Last Sunday, almost the entire day was spent at the Arogya Vaidshala, an Ayurvedic (as the name suggests) centre, stationed across sprawling acres and a luxurious backdrop, nestling amidst abundant greenery: looking beautiful with its artistic, red architecture. This government hospital, run on oiled wheels, is a classic example of how things can be managed well if there’s an efficient machinery running it.
With a quiet and unhurried pace, you enter the premises and make your way to the uncrowded Reception area, get your token and silently walk to the waiting room where there are rows of chairs placed before a soundless TV. The doors leading to the four rooms where doctors are seated, mark the constant influx as digitalized red numbers keep changing with a ping, like the changing numbers at a food court or a Nokia service centre. You look at the TV screen and the changing numbers alternately, biding your time. It does seem inordinately long, but finally your turn comes and the doctor discusses the progress made, the new dose for your particular case-that funny allergy. All of it is meticulously entered into his PC, the command given and voila! You are instructed to go to the basement to buy your medicines.
As you enter the area, the fellow at the system promptly gives you the print-out of your prescription and you join the line at the medicine counter. Perfect discipline here too, as people queue up, awaiting their turn. Your chance comes and you make the payment. The receipt is placed on another counter and promptly removed by waiting personnel who take it into the ante room, to get the medicine prepared. You take a seat and there’s some more waiting till your name is called out. The bottles of varying shapes and sizes materialize into view and the helpful chap explains the exact dosage to you. You nod your head sagely, ask for a couple of clarifications and it’s time to wind your way out of this beautiful, serene super-smoothly-run place. How one wishes other medical places were more like these!!
Of late, such outings have taken centre stage in our scheme of things. The scene just described is a recent sojourn to this hospital nestling in the almost- tongue-twister place, Karkardooma. Last Sunday, to be precise, when we returned loaded with horrible looking, black medicines filling around six bottles . The taste of most of them is ugh and one valiantly wades through cupfuls, counting the days till they get over!
Now, this Sunday dawned bright and sunny-to the dilemma of watching movie A or movie B-tentative forays were also made into the virtual booking realm- but finally no decision was reached and all plans summarily dismissed. Instead, a few pressing needs were realized, some important errands came to mind. The digitalized version of the sphygmomanometer-the BP machine, in simpler terms-needed to have its batteries changed. It was months since it had justified its existence, making runs to the local doctor mandatory in order to measure the fluctuations in the spouse’s rate of blood flow while this idle gadget gathered dust in a neglected corner of the house. The batteries changed, the machine sprang to life and in the last twenty four hours, has already been used at least four times, more than making up for its earlier recalcitrance. Half the day was gone and then, in the evening, one remembered that the dear old Glucometer had also reached a defunct state. That too needed to be revived, the erratic sugar reports, the curiosity to know the outcome of brisk walks and strict diet control reared their collective heads. This was that stage of life where the vagaries of blood pressure and the highs and lows of the sugar level were much more important than the star ratings of the latest Bollywood releases. Nothing could have brought home the verity of this more clearly than our recent jaunts. All made to restore normalcy to those mechanisms which help us maintain our equilibrium.
It seems to be a new phase of Life……..…a sobering thought, folks!!Looking back, the city that I found dry and unfriendly each time I visited in the past, has kind of become dear to me now. Or one could say that of one of its satellite towns, which not only became home for me and mine but has been the backdrop against which the action of my family unfolded in the last few years. But as I said, this was a gradual process as, having been brought up in a quaint little township closer to Bengal’s rather than the nation’s capital, I was more at home with the warmth and friendliness which that city invariably exuded. There was something charming about the way of life there, the relaxed pace, the unhurried style of functioning and the ever-so-cultured orientation of its citizens. Each time I visited Delhi in the past, the stark contrast-both in the pace of life and the attitude of people-left me pining for home, within a day or two of my visit. (But ironically, and because of being aware that it was the best in the country, the idea of studying in THE Delhi University had held tremendous charm, gaining in strength perhaps because I was denied the opportunity when it had presented itself.)
Not anymore. More than a decade into the NCR, my outlook has changed radically. And so too, I strongly suspect, has the scenario. With the influx of more and more people from all parts of the country, the predominance of one state, which seemed to be the case earlier, has gradually been diluted and the crucible of cross-culture mix has resulted in a rather cosmopolitan emulsion. More important than that, the opportunities, the high standard of education and the competitive spirit that are to be found in this city are incomparable and I feel ever so grateful that we came here at the time that we did.
From two young teen and pre-teen kids who accompanied the spouse and me to the city of dreams (my own nomenclature, coined this moment!) at the turn of the millennium, the children have grown and found their place in life. The challenges we faced were many, arrive as we did at a juncture when their education and right choice of career were critical. First, the transition happened when sonny boy was halfway through the ninth standard, a crucial time by any definition. Secondly, the switch from the ICSE to the CBSE board had to be made and appeared traumatic as he, already initiated into the magical world of wordy tapestry woven by the immortal Bard, found it tough to settle for the prosaic and highly functional English syllabus this board offered. Then the fact that in the absence of a job here, I was still travelling to and from the city, hanging on to the old job, meant additional responsibilities for the kids. But they managed admirably-never complaining or making me feel guilty for leaving them intermittently, even if for brief spells. Of course, what made everything smooth sailing was my mother’s comforting presence. Like the Rock of Gibraltar, she was always there: happily taking on all the burden that she could handle. Her presence and guidance-both in studies when needed and churning out yummy goodies for them-helped them beyond what words can ever express. She was their sheet anchor and that prevented them from ever feeling lost or lonely during those initial days-in a new home, new school, new environs, when their dad and mom were busy trying to get their act together.
As everyone finally settled down, a spate of exams began. To start with, The Tenth, live as we did in the pre-CCE days, and then the all important Twelfth Board exams, which had the power to make or break your career, would come. Trying to figure out the right stream for the young lad, eliciting his thoughts and inclination and gently suggesting what seemed to be the best line were all matters of intuition; or the outcome of discussions with siblings. Fortunately, he had interest in maths and the sciences and engineering was accepted as the obvious choice. I realised that a clear-cut objective and a well defined goal help, as little else does, and it was to his immense credit that once he had found it, the laddie stayed focused. With wisdom uncharacteristic of one so young, he declared to me, one day, that he would be lucky if he managed even an 80 % in the twelfth exam so I shouldn’t expect anything more. I hastily assured him that I wouldn’t, knowing full well the stress of preparing for a competition as tough as the one he was aiming for.
One conversation in those early days, when he joined FITJEE, comes to mind when I had told him that, like Arjun in the Mahabharata, he should only look at the fish’s eye and not be distracted by anything else. I almost regretted these sentiments when a cousin’s wedding came mid-way and though he was as keen as I to attend it and the JEE were still months away, he refused to budge from his stance of not accompanying us, despite all my persuasion. It would have meant missing two classes and he was not willing to do that. One class was all that he could afford to miss, he declared, not two but the keenness to attend was palpable. Could we buy a flight ticket for him, please? In those days when flying on personal trips was still unthinkable for the solid middle-class-for whom a train journey and a marriage ceremony to boot were enough to destabilize the already precarious monthly budget-I balked at the idea. Fly? No way!
And thus it transpired that the kiddo chose that one FITJEE session over the wedding ceremony & all the fun it entailed; I continued to labour under the perception that flying was unthinkable for the likes of us and life ambled along.
Those were challenging days for him, as a fine balance between school and coaching classes had to be maintained. Out of three days of coaching, one was Saturday and therefore convenient but on the remaining days, the fellow had a schedule that was hectic, to say the least. The coaching van used to be at the gate when his school bus dropped him and then onwards, it was a race. Home in a trice, the school bag flung on the bed and he’d be seated at the table where, whenever she happened to be there, his doting Nani would have his lunch all served-the daal-chaval mixed and cooled to room temperature plus some favourite side-dish more often than not, ready to be gobbled. There was no other word for the ritual of swallowing food between gulps of water. The coaching bag was picked up, (no time to change out of the school uniform!) and long strides and all, the fellow would disappear. This went on for two whole years, and it is with tremendous pride that I narrate that the lad missed nary a class. His dedication bore fruit when the JEE results were declared and he sailed through with aplomb! The song that had befittingly played on FM when we had picked him up after the JEE and driven to IIT D, where they had been asked to assemble, proved prophetic and still reverberates through my mind-haan yahi rasta hai tera tune ye jaana hai, haan yehi sapna hai tera tune pehchaana hai…….
Four years sped by, entry into a coveted MBA programme seemed but the logical fall-out and two more years later, the youngster is firmly ensconced in the job of his choice: God’s blessings, everyone’s good wishes and his hard work having paid off. Paayega jo lakhsya hai tera!!
The lass, in the meantime, had been following her own trajectory. Not too enamoured of the sciences-and loath to leave her school (and friends!) that didn’t offer a course in Arts-she opted for Commerce in Plus Two. Luckily, maths was a strong point and though Accounts didn’t feature as a favourite, she did commendably at the aforementioned, dreaded Boards. More dreaded in her case as, for a generalist, admissions into the hallowed portals of good colleges are completely dependent on the grades. Good for the gal ‘cos she got into one of the most prestigious colleges in the University, vindicating my decades’ old dream of studying in D.U myself. As the three year programme neared completion, there was a new dilemma-what next? MBA seemed to be the natural progression and short listing in a few good courses happened. But finally, the destination was an institution specializing in a niche MBA programme-one she had filled up on consultation with friends-and set her heart on. So that’s what she opted for and seemed to find her calling. The going’s been great so far.
Another year and she too will have found her bearings; and our role in helping our kids find their chosen fields will have ended.
A period of lull…till it’ll be time to prepare for the next phase...
I know sonny boy will protest at yet another reference to the metro but this one’s really called-for, if I may say so. For years, my one major crib with daughter dear was her complete dependence on us for the smallest of things. She would simply not do anything on her own-the general diffidence, the lifestyle (blame your truly for that) the lack of opportunity and last but not least, because of being the youngest member of the family-the younger of two siblings-made her kind of being over-protected. All this added substantially to this state of affairs. As a cumulative effect, the young lady could/would never do a thing by herself, even if it meant buying a much-loved McD burger from the outlet while the rest of us were picking up our choices from the food court. No, someone had to get it for her and when we resisted, she would sulk till it was done. All the grumbling notwithstanding
Into this rather wanting scene, came the metro. The situation changed and how! The summer just past has seen the self same youngster traipse all over the NCR-alone and unescorted-, going for her internship, catching up with friends , watching a movie or just chilling…she’s managed all that and more. What is more, she’s even done some rounds of shopping for me when I was unable to make it. All this has been done with complete élan and the kind of poise and confidence that I take great pride in! A year’s exposure in the hostel has contributed, no doubt, but this freedom, this mobility hadn’t been possible till now.
While the gal herself is very happy with this new-found independence, I am no less delighted.
Way to go, Srishti!!
Who first beholds the light of day In Spring's sweet flowery month of May And wears an Emerald all her life, Shall be a loved and happy wife. - Unattributed Author, May, Well May, the all-important month-what with the anniversary and the spouse's birthday and what not-came and went without an entry :( When April steps aside for May, Like diamonds all the rain-drops glisten; Fresh violets open every day: To some new bird each hour we listen. - Lucy Larcom Two words registered-May (the important month) and diamonds! |
Not even a month ago, on April 3 to be precise, on a high already due to India’s spectacular moment of triumph the night before, the siblings and I-spouses and kids in tow-had boarded Black Diamond Express at Howrah junction at 6 AM sharp-a fleet of three cars having cruised us to the precise bogey (a luxury possible only at Howrah Jn)-a feat in itself, considering that it was a 13 member team-of folks ranging from age 12 to 55-that had caroused till the wee hours of the morning!! And then had started one of the most memorable journeys of our lives, when recollections of countless such trips undertaken before coalesced to form a beautiful collage of memories, when the past and the present merged seamlessly till the actual and the remembered became inseparable.
As the train chugged out of the station, there seemed to be some semblance of setting down-but did we ever? With frenetic movement and constant exchange of seats right through-there was always something happening. Some buried themselves behind the newspaper, some gave in to mindless chatter, some dozed off-and there was brief respite-for the other passengers that is, till some bright spark posed the unavoidable query-breakfast? And that magic word unlocked a series of transactions with hawkers who boarded the train and disembarked at every station, transporting us to the days of yore as nothing else could have. For the Rajdhanis and Shatabdis of the world have deprived us of these simple pleasures of life, where the incessant flux adds a t charm all its own to such solourns. But that day, it was a no holds barred kind of situation-rounds of steaming cups of tea were followed by coffee, then back to tea, depending on what the vendor was selling; these were interspersed with-two dozen shingaaras (read samosas) at Burdwan and three rounds of jhaal muri prepared with enviable dexterity by the camera shy seller. The samosas were scarcely finished when Durgapur station came and young Manoj remembered that samosas there used to be far superior to the ones at Burdwan but the limitations of the tummy’s capacity to ingest goodies came in the way, much to our collective chagrin. A beggar rendering baul sangeet at his melodious best-and sung to the tune of an ektara-completed the perfect picture, as the sometimes mountainous, sometimes green stretches dotted the fleeting terrain outside………..
Alighting at Kumardhubi station brought a horde of memories, Papa's and Mummy's reigning supreme. Of another life in another time…almost on another planet, it seemed. (A chap actually came up and asked if we had come for a shoot!!) The drive to good ole Maithon, albeit through unfamiliar roads, brought a fresh flood of memories and then, we entered the sleepy little place that was home to us for twenty long years, past Main Gate, the cluster of shops that have sprung up there, the Hospital, the Post Office area, the dear old Valley/De Nobili school building and on to the dam till the road gently swerved left and the cavalcade made its way to the lake's edge, stopping finally at the Chairman’s Guest House, which was to be our temporary abode. Everything was the same and yet things were very different-strange but true. The sameness was in the long forgotten landmarks being there, the strangeness in the spruced up look, the neat sign-ages demarcating every area: it was as if a haphazard diagram had been neatly labelled.
No words can do justice to those two days, as we first made a beeline for A 2 Gogna Colony, the home from where we’d bade farewell to the valley (and the house from which the parents had got their two, older children married off, welcoming Babboo and bhabhi into the fold.) Even the noontime sun seemed benign as we marched right through the colony, stopping every other moment in front of a friend’s house, overwhelmed, afresh. A sumptuous meal, then off on a reconnoiter of the different ‘areas’, but first and foremost, the legendary Dam that’s synonymous with the place. A leisurely walk on the dam, pointing out the gates to the kids and telling them that these would release water in the monsoon season , describing how majestic the sight was; then walking further to the hill that proudly housed Asia’s first underground Hydel power station.
Boating was next on the agenda and though some of us refrained, the kiddos-Srishti, Jayati, Rahil and Ramit-with Bhaiya as the perfect escort, trooped into a steam boat while the more adventurous Jiwesh, Amrita, Saagar and Tanvee opted for the paddle boat. Suitably invigorated and ravenous, in direct proportion to the rigorous activity, we next walked into Vishram Kutir (now called an alien sounding, Mazumdar Niwas) and watched sunset from the balcony overlooking the lake, snacks and tea suitably taking centre stage, putting all conversation in temporary abeyance.
The drive back entailed crossing the Forest Guest house, pointing out the Yacht Club then down Dyke area, the CLD office and many other familiar landmarks till finally, via a circuitous route, we reached MB 6, the place where myriad memories of an idyllic childhood reared their head. The present owners very kindly agreed to let us enter their home and then there was no holding back!! We were all over the place, in the spacious courtyard, which the kids could scarce digest, ‘our’ room, the ‘pink’ room, the parents' room, the drawing cum dining hall, the kitchen, the veranda with the U shaped bench... all vied for attention. In between, our gracious hostess, who could have been forgiven for regretting her initial generosity in allowing us in, came up with platefuls of assorted snacks and dry fruits that were consumed with delightful gusto. In the midst of all the excitement around, I paused for a moment, mulling on the fact how small towns still retain the old world charm and warmth that is extended to guests-even perfect strangers-whereas city-bred folks sometimes don’t even recognize their next door neighbours! A telling comment on the times we live in.
We decided to walk through the colony now, down the beaten track that was Manoj and Leena’s bus stop, towards Area 1, Recreation Club and Station Club in that order. Turning left and past the Civil Office on the right, then Alka’s house, we were finally in front of the place where it had all begun-D-8 or Palace named by Bhaiya (who else?) as we lovingly called it, which a certain Sharan family had moved into decades ago. August was a historic month for us too, though twenty years later than that other historic date-2 days to the day. And that’s where we had set anchor, spread our roots and known no other place before or since. This was the home adopted- and adapted to- this obscure yet wonderful haven called Maithon that we took as our real home for ever and forever; where our hearts and minds developed, our dreams took wings.
We were suffused with memories when we stood before the gate-too overwhelmed to speak. The children had dozens of questions as they beheld a compound full of trees like guava, jamun, plum, jackfruit, dotted occasionally by huge rocks and boulders. More stories of our adventurous youth followed, more recollections of the past were made, till sated and promising to return the next day, we moved to other areas.
The second day, befittingly, began with darshan at Ma Kalyaneshwari temple, where Bhaiya had a special pooja perofrmed in our parents' memory, a solemn moment for us all as we remembered their immeasurable contribution in making us whatever we are today. A gorging ritual followed as, seated on wooden benches, we consumed luchi-aloo dum, aloo chops, samosas, chumchum in a tiny shop in the P.O area. The rest of the day passed in a whir of activity: D-8 by day, a walk by the lake, stone throwing & watching the stones bounce on the surface of the water... the weather a perfect blend of clouds and cool breeze, as if doing its best to make this already memorable trip completely unforgettable. A lavish lunch, prepared painstakingly by the cook and served lovingly by his team and it was time to bid goodbye to this quaint little township, Magical Maithon. Amidst comments like ‘Wow, Mamma, you guys grew up in a holiday resort!” and “We’ll definitely come back again” we made our way to Asansol station, 25 km away. A quick recci of our Alma Mater-Loreto Convent Asansol-LCA to us- showing off the majestic grounds, the basket ball courts, the lower fields, the hockey ground, the class rooms, the grotto and the gate that led into St. Patrcik’s and it was time to finally wind up and make our way to the station.
That was almost a month ago: when sheer ecstasy was ours and then, on April 29, the other side of the Indian Railways reared its ugly head, making us reach the nadir of gloom. That was the day when a certain train got delayed by 11 ½ hours, which put paid to a long cherished dream-this time of going back for a reunion, to the dearly-loved college we studied in-for two of us. It was as if April (the cruelest month?) wanted us to get a taste of the sweetest and the bitterest pill all in a go.
Well such is life, but that's another story........
No contemporary Indian actor has the kind of talent he has. This may be considered debatable, but as far as I am concerned, there’s no other actor quite in his league. From lighthearted comedies, where viewers held their sides watching his antics, to soulful intense roles of the forlorn lover or the deserted husband; from playing a die hard patriotic police officer, to a cold, unfeeling terrorist; from the rabble-rousing leader of a set of country bumpkins-exhorting them to rise above petty divisions and performing beyond the realm of reason-to the more recent avatars-again as varied as they come-he has taken everything in his stride. Whether it was as the sensitive school teacher gently cajoling the deep seated creativity of a dyslexic child or depicting the role of an amnesia-struck individual himself, his tormented soul crying for revenge…..Aamir Khan has done it all. And I’m but one of the millions who think like this; people who have been moved beyond words….at the same time, discerning the variety even within ostensibly similar roles, both equally challenging. For a man of forty to have played the role of a college student (albeit a 3-4-time repeater!) with the kind of élan-even insouciance- that Aamir Khan displayed is worthy of true admiration.
And yet, one saw a totally different side in the depiction of another college student-the path breaker, the innovator, the thinker, the scientist, the ultimate friend-in another movie which has gained iconic stature. The list is endless but it is not this aspect of this powerhouse of talent that has inspired this write-up. Watching one of his eminently repeatable movies for the nth time, the other day, I suddenly realized that the uniqueness of his films stems not just from the fact that he has displayed true variety in his choice of roles but also in the sheer diversity of fair ladies who have played lead roles against him. Few can match him in this kind of variety either! From completely new entrants to veteran actresses, he has acted with them all, seldom repeating a heroine and even doing a movie without any romantic lead.
Perhaps Juhi Chawla, his first leading lady, is the only one who can claim to have worked with him thrice-two of them blockbusters-one a terrible tragedy, the other a terrific comedy with the underlying message of a never-say-die attitude.
Otherwise, the range is unending, from Pooja Bhatt to Ayesha Jhulka, Monisha Koirala and Twinkle Khanna, to Raveena Tandon. From the oomphy Urmila to the gorgeous Madhuri Dixit, the dusky Nandita Das to the sultry Pooja Bedi, he has romanced them all. But hardly has an actress had the honour of being recast against him. He is as comfortable acting with debutantes like Gracy Singh, as he is with seasoned actresses like Preity Zinta; the fame and popularity of the heroine has never mattered to him. Whether it was Sonali Bendre urging him on with her 'don't mind' prattle or a first timer for Hindi movies, Asin, guilelessly flirting with him blissfully aware of his identity, his panache was evident in each character he effortlessly portrayed. Rani Mukherjee has had the privilege of repeating a couple of movies but her more talented cousin, Kajol, could only just be paired with him once, in a much hyped movie. The Kapoor clan damsels-Kareena and Karishma-have also had their fair share with this super talented hero, the younger sibling getting the opportunity as late as 2009.
Not only have new faces been launched against him in the romantic lead, the wide array sometimes includes international names as well -Rachel Shelley and Sue Patten to name a few.
Women may come and women may go but he goes on forever: this man carries on alone, not needing any support or lucky mascot as his co-star. His only companion is his matchless talent.
Way to go, Aamir!!
