request a lady official to take the proceeding further and prevent us from missing our flight.
She approached me with a stern countenance and feeling more and more like a felon, I followed her, while the other two watched me helplessly from their vantage point. I was asked to step in to a glass box of sorts and it closed on me from all sides pretty much reminiscent of the gas chamber, I thought and shuddered inwardly. A couple of more beeps later, I was asked to step out and the lady officer then proceeded to frisk me very thoroughly with a sinister-looking metal detector. Each time she ran it by my side it beeped! The other side and it beeped even louder! She asked me if I had ever undergone any knee-replacement surgery which involved the fixing of a metallic support and I replied in the negative. Then why was the detector beeping, she asked exasperatedly. I told her I was as foxed as she was and also more worried as only twenty minutes now separated us from our flight. The other two had been released after preliminary questioning and I could see them all waiting for me but there I was: as much within the clutches of the gorgon-faced woman as ever before. She refused to relent to my pleas that I would miss the flight and somewhere at the back of my mind I realized that I couldn’t really blame her. After all, she was only doing her duty. But where in the name of Beelzebub had I erred? It was a no win situation and a very piquant one too, given that the dear relatives were looking more and more harassed by the minute
Till suddenly, wisdom dawned on me. And I felt one with the Buddha as I experienced emotions similar to what he must have felt all those centuries ago, under that long-forgotten Bodhi tree. It was the zari in my lovely gold and maroon sari that was playing havoc. I promptly pointed this out, choosing my words with care and painstakingly explaining that the silk fabric was interwoven with liberal quantities of metallic zari and that’s what was causing the metal detectors to go on their beeping spree. Her assistant doubled up with laughter and she also condescended to flash a reluctant smile as she accepted the cold logic of my theory. Thereafter, it was a cake walk, or if I’m to be more precise, a cake run. All six of us sprinted towards the aircraft-high heels and heavy saris notwithstanding. Seconds after we made our entrance, the doors of the plane closed and we heaved collective sighs of relief...........
That had been two days earlier and now I was winging my way back to the homeland.
As the golden-red rays of the setting sun wove beautiful patterns in the azure sky, my mind relived the harrowing experience when the same golden-red shades had created considerable chaos in our lives.
But, I shrugged sagaciously, all’s well that ends well and consciously withdrew my thoughts from the trying incident. Instead, I concentrated on the joyous festivities I was returning from and gradually drifted into dreamless slumber.
On my way back from a cousin’s wedding in San Jose, I had boarded the plane after a well-deserved 90 minute break at Frankfurt. The flight from LA had been uneventful but the connecting flight from San Francisco before that couldn’t have been dubbed uneventful by any stretch of the imagination. The very thought of it gave me the creeps all over again…………………
That was on the 29th October, two days before we were scheduled to return to India from LA. Having gone to San Jose for a cousin’s wedding, we were all in high spirits most of the time-literally and figuratively. That day was particularly delightful as the bride was to come home and-like all marriages where one is on the groom’s side-there was an air of triumph, an unspoken exhilaration that stemmed from the fact that there was a new addition (acquisition??) to the family. The entire baraat was on cloud 9 as the bride and the groom started off, from SJ to San Francisco, in a spotless white limo, duly chaperoned by four little boys of all shapes and dispositions. The mood was festive, the colours we wore vibrant as we waited for the newly-wed couple to arrive
In short, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
We-my brother, sister-in-law, their kids, my sister and I- were in a bit of a tizzy as we had to be a part of the celebrations while keeping a furtive eye on the watch. Because we needed to catch the afternoon flight to LA and though suitably enthused by it all, couldn’t help experiencing slight trepidation each time we sneaked a glance at the watch and saw the hands crawl inexorably closer to departure time and the bridal limo still nowhere in sight. Finally, when the suspense was getting almost deadly, it loomed on the horizon and all the rituals were fast forwarded in the vain hope that we would be able to bless the bride and present our gifts to her. The sumptuous lunch ordered from an Indian restaurant and organized on the 19th floor of the posh apartment had to be consumed too, so all in all; we were in the afore-mentioned tizzy. So much so that despite meticulous planning, my sis-in-law and I had to leave for the airport resplendent in heavy saris, instead of the jeans and tee shirts we had very practically and thoughtfully kept on top of our hand baggage.
We set off for the airport merrily enough, in two cars being driven by the groom and another Friscan cousin, well in time for the flight after all. It is another matter that we discovered that a Laptop had managed to get left behind in another van and an SOS of sorts had to be made to Chris, our American brother-in-law-a new entrant into the fold-and he rushed to the airport post haste, bless him. Pretty close but all said and done, we managed to check in eight items of baggage in the nick of time and proceeded for security check with forty minutes still to go.
What with all the song and dance of putting one’s jackets, purses, footwear, besides every conceivable metallic possession, into trays that are scanned, x-rayed and what not, the six of us took fairly long to clear the queue. Or almost clear it. For when I approached the frame through which everyone has to walk for the metal-detection test, I observed that my sis-in-law had been signaled to stand on one side of the line. Why, I was not able to understand. Nor did I have the time to figure it out because no sooner had I walked through that all important door than the red lights began beeping in a mad frenzy. I was as surprised as the next person and before you could say metal detector I had been waved to a separate place on the other side of the line. It seemed that the beeps indicated something sinister about me. Soon, my sister was made to join the not-so-merry threesome, except that the two of them had to stand on one side and poor ole me on the other. The chappie responsible for all these acrobatics was standing stolidly in front of us-an inscrutable expression on his face- refusing to divulge why we were detained and not doing anything further about it. The desperation on our faces kept increasing by the minute and my brother and his sons who had cleared the inspection kept waving their hands at us gesticulating furiously that time was running short. To our repeated queries the surly fellow would say that the beepers had gone off in my case and the other two “needed to undergo further security check” (was it her green sari??). No reason beyond that. A classic case of ours not to make reply, our not to reason why…….till finally my brother managed to request a lady official to take the proceeding further and prevent us from missing our flight.
She approached me with a stern countenance and feeling more and more like a felon, I followed her, while the other two watched me helplessly from their vantage point. I was asked to step in to a glass box of sorts and it closed on me from all sides pretty much reminiscent of the gas chamber, I thought and shuddered inwardly. A couple of more beeps later, I was asked to step out and the lady officer then proceeded to frisk me very thoroughly with a sinister-looking metal detector. Each time she ran it by my side it beeped! The other side and it beeped even louder! She asked me if I had ever undergone any knee-replacement surgery which involved the fixing of a metallic support and I replied in the negative. Then why was the detector beeping, she asked exasperatedly. I told her I was as foxed as she was and also more worried as only twenty minutes now separated us from our flight. The other two had been released after preliminary questioning and I could see them all waiting for me but there I was: as much within the clutches of the gorgon-faced woman as ever before. She refused to relent to my pleas that I would miss the flight and somewhere at the back of my mind I realized that I couldn’t really blame her. After all, she was only doing her duty. But where in the name of Beelzebub had I erred? It was a no win situation and a very piquant one too, given that the dear relatives were looking more and more harassed by the minute
Till suddenly, wisdom dawned on me. And I felt one with the Buddha as I experienced emotions similar to what he must have felt all those centuries ago, under that long-forgotten Bodhi tree. It was the zari in my lovely gold and maroon sari that was playing havoc. I promptly pointed this out, choosing my words with care and painstakingly explaining that the silk fabric was interwoven with liberal quantities of metallic zari and that’s what was causing the metal detectors to go on their beeping spree. Her assistant doubled up with laughter and she also condescended to flash a reluctant smile as she accepted the cold logic of my theory. Thereafter, it was a cake walk, or if I’m to be more precise, a cake run. All six of us sprinted towards the aircraft-high heels and heavy saris notwithstanding. Seconds after we made our entrance, the doors of the plane closed and we heaved collective sighs of relief...........
That had been two days earlier and now I was winging my way back to the homeland.
As the golden-red rays of the setting sun wove beautiful patterns in the azure sky, my mind relived the harrowing experience when the same golden-red shades had created considerable chaos in our lives.
But, I shrugged sagaciously, all’s well that ends well and consciously withdrew my thoughts from the trying incident. Instead, I concentrated on the joyous festivities I was returning from and gradually drifted into dreamless slumber.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Swings of fancy
Strange are the ways people react. I had a first hand experience of this very recently.
Or so I imagine.
For those who know me, I get these fancies once in a way. By fancy I mean that I suddenly get hung on a particular thing, generally an item of home décor. Well, the latest in this line of fads was a swing. For the past year or more, I’ve had this strong fascination, this yearning for a lovely swing that could adorn the balcony of my home. Brought up on generous doses of Hindi movies where the leading lady draped herself on swings of exquisite designs in impossibly exotic locales, I always nurtured this secret desire for a jhoola. The smaller ones in parks all over found usage and did fulfil the dream in one’s greener years, but with the onset of middle age and an ever-expanding girth, such swings not only seemed juvenile but became a threat to one’s well being. Anyway, to cut a long story short, to savour the joys of swinging gently, to loll on a swing and read-far from the madding crowd-was the ulterior motive behind acquiring this home accessory.
So, like I said, the hunt was on…and how! From Kirti Nagar to Panch Kuian Road, from assorted furniture shops that have sprung up in different sectors of Noida to remoter ones on Mehrauli Gurgaon road, from the cane stuff dotting the Sarita Vihar avenue to similar products in Atta market nearer home, my search for a good swing-be it cane, gun metal, iron or brass-was untiring. I went from shop to shop, the same old question on my lips: did they have a swing of these specifications and within this range please? A doleful, negative shake of the head met me in most cases and if at all, a swing did turn out to be there, it was either too dilapidated or way too expensive. Every friend I had in the NCR was instructed to be on the look out for one and the number of reminders my dear sis and sis-in-law got cannot be kept track of. It’s only their innate goodness and high tolerance level that kept them from throwing the nearest object at me when I was within range.
But the exclusive item eluded me with the kind of consistency that was not only maddening but at times almost mysterious! I mean, was a simple swing so very difficult to find? It was driving me nuts!
Till one fine day, I noticed a nice, simple, white iron swing -just the kind that would do-on the balcony of a house I passed frequently. My sensibilities having been heightened to the existence of swings only a few months previously, it was but natural that I should’ve noticed it for the first time. Being of a fairly forthright nature-and simplest solutions coming quickest to the mind-the best thing to do, I reasoned, was to enquire where the folks who owned it had got it from. Accordingly, on my very next drive down that road, I got out of the car, made my way upstairs and rang the bell. A rather dour-faced maid opened the door and to my query if there was anyone at home, said there wasn’t. They left for work early in the morning, she said. I asked her if she could give me a contact number, she replied in the negative. So I left my phone number and explaining the reason for my visit, requested her to ask them to call me. She assured me that she would and I made my way back. Not surprisingly, days turned into weeks, but there was no word.
Undaunted, I stopped by at the house again, late in the evening hoping to catch the inhabitants this time. The same flight of stairs, the same door bell and the same maid who answered. The funny thing was the answer was also the same-the chappies weren’t in; they returned from work late I was told. Had she, perhaps, been able to find out where the swing was from, I asked hopefully. No luck she responded and went on to reluctantly add that she had conveyed my message and given them my number.What could she do if they hadn’t called she asked belligerently? I beat a hasty retreat.
All this happened a good five weeks ago and I had all but forgotten this incident. A lot of water had flown under the bridge since then. My constant search had ultimately borne fruit and I stumbled upon the most beautiful of swings-abs out of this world, my dream-swing, and within my budget too. It’s proudly installed in my balcony, nestling amidst the potted plants and the greenery –and my favourite pastime is whiling away whatever free time I have swinging lazily, book in hand………lost to the world.
What reminded me of the white swing and its owners was the fact that I happened to pass by the same house this morning. My maid had to be dropped somewhere and was there in the car with me. As we approached the house, I told her the whole story and said I would show her the swing. We passed by the entire row of houses: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7….it had been house number 7 and lo!there was no swing!! The house was there, so were the stairs and the balcony but the swing was conspicuous by its absence. And then I realized what must have happened. My own theory but this is what I think.
Being told that some strange lady had visited their home in their absence and had even got information of sorts out of their domestic help, had possibly scared them. A sad reflection of the times we live in but this is what must have transpired, I felt. Intimidated by the fact that this lady had come making facetious enquiries-not once but twice-and on both occasions had made sure to visit their empty home- had sent them into a tizzy. Was it a gang operating? Was this part of a larger plan? Was someone eyeing their prized possession, the swing? Or was it perhaps, part of a more vicious strategy where their home had been identified for some sinister motive? A robbery? A hold up? The white swing on the balcony would be a dead giveaway if someone had to recognize the house even in the middle of the night!
I could visualize the theories they may have propounded about the unknown lady, the possibilities of crime that may have come into their minds. Rather than live in such uncertainty, why not remove the offending article from there? In other words, solve the problem at the very origin.
I could be wrong but live as we do in these shifting sands of doubt and uncertainty, where crime has made its insidious inroads into our very homes; I have this gut feeling that my conjectures are not all that unfounded.
Does anyone have a different theory?
Or so I imagine.
For those who know me, I get these fancies once in a way. By fancy I mean that I suddenly get hung on a particular thing, generally an item of home décor. Well, the latest in this line of fads was a swing. For the past year or more, I’ve had this strong fascination, this yearning for a lovely swing that could adorn the balcony of my home. Brought up on generous doses of Hindi movies where the leading lady draped herself on swings of exquisite designs in impossibly exotic locales, I always nurtured this secret desire for a jhoola. The smaller ones in parks all over found usage and did fulfil the dream in one’s greener years, but with the onset of middle age and an ever-expanding girth, such swings not only seemed juvenile but became a threat to one’s well being. Anyway, to cut a long story short, to savour the joys of swinging gently, to loll on a swing and read-far from the madding crowd-was the ulterior motive behind acquiring this home accessory.
So, like I said, the hunt was on…and how! From Kirti Nagar to Panch Kuian Road, from assorted furniture shops that have sprung up in different sectors of Noida to remoter ones on Mehrauli Gurgaon road, from the cane stuff dotting the Sarita Vihar avenue to similar products in Atta market nearer home, my search for a good swing-be it cane, gun metal, iron or brass-was untiring. I went from shop to shop, the same old question on my lips: did they have a swing of these specifications and within this range please? A doleful, negative shake of the head met me in most cases and if at all, a swing did turn out to be there, it was either too dilapidated or way too expensive. Every friend I had in the NCR was instructed to be on the look out for one and the number of reminders my dear sis and sis-in-law got cannot be kept track of. It’s only their innate goodness and high tolerance level that kept them from throwing the nearest object at me when I was within range.
But the exclusive item eluded me with the kind of consistency that was not only maddening but at times almost mysterious! I mean, was a simple swing so very difficult to find? It was driving me nuts!
Till one fine day, I noticed a nice, simple, white iron swing -just the kind that would do-on the balcony of a house I passed frequently. My sensibilities having been heightened to the existence of swings only a few months previously, it was but natural that I should’ve noticed it for the first time. Being of a fairly forthright nature-and simplest solutions coming quickest to the mind-the best thing to do, I reasoned, was to enquire where the folks who owned it had got it from. Accordingly, on my very next drive down that road, I got out of the car, made my way upstairs and rang the bell. A rather dour-faced maid opened the door and to my query if there was anyone at home, said there wasn’t. They left for work early in the morning, she said. I asked her if she could give me a contact number, she replied in the negative. So I left my phone number and explaining the reason for my visit, requested her to ask them to call me. She assured me that she would and I made my way back. Not surprisingly, days turned into weeks, but there was no word.
Undaunted, I stopped by at the house again, late in the evening hoping to catch the inhabitants this time. The same flight of stairs, the same door bell and the same maid who answered. The funny thing was the answer was also the same-the chappies weren’t in; they returned from work late I was told. Had she, perhaps, been able to find out where the swing was from, I asked hopefully. No luck she responded and went on to reluctantly add that she had conveyed my message and given them my number.What could she do if they hadn’t called she asked belligerently? I beat a hasty retreat.
All this happened a good five weeks ago and I had all but forgotten this incident. A lot of water had flown under the bridge since then. My constant search had ultimately borne fruit and I stumbled upon the most beautiful of swings-abs out of this world, my dream-swing, and within my budget too. It’s proudly installed in my balcony, nestling amidst the potted plants and the greenery –and my favourite pastime is whiling away whatever free time I have swinging lazily, book in hand………lost to the world.
What reminded me of the white swing and its owners was the fact that I happened to pass by the same house this morning. My maid had to be dropped somewhere and was there in the car with me. As we approached the house, I told her the whole story and said I would show her the swing. We passed by the entire row of houses: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7….it had been house number 7 and lo!there was no swing!! The house was there, so were the stairs and the balcony but the swing was conspicuous by its absence. And then I realized what must have happened. My own theory but this is what I think.
Being told that some strange lady had visited their home in their absence and had even got information of sorts out of their domestic help, had possibly scared them. A sad reflection of the times we live in but this is what must have transpired, I felt. Intimidated by the fact that this lady had come making facetious enquiries-not once but twice-and on both occasions had made sure to visit their empty home- had sent them into a tizzy. Was it a gang operating? Was this part of a larger plan? Was someone eyeing their prized possession, the swing? Or was it perhaps, part of a more vicious strategy where their home had been identified for some sinister motive? A robbery? A hold up? The white swing on the balcony would be a dead giveaway if someone had to recognize the house even in the middle of the night!
I could visualize the theories they may have propounded about the unknown lady, the possibilities of crime that may have come into their minds. Rather than live in such uncertainty, why not remove the offending article from there? In other words, solve the problem at the very origin.
I could be wrong but live as we do in these shifting sands of doubt and uncertainty, where crime has made its insidious inroads into our very homes; I have this gut feeling that my conjectures are not all that unfounded.
Does anyone have a different theory?
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Golden Rule
It is never too late to learn a lesson. This fact was brought home to me, in no uncertain terms, last Friday.
It was the usual kind of day, yet different. No that’s a contradiction of sorts. On second thoughts, it was very different. Because it was one of the two days in the year that I keep a fast. And a fast doesn’t mean gourmandizing on an assortment of the choicest goodies churned out by every Indian home on such occasions-the sweets, the fruits, the juice and the saboodana kheer combined with crisp fried potatoes, peanuts and what-have-you. No, this was a proper fast (read 100 % deprivation) where even water is denied till sundown. After that- and a short pooja- all one has (and that is liberal folks like me) is sherbet and/or tea. That’s it. Full stop till the morning after.
Well, Teej as this special day is called, dawned pretty much like any other day. With me all geared to observe all austerity and ready to brave the world. In the sense that such a day at work can be really challenging, given that my work entails training most of the time, which in turn, translates into talking. And talking when you aren’t allowed to drink even a drop of water, believe me, can daunt the stoutest of hearts. But che sera sera, I was mentally equipped to let the what will be will be part ensue.
Till I picked up the morning newspaper and, in the process, happened to glance at my left wrist. My heart skipped a beat as I took in the fact that it was quite bare. What I mean is that the customary gold bangles that adorned it were not there!! I turned ashen as I remembered the hectic events of the previous evening………………..
On leaving office I had proceeded to the latest mall in the city, escorted by daughter dear, in order to pick up her birthday dress. We had done a recci of pretty much every shop worth its name and she had tried her way through about half of the outfits on display. This exercise had, quite naturally, taken a toll on my generally enthusiastic, energetic self, and by the time we were wending our way home, it wouldn’t be exaggeration to say that I was all but done in. To have remembered, then, that bangles for the following day’s festivity (how ironic, that fasting should be called festive!) hadn’t been bought was a galling reminder. Providentially, my driver suggested that there was a small bangle shop right at the corner of where we lived so a slight detour had us there. Giving myself ten minutes to finish the business, I got out of the car and made the transaction in the stipulated time……….
As if in flashback, the entire scene played out before my agonized eyes. I remembered that I had taken off my gold bangles to try on the new glass ones, and in the whirlwind hurry that I am always in, had quite forgotten to pick them up from the counter! I consoled myself that the lady at the counter would definitely have noticed them the moment I had left and all I had to do was to rush to the shop and collect them.
I did precisely that and as it was still early morning, had to actually knock on her door to make my enquiries (the driver having provided the expert information that she lived right next to the shop). She looked at me quizzically and I explained why I was there. Her blank expression should’ve prepared me, but it didn’t and I was shocked to see her shake her head in the negative and say that she had seen no bangles after I had left. I tried to explain the situation to her and to point out that it was impossible that she could have missed them but she was adamant. There were no bangles on the counter when I had left and my protests that that couldn’t be were quelled effectively by the argument that two customers had come after I had left and there was no saying who could’ve picked them up. Politely, yet firmly, I told her to convey to those customers (she knew them by name) that I wouldn’t sit quiet, that I would lodge an FIR and giving the whole bunch a deadline to ‘find’ the lost articles by 1 PM, I left for work. A suitably dejected entity.
1 PM came and went and predictably enough, there was no word from her. My veiled threats of a police case and the leeway to back off notwithstanding. Meanwhile, I had spoken to folks in the police service and had been enlightened out of my abysmal ignorance. It seemed that an FIR was lodged only in criminal cases; all I could to do was submit a written report. A constable would be dispatched and that would scare the living daylights out of the felons, I was advised. The startegy sounded good. I thought I’d wait a while longer, giving them more time to miraculously ‘find’ the lost goods and then take some steps at 5 PM.
The day seemed to drag interminably. My mind was not on my work-alternately cursing myself for my colossal stupidity and bemoaning the loss of twenty grand or more…hungry, tired with throat parched, I cut a sorry figure indeed!! My computer also decided to leave me in the lurch and I sought the help of IT guys to fix it.
While whiling away time even more idly-waiting for the computer to be fixed and to return to the charade of work-I kept looking at my bare wrist and groaning inwardly. Suddenly, a picture flashed before my eyes-the action replay of a hand removing the bangles in slow motion, as it were. And it all came back-as though from the netherworld, or from a previous life. The clear vision of my right hand taking off the golden accessories and applying a brand new cream to test its quality. …………. and, being extra careful, taking off the metallic items of jewellery in case of reaction! So the memory that I had removed the bangles was correct, but not at 8 PM in the shop- as my deluded mind had kept telling me- but a good three hours later, around 11 PM at home.
Seldom has the world seen me galvanise into action quite so fast. As far as office decorum would allow sprinting, I dashed to my telephone and called home. Five minutes of agonizing wait-though I was surer by the minute-the time it took for the maid to confirm that the missing articles were very much where I had left them and relief washed over me like a tidal wave.
I promptly called up the shop-lady and informed her of my mistake and apologised for having made it in the first place. The predominant feeling, naturally, was one of relief but along with it came a nagging sensation of discomfort and stern reproach directed at myself. Why had I suffered that momentary amnesia? Why had I acted so hastily? Why had I been so sure that I had left them at the shop? The answers seemed to point in one direction: I had too much on my mind and my impatience always kept me in a hurry. Had I not been in such a hurry the evening before….. or on discovering the loss, had I taken the time to think things through coolly, perhaps it would’ve come back to me. Of course the compulsion of leaving for work hadn’t left me with much choice, as not confronting the shop keeper in the morning would’ve meant the entire day being lost…but the lesson that was driven home loud and clear was to slow down consciously. The only sagacity I had displayed was giving the whole thing some time, or having reported the matter to the police would’ve boomeranged on me and how! (Perhaps deservedly)
Suitably chastened now, I have resolved to be more relaxed, to take things a little easy and to slow down the pace-in other words, to stop being BFN
Amen.
It is never too late to learn a lesson. This fact was brought home to me, in no uncertain terms, last Friday.
It was the usual kind of day, yet different. No that’s a contradiction of sorts. On second thoughts, it was very different. Because it was one of the two days in the year that I keep a fast. And a fast doesn’t mean gourmandizing on an assortment of the choicest goodies churned out by every Indian home on such occasions-the sweets, the fruits, the juice and the saboodana kheer combined with crisp fried potatoes, peanuts and what-have-you. No, this was a proper fast (read 100 % deprivation) where even water is denied till sundown. After that- and a short pooja- all one has (and that is liberal folks like me) is sherbet and/or tea. That’s it. Full stop till the morning after.
Well, Teej as this special day is called, dawned pretty much like any other day. With me all geared to observe all austerity and ready to brave the world. In the sense that such a day at work can be really challenging, given that my work entails training most of the time, which in turn, translates into talking. And talking when you aren’t allowed to drink even a drop of water, believe me, can daunt the stoutest of hearts. But che sera sera, I was mentally equipped to let the what will be will be part ensue.
Till I picked up the morning newspaper and, in the process, happened to glance at my left wrist. My heart skipped a beat as I took in the fact that it was quite bare. What I mean is that the customary gold bangles that adorned it were not there!! I turned ashen as I remembered the hectic events of the previous evening………………..
On leaving office I had proceeded to the latest mall in the city, escorted by daughter dear, in order to pick up her birthday dress. We had done a recci of pretty much every shop worth its name and she had tried her way through about half of the outfits on display. This exercise had, quite naturally, taken a toll on my generally enthusiastic, energetic self, and by the time we were wending our way home, it wouldn’t be exaggeration to say that I was all but done in. To have remembered, then, that bangles for the following day’s festivity (how ironic, that fasting should be called festive!) hadn’t been bought was a galling reminder. Providentially, my driver suggested that there was a small bangle shop right at the corner of where we lived so a slight detour had us there. Giving myself ten minutes to finish the business, I got out of the car and made the transaction in the stipulated time……….
As if in flashback, the entire scene played out before my agonized eyes. I remembered that I had taken off my gold bangles to try on the new glass ones, and in the whirlwind hurry that I am always in, had quite forgotten to pick them up from the counter! I consoled myself that the lady at the counter would definitely have noticed them the moment I had left and all I had to do was to rush to the shop and collect them.
I did precisely that and as it was still early morning, had to actually knock on her door to make my enquiries (the driver having provided the expert information that she lived right next to the shop). She looked at me quizzically and I explained why I was there. Her blank expression should’ve prepared me, but it didn’t and I was shocked to see her shake her head in the negative and say that she had seen no bangles after I had left. I tried to explain the situation to her and to point out that it was impossible that she could have missed them but she was adamant. There were no bangles on the counter when I had left and my protests that that couldn’t be were quelled effectively by the argument that two customers had come after I had left and there was no saying who could’ve picked them up. Politely, yet firmly, I told her to convey to those customers (she knew them by name) that I wouldn’t sit quiet, that I would lodge an FIR and giving the whole bunch a deadline to ‘find’ the lost articles by 1 PM, I left for work. A suitably dejected entity.
1 PM came and went and predictably enough, there was no word from her. My veiled threats of a police case and the leeway to back off notwithstanding. Meanwhile, I had spoken to folks in the police service and had been enlightened out of my abysmal ignorance. It seemed that an FIR was lodged only in criminal cases; all I could to do was submit a written report. A constable would be dispatched and that would scare the living daylights out of the felons, I was advised. The startegy sounded good. I thought I’d wait a while longer, giving them more time to miraculously ‘find’ the lost goods and then take some steps at 5 PM.
The day seemed to drag interminably. My mind was not on my work-alternately cursing myself for my colossal stupidity and bemoaning the loss of twenty grand or more…hungry, tired with throat parched, I cut a sorry figure indeed!! My computer also decided to leave me in the lurch and I sought the help of IT guys to fix it.
While whiling away time even more idly-waiting for the computer to be fixed and to return to the charade of work-I kept looking at my bare wrist and groaning inwardly. Suddenly, a picture flashed before my eyes-the action replay of a hand removing the bangles in slow motion, as it were. And it all came back-as though from the netherworld, or from a previous life. The clear vision of my right hand taking off the golden accessories and applying a brand new cream to test its quality. …………. and, being extra careful, taking off the metallic items of jewellery in case of reaction! So the memory that I had removed the bangles was correct, but not at 8 PM in the shop- as my deluded mind had kept telling me- but a good three hours later, around 11 PM at home.
Seldom has the world seen me galvanise into action quite so fast. As far as office decorum would allow sprinting, I dashed to my telephone and called home. Five minutes of agonizing wait-though I was surer by the minute-the time it took for the maid to confirm that the missing articles were very much where I had left them and relief washed over me like a tidal wave.
I promptly called up the shop-lady and informed her of my mistake and apologised for having made it in the first place. The predominant feeling, naturally, was one of relief but along with it came a nagging sensation of discomfort and stern reproach directed at myself. Why had I suffered that momentary amnesia? Why had I acted so hastily? Why had I been so sure that I had left them at the shop? The answers seemed to point in one direction: I had too much on my mind and my impatience always kept me in a hurry. Had I not been in such a hurry the evening before….. or on discovering the loss, had I taken the time to think things through coolly, perhaps it would’ve come back to me. Of course the compulsion of leaving for work hadn’t left me with much choice, as not confronting the shop keeper in the morning would’ve meant the entire day being lost…but the lesson that was driven home loud and clear was to slow down consciously. The only sagacity I had displayed was giving the whole thing some time, or having reported the matter to the police would’ve boomeranged on me and how! (Perhaps deservedly)
Suitably chastened now, I have resolved to be more relaxed, to take things a little easy and to slow down the pace-in other words, to stop being BFN
Amen.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Thank you JB
Today is Teachers’ Day; a day full of memories and fond nostalgia. Decades after having left school, I remember, with abiding gratitude, the person who was responsible for transforming me from a verbose writer to one who could express herself much better. She taught me how to be brief, avoid long circumlocutions and how to use short, pithy sentences.
“Vineeta”, she would despair while returning the customary, weekly essay that we submitted every Friday-corrected with a fine-tooth comb, the likes of which the present generation hasn’t seen-“why must you use such flowery language?!!”
And all my self-built perceptions of being a great writer would go crashing.
The assignment she returned first thing Monday morning would be replete with corrections: and liberally splattered with red ink. Looking at it, anyone could be forgiven for thinking that that was the work of a fairly challenged English student.
Because Mother John Baptist-JB as we irreverently, but lovingly, referred to her- was a perfectionist. She would not tolerate a word extra, a phrase that was irrelevant; and wrong spellings were anathema to her (thankfully, that was the one area in which she never had to correct me, may the heavens be praised!) But the ‘flowery language’ she referred to had this uncanny habit of making its appearance in most of my write-ups. To date, I haven’t forgotten her slashing of one of my essay’s protagonist’s pitiable plight-who had heart-rendingly for and by me “been put to permanent sleep” and replacing it with a very matter-of-fact, single word, “ perished’. That perhaps more than any other correction, taught me that ornate words never helped; what we needed was direct expression, succinct description.
JB-all of 70 years or more-with her signature black umbrella- was equally active on the games’ field. And woe betide anyone who tried to bunk games!! No one could evade her gimlet eye, as she flitted from upper field to lower field, from the concrete basket ball court to the grassy hockey expanse, traversing the sprawling acres of our vast campus with magical speed. Her alacrity and the unseen reserve of energy that she seemed to draw from never ceased to amaze us.
That was an era…long gone and forgotten. We don’t see teachers like her any more: it’s a vanished breed. The missionary zeal, dedication and commitment with which she-and some of her peers like Mother John Francis-worked may have gone but we, who bore witness to those times- will always remember………….with a deep debt of gratitude.
“Vineeta”, she would despair while returning the customary, weekly essay that we submitted every Friday-corrected with a fine-tooth comb, the likes of which the present generation hasn’t seen-“why must you use such flowery language?!!”
And all my self-built perceptions of being a great writer would go crashing.
The assignment she returned first thing Monday morning would be replete with corrections: and liberally splattered with red ink. Looking at it, anyone could be forgiven for thinking that that was the work of a fairly challenged English student.
Because Mother John Baptist-JB as we irreverently, but lovingly, referred to her- was a perfectionist. She would not tolerate a word extra, a phrase that was irrelevant; and wrong spellings were anathema to her (thankfully, that was the one area in which she never had to correct me, may the heavens be praised!) But the ‘flowery language’ she referred to had this uncanny habit of making its appearance in most of my write-ups. To date, I haven’t forgotten her slashing of one of my essay’s protagonist’s pitiable plight-who had heart-rendingly for and by me “been put to permanent sleep” and replacing it with a very matter-of-fact, single word, “ perished’. That perhaps more than any other correction, taught me that ornate words never helped; what we needed was direct expression, succinct description.
JB-all of 70 years or more-with her signature black umbrella- was equally active on the games’ field. And woe betide anyone who tried to bunk games!! No one could evade her gimlet eye, as she flitted from upper field to lower field, from the concrete basket ball court to the grassy hockey expanse, traversing the sprawling acres of our vast campus with magical speed. Her alacrity and the unseen reserve of energy that she seemed to draw from never ceased to amaze us.
That was an era…long gone and forgotten. We don’t see teachers like her any more: it’s a vanished breed. The missionary zeal, dedication and commitment with which she-and some of her peers like Mother John Francis-worked may have gone but we, who bore witness to those times- will always remember………….with a deep debt of gratitude.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Tagged (or ragged??)
Beware you blogosapiens, for here I come. No fledgling-unfurling her wings in the wide panorama of Blogger world- but an old fogey whose only common trait with the hep and happening crowd out there is her love of writing. My entry into this rather fascinating, virtual world had been on the agenda for a while but like all good intents, had remained just that: an intention. However, an event last week changed things and catalysed them, so to say. My daughter ‘tagged’ me. First I had to understand the implications of what that meant, but once ‘educated’ I decided to do the needful i.e. pen eight random facts about myself.
So get ready to welcome the Ancient Mariner of the blog world and I promise I shall strive to justify the farewell-title that some misled juniors had bestowed upon me, at the Masters programme in BHU, all those summers ago……
“Age cannot wither nor custom stale
Your infinite variety” (though it may have made the Immortal Bard turn in his grave!)
I believe in the power of laughter-the exhilarating vigour, the therapeutic effect, the healing touch it provides cannot be equaled by any other remedy. I also like to look at the bright side of things and am tolerant of most people and situations. I take life one day at a time and am quite content to be what/who I am: I have no soaring ambitions to leave a blazing trail (which would-a la Belinda-‘amidst the stars inscribe my name’. Yes, I would love to leave an indelible impact on the lives I touch………….) To put it in a nutshell, my outlook on life can best be summarized as: I’m an avid subscriber of Stephen Ludlin’s Fish philosophy.
My creed is friendship and friends are my sheet anchor. I consider myself blessed in having forged some unshakeable bonds through school, college/hostel and work life- (Anjana, Rita, Pragna, Seema, Alka, Ameeta, Anindita, Nimmo, Ranjana, Nandini, Rekha, Suchitra, Nisheeta, Sharmila, Ruby, Anita, Alka (V) Smritikana would you agree??) I’m one with Yeats when he says;
“Think where man’s glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends.”
· Like all lesser mortals I too have a weakness for food-the difference being I not only savour different gastronomical delights but also enjoy creating stuff to tempt the palate. While Biryani and Chinese are my all time favourites (Banarsi langda mangoes and rasgullas would follow close behind.) any food tastes like sawdust in my mouth unless seasoned generously with green chillies. I’m as lost without them as I am without my glasses!!
· I love participating in activities and this enthusiasm has seen me through umpteen antaakshari competitions, Quizzes, Treasure hunts, team skits, fancy dress, poetry writing and what-have –you competitions with due gusto. Many a time-and to my great delight- I’ve won prizes and that has considerably added to the zeal of competing.
· If I’m sure of my facts I’m quick to bet, which means that I challenge people if I am (or think I am) sure of being factually correct. In the process, though I don’t lose princely sums (the benefit of not being born into royalty) or kingdoms-as some of our illustrious mythological ancestors did- I do end up losing a good number of chocolates and the dent in my pocket is tangible.
· I’m a very impatient person, in the sense that I absolutely hate having to wait. Added to the habit of punctuality, it can become a killing combination as I realize I have to wait almost everywhere, every time. With a family that consists of folks who compete for the world’s tardiest individuals, my sense of frustration keeps mounting by the day!! And sadly for me, so does my mobile bill, as I while away the tedium of waiting by needless sms es or redundant calls.
· I might forget where I put important papers or bills, or the maturing dates of annual maintenance contracts or insurance policies but what I never forget are the birthdays of those dear to me. Over the years several people have asked me how I remember all those dates; to them I reply simply, “It’s not that I remember, it’s that I can’t forget.” (You can figure that out for yourselves.)
· I love watching movies-especially suspense thrillers, rollicking comedies and old classics. The perfect holiday for me means curling up on my favourite chair and watching some ‘missed’ movie, with not a care in the world, no phones/doorbells to disturb and some crispy munchy conveniently located in the vicinity. Alternatively an absorbing whodunit (in a similar setting) also serves the purpose of transporting me to bliss.
Phew! That was quite something. I was also enlightened that I had to tag more people if I was to carry on the worthy tradition. Well I’m not sure who those chosen few will be or even whether I’m allowed to tag those who’re already tagged, so I guess I’ll first do my home work and then return to these hallowed pages………………….
……………..Suitably briefed, I now know that I cannot tag those already in the loop, therefore the mantle falls on Seema Nanda, Swati, Rajat and Nivi. Carry on the glorious tradition, o tagged mortals!!
So get ready to welcome the Ancient Mariner of the blog world and I promise I shall strive to justify the farewell-title that some misled juniors had bestowed upon me, at the Masters programme in BHU, all those summers ago……
“Age cannot wither nor custom stale
Your infinite variety” (though it may have made the Immortal Bard turn in his grave!)
I believe in the power of laughter-the exhilarating vigour, the therapeutic effect, the healing touch it provides cannot be equaled by any other remedy. I also like to look at the bright side of things and am tolerant of most people and situations. I take life one day at a time and am quite content to be what/who I am: I have no soaring ambitions to leave a blazing trail (which would-a la Belinda-‘amidst the stars inscribe my name’. Yes, I would love to leave an indelible impact on the lives I touch………….) To put it in a nutshell, my outlook on life can best be summarized as: I’m an avid subscriber of Stephen Ludlin’s Fish philosophy.
My creed is friendship and friends are my sheet anchor. I consider myself blessed in having forged some unshakeable bonds through school, college/hostel and work life- (Anjana, Rita, Pragna, Seema, Alka, Ameeta, Anindita, Nimmo, Ranjana, Nandini, Rekha, Suchitra, Nisheeta, Sharmila, Ruby, Anita, Alka (V) Smritikana would you agree??) I’m one with Yeats when he says;
“Think where man’s glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends.”
· Like all lesser mortals I too have a weakness for food-the difference being I not only savour different gastronomical delights but also enjoy creating stuff to tempt the palate. While Biryani and Chinese are my all time favourites (Banarsi langda mangoes and rasgullas would follow close behind.) any food tastes like sawdust in my mouth unless seasoned generously with green chillies. I’m as lost without them as I am without my glasses!!
· I love participating in activities and this enthusiasm has seen me through umpteen antaakshari competitions, Quizzes, Treasure hunts, team skits, fancy dress, poetry writing and what-have –you competitions with due gusto. Many a time-and to my great delight- I’ve won prizes and that has considerably added to the zeal of competing.
· If I’m sure of my facts I’m quick to bet, which means that I challenge people if I am (or think I am) sure of being factually correct. In the process, though I don’t lose princely sums (the benefit of not being born into royalty) or kingdoms-as some of our illustrious mythological ancestors did- I do end up losing a good number of chocolates and the dent in my pocket is tangible.
· I’m a very impatient person, in the sense that I absolutely hate having to wait. Added to the habit of punctuality, it can become a killing combination as I realize I have to wait almost everywhere, every time. With a family that consists of folks who compete for the world’s tardiest individuals, my sense of frustration keeps mounting by the day!! And sadly for me, so does my mobile bill, as I while away the tedium of waiting by needless sms es or redundant calls.
· I might forget where I put important papers or bills, or the maturing dates of annual maintenance contracts or insurance policies but what I never forget are the birthdays of those dear to me. Over the years several people have asked me how I remember all those dates; to them I reply simply, “It’s not that I remember, it’s that I can’t forget.” (You can figure that out for yourselves.)
· I love watching movies-especially suspense thrillers, rollicking comedies and old classics. The perfect holiday for me means curling up on my favourite chair and watching some ‘missed’ movie, with not a care in the world, no phones/doorbells to disturb and some crispy munchy conveniently located in the vicinity. Alternatively an absorbing whodunit (in a similar setting) also serves the purpose of transporting me to bliss.
Phew! That was quite something. I was also enlightened that I had to tag more people if I was to carry on the worthy tradition. Well I’m not sure who those chosen few will be or even whether I’m allowed to tag those who’re already tagged, so I guess I’ll first do my home work and then return to these hallowed pages………………….
……………..Suitably briefed, I now know that I cannot tag those already in the loop, therefore the mantle falls on Seema Nanda, Swati, Rajat and Nivi. Carry on the glorious tradition, o tagged mortals!!
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The India of My Dreams
I’m not a painter that I can paint the incredible natural beauty of my motherland; I’m no writer that I can weave a tapestry of words capturing my deep, abiding love for my country and I’m not a musician that I can sing paeans in praise of the proud heritage of my nation. I can only pour forth my emotions through this humble submission:
What will make my beloved country……………………
The India of my Dreams!
(With gratitude to Gurudev for his inspiration.)
T he day poverty is gone and the word ‘poor’
H as been expunged from our dictionaries,
E lders are honoured and child labour extinct
I s the India of my dreams; there’ll be
N o corruption or crime, no loss of life
D ue to base, venal motives.
I n check will be the burgeoning population
A nd employment for all a living reality…………
O n roads, safe driving will be the norm and no lives snuffed:
F elled like logs by killer buses –
M y dream India will be illuminated by hundred percent electricity
Y ellow bulbs glowing amid milky tubes………………
D rinking water in abundance and food in plenty
R oads – concrete – in the remotest hamlets
E ndless harmony among different faiths
A nd leaders who put country before self.
M edical facilities and education for all
S hall make this nation the beacon of the world!!
Amen!
What will make my beloved country……………………
The India of my Dreams!
(With gratitude to Gurudev for his inspiration.)
T he day poverty is gone and the word ‘poor’
H as been expunged from our dictionaries,
E lders are honoured and child labour extinct
I s the India of my dreams; there’ll be
N o corruption or crime, no loss of life
D ue to base, venal motives.
I n check will be the burgeoning population
A nd employment for all a living reality…………
O n roads, safe driving will be the norm and no lives snuffed:
F elled like logs by killer buses –
M y dream India will be illuminated by hundred percent electricity
Y ellow bulbs glowing amid milky tubes………………
D rinking water in abundance and food in plenty
R oads – concrete – in the remotest hamlets
E ndless harmony among different faiths
A nd leaders who put country before self.
M edical facilities and education for all
S hall make this nation the beacon of the world!!
Amen!
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