Delightful December

I’ve always loved the winter season; and December-for more reasons than one-has been my favourite month. The air is so fresh and invigorating, the choicest of vegetables flood the market, there’s a surfeit of choice for fruits, one can munch away on goodies and still have room for more-even oily, spicy food is easily digested…..but my ramblings are becoming too food-oriented. Those are not the only reasons that make winter special. As school and college students, the long winter holidays were ideally utilised. This was a time for unending badminton matches played right through the evenings on proper hard courts, friendly tournaments with not-so-friendly-results.The days were equally well-spent; playing cricket in the benign sun where kids ranging from age 8 to 19 participated with gusto, not to forget the endless picnics, both planned and unplanned that dotted the season with unfailing regularity. The first kind was the highly orchestrated, annual event organized by the Club, where regular subscriptions were taken, funds collected, menus drawn up-the organizing committee agonizing over every, minute detail, till a good plan evolved and finally the great day (generally Jan 1, in those good ole days when the concept of revelry on December 31 had not caught on) full of unbounded enjoyment. Tambola and tug of war among other games, formed an integral part, most of the cooking was actually done outdoors! Crisp, hot pakoras dripping with green dhania chutney did the rounds as did piping hot tea-in customary earthenware cups-with the quintessential earthy flavour. Simultaneously, the biggest vessels that we had ever laid eyes on were obtained and kilos of mutton chucked in and some veteran uncles jumped into the fray providing admirable support to the retinue of cooks. This was started fairly early in the day, as it was a well-known fact that mutton takes a long time to cook and, in the absence of giant-size pressure cookers, allowing it to stew in its own broth-in a manner of speaking-was the only option. Of course, this technique gave the final product the kind of yummy quality that made it incomparable. The wafting aroma was quite another story and by the time lunch was ready we were all but counting the minutes. These were high points in our lives and there was a sense of emptiness for days after this annual event got over, days utilized though, in talking about it and reliving some of the fun.

Picnics of the other variety-the impromptu ones- kept dotting our personal landscape all the time. A gentle breeze, a warm sunny day, the river flowing peacefully by the dam…all observed by experienced, young eyes and the split-second decision would be taken. It would be deemed just the perfect kind of day-for a picnic. Then the minor detail of food would enter the periphery of our existence and inroads would be made into Mummy’s kitchen and that wonderful place called store room (another outdated concept) to check out the stuff available. Completely undeterred by the staple fare-read parantha-subzi, namkeen, some odd fruits-no cold drinks (unheard-of luxury) so plain water (tap water!!) filled in bottles would suffice. Some coffee/tea would be made hastily and poured into large thermos flasks; any other snacks that happened to be there, thanks to our ever-enterprising mother, would be packed in for good measure. Playing cards and the ubiquitous Ludo would go in next and Leena, never too interested in matters of the tummy, would focus on her area of expertise: carrying either her portable transistor or the National Panasonic tape recorder we were inordinately proud of-and a good selection of cassettes. Providing quality music to the experience was her responsibility and she did that with élan. It was work well-divided, come to think of it. Me concentrating on the grub, Mummy in helping me pack, Manoj on the games and other logistics (rugs, water, a morha for Mummy etc), Leena on music and Bhaiya-if his winter break was on and he was home-in being the efficient general manager (displaying all the qualities of his future vocation!). Papa, naturally, would be away at office, working hard and making all these fun moments possible for us...... And then, off we would go to our chosen destination, just across the road and down the slopy trail to the river bank and then wind our way downwards till we arrived at a grassy patch in a shaded haunt, the wind gently wafting through our hair and lifting it, the sun shining gloriously and joining us in our moments of undiluted bliss.

And so the good years went fleeting by and Life generally ambled along, a lot of changes coming in between. The one thing that remained unchanged was my love of the month and my patient wait for it, for eleven long months to pass before this magical month arrived. But well worth the wait, I always told myself.

And now, having moved to the NCR almost a decade ago, I feel my love for this time of the year has strengthened, if anything. The reason is not far to seek. A new dimension has got added to the list of reasons (though picnics had got relegated to the past, long years ago) for the popularity of the season. And that is: this is the period that sees the influx of dear family members-uncles, aunts, cousins-and a host of friends visiting their country and what better route than good old Delhi? Well, that's where the best part lies because then, many an evening is spent catching up with them and when that happens, more often than not over a well-prepared meal and tonnes of nostalgic laughter, it turns out to be an evening of bliss nonpareil. So winter in general and December in particular has come to be identified with this lovely pastime, a treat for bon vivants. And the waiting period, which culminates in such wonderfully energizing get-togethers, has an excitement all its own, an emotion very few can match or compete with.

The spirit of an all-pervasive cheer and bonhomie, the peace and serenity of Christmas permeates right through the month and the exciting anticipation of the New Year all contribute to making this month almost perfect.

Vive, December!

I've got a Ticket to Ride

The Metro has come into our backyard!! Well, perhaps not literally, but metaphorically at least. The Noida City Centre station is barely two kilometers from our home; how’s that for progress? This was a long-awaited event and one that seemed forever in coming. But at last-on the already historic day in India’s calendar: November 14-the sleek, shining Metro made its inaugural foray into Delhi’s privileged and neighbouring city.From the next day, it was open to the public.

Looking back, I feel that I’ve always had a soft corner for the Metro, right from my first encounter with it, way back in the nineties. I loved the few times I had the opportunity (more sought and planned than incidental) of taking joy rides in Calcutta: from Tollygunge or Rabindra Sadan to Dum Dum, enjoying the trips immensely, each time, So it was but natural that I welcomed the Metro once it arrived in the national capital, with gusto; but again, the chance to board it had to be painstakingly contrived, as it did not cross even remotely close to all my favourite haunts.

My patience was rewarded at last and I felt inexplicable elation-almost a sense of personal achievement!-when the Metro finally wove its way into our verdant surroundings. Any and everyone who happened to call that day was reminded that s/he should congratulate me and when the poor dear enquired why, s/he was regally enlightened that the tube’s arrival into our city, as well as vicinity, made us deserving recipients of their congratulatory messages. I don’t know how many saw the point but most were courteous enough to comply.

The logical question that played itself out in my mind, next, was how/when would I board this brand new section of the Metro? Having caught glimpses of it circuitously snaking its way parallel to my car, enthralled me, but somehow, try as I might, my plans of personally inaugurating the Noida segment, within the month of its starting, just didn’t seem to be materializing. Not one to give up easily, I kept trying and finally, my efforts bore fruit this morning.

Returning from an early morning drive to Greater Noida, and en route to work, I suddenly had this brainwave that opportunities didn’t always knock on one’s door: one had to create them many times. Instructing the driver to stop at the Sector 18 station, I stepped out of the car and asked him to keep it waiting for me at destination point-the sector 15 Metro station. (Earlier, I had been planning that I would take a ride one day, on my way back from office but the envisioned rush at that crazy hour had made even my stout heart quail.) So this seemed like the perfect time-no crowds, no hassles: seize the moment hissed some inner voice with urgency. Walking up the stairs from the sector 18 market side, I looked at the shops around me as they stood bathed in the early morning, winter mist and after purchasing the ticket for the princely sum of ten rupees, waited on platform number 2. Within a couple of minutes, the familiar train arrived and getting in, I seated myself. It was a thrilling experience, seeing all the familiar landmarks through the unfamiliar mode of transport and before I could say E. Sreeedharan, the Sab Mall and Max hospital appeared, then disappeared from view, giving way to the sector 16 station, where the train stopped. A motley few got in-a smaller number got out-and the train was off again. A slight bend was negotiated next as the Metro dexterously curved inwards, passed Rajnigandha chowk, the familiar T.I.M.E hoarding and chugged along Savoy Suites, then Nirula’s, each vanishing in a trice. So absorbed was I in looking at all these sights, it’s small wonder that I managed to alight at my designated halt and didn't get so carried away as to get over-carried! A short walk across the road, into the waiting car, and off I was to office. Considerably invigorated and, this time, with a real sense of achievement.

I had met my self-imposed deadline of having the Noida Metro experience in November and what's more, the sudden, impulsive nature of the jaunt had made every one of those five, magical minutes truly enjoyable!!

The see saw game of life

I’ve always considered that childhood favourite, the see-saw, as the ultimate symbol of Life. It represents, so tellingly, the ups and downs of this intriguing voyage: one moment you are at an all-time high: exulting, floating in the clouds…..the very next, you’re back to the earth with a resounding crash. Well, never has this see-saw experience been more evident-alternating between hope and despair, pleasure and pain-than in the recent sojourn we planned to undertake.

Our proposed trip to the Down Under was unexpected, to say the least. Absolutely unlikely, but made possible by my ever-optimistic sister’s undying positivity, her potent motivating skills. She was traveling to that part of the world and her seemingly innocuous query-why didn’t I plan to join her (we would be traveling separately but that wouldn’t be a problem) while she was there?-was aimed, with uncanny precision and persisting frequency, to ensure that I didn’t wriggle out of it casually. I replied in the affirmative, more to humour her than taking it seriously or even thinking that I would actually get down to planning the impossible. But even though I knew all along that this was a fairly far-fetched idea, never for a moment had I dreamt that-if at all the plan materialized-it would be replete with quite as many unexpected turns as it finally was. These components ensured that the adrenaline levels were high all through but the agonizing suspense that was a k constant had the effect of the legendary Damocles’ sword dangling precariously over our heads.

To start with, we had no idea whether we would actually go-till about twenty-four hours before the scheduled time of departure. The reason-All Quiet on the Visa Front and the suspense was all but killing! An international trip in the pipeline and the so-called travelers on tenterhooks, wondering whether it would materialize or not. Then, at eleven a.m on Friday, came my sister’s succinct message: ‘Visas cleared.’ The feeling of euphoria cannot be described- the most fundamental and the biggest of hurdles had been overcome.

I galvanized into action and how! But it seemed a pyrrhic victory. The internet chose, at that critical moment, not to display the only fare that was within reach of my modest pocket. I had been clutching at Thai Airways as my only straw, the only one that was economically viable but, with sadistic glee, this option was withdrawn; there was no sign of Thai airlines amongst the myriad exorbitant choices that seemed to be mocking at me that day. It had mysteriously been wiped off the face of the ‘net and I was left gaping, mentally bidding goodbye to all dreams of ever setting foot in the southern hemisphere.

A desperate call to a reliable travel agent bore fruit. He informed me that Thai airlines was updating its website and hence it had disappeared from viewing. He assured me that he would find out the best fares and revert quickly. He was as good as his word and got back within ten minutes, quoting an all-time low fare. My heart leapt up (pretty much like the poet whose heart had performed a similar antic merely on beholding the banal rainbow!) as the trip once again seemed within reach and I almost gave him the go-ahead signal, till a dampening thought besieged the self-same, vulnerable organ, this time making it dive to the general region of the feet.

For, the dear offspring, who I planned to take along with me-as a memorable 21st birthday gift to her-was running temperature and had a bad cold since the night before. All our ministrations: a combination of Cetrizine, Limcee and Crocin had not borne fruit and she still had fever that morning. Added to that, she was in the middle of a chess tournament which she wouldn’t miss for anything. On being advised that she should stay at home and rest, her stout rejoinder was ’No way!’She wouldn’t do that-- fever and the vague possibility of a trip to Australia (ha!)-- could not make her waver from her chosen path. (Remember, readers, that our visas had not come through till that morning, hence her candid disbelief and healthy disregard for our concern wasn’t surprising) Any other time, such determination, such resolve would have been touching but right then, it seemed sheer lunacy. I took it in my stride like most other things the parents of youngsters get used to doing. ….but now, with the visas in our pockets, hectic calls were made to her, to check on her health and work out the logistics for the immediate future. My desperate calls went unanswered for a good while (m’lady was too involved in her match to answer mundane calls and discuss everyday trivia like debating if one should go ahead with the programme to Australia or, depending on how she was feeling, lump it) Finally, contact was established after dogged attempts and once her squeals of delight had subsided (and the jumping with joy that I could visualize, stopped) she said she was as fit as a fiddle and saw no reason why her so-called indisposition should throw a spanner in the works. I nodded laconically, made all the right verbal nods and disconnected. I had too much on my platter-starting with booking the tickets. On cloud nine again.

The very next moment, a nebulous fear, an unnamed dread began taking shape in my mind; one that I was reluctant to give a name to, let alone share with her. In those times, when swine flu had become a household name, a horrible, dreaded term, the ugly thought racing through my mind was what if those immigration chappies-known to be fussy at best and finicky at worst-had come up with massive scanners, strategically located at airports, that would pick up the least little virus that was even distantly related to the pedestrian cold/fever? They, with their paranoia, their well-known penchant for maintaining the hygiene level of their island country, would be over-vigilant to keep their country pristine and sanitized. What if, on the faintest whim or suspicion, we were barred from entering the country and deported right back? Apart from the considerable monetary loss which I could ill afford, we would never live down the ignominy: the tale would be narrated to our grand children and great grand children with ghoulish relish; and be perpetuated for posterity, if you get the general drift.

Advice was sought from sagacious quarters-it was mixed and ranged from ‘drop the programme altogether (not worth the risk)’ to ‘leg it alone’. One school of thought opined that youngsters would get ample opportunities later in life; the same may not be true of middle-aged folks like yours truly. Not one person advised that the kiddo be taken along-that would be outright foolhardy, given the circumstances. Why not leave the young lady behind was the very sensible and pragmatic suggestion that came my way. Go alone and sail through undaunted. Very practical and all that but here I can put on record, with pride and honesty, that not for a moment did my resolve falter, never did I consider that as an option. No way; we would sink or swim together. I wouldn’t leave her in the lurch, after all the rosy pictures that had been conjured up, the uncertainty of the plan notwithstanding. It would either be both of us or neither. The ball was back in my court; it was a moment of truth for me. I had to take the call; others could, at best, give well-meant advice.

Adhering to the time-tested adage that the world belonged to those who dared, I decided to take the plunge. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I told myself. One frenetic call to the reasssuring travel agent later, all doubts were laid at rest, all misgivings gone. The terrible dilemma was behind me and I was at peace with myself.

Murphy’s Law took over completely after that. The more time that I needed to organize things, the busier the day became, with every conceivable minute being spent in back to back meetings! So even the simple act of making/taking a call became a challenge. I had to know whether the tickets were booked or not…at one o’clock the confirmation came. The tickets could be found in my mailbox, ready for printing. We were on our way!

As a rule, seasoned-or careless?-travellers that we are, we never take medical insurance when we travel. But this time, I decided to heed my younger brother’s advice and play it safe. Another surreptitious call, this time to the insurance agent, was made, categorically emphasizing the urgency and the fact that the papers would have to be delivered at home that very evening. He agreed but the well-nigh impossible prerequisite he stated was that he needed photo copies of our passports immediately. Now, here was the proverbial catch: I didn’t have the blessed documents in my possession, the Australian High Commission having taken its own sweet time in granting us the visas, had necessitated their being returned to my sister only that morning. A piquant situation, if there ever was one! Another sotto voce call, attempted to the dear sibling, but like daughter dear earlier in the day, she had better things to do than take desperate calls from hapless souls. Not one to be bogged down for long and blessing modern technology that was the sole contributor in making all the events of the morning possible, I resorted to that connector of all connectors-the sms- and text messaged the need for scanned copies to be sent ASAP. Typing an entire ID-while simultaneously contributing to a discussion- being too complex an act even for a multi-tasker like me, I simply asked her to send them to me. On getting her message that this had been done, I ran- two steps at a time, to my work station two floors above- found the mail in my mailbox and duly forwarded it to the right quarters. Heaving a sigh of relief, I raced back and was in my seat in a jiffy.

Lunch provided the much needed respite.........when the thought suddenly dawned on me that in all the hectic parleying and the morning’s shenanigans, I had completely overlooked a vital aspect: the moolah. This time, a quick call was made to the spouse, requesting him to organize a tidy sum and get it home in the evening. Thanks to his being a banker, this contingency was also taken care of with admirable haste, despite the short notice.

Finally, I was able to extricate myself and head home at seven pm. I did what little there was to be done, by way of packing. The kid had emerged victorious at the quarter finals and the semi-finals that day and her elation had made her cold take a back seat. However, it had also taken a toll on her energy levels and promising that she would do all her packing early next morning, she disappeared into her room.

Jubilation writ large on our faces-but with a mite of trepidation too-we set out on Saturday morning, all the hectic planning and last-minute coordination (buying a host of medicines being a part of it) having finally yielded a rich harvest. The flights-from Delhi to Bangkok and onwards were uneventful but as the moment for landing at Sydney airport drew near, fear began rearing its ugly head all over again. All the bravado deserted us and the omnipresent, omniscient Virus Scanner started becoming a menacing reality. All at once, I could absolutely identify with Macbeth’s fear of the unknown and felt “cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in to saucy doubts and fears." Minutes before touch down, I made Srishti wolf down two biscuits and a Crocin just in case the fever chose to resurface. She complied with alacrity, taking a Limcee too, for good measure. Our confidence returned as the plane touched the tarmac-the scanner receded, becoming a demonic figment of juvenile imagination-and we were all but ready to break into Jai Ho. We had made it!!

As all the passengers stood in queue, waiting for the doors of the aircraft to open, a metallic voice on the PA system asked us to please be seated again. Quarantine Officers were aboard and they would examine everyone, to ensure there was no contamination. There comes my fit again, I told myself silently, what if the harmless cold was diabolically contorted into something much more ominous? I took Srishti’s soggy handkerchief from her and buried it deep into our cabin baggage but didn’t know what to do with the plethora of medicines I was carrying in my handbag. Keeping our fingers crossed, we bade our time.

Thirty minutes of agony ensued as we beheld the solitary lady officer, in her fluorescent orange jacket; make her slow but steady round. She was taking copious notes as she went along and seemed to draw inexorably closer, every passing moment, till it became almost difficult to breathe! She was four rows ahead of us when she veered around as suddenly as she had appeared and left. Just like that! “All clear and you can disembark,” came the announcement. No words could have sounded sweeter to our ears!

The rest, as they say, is history. The only precaution I took was chucking all the tablets from my handbag (I had more in the checked-in baggage) into the nearest bin as the line to Immigration inched forward. All was smooth sailing after that.
We had a memorable trip and Srishti has done more than justice to it Howdy Ma(i)te! but no narration of the Incredible Sojourn would have been complete without this unsung chapter: the heroic saga of life’s vicissitudes, its dramatic twists and turns.

Red Letter Day

The parents of an adorable little boy, it was but natural that my husband and I wanted a girl the second time round.That's what most people would have desired. Only, in my case it became an obsession. I wanted a daughter who would fill our lives with laughter...with colour and music and all things beautiful. Whose pretty, frilly clothes I would choose with loving care, the little pink accessories selected with meticulousness... who, as she grew up, would become my buddy, my friend and confidante, would suffuse our lives with joy. I was told by all well-wishers that what I felt was natural but I shouldn't let it become a yen, a yearning so strong it would shatter me if it wasn't fulfilled. God willing, they assured me, it would be a little girl but one shouldn't fret over such uncontrollable things, I was counselled. But my obsession grew with each passing day.

At one point, the doctor advised sonography. My one question to the radiologist was: was it a girl? The fellow answered my question with a query - was this our first child? When I said no, he asked whether the first was a boy. When informed in the affirmative, the chappie, steeped in the male-dominated tradition of our society, merely shrugged: then why was I so bothered? I already had a son, why the worry? I didn't bother to reply or explain.

My husband was a keen as I, only less vocal. By the time D day was around the corner, one factor got added to my yearning: the fear factor-what if it wasn't a girl? The genuine concern of my family grew in equal proportions; my mother and sister sent me long letters trying to drill sense into me, telling me to be reasonable and open to both the options, to not brood over things I had no control over.

But I went on undeterred: weaving a fine gauze of gossamer dreams, trimmed with lacey borders of hope and expectation. And finally, the day was upon us. As I was being wheeled into the Operation Theatre, I heard the lady doctor, who was well aware of my deep desire - murmur sotto voce may the good lord heed her prayers. I heard the words and said a silent Amen.

Congratulations, it's a girl!! The words reverberated through the room. Sedated as I was and still not recoverd from the heavy anaesthesia shot, I didn't quite register the import of the words. Things were hazy, my grasp on reality tenuous. But somewhere, through the foggy delirium, the meaning finally sank in. And I was rapturous; ecstatic. On cloud nine!!

Years have gone by like the flash of days, and my little girl turned from a contented, no-problem infant to a chirpy, happy-go-lucky kid, then into a caring adolescent and finally blossomed into a loving, sensitive, responsible young adult, doing us proud at every stage of life.

16 September: a landmark day in our lives, a turning point, a day when wishes were fulfilled...a monumental day!!

Happy Birthday, Princess!!

PS- And on this monumental 21st Anniversary, the same 21 guidelines apply

Rat-tled

The two-timing, dirty rat!! To think that I was being driven up the wall because of new offensives being hurled, day in day out, by this slimy entity-with no tangible solution in sight- was driving me to distraction. My frustration increased exponentially with each passing day, as every new day bore fresh evidence of the escapades of the night before. These stared me in the face: half-eaten chapatis, chicken bones, bread leftovers and other remnants of food, strewn liberally across the kitchen floor, mute testimony to the sinful splurging the night before, and seemed to jeer at my helplessness. No mouse trap worked-its vacant interiors-the bait lying obviously untouched- added insult to injury. The insouciant creature was always one up on me!!

Till something within me snapped: no more of this, I cried; enough was enough. And very carefully-made plans were laid out. A potent rat-killer, that advertisers swore by, was purchased and placed in strategic corners of the kitchen and a few other parts of the house, where it had been sighted scurrying away hurriedly. Life, thereafter, took on a new dimension. Each morning, I would tread gingerly into the kitchen, heart beating in trepidation, expecting to see the fat rodent lying supine at my feet but no such sight greeted my eyes. The obnoxious adversary still eluded me, with all the dexterity of a pro, and evaded the death sentence I had pronounced on it with all the pomposity of a decreeing judge.

My mornings were as nightmarish as ever.

And then, one evening, without preamble, the stand-in maid (the full-timer having gone home on a well-earned, two-month leave had necessitated this one’s presence…but that’s another story) declared that a really foul smell was emanating from the study/servant room. Was there a dead rat somewhere, she wondered aloud. Her words were like music to my ears! The wretched scoundrel had been fixed. Finally! But this initial euphoria abated in the light of harsh reality. In my exultation at the news, I had quite forgotten the exact nature of the room euphemistically called the study. It’s pretty much a store room, or if I stop mincing words-more of a dumping-ground (more so with its rightful occupant having gone home) with old, discarded furniture, mattresses, quilts, old coolers constituting the interesting assortment. Apparently, the rascal had decided to sing its swan song in this madhouse of clutter. How on earth would it be located, and more importantly, disposed of? Finding the solitary, mousy carcass in that stack of stuff was no mean task: the creature had ratted on me.

The horrible stench that assaulted our senses the next morning made the erstwhile sight of food scattered over the kitchen floor seem almost welcome in comparison! And new problems stared me in the face. One was to contact the society’s cleaner the other, to ensure there was someone to oversee the activity. Getting both to happen simultaneously turned out to be more difficult than I had imagined. The hectic, mechanical lifestyles we have, preclude any such crises and short of taking leave from work, there are no provisions made, in Life’s Manual, to handle such contingencies. Everything has to me fine-tuned remotely. As happened that day, once again underpinning the fact that we live in crazy times- slaves to the inexorable movement of the clock.

9 AM-Arun the cleaner arrived on being summoned, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Rescue was at hand, all would be hunky dory soon. But he took one look at the scene of action and declared that it would take time so he would return after ten. Fine, except that the work couldn’t be done under my scrutiny, then. The presence of a supervisor to get operation-rat galvanized into action being imperative, I gave instructions to the part-timer and left.

10 AM- No action. Things are rarely as simple as planned. The fellow never showed up.

12 noon-Hectic parleys with home. Scene ditto; no news of Arun; the maid left after her chores were done.

12.30 PM-I was sitting in the IT office, to answer a fairly innocuous query but the very fact of being there was making me jittery. Overriding all those emotions, however, was a sense of anxiety-had the cleaner come? Had the rodent been evicted from the premises? “Any news?’I whispered, sotto voce, into the phone, just before entering the vaunted chamber. None.

(And all the time, surreptitious calls to Arun’s cell yielded the cold, metallic answer-this phone cannot be reached.)

2 PM-I was in an important meeting, discussing the shape of things to come. Product plans for the future and improvement strategies being chalked out; new ideas bounced off and debated-all very exciting. But the mind kept wandering off…..would the fellow have arrived by now? Would the hateful rat have been sighted and expunged? An agony of suspense!

3PM-The silent phone flashed with an incoming call. I squinted at the name-Arun it said unmistakably. I almost yelled with delight and made my way out of the conference room, as close to a run as was sedately possible.

“Haan, haan bolo” I said, and he informed me that he would reach my home within ten minutes. Another quick call followed, giving crisp instructions to the driver who was almost home, to drop Srishti back from college, to hang on and ensure that he supervised the cleaning operation….

3.50 PM ‘Home’ flashed the cell this time. I sprang and took the call with what must have appeared to be unseemly haste, inviting a couple of quizzical looks. Operation-Rat successful was the drift of the message and I heaved an almost audible sigh of relief.

All quiet on the kitchen-front now. But one disturbing query keeps rearing its ugly head: in the end, who trapped whom: had I trapped the rat or had the blighter trapped me???

The Metro jaunt

A visit to Rajouri Gardens was on the cards: an official trip. I discovered that instead of dreading the almost two hour drive to that god-forsaken place, I was actually looking forward to it. The reason wasn’t far to seek. I planned to take the metro.

Live as we do in Noida, opportunities to take joy rides on the metro are few and far between. That’s why it’s with great keenness that such occasions are welcomed. So the plans were made and I set out to the new Yamuna Bank station as close to whistling a chirpy tune as is possible for me.

The first eventful occurrence was that, not knowing the exact location of the place, the cabbie hired by the office for the express purpose of dropping me there, almost overshot the destination. It was only because of my customary caution (read sitting-on-edge and eyeing every possible landmark and ticking it on my checklist-but what my kids will confirm, with condescending glee, as being unduly worked-up) I espied an unexpected walk-way overhead and informed the driver that he needed to do a smart reverse on the one-way highway, so as not to miss the wide and conspicuous left turn. All’s well that ends well, and I was at the station within the next four minutes, tickets duly purchased-the chap at the counter didn’t have the change so I promised myself (and him) that I would collect it on my way back. I realized I was just a little nervous about going to the right platform or otherwise, visions of going in the opposite direction and missing my appointment assailed me. Having confirmed with fellow waiting-passengers on either side (another moment that would have made the kids squirm!) I happily boarded the sleek train as it made its imperious entry into the station and ground to a halt. There was a mad rush for seats, it being the office hour, but I managed to get one and soon found myself looking out at the lush greenery that the capital city is so famous for. Delhi, through the windows of the metro, looks even more beautiful than perhaps it really is-old, forgotten memories vied for attention and R.L Stevenson’s Faster than fairies faster than witches; Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches….. came unbidden to the mind. The majestic buildings, the historic monuments, the wide avenues, the sprawling parks, the racing traffic….all coalesced into a beautiful collage seen from the vantage point of a metro compartment…Each a glimpse and gone forever.. Simultaneously, I was also doing a mental ticking away of the stations as they appeared-the mandatory audio instructions-repeating the name of the forthcoming station, the doors will open to the left, mind your step…. both in Hindi and English, providing the much needed break in the otherwise silent scenario, where lone passengers, busy in the hurly-burly of life and completely preoccupied with their own thoughts, made their way in diverse destinations. 

Two stations before my appointed one, I noticed an elderly gentleman standing and when I got up to offer my seat, he was evidently reluctant to take it. I managed to convince him that I had but a short distance left to travel and he shouldn’t refuse the offer; only then did the old dear sit down. Made me think how even at that age, there was so much grace and such lack of concern for himself. While generally we see just the reverse happen-when able-bodied, young people elbow others out of the way to grab seats in public places, here was an example of someone so deserving who had been standing all through and would’ve continuing doing so had I not noticed. In fact, on the return trip, I did espy an entire ladies seat occupied by young men while I could see several ladies standing.
Came my stop and I alighted. As the snake-like line wound its way out of the station, the lady just in front of me managed to get her token stuck and the crawl came to a halt. Till a uniformed metro employee came to her rescue and order was restored. But not before some muttered expletives and under-the breath-yet audible-curses could be heard! How impatient have we become? Always rushing, always hurrying, hypertensive, impatient - high price to pay for so-called modernisation.
  
The meeting and discussions were the most banal part of the day and two hours down the line, I found myself at the metro station again. The time of day made a big difference and this time there were very few people waiting with me. Getting into the compartment was a cake walk, but once in, it was surprisingly full. I stood for a while but got a seat five minutes down the line so all was hunky dory. But just before destination point-Yamuna Bank-the train stopped thrice, unscheduled brief stoppages but they took the fun out of the ride. Steeped though we are in the culture of trains running late (and how!) the same thing from a metro train is completely unacceptable. Anyway, and luckily, this didn’t delay the train for more than tem minutes in all and we were finally back and out of the station-though sans the change I was supposed to collect, as it seemed too much effort to join the queue again.
  
Once out, I realised how connectivity to the city is still not fully developed. While auto rickshaws and a couple of metro vans could be seen, there was no sign of a taxi. (A call to the Easy cabs from the train had elicited the response that they did not send cabs to that part of the city and I would find one on reaching) To cut a long story short, I found that I was left high and dry, in the sense that there was no sign of a cab of any shape or size. Finally, in the sweltering heat of the July afternoon, I took an auto and made my way back to office, though none the worse for the ride.
  
Though I know that a bit of streamlining still needs to be done, the over-all feeling is one of great satisfaction. Despite the recent unfortunate occurrences in metro construction, this trip was a good experience as it reinforced the belief that even though things can go wrong at times, we shouldn’t write-off something as robust and with as established a reputation as the Delhi metro as having lost its sheen. There can be flaws in the best of things and they need to be worked on but at the end of the day, something that’s good and time-tested, will always remain that way.

Never say Never again

Some musings….random, disconnected thoughts flitted through the mind like aimless clouds on a summer afternoon. And I realized that there was-to quote a one-time favourite- Robert Ludlum-a method in the madness sorry, random-ness. Each passing sentiment stemmed from a familiar root: things I had said I would never do. I began enumerating them, mentally, and before one could say ‘never again’ I had counted at least five things I had sworn I would never do……………….

A reasonably bright student of one of the best schools possible, I had a healthy disdain for just about every college, when the time came for me to choose the institution that would have the privilege of having me as its pupil. Nothing seemed good enough and the long list of places I wouldn’t enroll in far outnumbered the paltry number of places I would condescend to go to. (Such was the naive conceit of youth… ah!) Topping the list of places/colleges I wouldn’t go to was Patna, the place my parents would want me to choose, I always sensed (they never actually put it into words)-I would never go to Bihar for higher studies, I maintained with studied arrogance, there was no college there that was good enough. I would either go to Cal or better still to Delhi-that was the place to be in. Delhi was firmly ruled out by Papa (B.H.U was as far as he would allow me, he said. D.U, in those days, was too closely associated with drugs for his comfort) Once the ISC exams were over, I made a recci of all the reputed colleges of Calcutta-Presidency, Loreto House, St.Xavier’s, Sri Shikshayatan while still awaiting the results. Came the results and by some quirk of fate, having managed a good score, I got a call from St. Stephen’s College, Delhi but dad dear decided to come down heavy-handed. All my pleas fell on deaf ears as he refused to budge. No way, not Delhi was his unequivocal stand- I wouldn’t be allowed to set foot on the vaunted grounds of this most prestigious of colleges. Ahem!! I retreated for the time being; deciding that the battle could be deferred till his stance thawed and the time for action actually came. Studied strategy……..

And then the unimaginable happened: an incidental trip to Patna with my mom, an equally casual visit to the Patna Women’s College premises and I was floored.

I went, I saw, I was conquered.

Forgotten was all that ranting against ‘never studying in Bihar’-Patna Women’s College was thechosen college-it seemed to be beckoning me; all other alluring options were forgotten: very inexplicably, it became my first choice. The rest, as they so tritely say, is history.

Well, four years went by-some very eventful, others a trifle mundane. But the one thing constant was the extremely high fun quotient: we made sure we enjoyed every moment of our stay in the college and especially in the hostel. Some more nevers got pompously uttered by me-most of them to fall flat in my face a few years later. These were sometimes about momentous turn of events, at others, about downright silly, ridiculous things. The latter happened on occasions that were few and far between but did happen nonetheless. Sometimes, all of us crazy coots would get into animated-rather juvenile-discussions on the kind of individual we would say aye to……………eventually (‘cos at that point of time, marriage was furthest from our minds but this was considered a merry pastime) Alka and I would be vehement about the fact that we would never marry a guy unless he had a short and smart name a la an Amit (Amitabh Bachchan hangover?) or a Ravi (were we Shashi Kapoor fans too??!I don’t remember)-I guess the fact that years down the line, the two of us finally wedded chaps called Harikant and Lakshmeshwar respectively is ample testimony to the ludicrousness of such pronouncements!

Another vehement no was to the idea of marrying guys studying in good old Patna University-that too in the Arts stream. Coming as we did from families steeped in the tradition of engineering, an engineer-or at least a Science product- was what we considered respectable. Needless to say, this never also saw us both eating our words as we finally walked to the altar-and very chirpily at that- with banker grooms with distinctly historic bents of mind, and in my case, a P.U product to boot!!

Anyone would be forgiven if s/he thought that these debacles mellowed me and taught me a lesson or two about not being very strong in my views; or at least not expressing them so foolishly in public. But some people just don’t learn, so I went blithely along my way, making distinct declarations about certain things that were absolute no-no s for me. One such-and I had maintained this right through my post-graduate years and subsequently- (having refused to attend an interview where I was short listed and called to present myself) opinion was that the one profession I would never choose was lectureship. Whoever wanted to be a lecturer, I argued? A lecturer’s was the dullest, the most boring and the lousiest of jobs, I proclaimed to all and sundry. But almost a decade after the royal rejection of this profession, I tamely went for the interview for the selfsame position and, what’s more, in a lesser-known University than the prestigious P.U which I hadn’t deigned to be a part of, years before.

On being selected, I joined with alacrity despite the fact that my posting was in a god-forsaken place, all of 100 kilometers from home and though these visits were bi-weekly, they entailed considerable effort and agony. But I went on unfazed and undeterred: my indomitable spirit was rewarded when I got a transfer to a good college close to home but then I’m digressing. The point to be noted here is that, yet again, I had not only ventured into an avenue that I had thought was anathema to me but actually enjoyed it to the hilt. The rapport that I could strike with my students and the sheer sense of joy that suffused me each time they did well at exams, were rewards beyond compare. I loved teaching………I felt I had found my true vocation.

Decades passed: good, fulfilling years, when I grew in my role and responsibilities and was all but settled for life. Till one fine day, the better half dropped a bomb shell-he had applied for a transfer to Delhi. No way I screamed-there was no way I would ever go there. NEVER!! I had this comfortable, permanent job, our kids were in excellent schools and doing very well, we had a home in the city and most important, their schools were affiliated to the ICSE Board. I couldn’t dream of changing this. (Especially as I was aware that most Delhi schools had switched over to the CBSE Board and that was another never for me. All of us having been products of the ISC/ICSE Board, CBSE was unthinkable.) So there was no question of us even contemplating moving, let alone actually doing so. In any case, I would very complacently tell anyone who cared to listen “You can re-plant a sapling; you can’t transplant a full-grown tree!” How would we-middle-aged and more or less settled in our chosen fields-manage to adapt to an unfamiliar environment, a completely new lifestyle? However, this didn’t really worry me too much as one, then two, three, four years passed and there was total silence. No word from the bank, no sign of a transfer. I heaved a sigh of relief……

Till, in the fifth year, the unbelievable happened! My husband received his transfer orders: we had to move to Delhi.

For the first time, I did not say never. Instead, I decided to don the harness, get ready for the battle and jump into the arena. We packed our bags and books and made our first, tentative foray to the capital, scouting around for a good school. One by one, things fell into place-first the kids’ school, then a job for me, a new home came next, shifting, moving, settling down, adjusting became ever-recurring words in our lives.

And in the entire process-though a bit late in Life-I learnt the valuable lesson that nothing is impossible or undoable, as long as we put our hearts and minds into the challenge at hand.

I have tried to banish never from my dictionary ever since. Never again!!

Summers of another era

Lovely, simply heavenly weather!! A cool, cool breeze blowing, gently lifting my hair and fanning my face as I traverse the well-worn path of my solitary evening walk…………the ethereal weather stirs memories and transports me to a long-forgotten (rhetorical question?) era, an age where there was undiluted happiness, where the only language we knew and spoke was that of joy infinite. 

Life in a small colony-where every face was known, every home a familiar, friendly landmark-was a far cry from the present times (when the occupant of the neighbouring flat passes one by- a surly, preoccupied look on the face, harried as s/he is with myriad different challenges of city life.) The long summer holidays, particularly, were days of unadulterated bliss!

Blessed with a lovely climate- where blistering heat was an unknown concept and where frequent showers washed the already beautiful place a lush, clean green-the scenic landscape added to the joy of well, simply doing nothing and living life lazily and luxuriously, one langurous day at a time. The long afternoons were truly and absorbingly well-spent, in reading an unending supply of whodunits, thanks to the rich library in the Club (which had this terrific practice of eliciting lists from voracious readers, twice a year, and updating its stock) and mouth-watering, summer specials (light stews, mango and mint chutneys, all kinds of flavoured shakes, ice-creams and exotic desserts) churned out by our ever-innovative and doting mother, who was ably assisted in her pursuits (no, not by lazybums like us) by the faithful, full-time minion-and the evenings were a saga of fun and games-hide and seek, colour colour, cricket, football, endless hours of Monopoly and many others- spent with friends who remained friends for life. 

On some days, there were long walks through the verdant lanes of this picturesque paradise, on others, one played truant and dashed across the long, winding car drive at home, drinking in (figuratively and literally) the beauty of a sudden downpour and getting drenched in torrential rain and yet living to tell the tale, hale and hearty and none the worse for the adventurous tryst with the elements. On rare occasions, the creative urge would get the better of us and all the brats of the the colony would be collected under one roof, for orchestrated practice. Two weeks down the line, a perfect concert would be presented in the club, having all the integral fun quotient-an action-packed, full-of-suspense, English one-act play, an energetic African samba, a lively Urdu quawwali, rib-tickling Hindi mimicry, a Bangla folk dance, a couple of western numbers thrown in for good measure and presto! a veritable, variety-entertainment programme would be ready! Costumes, music et al. And performed on oiled-wheels, with no gaps, no glitches, no goof-ups-no mean task, considering that the participants would range from an IIT Kanpur almost-graduate, a BITS Pilani ditto and lesser mortals like undergraduate Arts/Science students, to little ones barely in the third or fourth standard. Variety in more ways than one!! 

There were some quieter days spent with and within the family, when we just stayed at home and waited for Papa’s return from office. Then the six of us (Bhaiya’s being home for the hols. used to be a high point in itself) would sit in the lawn that would’ve been sprinkled with water earlier in the evening, exuding the strong, earthy smell that only a freshly-watered lawn can, amidst the plants and flowers that Mummy had so lovingly nurtured, with the thick hedge shielding us from the dust and grime of the colony road. Tea for Mummy and Papa was an elaborate affair, as the tray laden with all the paraphernalia of evening tea-the tea-cosy covered teapot, the accompanying milk and sugar pots, all part of a delicately flowered china set with aesthetically matching cups and saucers; the tea-strainer and the dainty teaspoons completing the trappings, were a far cry from the masala chai that we seem to have fallen prey to, and which we gulp out of sturdy mugs, perhaps symbolizing our perennial hurry and the inability to linger over and relish the small pleasures of life. But those niceties didn’t really register, as we were fairly focused even then. All our energies would be concentrated on the loaded plates of yummy munchies that accompanied the parents' tea. A lot of friendly banter formed an essential part of these occasions, as everyone would chip in with his/her narration of the day’s events. Till Papa would get up and regally stroll into the house to read the newspaper (yes, live as we did in that God-forsaken place-oh we wouldn’t have changed it for any place else!-the newspaper came only in the late afternoon, and was called the dak edition) and this meant that we all scattered in diverse directions, all within the house, of course. 

Life was a song, literally: one mellifluous, harmonious melody where our parents formed the mainstay of our lives. They were always there for us, taking care of every need, humouring us, encouraging us, being with and for us: always. Today, as parents, perhaps we do as much for our children but with a huge difference. In those days, when every rupee was hard-earned and counted, when other family responsibilities were heavy, they never had the time or inclination to think of themselves, they didn’t ever spare a thought for themselves or their needs. No shopping, no fancy clothes/ jewellery, no big bashes, no pleasure trips, not even a house constructed to provide shelter after retirement. It was always us-our needs, our food, our education, our health, our well-being, our happiness …………… 

Having lost them both within a few years of one another, I often find myself harbouring a sense of deep resentment: why? Why did they have to go so soon, why couldn’t they have been with us for a few years longer-to have seen us, their children, settle down better, taken deep pride in their much-loved grandchildren grow up and carve out their respective career paths…….why did they leave us when they did? 

Then I consciously drive away such disturbing thoughts and make a valiant attempt to come to terms with destiny. I allow my mind to relive each moment of our glorious, carefree childhood and take solace from the fact that, perhaps, no one could possibly have asked for happier times and feel grateful for what Life gave us. Such wonderful parents and such sublime growing-up years. 

The memories of our parents and those idyllic years at Maithon act like soothing balm; cherished, indelible thoughts of those treasured years expel the disquieting darkness and I again am strong.

This one's for you, Son

January 8: I go to bed early as I have to leave for Bombay, early next morning.

 

January 9-2 AM: I get a call. Sonny boy says cryptically, “I lack B.” What?” I ask as I am completely flummoxed. Groggy from sleep and slow on the uptake (not to forget the fact that I’m quite out of sync with Gen Y’s jargon) it takes a few moments for the penny to drop. Or, perhaps, sonny spelt it out for me- the events of the next few moments are not quite lucid. All I recall is I let out a yell of unconcealed delight even at that unearthly hour. He had cleared the formidable CAT and got calls from five IIMs-Indore, Lucknow, Ahmedabad, Calcutta and Kozhikode. Not from Bangalore (hence the I LACK B) I could scarce believe the enormity of his achievement. Sheer rapture enveloped us all. (And all of us kept wide awake till dawn-excitement having banished sleep quite effectively!)

 

The next two months passed in a frenzy of interviews. The poor fellow was perpetually donning his smart, black suit and pin-striped tie and-looking elegant and dashing-dashing off in different directions:

February 17-  Kozhikode- IMI, Qutb Industrial area

February 18-Indore-Indian Social Institute, Lodhi Road

March 5-Lucknow-IIM Lucknow Noida Campus

March 7-Ahmedabad- IIFT Qutb Industrial area

March10-XLRI (whose results had come in between) YWCA, CP

March 14-Calcutta-IMI, Qutb Industrial area

 

And finally the ordeal was over. Of always having to sport a clean-shaven look, keeping trimmed hair and above all, and especially with summer knocking on the door, still stoically wearing the afore-mentioned, black, woollen suit.

 

Then, a lull as we kept our fingers crossed. And how! Every minute of the day, hope and expectation loomed large on the heart’s horizon: surely. he would make it? Yet, sometimes, despite all the confidence in the youngster’s ability and élan, a nebulous apprehension would rear its ugly head. What if……? But faith would triumph.

 

March 26: “I made it to XLRI” came the thrilling message and I was euphoric.

 

But the best was yet to come.

 

April 9- I went to bed late as I had returned from a day’s trip to Bombay.

 

April 10-“Calcutta converted” his opening words on phone sounded like manna from heaven. He had cracked IIM Calcutta! I was ecstatic and barely listening to the rest-Lucknow, Indore, Kozhikode too-I was yelling and shouting and generally going crazy.

On cloud nine, eighteen, twenty seven…exponentially. What a memorable day!

 

Proud of you, my son: really, deeply, inexpressibly proud. Thank you, Saagar, and a big God Bless (and a bigger thank you to Him, for having made this possible)

P.S-Calcutta, I love you even more now.(Hadn't I said, around a month ago, that the umbilical cord with Cal had never been severed?!)

Laundry blues

The other day, driving in the vicinity of the railway station, I was transfixed by a once-familiar, now fast receding, visual image: rows and rows of laundry spread out to hang on fences, grassy patches, railway tracks and every other conceivable bit of space available. Those bales of clothes, flying wantonly in the midday sun, conjured up memories from the past…memories long forgotten, of those other days, those days that are no more. A sight at once familiar and alien….familiar because that’s a vista we’ve grown up with-endless stretches covered with whites and coloured clothes- in carefully segregated columns-a lot of times, and very inexplicably, along railway tracks (always made us speculate on the fundamental question of their being rendered cleaner or dirtier in the bargain!) and alien because we no longer encounter this sight in the city’s chic, urbane landscape. The vision reminded me of an almost disappeared species of professionals: the quintessential arbiter of the above-mentioned scene-the friendly neighbourhood dhobi who seems to have vanished off the face of the earth now!

Come Sundays and every home experienced this weekly routine of the arrival of the washer-man.-the familiar figure looming on the horizon, either on foot or on a rickety bike-depending on his economic status-a bundle of clothes on his head/carrier. No sooner had he been sighted than the housewife would scurry for her diary where she would have meticulously noted down the assortment of clothes that had been given the week before-for different purposes. There were those to be washed and ironed, some to be ironed alone (istri ke kapde) while others-typically the whites-to be dipped in indigo and starched before being ironed. Then again, there was that rough and tough variety of raiment-generally the towels, bed sheets, bed covers, thin rugs that had to be put into the bhhatti (the furnace no less!)-from which ordeal other, more delicate fabrics, had to be protected….such was the specialization involved in this careful art. The tallying of the clothes was the first step when the garments came home-done with utmost precision: shirts-4 trousers-5 saree-3 so on and so forth, till suddenly the peaceful scene would get transformed into an acrimonious one as the housewife detected a flaw in the perfect surroundings. Invariably, she would discover that the tattered rag through which she was beholding the world at large was part of the table linen she had been so proud of or the discoloured yellow dress on top of the pile was the sky-blue party frock she had bought (stretching her modest budget and incurring the spouse’s wrath in the process ) for dear daughter’s sixth birthday just a month before Sometimes, a saree would be missing or an old white shirt that had been sent for the innocuous purpose of istri cleverly substituted for a brand new one …………and all hell would break loose. The irate housewife would rave and rant, the intrepid dhobi would refuse to budge from his stance-yeh to aise hi condition mein tha/aapne saree galti se likh liya hai/ yeh to aapka hi shirt hai….depending on what the item under discussion was. But woe betide the fellow if, sometimes, his dhobun was caught red-handed, attired in the selfsame missing saree…then even he would have the grace to not show up for the next two Sundays. All in all-and the fracas notwithstanding-the fellow was indispensable and school-going kids like us when singled out as examples of wearing spotlessly clean uniforms knew who to thank for the impeccable look.

Well those days are long gone and buried-that breed has now disappeared. All we are left with are the synthetic replacement-the all too familiar iron wallah who resides in every society worth its name. These are people euphemistically called dhobis but they do not render the yeoman service that their forerunners did. All this modern version does is collect your clothes every morning and bring them back the same evening, duly ironed. No more. The luxury of a spotlessly white bed sheet, starched and ironed, or a crisp white dress-made of the finest cotton fabric-with liberal quantities of starch-shimmering-with-mica which would be the envy of every girl within hearing distance …are all things of the past. Now we dunk everything arbitrarily into the washing machine and have to make do with whatever it spews out after the pre-determined time interval. The starch and neel ceremony is almost obsolete…a luxury only a few have the time, inclination or the space for.

As I think of the dear old dhobi/dhoban, I’m also reminded of a few other tradesmen/specialized folks who’ve long since become conspicuous by their absence. For instance the khaki-clad, liveried postman-his cap tilted at a rakish angle- whose arrival always heralded joy because it meant a postcard or an inland letter (more outdated concepts) or even a greeting card from a dear one…… or the bearded fellow in a chequered lungi, his meshed wicker-basket precariously perched on his bike carrying a brood of hens-the murghi-seller- as he made his door-to-door rounds of families given to non-vegetarian delights. But what delighted and interested children the most was the arrival of the local egg-seller (yes, eggs actually came to your doorstep!) carrying fresh desi eggs, straight from their home-grown poultry outfit, with a flavour that was indescribably yummy. No subsequent farm eggs could ever match that taste. Children would scamper to the kitchen and come to the veranda carrying a pan of water. Then would follow a time-tested ritual, the litmus test to gauge the freshness of eggs: the water test. If the egg sank to the bottom of the pan, it was good to go; all the ones that floated to the surface had to be replaced. This was a fascinating exercise and in many homes, kids took turns to be allowed the privilege. The delicate constitution of eggs precluded the very young, much to their chagrin, and they had to bide their time.

Well, those days are definitely part of the long-forgotten past, but at times one does muse over that era and wonder: how much lost and how much gained?

Oh Calcutta!

Some trips are banal, some interesting, some plain dull. The trip I made recently was none of these-it was very special-it was a trip down memory lane.

A cousin’s wedding in a remote part of the country necessitated travel in that direction. Coming from a family with strong bonds as we do, all four of us, siblings, decided to attend, a bonus of the trip being we would drive through the place which was paradise for us: Maithon Dam, a tiny place nestling amidst hills and abundant greenery, the river Barakar meandering lazily through it and lending an indefinable air of serenity, a picturesque beauty, was situated strategically between two states-Bihar and Bengal and had a fine blend of both cultures, the latter predominating. The name came from a famous Durga temple-Mai Sthan, which gradually gave way to the more practical Maithon-but its claim to fame was that it housed Asia’s first underground hydel power station, apart from being home to the country’s first thermal power project-the DVC. Our father had been transferred there when the littlest sibling was a few months short of three and had stayed on for two decades; this had ensured that Maithon was synonym for home and signified all that was happy and idyllic. It was our heaven and our haven from the big, bad world-pristine in its beauty, untouched and unspoilt.

But I’m digressing. This post is not about Maithon at all, but about the intentions of going there-which remained just that: an intent. Finally, instead of all of us, just the older sibling and I managed this circuitous feat of attending the marriage and though we couldn’t visit Maithon, we did the next best thing: spent a morning of sheer nostalgia gallivanting on the roads of Calcutta.

Now, if Maithon was home, Calcutta was second home to us, as trips to Bengal's capital were fairly frequent, even in that era when traveling had not really caught up. For one, Papa kept going on tour and we would accompany him whenever possible, for another, almost all major exam centres were at Cal, so a couple of trips happened with this objective alone. And the umbilical cord with Calcutta never got severed because both the brothers worked there at one point of time or another-the younger one for years, literally. So we graduated from the guest house on Camac street to the one on Gurusaday road and then spent a fun-filled holiday at 3 B Little Russel street where Bhaiya’s fully furnished (chef-included) chummery was located. Oh those were the days-as we spent a lovely week, visiting all the fun places that were unknown quantities in good ole Maithon-video game and ice cream parlours, A.C markets, the Cookie Jar, Sub Zero and many other dearly loved haunts. Then came young Manoj’s turn and centrally located as his posh J.Thomas apartment was, we had a whale of a time, moving around the well-loved streets. Ballygunge market, Tolly Club, Chinese meals at Tangra, rides in the Metro, which had come by then, and generally chilling were the k constants of these visits.

And then the move to Delhi happened. For us as well as Manoj. (Bhaiya, in any case, had moved to amchi Mumbai years before) so Calcutta was forsaken. But only from the active mind. It occupied a very special place in some corner of the heart where memories lingered. And so it transpired one February morning, as Bhaiya, Bhabhi and I were in this city, we decided to put our time to best use. We made a recce of all the places we had frequented and tried eating all the delicacies that this gourmet’s paradise has provided through the decades.

We started with dropping in at Golden Spoon, somewhere on Middleton Row and passed Peter Cat en route. The former, legendary for its delicious rolls was just stirring to the demands of the new day and, very apologetically, its polite proprietor asked us to return after an hour. Our next stop was at Lowden street-the famed Cookie Jar which has justifiably- so as not to compromise on its sublime quality-restricted itself to just 4 branches, and bought an assorted variety of tarts and pastries. The ones to die for were the lemon tarts: oh the mouth-melting quality of those tarts, no words can do justice to them! Mutton patties and chicken rolls were picked up in a vain attempt to fill the void created by Golden Spoon’s missing rolls. Most of the stuff was packed with an eye on the journey later in the day, as lunch was slated to be taken at another favourite haunt. This time, the car wove its way through the lanes and by lanes-on the way stopping by at the aforementioned 3 B and actually looking at the Metal Box chummery, going to Kusum apartments and taking a look at the building that had housed the DVC guest house and finally finding our way in Ho Chi Minh sarani, till we zeroed in on Jyoti Vihar, a small joint that was famous for the excellent south-Indian food that it churned out. Nothing had changed-from the unassuming exterior (one could have missed it if one wasn’t so focused) to the superb menu. The idlis were as soft as ever, the butter paper masala dosas as crisp and the filling as tasty as before and the vadas and coffee that Bhaiya had did credit to the establishment, as in the days of yore. Apart from the gastronomical delights offered, there was ample food for thought (and the soul too) -the heartening realisation that some things have remained constant in this world of flux and change, was really reassuring.

The drive to the station meant a panoramic view of Eden gardens-India's biggest stadium that can seat about 7 lakh people- that every true Calcuttan swears by and the magnificent Victoria Memorial which can give the Taj a run for its money (have I over-done it this time?) Not to forget the two beautiful buildings almost opposite each other-the red grandeur of the Calcutta High court vying for attention with the impressive design of Government House on Netaji Subhash road. The GPO was another imposing structure we crossed, the style and colour definitely reminiscent of colonial-style architecture and further ahead, Writer’s building, another impressive monument in the City of joy. Grindlay's Bank, up ahead, caught Bhaiya's attention as he had done a summer internship there many summers earlier. (It had a different name but who cared? And what's in a name anyway??) Till finally, the Howrah bridge loomed majestically into sight and we knew we had reached destination point.

Just as the Metro is a reminder of how some changes have happened, despite the general feeling that Calcutta hasn’t developed quite as much as it should have (true largely in the conspicuous absence of industries) but there are still some positives seen when you’re driving in from the airport. Science city, Nicco Park, Nalban…all catch one's attention but what really strikes one is the impressive IT hub, with its modern, glass-finish buildings and their sprawling campuses. The South City mall or the one at Salt Lake also get noticed as one drives past, making a mark that Calcutta has changed: and not in name alone.

The 20 hour stay at Cal ended all too soon but not before providing me with sufficient ammo-memories to see me through a few more decades.  

Unanswered questions

My frequent trips in and out of Delhi have a typical pattern. Leaving home in the wee hours of the morning, legging it to the airport just in time for check in, not really ‘checking-in’ anything as-more often than not-these business trips see me back by the end of the day. At the airport, once the initial formality is over, I join the queue crawling for security check; bags, laptops, mobiles and sundry items being piled randomly on the conveyor belt and disappearing mysteriously into the waiting x-ray machine is a sight that never fails to fascinate me, despite the nth viewing. In fact, being a solitary traveler has its distinct advantages and gives me a certain edge over others. I become a keen observer, a part of the milieu yet not really a part of it-on the periphery, if you get the drift-looking at people with a measure of objectivity, my self-imposed, situation-driven silence lends a different perspective to everything. In my typically detached manner I scan the all-too-familiar surroundings: I notice an elderly gentleman being helped into the wheel chair by an attendant while his better half, her grey head bent in consternation, tries to balance the unwieldy hand baggage delicately on his knees, as she shuffles forward with difficulty or a naughty boy playing truant and eluding the clutches of his harried mother…sometimes my eyes linger for a moment on a cheerful crowd of youngsters as they wait for the boarding call, exchanging loud banter, laughter and on some rare occasions, even singing their way through their ennui. This sight often transports me to the times when we, as a family, had gone on similar trips and enjoyed life to the hilt……….. till the robotic announcement for boarding breaks my reverie and brings me back. I join the serpentine line in front of the designated gate, wondering, each time, why some folks try to edge in sideways just in order to be ahead of others. What strange psychology drives such behaviour? Where will getting into the waiting bus or the plane a minute earlier, get them? There’s enough space on the buses that ply to the aircraft, and inside it, the seats are assigned so what’s their hidden agenda? To date, I haven’t been able to figure this out.

These all-too-familiar sights of scurrying passengers, whizzing in and out of airports, the endless line of cabbies waiting on the tarmac outside, the zillions of placards being flashed before one’s eyes as one saunters out, have become a part of the psyche. These overwhelming masses of human beings have transformed our airports into veritable railway stations-if one is to go by sheer numbers alone-and this is a clear indicator of one thing; it fits in perfectly with catchy slogans like India shining or words to that effect. It has done wonders for our collective morale and added to a (false??) sense of well-being and prosperity that most of us harbour.

But the drive back home promptly and effectively dispels any such rosy illusions that I may have begun to labour under. At every traffic light, the car is surrounded by hordes of ill-clad, emaciated children-with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes-hunger and despair writ large in them. This vision completely belies the earlier sense of false comfort and pride and all those clichéd tall claims seem completely undone. Have we truly arrived? Are we where we should be? Can this marginal betterment of a minuscule section of society be dubbed true progress? These and similar disquieting thoughts plague me as I introspect on a myriad related questions. All the pale-faced women, infants perched precariously on their hips, creating a melee around vehicles parked at red lights-uttering strings of inane words learnt by rote-blessing entire generations of those who happen to be their benefactors-bring you back to harsh reality with a jolt. On the one hand we have women CEOs, economists, bureaucrats, diplomats, scientists, entrepreneurs-not to mention those running NGOs with their Bachpan bachao and Nari Sarakshan Kendras but even in the nation’s capital-and a state administered by a woman to boot-the plight of these women is lamentable! Where is the ‘shining’ attribute in this dark, dismal scenario, bang in the middle of the Delhi of the twenty first century? With 25 5 % of the country’s population-a staggering 236 million- still subsisting below the poverty line, can we afford to be complacent about our so-called ‘advancement’? How can the gap be bridged? Where should a beginning be made? What would be a step-albeit a small one- in the right direction?

As I mull over these vexing queries, the 45-minute drive is over and I reach home. No closer to any solution and none the wiser for all my pondering.