Tables Turned

Ever since I can remember, there's one sobriquet that has stuck to me; perhaps, not unjustifiably. And that is the ‘Springer of surprises’. I think right from those nascent days when half-baked wisdom dawned in some nebulous part of the brain, I loved surprising people. To me, life was defined in the number of surprises I could spring. On family, friends, dear ones et al...and as I grew older and tried to analyse the psychology, I arrived at the conclusion that this instinct unerringly stemmed from one single fact: I loved spreading happiness in my own little way. So whether it was getting Mummy's long-awaited Agatha Christie book finally issued from the Club library or buying the old Pankaj Mullick LP record Papa spoke so longingly of, to picking up my siblings' favourite games/clothes/books (pocket and  opportunity permitting; live as we did in a quaint, out-of-this-world place, where proper shopping complexes were unheard-of) or even after age and maturity had set in (and I had the good fortune of living in the same city where my parents settled down after retirement)- to not mentioning any sibling's travel plans and organising a surreptitious pick-up from the station/airport without telling the parents because that was the ultimate treat for them. And savouring the wonderful moment when their eyes would light up and their faces glow with sheer joy, on suddenly seeing a loved offspring in front of them: a completely unannounced, unplanned arrival. Once the excitement died down, Mummy would go into a tizzy wondering how she could rustle up a good meal at such short notice but this confusion would be short lived. Once she went into the kitchen to check what provisions were available, she would be suitably surprised to see that a good meal had been arranged and the old retainer was busy giving it the finishing touches. (Dessert included. And most of the time it would be a particular favourite of the visiting individual)

In short, Life trundled along pretty much full of surprises, most of them engineered by me (Most of my friends, when scribbling their tearful farewell messages in tomes euphemistically called ‘autograph’ books, made a reference to this penchant of mine. Some even went so far as to suggest that they would remember me only for being such a sucker for surprises!) By and by, though, many who came in contact with me acquired this habit, as they too saw it as a harmless way of ensuring good cheer and joy all around.

The only problem that folks close to me encountered was that-though I was the original lover of surprises- it was tough to surprise me. Always thinking ahead of different possibilities, I would get suspicious if I saw anyone lingering uncharacteristically over a job or taking longer than required over a task and promptly ferret out what was cooking. Over the years, another familiar tag stuck to me (largely self-generated I confess!): I couldn't be surprised-I would manage to sniff out every feeble attempt made by any hapless soul attempting to do this.

Till last Sunday, when every tall claim made by me, every smug assumption was shattered into a thousand smithereens (though very pleasantly for me). My son, home for the winter break, had been insisting that we go for this ‘wonderful tweed exhibition’ that he had visited the previous day and been extremely impressed by. Now, having invited my siblings and their families for dinner that evening, I was in no mood to go gallivanting off to some vague embassy fete, half way across the NCR, but Saagar is seldom as emphatic as he was that day. I kept hoping that the habitual late riser that he is, his enthusiasm would cool once he realised he had woken up too late to go out and return by early afternoon (my stern stipulation) but such hopes were dashed when he was up at the crack of dawn (read 10 am) reiterating the programme mooted the day before. This time I tried alternate strategy, pointing out that Srishti's exams were on and she shouldn't waste time, especially as she was bound to do that at dinner that evening and suggesting that she should refrain from accompanying us. This would, I hoped, weaken his resolve, as leaving poor li’l sis all alone on a Sunday would melt a heart of stone. But it didn't work: the lady in question declared, with touching confidence, that oh she had studied everything for the exam the night before and the young man endorsed the fact that he saw no problem in her accompanying us. The spouse, of course, was all game because visions of a smart tweed jacket floated before his eyes and nothing galvanizes him into action quite as fast as shopping for winter-wear in general and tweed in particular!

When it was quite clear that the programme could not be sabotaged (there were three formidable adversaries) I capitulated with good grace. Giving a hundred and one instructions to the maid to make preparations for the evening party (some headway had already been made the day before, careful planner that I am) I got ready, only to be mildly reproached by daughter dear, who felt my outfit was too casual for a formal fete (an oxymoron if ever there was one!) Adhering to her suggestion, I changed into something that seemed passable, to be told by sonny boy, half an hour later, that even diplomats were expected at these places so perhaps the chirpy red West side T shirt I had cheerfully donned wasn't quite appropriate. Wisely accepting that the kids were now grown up and knew a thing or two about social graces, I changed into a formal shirt-though, pitifully, the colour was not in tandem with the trousers. As this was getting to be more and more like a military exercise-we had to return home by 2.30 pm, thanks to someone having said that he would be visiting us at that appointed time-I kept urging the kids to hurry up and leave so that we would be back in good time. In my heart of hearts, I knew there was a better reason for the hurry to return-I wanted my afternoon rest before gearing up for a busy evening-with its share of some marathon cooking.

We left at 11.45 am and despite Srishti's repeated urging that he should drive slowly, Saagar kept the speed at a consistent 60 k mph. Once in a way, either the spouse or I would also remind him to go slow and he would release the accelerator but the general drift is that we made good speed. The Chanakyapuri area was where we had to go-he said he knew the place in his mind's eye though he didn't know the exact address. Well that didn't matter, reaching the place was all that was important and he enlightened us that he would manage to do that. En route, other than reminding him to go slower and inquiring every now and then how far away we were from destination point, Srishti pretty much kept her counsel, till suddenly, as Saagar slowed down and almost stopped at the gate of a place called Sikkim House, she piped in vehemently, “This is not the place!” Now you could have knocked me down with a feather; perhaps that statement needs a bit of explanation. The young lady in question is one who has no clue about directions and whose only claim to road sense is, perhaps, knowing the way from home to college and back. This, if nothing else before or subsequently, should have made me smell a rat, but I was completely oblivious to all the tell-tale signs that had been presenting themselves from the start of day. How or why on earth did Srishti have a say in the matter? What idea could she possibly have of where we were going? I did say as much and she commented that brother dear had described the place in great detail to her (why on earth, I didn't think) The long and the short of it was that though a trifle annoyed, Saagar honoured her outburst and didn't stop the car. In the process he took another wrong turn (earlier he had taken a U turn where it was not allowed) and we were speeding away on a track, untrodden heretofore. A lively argument ensued, each passing the buck and blaming the other for our pitiable state. I couldn't figure out how the lad, who had been there just a day before and who’s pretty clued-on about roads, could be so befuddled now but decided to go with the flow. On the second recci, we crossed the same building again and this time, with growing confidence, Saagar suddenly declared that that was the place. Well, this didn't seem like an embassy, I demurred but his stout rejoinder was,’ This is where I had parked my car yesterday”, and confidently turned into the gate of the deserted-looking building, which bore no signs of hosting a fete of any kind, let alone one as impressive as the type organised at embassies.

Trying my best to locate a fair of any kind now, I looked around and, to my immense surprise, perceived a human figure standing on the slope that led into the bhawan. Now, one sees human figures all the time, in all places, but what aroused my keen interest at that particular moment was because it happened to be that of my one and only sister and seeing her suddenly in the middle of nowhere-if you know what I mean-filled me with pleasurable surprise. I jumped out of the car even before he had finished parking it and expressed sentiments like fancy meeting her there or words to that general effect. She explained that she was there to meet a colleague and was now about to proceed to Vigyan bhawan to see her minister. Good, I said, that we had caught her in the nick of time, or another extra reconnoiter on Delhi roads and we would’ve missed her. Yes, she agreed, ostensibly heading towards a waiting white ambassador. Just then, I espied a sleek white Honda City driving into the humble gate and finding an uncanny resemblance, turned to my sister and said sotto voce “Omigod! The driver looks so much like Manoj!”(Our brother) She grinned inanely and before she could say anything, I noticed the man seated in the passenger seat of the car and almost did a double take: for it was my elder brother, from Bombay! What was happening? What was all this? By now, Manoj had stepped out of the car, family in tow, and had uttered the magic words “Happy Birthday!” 

The penny finally dropped! These chappies had got me to this place, on the flimsiest of pretexts, to celebrate my birthday which had been 4 days before. They had deliberately driven around killing time and Srishti’s desperate intervention had been made to delay our arrival (privy as she was to superior information coming every minute on her cell phone) and Saagar, smartly having caught on that she was trying to create perfect timing for the rendezvous, had chosen to take us on a prolonged drive. Once we made our way into the hall, we were met by my brother-in-law, who was absolutely sure that the surprise must have been revealed hours earlier. He was more than surprised to learn that I hadn’t guessed a thing right till the very last moment and even then, thought that it was a family lunch. But more pleasant surprises were to follow, as in two’s and three’s, many of my/the spouse’s dear cousins and their families began trickling in at regular intervals, resulting in more squeals of amazement and joyous laughter. Just when I would think the gathering was complete, in would walk another couple/family-oh the feeling was too rapturous to be put into words! The whole scene was reminiscent of the ‘aaj zamin pe utare itne sitare hain…’ if I may be allowed to be a little audacious in my comparison, as more and more folks sauntered in.

My cup of joy was brimming. Manoj singled me out and informed me how the kids had done the entire planning. He had tried suggesting that the party should be organised in his new home, but they had been adamant. No, the treat was on them, thanks a lot, but they would host it. So they had chosen a third place (had been ably assisted at every juncture by their Mausi) and, he went on to add with pride, they had saved for months to foot the bill. They had not taken their dad into confidence knowing his congenital inability to keep secrets and, confessed my brother a little sheepishly, he too hadn’t been calling me since a week earlier as he hadn’t trusted himself to not give away the closely guarded strategy. I felt a lump in my throat as I thought of all the meticulous planning the children must have done, the counting of funds, the lowered voices on phone, the extraction of phone numbers from my cell phone, the issuing of invitations (later I was told that the plan had been swung into motion weeks before and an excel sheet had been duly created to track progress) and all the time the sword of discovery-by their gimlet-eyed mom-looming over their heads. These kids, whom I was always reprimanding for being too laidback or lacking in organization, had pulled the rug from right under my feet. They had organised a terrific do, the kind I could never have imagined-a first for them-and done it in style-on slickly oiled wheels. Most importantly, they had made all these efforts to ensure a memorable day, a day of perfect bliss for their mother.

That was one of the happiest days of my life, rendered unforgettable by the almost magical quality it had and made immeasurably special by the thoughtfulness, the caring and the deep abiding love that went into the execution of the event.

My kiddos Bestest!!

(TW)