Mental Acrobatics.

Jisska mujhe thha intezaar…..

2012-02-09T06:43:00.000-08:00

Essaying the steps to the first floor, I happened to look up mid way, and there he stood, in a white Pathan suit, white shawl draped under-an-arm-and-over- the-shoulder in quintessential AB style, hands politely folded in a namaskar, the way one has seen zillions of times on TV. Only this was different, and how!! For this was not the Amitabh Bachchan, who has been a part of our growing up years, whose films have mirrored the aspirations and frustrations, the dreams and the angst of millions of our generation (and counting!). This was the icon, whose films one watched avidly and unfailingly, no matter what the season, and meeting whom in person was a cherished dream, always. So this moment now seemed to gain an identity all its own-it was a moment frozen in Time, carved indelibly on the psyche….

Looking back, through all the turns and twists of life, from college to domesticity and kids, to relocation to a new city and finding my place in the sun, the one k constant in this life of flux was the undying admiration for this larger-than-life persona that has inspired millions. We were but a sand particle on the vast sea-shore of humanity, longing for an opportunity to meet the legend in person, always hoping, religiously watching and participating in every KBC season but always left out in the cold. But very optimistically promising to oneself hum honge kamyab ek din.

I think I must pen this down before the euphoria dies, and memories blur. More than 15 hours after the incredible, unbelievable happened, it still seems unreal. That we actually met and chatted with-I don’t have words to describe him-the Super Shehanshah of all times, the Living Legend, the one and only Amitabh Bachchan, still seems like a dream. Even while we were there-our normal garrulousness reduced to momentary silence by the sheer enormity of the situation-that we were actually sharing space and laughter, incessant chatter (completely from our side)-the fact that we were breathing the same air as the global phenomenon, Amitabh Bachchan, seemed impossible to believe.

In real life, Amitabh Bachchan looks taller, thinner and fairer (!) than he does on screen. He is extremely soft-spoken and speaks in measured tones, in that world famous, rich baritone.

My opening line, I recall through a haze, was something inane

“This is the realization of a lifetime’s dream; we can’t believe we are actually sitting in front of you!”. At which he had the grace to look surprised, as if this was such an unexpected thing for him to hear!

“Are you from Bombay?” was his polite enquiry. And all reticence disappeared, as our side of the story came tumbling out.

“No, we’re from Delhi. Mr. Bachchan, you would have had fans of all shapes, sizes and ages but never would sedate, middle-aged, working women have come all the way from Delhi simply with the intent of meeting you. “

“Oh, you’ve come from Delhi?” definite smile and sense of surprise and our response in chorus: “Yes and we’re flying back tonight; leaving for the airport straight after this.”

He asked us about our work, and then I kind of went into a long description of how, decades earlier, I had had the good fortune of taking his autograph in Pehalgam and even showed the dog-eared autograph book. His simple response was an Oh God!-- as though it was such an unusual thing to have happened. I also said how, ever since I could remember, this had been a long-cherished dream and how I had eagerly participated in the KBC questions, in the hope of making a breakthrough. But the fourth season was different, wasn’t it I queried, particularly the entry criteria? To which Mr. Bachchan replied that it was the same as before with no changes.

Once my prattle about KBC aspirations and failed attempts ended, I said that what we really wanted was to hear him speak. And he told us how he had just come back, the evening before, from his Gujarat Tourism Ad campaign (our luck had really been in!). He went on to describe the unexplored potential of that state and said it was such a pity that we weren’t aware of the beauty of our own country. I happily contributed to the conversation by adding the all-important fact that my daughter was studying in Ahmedabad and he nodded his head sagely.

So many thoughts were flitting through my mind, so much to say, what great fans of his we were, how desperately we had prayed each day during the Coolie accident, how we would be glued to the AIR news at 8.45 PM every evening, hearts full of trepidation, how brothers and cousins ragged us brood of girl cousins endlessly for our Bachchan craze……but all this remained unsaid. What I did remember talking about was our rapt listening to his recitation of Dr Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s poem from the LP record Bachchan recites Bachchan that still holds pride of place in my drawing room. We spoke, especially, of Jeevan ki aapadhapi mein, which we have heard him recite on TV countless times. I went on to add how our mother, being a student of Hindi literature, had inculcated the love for poetry of this language in us. And as if without volition, I quoted her favourite line on the haala, the mud container of drinks that pretty much sums up human life as well:

“Mitti ka tan, masti ka munn, kshan bhar jeevan… mera parichay."

A photographer was right there and all the time, photos were being clicked and we sat next to the legend, scarce able to believe our luck. Then he suggested that we didn’t’ need to get all the pictures clicked seated at the table, some could be taken standing and very happily, we posed with him. Again he said we could get pics taken one by one and we needed no second telling. We were hardly able to breathe-believe me, this is the effect Amitabh Bachchan still has on his inveterate fans!!

Now we decided it was time to leave and I fished for the little notebook I had bought for an autograph. Even as I was looking for it, I noticed AB had got little books with CDs-the Hanuman Chalisa rendered musically by him recently-and was signing them for us!!

We expressed our gratitude, said for the nth time how overwhelmed we were and almost swooned when he said (believe it or not!) “Do drop in when you’re here next!!”

What an evening, what euphoria and exultation and what memories to treasure for a lifetime. A tale to be shared with posterity.

Yeh kahan aa gaye hum?

2012-01-26T07:00:00.001-08:00

The headline of this morning’s newspaper hit me between the eyes-Bitten, battered, abandoned, 2-year-old battles for life in ICU. It jolted me out of the soporific stupor that I was still in, as nothing else could have. What have we come to, just where are we headed? And as if on cue, all those other stories/news/ events/incidents one heard of came back like a cascade. Horrific tales of a father drowning his five-month old daughter, a mother killing her two kids before hanging herself, a daughter conniving to loot her home and kill her mother, a son murdering his father for property, siblings shooting each other, school kids killing for petty reasons, wives murdering their husbands with their lovers’ help and husbands hacking wives, grandparents being killed by grand children, honour killings, neighbourly squabbles ending in mayhem, men being shot for paranthas or petrol…not to forget the countless stories of the old and the infirm being either abandoned during their lifetime or killed mercilessly in their solitary existence!! Just where have we come? Has sanctity gone out of every relationship, is there any depth of degradation that has not been essayed by this so-called supremecreation of God?

If we look under the surface of this all-pervasive malaise, this festering wound, a few facts stare us in the face. We have definitely come a long way and there’s no questioning the advancement made in every field. But somewhere along the way, we’ve lost out on things precious: age-old value systems, the sanctity of relationships, the unshakeable bonds of family and the almost-extinct emotion called contentment. Now, no matter how much we have, there’s a craving for more. Nothing is ever enough: there’s always another property to be acquired, another million to be earned, another laurel to be won by our offspring (who are being driven to crazy limits to fulfill dreams vicariously), another feather, so to say, is always waiting to be added. Keeping up with the Joneses has gained humungous proportions; very unhealthy for us but sadly, we don’t realise this. It is as if material possessions have taken centre stage and human values are fast being relegated to forgotten corners of our existence. From high speed cars to fancy iPhones, from branded clothes and designer watches to exquisite jewelry, from holidays in exotic locales, luxury cruises, five star experiences to adventure sports …pursuing all this is fine and there’s nothing wrong in any of them. If it weren’t for the fact that somewhere in the jungle of crass consumerism, human values are fast losing out.

Delving into the reasons behind these socio-economic and psychological changes is an expert’s job but anyone with eyes to see can tell that frustration and simmering discontent are rampant today. There’s a seething rage, a sense of misdirected fury that is the outcome of not being first in the rat race- which leads to most of the existing maladies. There’s a churn happening in society where norms have done a 180 degree turn, and with Mammon having become the driving force, things have gone completely haywire. Frustration and failure give way to rage, rage to violence. And violence-whether domestic or in public places-spouse-beating or road-rage killing-reveals its ugly head everywhere. Added to the sense of not achieving all that we want to, is the ‘quick gratification’ mindset that has taken over. We want everything at the press of a button, there’s no patience, no tolerance and sometimes, no effort. It is as if the instant virtual, global connection that we’re able to establish at the click of a mouse has alienated us from the real world where ‘waiting’ is a harsh reality.

Another factor that has contributed heavily to the sense of inadequacy stemming from unfair comparisons is that eternal saga of man’s quest for El Dorado- the mass exodus from rural to urban terrain. The old-world innocence and sense of contentment that characterize a simple life fall easy prey to the glitter and glamour of the city. The pressures of coping with daily challenges and not being able to measure up to one's own expectations add to the sense of failure and worsen matters. The result, more often than not, is violence.

Huge economic disparity is another aggravating factor and also the most common cause behind themaking a fast buck mentality. In this era of economic growth and prosperity, when we proudly boast of over 55 billionaires in the latest Forbes list, the numbers below poverty line are still staggering. In modern-day India, with its impressive high-rise buildings-concrete jungles of steel, glass and ceramic, there are millions of urban homeless living on footpaths and in parks, in compounds of shrines, sometimes even in hume pipes… The chasm is too wide, the gap un-bridgeable.

And, in the midst of it all, the question that mocks and baffles is: how do we address this mindless aggression which seems to have come home to stay?

There’s no point in denying the cold truth that violence has made insidious inroads into our world. Instead, we need to face facts and try and do something about it. No longer can we shrug responsibility, saying most of this is not applicable to us or our immediate circle, what should ring alarm bells is that we are very much a part of the same society that is guilty of all these inhuman happenings. What can we do-what are we doing-in the face of such atrocities, which are digested easily because they’ve become staple fare? It’s time we shook off the aura of complacency, our carefully erected walls of false security, and did something. Even if it’s a small step like bringing such incidents to light, raising our voices against the perpetrators, ostracizing them from all social institutions till the law takes its course, making them social pariahs….and doing anything else that seems like a possible solution.

Only a revolution from citizens like you and me, which will surely and steadily gain momentum, will expel the darkness and herald the dawn of a new era.

Point to ponder... on this, our 63rd Republic Day.

Adieu 2011

2011-12-31T21:34:00.000-08:00

Ring out the old, ring in the new as the poet laureate said so tellingly. Adieu 2011, tomorrow I'll say Welcome 2012. Looking back, the year that went will be remembered by different people for different reasons; in Egypt perhaps for Hosni Mubarak's ouster, in Libya for Gaddafi's final end in Europe for the slowdown and closer home, in India, for the year of the World Cup and the Lokpal Bill; for the end of the CPI bastion in Bengal, for Woman Power making its presence felt (Didi firmly established in Bangla land and Bahan ji & Amma's back in power in other parts of the country) for the resounding beats of Kolaveri Di that-inexplicably-took the nation by storm, to name just a few....

Coming to little me as a person, 2011 was a very special-a momentous-year as both my children found their calling, their place in the sun. A big God Bless to them and humble gratitude to the Almighty.

Welcome 2012. May there be greater joy, sounder health and happier moments for everyone, everywhere!!

Paradigm Shift

2011-11-29T07:38:00.000-08:00

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!!

The Race

2011-10-30T07:29:00.000-07:00

There was considerable excitement all round. The famed F1 race tickets were finally ours! And not one, two three or four but six of them-no less. But as exciting-if not more-as the build up to the race was the outcome of this historic event. In fact, even as I write this, sonny boy is still on his way to T 3 to catch a flight that he has had to reschedule and the spouse and bro-with the latter's family in tow-are stuck in a jam somewhere on the six-lane Expressway we normally take such pride in. But more on this later...

Close Encounters of the First Kind

2011-09-29T11:08:00.000-07:00

Trite as it may sound, it's very true: there's always a first time. And in some convoluted application of this cliched line, there were a few firsts in my last sojourn. The one to Vishakhapatnam, made a week ago.

I consider myself fairly well-traveled; regular family trips with the parents and siblings had ensured that we visited several beautiful parts of the country, the indescribable Srinagar, Gulmarg and Pehalgam included. Later, with my husband's bank making liberal provisions for LTA, the remaining terrains of our beautiful country right up to Kanyakumari and Vivekanand Point in the south, Puri in the east and Dwarka in the west-and some foreign terrain as well-were traversed with unconcealed gusto. And then, my stint with my current organisation completed whatever gaps there had remained, making me proud of the wide and varied geographical locales covered. But of all these destinations, one had eluded me and that was good ole Vizag. Though reservations to and from this beautiful coastal city had been made over two decades ago, and bags had almost been packed to visit our uncle there, Papa-not a very enthusiastic traveler at best-had suddenly decided that an impending Railway strike could mean our being stuck there for God knows how long and with uncharacteristic alacrity- and much to our collective chagrin-had cancelled the tickets. He had been at the receiving end of baleful glares and the silent treatment for days afterwards but had gone on his daily routine, unfazed.

So, and to cut a long story short finally, even for a seasoned traveler like me, this was decidedly a first.

Other firsts unfolded themselves bit by bit, right till the time of boarding, Nothing momentous, actually, just part of the processes being introduced every day, but firsts nevertheless. Fraught as everyday life has become with threats and dangers of myriad kinds, some rules that were more in the breach than the observance, seemed to have been revived suddenly. Each tag on hand baggage items had to be duly filled in, with the name and flight number and the security guys were returning them to passengers who hadn't done the needful. This was still routine but once we emerged on the other side after being frisked, everyone had to enter their names in a register before collecting the self same luggage. All these were firsts, a sad reflection of the times we live in-where though every day new wonders of technology amaze us-each passing day a new threat looms on the horizon, striking terror in our hearts and making us wonder what is lying in wait round the next corner. More and more preventive steps are getting added everywhere, demoralising the average citizen, crippling his innate high spirits, cramping his joie de vivre.

The next first though was a happy one for me. Not exactly one to rise with the lark, leaving home even before the proverbial crack of dawn (read 3.30 AM) had adversely impacted the usually sunny disposition; the careless whistle on the lips, the spring in the gait were conspicuous by their absence. Instead, I wound my weary way through T3 and the legend Gate no.48 did little to assuage the frayed nerves. Rather, it seemed to mock at my fragile sensibilities, not yet fully awake at that unearthly hour. The relics of a fractured foot, the half-asleep orientation all added to the sense of fatigue and I was wondering how on earth I would manage the feat of traipsing all that distance... when suddenly, I espied the all-too-familiar, but so far quite exclusive and elusive, golf cart that is a part of Terminal 3.

Before anyone could say anything to the contrary or there could be an intervention of any kind, I pulled my bag tightly on my shoulder and plonked myself on the empty seat at the back, displaying a look of confidence I was far from feeling. Luckily, no one seemed to think anything wrong with that and the driver took off in the general direction of the boarding gates.

An uneventful flight, a day of fulfilling training and another first of sorts was created with two hours of driving through the tourist attractions of the city, stopping, fleetingly, to check out the recommended spots and local sweets.

Wasn't it Eliot who said, "We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

Where Dreams took Wings

2011-08-20T09:15:00.000-07:00

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...

Harry Potter and those who do not read him

2011-07-31T09:38:00.001-07:00

Today is Harry Potter's birthday. I'm yet to read any of the books. Maybe I should start. Just a random thought, actually. God knows, my daughter has been egging me for long enough; my son hinting broadly, using super-intelligent tactics of the virtual kind-and now, with the curtain having fallen on HP's shenanigans, I think I need to do some serious thinking on this....

Coming of Age

2011-06-30T08:02:00.000-07:00

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!!

May's Missing

2011-06-10T08:48:00.000-07:00

Who the wise poet was who wrote these lines, posterity will never know but I found them very interesting:

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!

The ecstasy and the agony

2011-04-30T06:58:00.000-07:00

If anyone had asked me, two days ago, to name a common factor that could lead to ecstasy on the one hand and inexpressible agony on the other, I would have been hard put to find an answer. Little would I have guessed then that the answer was not far to seek: it could be summed up in three words: the Indian Railways.

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........

Breaking News

2011-03-30T10:46:00.000-07:00

Finally, World Cup Cricket has made one new conversion.
Jai ho!!

Incredible Aamir

2011-02-26T22:36:00.001-08:00

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!!

The silver lining

2011-01-29T04:59:00.000-08:00

Having a fractured foot can be an edifying experience, is the latest lesson in my Book of Life, It gives you another perspective-into the not so hunky dory side of life. You get to know what a masterpiece creation of God the human form is, when one, small part of the mechanism conks out, the system is thrown completely out of gear. Every limb and muscle coordinated to perfection, the motor nerves conditioned to obey the dictates of the brain and life ambles along peacefully. And then comes one minor snag in the scheme of things and all goes haywire. You twist an ankle and get your leg all plastered. With the unexpectedness of winter rain, comes the realization that you can’t budge an inch if your ankle gives way. The movements we take so much for granted, the simple act of walking, even running, scaling flights of stairs, commuting on the metro, dodging in and out of shops…all take a backseat. All normal activities became ordeals, managing to move within the house is a challenge and one looks enviously at ordinary mortals sashaying about in their daily routine.

That having been said, having your leg in a cast and putting up with the inconvenience is just one side of the coin. When you have to suffer weeks of such existence many home truths dawn. The most important being not ever to take anything for granted. To value the gifts of the Almighty and not-wantonly or otherwise-to ever abuse them. And if at all, such minor mishaps happen, to bear them with a smile and remember the cloud will last but a while-the sun will eventually break through the overcast sky.

The experience also gives you new insights-you empathize that much more with the old and infirm, the obese, the physically challenged for whom moving with difficulty is a way of life; without let up. And each time you’re close to reaching the end of your tether the hard-hitting line-I complained that I had no shoes, till I met a man who had no feet-saves you from giving in to despair, just in the nick of time. You feel ashamed of cribbing about your temporary disability even as you acquire a heightened sensibility about the world around you.

Another aspect of this phase is the gratifying realization that there’s a huge amount of empathy and understanding that such a situation generates. At home, you expect folks to be sympathetic and caring (though the thoughtful ministrations of the maid still move you) but it is when everyone at the workplace shows so much concern that you really feel touched. Right from getting the work station temporarily shifted to the ground floor because going up two floors is out of the question, to everyone holding all meetings at your desk, to organizing all demos in the meeting room adjacent to your seat, to the pantry guys serving and bringing your food downstairs, it all beggars description. I've lost count how many helping hands were extended to me each day when I arrived at work, how many times thoughtful colleagues collected print-outs to prevent the short walk to the printer, or how one of the administrative staff unfailingly carried my bag and baggage (!!) and left only after connecting the laptop. Countless acts of kindness, innumerable warm gestures that are stored forever in my memory. (But on the flip side, the truth in Rahim's well-known couplet, "Rahiman vipda ho bhali, jo thode din hoye, hit, unhit ya jagat me , jaani parat sab koye." " is also brought home to you the hard way!!)

The silver lining is always there-in every situation; it’s for us to spot it, folks.

Go take a walk

2010-12-31T07:09:00.001-08:00

Walk: never will any word hit the raw nerves as hard as this one. The dictionary gives a very accurate description of the word-walk-a saunter meant to promote health or words to that effect. A theory I subscribed to wholeheartedly till about a week ago. Or 8 days 4 hours and 25 minutes ago, to be more precise. A healthy constitutional, a must for all-irrespective of caste, colour, age or sex- panacea to all troubles, the biggest refresher in Life’s journey...........…pretty much on the lines of the Immortal Bard’s paean on Sleep (as the discerning might have caught on) I could go on unendingly. At least half an hour’s brisk walk every day, I was often found sermonizing, is all it takes to keep the doctor away or at bay. And as a classic example of the same, religiously went for a walk, the shenanigans of the day notwithstanding.

Of late, the horrid cold winds had suitably dampened the enthusiasm and one was found wishing wistfully for some divine intervention (rain/storm/an unexpected guest) that would prevent one’s morose perambulations on the well-trodden path. No such thing happened and that niggling thing (drat it!) that spoilsport called conscience invariably threw the spanner in the works. A walk is not just beneficial it is invigorating too, helps one shed all those extra kilos, makes one fit in body and mind and the good habit, once cultivated, should be strictly adhered to. These and similar misconceptions egg one on. And thus it becomes a regular routine in the lives of most people, yours truly included.

All quite good and admirable, except for the fact that this particular walk lead to a whole lot of 'unhealthy' results. As I was doing the zippy round on the beaten track, not talking on the cell-as some bright sparks erroneously surmised-very innocently drinking in the cool air and exulting that the last of the six rounds was on and very soon, one would be in the warm surroundings of one’s drawing room, when Wicked Events decided to intervene. There was a break in the road, a mere twist of ankle, the hint of pain and before one realized it, one was doing the flying act. Levitating several inches above the ground, one came crashing down to and on hard reality the very next minute-the ankle in a rotten twist. More embarrassed than hurt, I somehow I managed to get up, and dragged the injured foot behind me. The short walk back and the trudge up one flight of stairs seemed a fairly uphill task. But I made it, unaided. What is a mere sprain, I rationalized; it would be ok in a day or two.

All customary measures were taken: from submerging the injured foot in half a bucket of cold water, to spraying Volini and calling up our orthopaedic friend to gauge the extent of damage……to finally keeping one’s fingers crossed and waiting for the next day to dawn. For only then, one would know how bad the sprain was or if it was a ligament tear or even a fracture. Hoping that it would be a minor sprain, one called it a day.

The next day dawned bright and sunny-but that was far from what I was feeling. The left foot seemed to be weighing a ton and I just couldn’t lift it off the floor!! Walking was an ordeal, synchronizing foot movement impossible. The writing on the wall seemed clear-all we needed was confirmation. The agony of negotiating one flight of stairs, getting into the car, the wheel chair and finally into the X-ray room had better be left unsaid. The solemn verdict was ‘hairline fracture’ the outcome an hour’s ice pack, the painful tetvac shot and the almost-up to-the knee-cast.

So here I am, four weeks taken care of, the cumbersome plaster hampering each move and wondering, for the nth time, is a walk really salubrious????

Maid of Honour

2010-12-09T09:41:00.000-08:00

For the first time in two years, I missed an important deadline. I clean forgot the all-important ritual: the new post-that has been churned out for my blog, month after month, with unfailing regularity. The reason is not far to seek. November (and not Eliot's April) was the cruelest month for us: the dear, efficient maid, who had promised to return after a month's well-earned annual leave, was nowhere in sight. No word, no update...total, inexplicable silence and continued agony-mingled suspense. Will she, won't she was the question that taunted us day in, day out.

And all the time, the chores kept mounting. Despite the part-timer (in a perpetual, fast-forward mode) who did the rounds and took off the major load, mundane stuff, the daily grind kept increasing by the day. First, it was just making the beds and operating the machine; then folding and arranging more and more clothes into neat piles became a daily event as woolens became a part of life. Next, blankets got added to the general scene, augmenting one's pain that much more while making the beds ...so on ad infinitum. Therefore, it is perhaps understandable why I missed my promised rendezvous with the virtual world.

But came Delightful December, and all was set right. The expanse of suspense ended, the magic call from the remote corner of Bengal was received amidst rapture; the car was duly dispatched-what if it had to wait at the station for 6 long hours??-and finally, the old faithful was back. Drum roll and red carpet.

God is in His Heaven and all is right with the world.

A decade without you.

2010-10-26T07:20:00.000-07:00

It’s ten years to the day, today, when we lost you, Papa. Ten years when we’ve learned to live without you, have picked up the pieces and taught ourselves to walk on the path shown by you. You, with your quiet presence, your high principles, your infinite sagacity-and ably complemented by Mummy- were always there for us, making our childhood and adolescence idyllic.Verbosity was never your style; you were a man of few words but those words were weighty and spoke volumes. The fundamentals of life, the values-the non-negotiable standards of integrity and quality-that you laid down before us didn’t need words. Actions spoke much louder. Having scaled heights of professional excellence and reached the pinnacle in your chosen field, you never let it show: your unassuming, simple lifestyle remained unchanged to the end.....

If only we could emulate even a fraction of your highly organized way of life, our lives would be that much more systematic. But then, that’s almost like asking for the impossible-the method that was your hallmark, the clock-work precision with which you handled your daily schedule-even after retirement-were exemplary. Added to that, the keen sense of responsibility-rising admirably to discharge your duties, being the eldest of nine brothers and seeing the family through financial hardships years on end, without casting a single thought for yourself-the passion for your work and the extreme simplicity of your nature made you a person nonpareil.

Your unseen presence is always felt by us; your words of wisdom still reverberate in our hearts and guide us through trying times. Papa, we know that the blessings of our parents are always with us: and this is our solace and mainstay.

And the award goes to....

2010-09-26T03:08:00.001-07:00

Market survey was in full swing. For a car. Six years after having bought-technically speaking-my first car, there were enough tell-tale signs that the dear Indica VLS needed to be bade a fond farewell. Difficult though the decision was, it had to be taken, as there were frequent irritants, in the form of the self giving trouble, or the battery getting discharged, or some other part giving way…and one by one, I had to get them replaced. Slowly but steadily, my mind was reaching a conclusion-I had to start looking around for a new car.

I hadn’t quite envisaged how tough this would be-this ‘looking around.’ Not half as simple a process as walking into a showroom and buying the car of your choice. ‘Cos that is where the major hurdle came in-the word choice. The market is now flooded with cars in the small segment (the segment I was looking at) and there was a surfeit of choice. What should one look at? Fuel efficiency or sleek looks or plush interiors/accessories or simply the brand name? For me, there was a fifth dimension: I wanted a new model automobile and not a run-of-the-mill car that has got added by the thousands in recent years. Plus of course, there was a stringent budget.

As far as brand name went, Maruti seemed to win hands down and I had all but set my heart on A-Star, a fairly recent addition. The after-sales and service of Maruti, its tried and tested credentials plus the stylish look of the car had helped me cast my vote in its favour. Neck to neck in the race was another new, equally stylish product-Chevrolet’s shining Beat with smart carriers! Two trips to the latter’s show room and I emerged disillusioned about Beat-its inside space seemed too small.

A Maruti showroom was my next destination: the K 10 and the Estilo were among the cars examined before I headed towards the waiting A-Star. The moment I heard the magic words ‘music system’ as being part of the accessories, my mind was all but made up. Looks, price, brand name, value for money, within the budget…all criteria were being admirably met. Visions of driving this sophisticated car, swaying gently to the music wafting from its system floated before the rapturous eyes. But that’s when sonny boy, who had accompanied me on the jaunt to facilitate the process of decision-making, threw the proverbial spanner in the works. He opened the boot of the car, took one look and exclaimed that it was too small by half. Why, it wouldn’t even accommodate his luggage on a week’s trip home and that was saying something!! (The fellow goes off on international trips of 2-3 months’ duration, carrying a rucksack, a bag and his laptop!! And to think that I have always taken pride in being a light traveler-he beats me hollow!!) Oh we’d manage by putting stuff on the back seat, I demurred but he wouldn’t budge from his stance. I suggested that I'd measure the suitcase at home and return to measure the boot, to take a well-informed decision, but the usually mild fellow stood his ground firmly. This space wouldn’t do and neither would the car. I could see my dream go out the window……but some small voice within me kept telling me he was right.

The next couple of days were uneventful-as the young man was busy catching up with sleep, and how! So market survey sort of took a backseat. Till Janmashtami, a holiday, saw me at the Hyundai show room, the spouse and son in tow. It was actually on the better half’s insistence-and a result of his scandalized question as to how one could even contemplate buying a car without looking at the best option?-that we were there. I had to admit that the i10 met practically every point on my checklist, except that its interior had a plastic-ish finish and it was pretty much the most common car to have hit the roads in recent times. Perhaps a testimony to its quality, but not motivation enough for me. What about Ritz, he quipped- had we looked at that car? Admitting that we hadn’t, we retraced our steps to the Maruti showroom, this time to scrutinize Ritz. The spouse gave it an immediate green signal-this was it and I was trying to swallow the steep price when the chirpy lad again showed veto power. It looked kind of funny, he said: a sort of battered posterior, as if an unfriendly truck had bashed it with a vengeance. Once that note of niggling uncertainty had been struck, even I began feeling that it wasn’t so great to look at. Not for the price we would have to cough up. We wound our way to another showroom down the same road for greater choice but it was closed.

So back we were to square 1, the old car showing no signs of getting sold, the new one no nearer to being zeroed-in on. I kept commuting to and from office on the old faithful, mentally promising to check out that one last model in the show room that had been shut or sealing the deal with i10 or Ritz. Because I had set a target for myself and time was slipping by. I wanted my new car to be driven home by young Saagar and his ticket to more exotic climes-albeit with educational objectives- were booked for barely a week later. Finally, on a Monday, the impossible feat was accomplished and sonny boy and I found ourselves in the Ford show room. Unlike any of the other places, we were immediately shown to a table and a uniformed executive promptly came to our assistance. “Very courteous and professional”, I murmured sotto voce to the laddie, as we began our inspection of the one car that had eluded our examination in the past few weeks. A super sleek look, impressive, spacious interiors with a black and steel finish, a very spacious boot with remote buttons, apart from the usual features (remote & central locking, power steering, automatic front windows) and hold your breath! a built-in music system. Look no further said a voice inside me and I expressed my feelings out loud-much to the amusement of my son (who insisted, quite mistakenly, that the music system had swung the deal in its favour)

The rest, as they say, is history. Everything seemed to fall into place in a jiffy after that. The colour we were emphatic about getting-and which we were told wasn’t available then-became available: just one car or we’d have had to wait a fortnight. We found a customer for the old car, which otherwise would’ve gone into dis-use, and to cut a long story short, my dream of driving home, Sonny at the wheels (as opposed to the spouse last time) as he skillfully maneuvered the gleaming new car to its new home, was realised on Thursday.

So, with the blessings of the Almighty, our sea-grey Figo - a car launched barely 6 months ago - now stands proudly in the parking lot downstairs.

Nothing Magnetic About It

2010-08-31T07:57:00.000-07:00

The last few days have been agony! Something I've learnt to be friends with, have accepted as a part of life-viz my back-ache-seemed to worsen by the day. And there was no respite from work. To make matters worse, a sudden trip to Chandigarh was planned, which necessitated my presence and though I tried to beg out of it-the chronic back pain was playing havoc this time-there was no mercy. Naturally, a train trip to and fro-the comfortable seats of the Shatabdi notwithstanding-contributed its mite and I returned from the trip ten shades worse. To cut a long story short, a Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI to the uninitiated) test seemed to become inevitable......

Now, this again has a history. More than six years ago, my worried mother had taken me to an orthopedic, a veteran in his field, in the reputed Fortis hospital but I had never gone back, as his prescription had read the formidable term MRI and despite all the persuasion from Mummy, I had outright refused. No way-I wasn't getting into that scary contraption that would swallow me up for God knows how long, I'd rather put up with the pain, thank you. As I said, all her entreaties fell on deaf ears and I carried on merrily, putting up a brave front each time the problem reared its ugly head. But pretty much acted like the proverbial ostrich in every other respect.

Well, so things went on till it became absolutely unavoidable this last week. Beggars can't be choosers; and Sunday morning found me shivering in my shoes at the very thought of getting into that avoided-for-half-a-decade evil machine! Sonny boy's comforting presence was a great help and young Manoj's timely call sharing his own experience soothed my frayed nerves no end.

But having emerged none the worse for the experience, I can proudly announce to the world at large that the whole exercise is a cake walk, nothing to be feared at all!The axiom there's nothing to fear than fear itself has been brought home to me in a rather telling manner!!

Teri pyaari pyaari Surat ko........

2010-07-31T09:05:00.000-07:00

The whole programme was sudden. To think that just a day before I had been longing to meet my little one and-on getting the slightest hint that she was willing to travel home if the other option (read my going) wasn't working out-had checked all incoming flights to Delhi. But when I told her about the best schedule, she demurred. Despite the homesickness, practical wisdom prevailed. Missing many more classes (having missed plenty due to a bout of viral fever) wasn't such a smart idea after all, she said. I couldn't help admiring the sagacity in one so young, aware as I was how keen she was to come home...but that put paid to all her plans. Now, how could we close the gap separating us, this east is east kind of situation and make the twain meet? Nothing seemed to be happening on the official front either. In fact, a visit impending since the beginning of July had prevented me from making any personal plans, something I would have done ages before if it hadn't been for this uncertainty, this 'a training will happen next week' kind of see-saw predicament. Like I said, nothing seemed to be working out on the Ahmedabad front-that particular client was closed like an oyster!

Now, after this latest conversation, when her acute homesickness surfaced again, I was feeling well-nigh desperate. If only, Icarus-like, I had a pair of wings, I would fly off-pari like-to my chosen destination...if only...........

Suddenly, around eleven o'clock on Tuesday, I was informed that a training programme scheduled for Aug 2 & 3 had been advanced and the client wanted it on July 29 & 30 instead. In a God-forsaken tribal area, 80 km east of Surat. This had pretty much been on the anvil and my colleague was already scheduled to travel there the following week but the whole programme had been advanced very unexpectedly. All it meant was that now she would have to go there earlier. However, there was a catch-she couldn't get away the week before due to some urgent family commitment and requested me earnestly if I would please bail her out. Going off to this unheard-of place-without any prior information and that too for 3 long days came as a bolt out of the blue but there seemed no option. What had to be done had to be done. As always, I tried to turn a disadvantage into an advantage; see the silver lining etc. How could I make the most of this? There was no return flight from Surat on Saturday, why didn't I just go off to Ahmedabad and catch a flight from there? Traversing the distance of 300 odd km was a bit galling, but on second, thoughts, I said to myself-what's a mere 4 1/2 hours' drive when sheer joy awaited me at the end of it?

The die was cast-I would go, conduct training, then off to Ahmedabad to meet darling daughter.

So here I am...two days of unadulterated bliss...sheer delight.. are mine.

The Vacuum

2010-06-30T10:30:00.000-07:00

I kind of envisaged it would feel like this but was still not prepared for the emptiness that faced us this Monday evening. Two days ago, when we returned from office to a vacant home, with the little one also having flown the nest, I suddenly realised that this was it. Back to square one and hoping fervently that one/two years down the line, the kids will get posted back to the national capital region.

Action replay and the mind goes back to that incredibly exciting day when the MICA results were out and Srishti's name featured bold and clear on the selected candidates' list. What euphoria was ours, what sheer, unadulterated joy!! I actually took time off, drove home from work, to impart the news in person rather than call her up, privy as I had become to the results which were declared two days ahead of time (and hence two days before students could begin their frantic net searching) Too impatient to stop by for sweets, I rushed home and walked into her room, beaming widely at her enquiring look and question on how/why I was home. Relishing every syllable I conveyed the terrific news to her and watched her break into a delighted squeal.

The ensuing weeks went by ordinarily enough. There was a bit of planning, lists meticulously drawn up, a teeny weeny bit of shopping. Try as I would, Srishti resisted all my attempts to get her to shop for clothes and finally we ended up doing just one round. Some activity, then lazy days, again some sporadic work-like getting the suitcase out, the bags rounded up-and back to more relaxed times. Till, on June 21, we felt enough was enough and actual packing was begun by the young lady. Well, that again was a study in perfection, as things went into the bags, in a highly organised manner.

The trip to Ahmedabad and Bopal, to the beautiful MICA campus need another, dedicated write-up, for now suffice it to say that everything was executed on oiled wheels. Great administrative planning (except the mobile connection and that made up for all earlier efficiency!) amazing hospitality, where all parents partook of the lavish spread at lunch and munched on well-made sandwiches at tea, very good, airy, well-lit rooms with all the required furnishing, a lush green campus, benches made all across the sprawling acres, cheerful youngsters moving around in groups...all in all, a great place.

We returned home, happy and satisfied. The kid had found her vocation and, temporarily, her home.

But what does one do with the haunting sense of loneliness that seems to dog one's footsteps?

*************************************************

P.S-The answer to my query came barely two days later-in the form of my ever-thoughtful sonny boy who suddenly walked in on our first week-end alone, brightening our lives and suffusing it with sunshine and laughter in immeasurable quantities.

The Loan Battle

2010-05-29T23:32:00.000-07:00

(Note: For all those-if at all any-who venture to read this, let me warn you that this is a sequel to the previous post. To be forewarned is to be forearmed!)

Well, if I thought making a loan application was tough and involved a lot of paperwork, which was a one-time effort, I was wrong and how! That apparently was just the tip of the iceberg. Application filed, papers submitted, end of the story, I had naively thought. Now the moolah would come sprinting into my bank account and facilitate payment etc etc went on the happy refrain in my mind, but was I mistaken? It couldn’t have been further from the truth. Miles and miles away, come to think of it seriously. For about ten days down the line, on a subtle reminder from me (having found the coffers still piteously wanting) when I called the chappies at the bank, I was rewarded with a terse email. To the effect that my loan was held up due to deficient paper work, if you please! After I had sweated it out hunted high and low and coughed up every relevant document, not only had the fellows remained mum for days on end but now, when the monster was stirred so to say, had come up with this strategy of counter offence. No, they weren’t slow, my paperwork was incomplete; a fresh set of about five different kinds of papers were now demanded and the additional one-liner went on to add that the property I had applied for hadn’t been approved by them so this would take time. Could I please come to that site and submit the remaining documents for them to consider my application? This time I saw red. A clear, sparkling, mocking red, the kind used by matadors in friendly Spanish bull fights, I suspect. Not only was my project fully approved and hence the initial acceptance by the said bank-but I had never heard of this new project-the unapproved one-let alone have any idea of where their blighted site was. As folks close to me will vouch, when I see red, I see it well and proper-a shade too strong. The colour pretty much blinds the short-sight. Promptly, I called up the fellow dealing with this and made no bones about the way I felt. What did he mean by saying my application was found wanting? Where had all these new lists come from? Why wasn’t I given the list at one go? And why, if at all they were needed, had they waited for my reminder? Why hadn’t it come automatically? And, I thundered, warming to the theme as fresh details of the offending mail hurt the sensibilities yet again, what did he mean by saying now that my project wasn’t approved? I hadn’t even heard of this ABC project mentioned in his mail, mine was project XYZ. I then went on to add that I was not going to any site-ABC or XYZ-to hand over any documents. If they didn’t want to give the loan to me, they should just come out and say so and that would be it. There were other banks in the world. As I paused to take a breath, the long suffering fellow managed to get a word in, sideways. Profusely apologetic, he said the mail had been sent to me by mistake; it was meant for another lady who had applied for another loan for another property. Too many anothers, it seemed to me, except that this other lady-and the bumbling executive- had literally created havoc. Anyway, that did seem to get sorted out and I agreed to submit the additional 2 or 3 documents, by way of acceptance of the apology and ultimate display of magnanimity.

Then again, there was complete silence for days. Probably, these chaps work in fits or need constant reminders, I haven’t quite figured out which-but when I next called to politely enquire if my loan had been sanctioned (a considerable period having elapsed) I was shocked to hear that a lot of paperwork was needed before that happy day could dawn. In all the gibberish that ensued, words like non-judicial stamped paper, pre mortgage agreement, sanction letter trickled into the cerebrum but it was only when I visited their hallowed precincts did I realize that there was loads of stuff still to be signed and counter signed. When this was done, I was told only about half the work was done. Now armed with all the papers I would have to leg it to the builders’ office to get a third round of signatures, something called a TPT agreement, and 2 more vital documents from them, then return to the bank for the final ok. Only after this major song-and-dance act would I finally be eligible to get the cheque, whose date of payment was Monday May 31!! This was not all-before this could happen, the bank would first give me the loan sanction letter, which (here I could blithely have socked them) they could not issue that day, so would I please come the following day, collect it and only then proceed to the builders? Amazing, the amount of red tape that still exists, even in the private sector, and, in this world fast moving towards a paper-less existence where soft copies are the norm, why are we bogging ourselves down with these eminently avoidable hard copies, this fruitless paperwork?

A good point to ponder on, perhaps, but I'm no nearer a concrete solution........ Only the morrow will tell whether by pitching in personally, I will succeed in making a timely payment and not have to pay a penalty for late payment because the bank I went to couldn’t get its act together in time.

Whoever said Life was fair?? Or who knows, I might be eating my words tomorrow…..

The morrow: proved to be more hectic than I had envisaged: eleven AM saw me dutifully stationed at the bank, in front of the designated desk to collect the all-important sanction letter. Only, there was a twist in the tale. It seems there was this minor process of filling in a form, submitting it at the reception and then twiddling one’s thumbs till the powers-that-be (read the curt young lady at the counter) deigned to call your name. And what made the entire wait more killing was that i) one was aware that precious time was slipping by, the builders’ office where this sanction letter-among other papers-had to be deposited-functioned only half day on Saturdays ii) one could see that in between the numbered slips that she had-slips that she went through painfully slowly-there were hundreds of verbal queries that were being addressed out of queue. So while legitimate customers (reminded me of a rather off-key Hindi PJ which defined a customer as someone jo kasht se mar jaaye) stood around in the sweltering heat, biding their time, people kept popping in midway, gave their reference numbers and had their queries addressed with gay abandon. Anyway, every dog has his day, and finally yours truly managed to get her papers after a (im) patient wait. Eleven forty five, said the watch on my wrist as I raced out of the building. Twelve sharp saw me at the builders’ and here-contrary to expectations and earlier experiences-my work got done in a jiffy. The No objection certificate, the TPT agreement signed and stamped and the permission letter on a 100 rupee non-J stamped paper were all in my custody within twenty minutes or so. After duly signing at half a dozen odd places, I raced back again, on my way to the self-same bank, my third visit in two days.

More familiar with its ways, I zeroed in on the reception counter this time, asked for a form and filled in my ‘case’. Deposit of documents was the column I sagaciously ticked and without losing my patience or my cool, stood around quietly. Now, there was no hurry, no threatening timelines to be met. Let the lethargic system take its time. Of course, the need for the cheque to be made out by Monday was still there, but that was better than the half day closure deadline. Anyway, a good forty minutes later, I was summoned to the same desk as before and the three documents provided by the builders, the bank’s application form, copies of earlier installment receipts, the original allotment letter and a few others were all asked for. All that done, I was told that it would take at least Wednesday for the cheque to be ready. This meant way beyond the payment date, as I feared, but all my requests if this date could be advanced met with futility/shrugged shoulders. Finally, giving it up and giving in to the fact that things would take their course, at least I had the satisfaction that I had done the best I could, I wound my tired way towards the waiting car.

As I said before, Life isn’t fair. Though I'm still prepared to eat my words!

**************************************************

Addendum, May 31: Just had dinner-ate my words!! And Life does seem to be fair, after all. :)

Home Loan

2010-04-30T09:38:00.000-07:00

Well, nothing historic but a first of sorts and therefore merits mention on these hallowed pages; a veritable-and here, let me borrow ‘generously’ from sonny boy’s very apt description-chronicle of our times. For who knows, posterity might someday trace one’s lineage through these very pages…any way, that is not the point. The point I am trying to make is that the wheel that was set rolling on November 18, 2009 (which reminds me that that was already a historic day in our lives, the birthday as it is of the oldest kid of the next generation, on my side of the family) reached the logical next step today.

I applied for my first loan, a housing loan as it happens. And the tonnes of paper work that I had to wade through, the number of times I had to run up and down two floors to get more photocopies and signatures/stamps-and still end up missing on a couple of documents (which the guy hadn’t mentioned, can be said in my defence) makes sure this is also the last. Boy, do they dig up your history, geography, demography, lineage, future plans, finances, credit-worthiness and a lot of other stuff, all for the sake of doling out a little moolah?? No wonder, then, that once I had signed on the dotted line on page one and two and three-not to forget the signature across my not-so-smiling visage on the form-and on about a fifty other photo-copied sheets (bowing to the strange mandate of self-attestation) I heaved a huge sigh of relief and promised myself-never again!

And the entire exercise having taken a toll on my frayed nerves, I’ve decided to make this post really short and unsweet.

Cheers.

P.S-Looking back, April has not been the ‘cruelest month’ at all; rather, it’s been one of the sweetest: li’l Srishti having sailed through triumphantly into MICA!!

Name Game

2010-03-12T08:30:00.000-08:00

The hunt was on. For a name for our first-born. Nothing sounded good enough-from Utkarsh to Aakash to several others. Either the spouse or I would find something amiss. And the little fellow turned from one day to one week and then to two, almost three weeks old and still remained nameless. Of course, this didn’t prevent him from coming up with new antics every day (turned in the direction of the TV no matter where you placed him on the bed, could recognize me and would look in my direction as I deliberately did a half circle of the room when he was 18 days old) but what took the cake-among his characteristics-was his complete refusal to sleep even a wink during the day time. No infant, my almost-sixty mom would wail in despair, had ever been seen who could defy sleep post a nice bath and a bottle of milk. As the empty feeding bottle fell in one direction, the sated baby was always seen to topple off in the opposite! But not so my little boy. All fresh and content, he would grin chirpily (and call it a harried young mother’s imagination-a mite cheekily) back at the world in general and me in particular, as if to say, what next? It was only when the day was done and it was well past 9 pm that the kiddo would finally show signs of dozing off.

To come back to where I had left off before these fond perambulations got the better of me, all these signs of energy and enthusiasm had to be attributed to a nameless infant because, in our striving for perfection, we simply couldn’t decide on a name. The Bard’s historical/rhetorical question notwithstanding. And so the quest for an appropriate name went on. Folks close to us came up with many suggestions but I would dismiss them all as not sounding quite right; not striking a chord within. The ‘look no further’ kind of feeling didn’t envelope one, if you get the drift. Till one day, a cousin of mine-a doctor by profession-with wisdom well belying her comparative youth, asked me point blank what all the fuss was about. “What difference,” she quipped “will it make what you name the baby? Give him a lovely name or call him Ganesh, it will all sound the same-with the appendage Prasad attached to it! Ganesh Prasad or whatever!!”

Call this what you will: winning candour, healthy disdain; for me it was a timely eye-opener! I sat up straight and did some serious introspection. All my life, I had maintained that I didn’t like this surname one bit but finally-and in the days when girls, with touching naiveté, changed their surnames-had changed mine after marriage. I was suddenly determined that my son would not be called Prasad; after all, the family name was Sinha and it was only because the dear spouse, in a moment of misplaced admiration for his grandfather, had got his surname changed from Sinha to Prasad (again in that golden era when all this could be done at the drop of a hat) that I had had to adopt this surname. No daughter-in-law of mine would have to do this, I promised myself. And, as if like a logical conclusion to this decision, the name Saagar reverberated in my mind. Out of nowhere! Just like that and that was it. Twenty one days old, and the little one finally had a name; in letters I wrote to dear cousins (in those good old days when letters were exchanged regularly) I expressed the fervent hope that (here I quote) ‘we’ve finally named him: Saagar and I hope that he has the potential of the unbounded seas, the vast oceans….’ I could never live down that hyperbole-the ribbing I received on being thus carried away was endless……..

This line of thought came unbidden to my mind, suddenly, this afternoon. At the venue of a corporate client, assessing a new set of middle-management guys for determining their level of proficiency in the language and assigning batches to them, I was circulating the attendance sheet for them to sign on. There were eight names in my list but nine people in the room. When the paper was passed to the chap whose name wasn’t there, he added his name to the list and signed with a flourish-Ganesh Prasad.

The wheel had come full circle.

Life through the Metro

2010-02-27T10:30:00.000-08:00

Fridays have become special of late. No, not because they mark the end of a grueling week; not even because they herald the start of the much-awaited week-end, but because, on Fridays, I’ve begun commuting to work on the Metro. Practical wisdom and logistic considerations were behind this apparent sagacity but this routine has given me a special insight into the world around me. It has also added a certain clockwork precision to our movements on this day, a sense of challenge as it were; so all in all, it’s very satisfying.

9.00 AM and the spouse and I are in the car, headed for Noida City Centre, our friendly, neighbourhood Metro station. Eight minutes down the line, we’re at the place and then onwards, it’s work divided. I alight from the car at the point where he turns it towards the parking lot and scale the steps to go to the ticket counter to purchase the tokens. One for him, for Rajiv Chowk in New Delhi (no less!) the other for the humbler Sector 15 within Noida which is my destination. On days that the tokens are in different colours (read light and dark blue), it’s simple distinguishing them, on those when they’re the identical dark blue, it’s a lot of strategy (always keeping his in the right hand, mine in the left) and concentration (J) that help me remember which one’s whose and avoid needless confusion.

The next five minutes are spent waiting for him to show up, simultaneously keeping an eye on the hands of the watch as they creep inexorably close to 9.17 and wondering, for the nth time, whether we’ll make it in time. And then the familiar figure ambles into view, the token quickly exchanges hands and we join our respective queues in a jiffy. A quick, customary frisking, the bags chucked into the x-ray machine, collected at the other end and we’re on the escalator in a trice, moments of suspense ensuing before the sight of the sleek train still standing at the platform, reassures us. Two minutes later, we’re in the cool welcoming interiors, and I marvel, yet again, at the huge numbers this mode of transport accommodates and renders lives convenient for and also, in the bargain, the enormous respite it provides to the bursting-at-the seams traffic of the capital’s roads………………....Darwazon se hut kar khade hon/please stand clear of the doors…….breaks my reverie and we’re off. At 9.17 sharp.

Noida through the Metro, looks quite different from what it does from the car. The aerial view of the vast expanse of the sprawling Golf Club is very impressive and a far cry from the cursory glimpse it normally gives the average commuter. Then, there’s a tantalizing view of the GIP (Great India Place for the uninitiated) as the tube rail swerves gracefully to the right, heading for the Botanical Garden stop. Next, it’s the bustling Sector 18 station and then we cross the educational hub of Noida-the area that houses the IMSes and the T.I.M.Es of the world-Sector 16-finally reaching my chosen destination. I collect my stuff and prepare to disembark, merging once again with the nameless crowd....................

Each time, this turns out to be a truly edifying experience that gives me ample food for thought. Right from the time I board the train, I become, at once, a part of the melee and yet, in a curious way, a dispassionate bystander. I watch folks grab seats and also those who don’t get them, stand by without rancour, never is there a confrontation or an argument. In this hurly-burly of Life, each individual seems engrossed in his/her own thoughts, the day’s plans surely unfolding before the eyes, absorbed, distracted, concentrating, focused depending on different mindsets/situations. But in the midst of it all, there’s still a connect with the people around and after every stop I observe this happening. Many a myth is exploded, as I notice youngsters offering their seats to older people and men voluntarily-albeit a trifle sheepishly-giving up the Ladies seat they were occupying when they behold a lady standing. Once, when I vacated my seat for an older lady, she thanked me profusely but insisted on making place-the person next to her shifted willingly-and managed to keep me-stranger on a train- seated till my stop came.

In an age where we dub youth callous, I see young folks happily giving up their seats to seniors; when stories of communal tension hit the headlines frequently, I’ve watched a middle-aged man get up and offer his seat to an older man-very obviously belonging to a minority community…all a part of daily life: of the average Indian-the middle-class Indian-who is the mainstay of the nation and who bears, on his fragile shoulders, the grave responsibility of steering the country forward with its set values and legendary solidarity intact.

There’s hope yet-despite all the anti-social activities: the road rage, the mindless violence, terrorism and the divisive policies of self-serving politicians, there’s hope yet

For, the wise cross section of India-its vast majority- is still where it should be. Its spirit overcomes all divisions; it prevails at all times because this majority still thinks right and believes in the oneness of this great nation.

Happy New Year

2010-01-31T04:57:00.000-08:00

The metaphor for December seems to hold good for January as well. This month, except for the biting cold-but I shall dwell on that aspect a little later-turned out to be equally enjoyable if not a shade livelier. To mark the beginning of the year, there was a hurried brunch-meet at a dear cousin’s, where one caught up with a couple of more long-lost siblings of hers and generally had a rollicking time. It was a morning of inane banter, marked mostly by peals of laughter, as our minds meandered into myriad memories…with very little of coherent conversation.

But the best was yet to come.

Slated for the January 24 was our elder brother (lovingly called Big B by us-since much before the slightly more famous personality came to be called by that name-when he’s not being referred to as Bhai Kumar) and Bhabhi were organizing a house-warming party, combined with the celebration for their silver wedding anniversary, which is a month down the line, and for the rest of us, siblings (read Manoj, Leena and yours truly) this was a much-awaited event. Undeterred by the chill of Delhi, its horrible, foggy environs, we were all set to brave the elements and wing our way to the commercial capital of the country-all the fog, smog and what-have-you notwithstanding. Getting a taste of warmer climes was an added attraction. While on the subject, I might as well linger, though briefly, on the cold, frosty weather that seemed to’ve settled on us with the advent of 2010. Now one could figure out where dear Keats was coming from when he moaned “Ah bitter chill it was …..!”Even the likes of us-normally disdainful of those who smother themselves with woolens, were guilty of sporting layers of the same stuff. A cardigan, a thick coat a shawl thrown around the shivering shoulders for good measure-not to forget the woolen socks and well-shod feet-at times, were piteously inadequate to ward off the biting cold. The room heater, the blower, the radiator all found pride of place in their respective rooms, and the time till dinner-when one had to, perforce, keep awake-was a bitter battle with the insidious cold. The evening meal became an ordeal even for those who are partial to food, as being snugly ensconced in the inviting warmth of the quilt seemed irresistible. Piping hot beverages and nourishing soups ran high on the list of favourites, all else paled into insignificance before the all-pervasive, ever-encompassing chill. I shuddered each time I thought of the poor and the homeless-how did they withstand the vagaries of the season? Or did they, being much more stoic, accept it all as part of life?

To come back to the Bombay do, it was a very special event, every detail planned meticulously, executed with oiled-wheel efficiency and enjoyable beyond imagination. On Saturday, we converged on Santa Cruz airport-six people from six different directions: sonny boy from the City of Joy, I managing to reach the airport at the precise moment that he stepped out of the terminal, thereby giving a new meaning to the term perfect timing. Little(?) Leena joined us moments later and within minutes of her arrival, another youngster, Rahul this time, zeroed in, coming directly from his summer internship. Big B-having been stuck in a royal traffic jam, sauntered in next, after having spent an unenviable two hours trying to cover the driving distance of twenty minutes. Last but definitely not least, Master Manoj, who landed a little later, after having spent four hours inside the aircraft in Delhi waiting for take-off!! A veritable (albeit partial) family reunion that would have given movies down south a run for their money!!

From then onwards, it was fun galore. Absolute, undiluted, unlimited happiness! The apartment was plush, the careful planning and eye for detail done so thoughtfully by Bhabhi-to make a brand new flat comfortable-was admirable. Sheer bliss was ours as the four of us chatted nineteen to the dozen, while the chirpy, bright lads of the next generation, Saagar and Rahul, added exponentially to the enjoyment quotient by providing interesting perspective to our endless chatter. The day just flew past, as we walked down Memory Lane, emerging in between from the nostalgia to take a literal walk through the impressive premises. The elegantly landscaped, lush green park was particularly beautiful and photos were clicked by and of everyone: mobiles having made our lives that much more convenient.

The evening was even more delightful as, by then, Bhabhi and Kunal had joined the merry group, after grueling schedules. It was one continuum-of happy moments. And true to the progression of the superlative following the comparative-a la good, better, best-the luncheon on Sunday took the cake, in terms of pure enjoyment. All the family that we have in Bombay was there-one or two ‘surprise’ entries included whose unexpected arrival was marked by delighted squeals and then the babble of voices completely took over. Folks fell into small groups, catching up with one another and voices reached such a decibel that Bhabhi, with insightful amusement, wondered how many sounds were actually distinguishable!! I nodded my head in bemused agreement, sweeping the room with an indulgent look. Then, sounds were in abeyance for a while, as delicious lunch took over, and the tempting fare saw us all attacking it with gusto. More chatter, reverberating guffaws, beautiful mementos given as leave-taking began and a few folks, including young Saagar, left.

The ones who remained suddenly realized that the signature event of most Sharan dos was conspicuous by its absence. No songs, no breaking into lyrical melodies! The situation was salvaged and the ball set rolling by-on popular demand-none other than Bhai Kumar. Despite the unplanned nature of the session, a series of very well-chosen numbers ensued; his famous dil aaj shayar hai to be followed by Bhabhi humming two lines of the splendidly apt hans ke bola karo bulaya karo, aapka ghar hai aaya jaaya karo, setting the mood for times to come. Leena followed suit with the melodious-and eminently appropriate-rendition of Jab koi baat bigad jaaye ……tum dena saath mera o humnawa. The older generation was admirably represented by our enthusiastic Chote Mama who soulfully sang the evergreen aaya hai mujhe phir yaad woh zalim, transporting us back a few decades. It was but inevitable that finally, the scanner should turn on Manoj and me but we dexterously succeeded in diverting it. However, on repeated urging, I reaslised that this was not the time for fussing and thinking of one’s ability/inability to sing; the occasion was too special for that. So I started with a song that’s almost a family anthem, aati rahengi baharein, to be very sweetly-and perhaps not so surprisingly after all-joined by Manoj from the other end of the room. All the time Kunal and Rahul, from their chosen vantage points, were busy recording the musical interlude.

An utterly refreshing, rejuvenating event that rendered January as marvellous, as special as dear December.

Delightful December

2009-12-25T06:23:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-30T07:53:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-29T06:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-16T00:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-30T03:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-31T07:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-20T06:26:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-24T10:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-10T10:48:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-30T07:50:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-02-28T06:05:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-30T08:18:00.000-08:00

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.

Tables Turned

2008-12-19T08:11:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My kiddos Bestest!!

(TW)

Hearty Hat trick

2008-11-27T23:52:00.000-08:00

It was one of those weekends that have a special quality. Of course, any week-end when sonny is home from the hostel has enough reason to be that-but this one was more special. Saturday was an enjoyable day, and we managed to cover a lot of important ground (read visit the locker, enroll into a wayside library – both long pending tasks) and what’s more, watched the latest Bond movie with relish (without being an aficionado of either Bond or English flicks, in that order) But most important of all, one did some meaningful shopping. And yet, the good part was that one didn’t feel rushed or end up with a sense of fatigue or the feeling of having spent a hectic day.

The shopping, among other things, included purchasing the all-important formal shoes for the young man on the verge of facing placement interviews. This innocuous and rather mundane, as some of you might want to put it, exercise was fraught with its fair share of animated discussion (mandatory in our home before anything of import can happen) As soon as we were at the shoe-display section of Lifestyle, controversy reared its head and a lively debate ensued. While I insisted that he needed a pair of shoes with laces, the youngster was adamant that the stylish designs with Velcro and what-have you-thingummies would do as well for the formal category. Hasty parleys were made, as we connected with our respective generations (the spouse, the brother and yours truly voted unanimously for shoes with laces while his young pals rooted for the non-lace variety.) As always, hoary age triumphed over impetuous youth and the time-tested word experience, uttered sotto voce, did the trick. We emerged from an adjacent shop a few minutes later, a pair of smart, Red Tape black formal shoes, with laces, swinging in hand.

But the best was yet to come: the shopping spree having taken up quite a lot of time, had lent a palpable edge to one’s appetite. So we made our way to the all-time favourite joint: KFC. (A visit to KFC is always accompanied by a host of fond memories. Our first visit to its vaunted precincts, in the summer of 2001, had been a particularly memorable one, greenhorns that we were, untried to the ways of the KFC world. We had been completely bowled over by the crisply succulent (oxymoron??) chicken portions, which, we later discovered, were signature KFC. The over all ambience, the terrific victuals and the generosity of our patron-who had treated us a to a wonderful meal-all come rushing back each time I visit one of its branches) Once we made ourselves comfortable, the orders were placed and soon the kids returned with trays loaded with goodies. While I had settled for the boringly predictable KFC fare (aforementioned) they had been more imaginative and had gone for a burger, each, as well. (Of course, the unspoken family rule-that the one who doesn’t order a particular item is still offered a bite so s/he gets a taste of what s/he’s missed-was implemented. Never one to say ‘no’ to such offers, I promptly took a bite of the wholesome burger and then focused my undivided attention on gobbling the crunchy, crispy chicken pieces. The gourmet delight this delicacy offers is almost unparalleled but you later realize that in these days of specialization-where even English is taught for specific purposes (the fast getting-popular genre of ESP, for the uninitiated) almost every type of cuisine has evolved its own unique taste and flavour.

As the following day was to prove. Now, Sundays normally mean a relaxed sort of day for us: waking up late, languorously savouring the rays of bright sunshine peeping through the lacy curtains before setting foot on the cold floor and moving to the warm confines of the drawing room, with its promise of piping hot tea and the newspaper. The day generally unfolds itself unhurriedly and we allow ourselves to go with the flow, not hastening for any of the usual activities. Lunch means a non-vegetarian main dish and some veggies accompanied by the usual chapatti-rice-dal combo and then comes the much-looked- forward-to afternoon siesta.

But this Sunday was different as the young lad was about to launch into the exciting adventure of belling the CAT. Careful planning had gone into play and 8 a.m saw me and mine making our way to an almost unknown part of the city: the wild west Delhi region. Luckily, the one and a half hour drive we had resigned ourselves to, ended up being of just an hour’s duration, thanks to the Sunday factor. I shall gloss over the happenings of the next three hours-mine being too boring to merit mention, the youngster’s too mind-boggling (for poor ole me to absorb) and unknown a territory for me to try and talk about it.

As the ladddie was to leg it back to college right away, the next question on the agenda was, predictably and practically enough, food. And therefore it transpired that for the second consecutive day, we were in a restaurant ordering food at lunch time. Connoisseur that he is, it was a delicious meal-complete with golden toasted garlic bread dripping butter and done to a turn, great cheesy spaghetti in thick sauce, with a tantalizing flavour and topped by a delightful combination pizza: a perfect blend of the homely chicken supreme with the exotice Hawaiian pineapple-topping. Hunger being the best sauce-we needed no second invitation and attacked the food with gusto the moment it appeared on the table. Post the luncheon, I dropped the young man at the railway station and made my way home.

Saturday and Sunday spent at two different eateries, consuming different cuisine is fairly passé as most of us would think. But for a repeat performance to happen on a prosaic Monday was more than what I could’ve imagined. As it transpired, two colleagues and I had to go for a presentation to one of the many engineering cum management colleges that dot the periphery of the Ghaziabad-Meerut-Hapur belt. Now, this was a little more than a typical presentation as it was followed by a three-hour pilot session before a live audience of seventy management aspirants. What with their animated questions on the one hand and the more discerning queries of the management on the other, the session became longer than the stipulated time. So by the time we left, it was well past lunch time and being several miles away from the office cafeteria (which provides us with nice, hot lunch) we had no choice but to opt for eating somewhere. Being the only ‘local’ amongst the trio, I recommended one of my favourite joints in Noida-Asia Kitchen (also because it was, very conveniently, en route.) On the menu was Chinese -the best Chinese you can hope to get this side of the Yamuna. Superb hakka noodles, very fine and evenly stir-fried, garlic chicken with just enough gravy to add a tangible flavour and a bowl of fine quality rice-fried the Chinese way-to add to the combination. We did full justice to the meal-though we could still not finish the generous portions served and left the place an hour later, considerably sated. As always, the place had lived up to its reputation and I sure was relieved, having recommended it in no uncertain terms.

Three scrumptiously delicious, yet utterly diverse, meals in as many days-a record (hat trick??) of sorts! But a record one wouldn’t want to repeat, given the fact that a) one is perpetually trying to wage a losing battle against weight .and b) because at the end of the day, some niggling corner of the palate starts yearning for the homely daal-chaval in two days flat!!

But once in a way, one doesn’t mind such pleasantly and gastronomically enriching interludes.

Dawn of a new era?

2008-10-29T09:37:00.000-07:00

April, T.S.Eliot had said, was the ‘cruelest month’-well September 2008 would easily wrest the title, having been an uncharacteristically brutal one. It brought several questions to mind about the proud slogan India shining as, time and again, we were forced to stop in this business called living and wonder whether those were hollow, meaningless words.

" Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed….. "

The lines by another poet (a Nobel laureate like Eliot) W.B.Yeats, penned almost a century ago, seemed to come true prophetically last month, in a potently dark and menacing manner. Grisly tales of bloodbaths filled the newspapers, of senseless killings, where people were victimized because of their faith. The CEO of a reputed company was lynched on the office premises and no one could save him. There were terrifying bomb blasts- tearing through the fragile human illusion of security-spun erroneously by man- that snuffed out the lives of the young and the innocent. And tragically, and in the ultimate travesty of justice, the futile sacrifice of those who uphold law and justice at the risk of their lives- the fearless inspector, M.C .Sharma and the very young Santosh didn’t have to die, but they did: on different days at different locations but due to the same reason. Felled brutally at the hands of the cruelest creature created by God: man.
" The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity………………" wrote on the prescient poet-foretelling the ironic supercession of innocence by malevolent, negative forces. Today, we don’t know where to look for guidance, for direction. We’re moving like headless chicken in a coop: rendered timid and impotent by our immediate surroundings-where no one knows what the next moment has in store. Even the young and innocent are not spared in this meaningless mass slaughter. Intolerance and violence have made insidious entries into our blood stream; we’re just not ready to give way. At the smallest of pretexts, guns are pulled out, lives lost. The newspapers recently carried a report how a shop-keeper was shot dead as a customer’s mobile didn’t reflect the hundred rupee recharge that had been made! And such bizarre stories are the rule, not the exception. On an average, the third page has similar, gory tales (only-and sadly enough- they are facts) every single day, making one wonder, afresh, whether the legendary wisdom and non-violence of the orient has been smothered in the crass materialism of the rest of the world. Where every dream of the great architects of the nation has been shattered, every cherished hope of the noble poets turned to dust:

Today the mind is always full of fear and the head often hangs with shame at what’s happening in the world around us. Thoughts of reason, wisdom and knowledge couldn’t be further from the mind when apprehension and uncertainty rule the roost. We avert our eyes if we see someone in distress and are afraid to stop by and help an accident victim-it could be staged, s/he could be faking it for dire criminal motives…….basic humanity and decency seem to be dying a slow death…….

But there’s hope yet-all is not lost, as the closing lines of the same poem suggest (hinting of better things to come) lifting the mind out of its pall of gloom as we feel that things cannot get any worse. They’ve reached the nadir, so now, they can only get uplifted. Some convoluted logic tells us that man cannot sink any lower, so he can only get better. Surely, some thing good is at hand and matters will improve-slowly but steadily?! Human values will be rescued from the oblivion they have disappeared into and the human spirit will triumph yet again.
It will be resuscitated and we’ll emerge out of this dark tunnel of despair, into bright, glorious sunlight. Surely?

Two sides of the coin

2008-09-15T09:55:00.000-07:00

Monday-a long day of training, that too at two disparate- and very distant from each other-venues.

9 a.m and the madness had begun. Innumerable mails to plod through as the server had been down for two consecutive days and then two meetings one after another. Checking the agenda and getting the facts and supporting documents in place…..all in all, a more than busy day. Sharp twelve and off to the aforesaid locations (sadly, not the exotic locales that the word ‘location’ normally conjures up). In a dilapidated cab that had seen better days, where the almost non-existent air conditioning left little to the imagination: the humid heat of the sultry August afternoon literally got under one’s skin! A long drive- sans music-as the cab didn’t have a music system and ninety, torturous minutes later, surfacing from the circuitous route at a God-forsaken place called Pitampura. Off again, two and a half hours of interactive, fun-filled training later, to destination point two near D.U for a repeat performance. Take 2 and finally free (phew!).

6.30 pm. Winding my weary way home. But not before stopping on the way to pick up five kinds of fruits and other stuff for a fast and pooja to be done the following day. Not to forget the stop-by at the taciturn tailor’s, to pick up clothes for the selfsame occasion.

9 p.m. Finally, reaching home, thanks to the erratic traffic of this great city.

Tuesday 7 a.m. The day began pretty much as usual; except that there was no customary water and lemon tea by my side as I sat reading the newspaper. For it was one of the two days in a year when I fast-and a fast meant without food or water for 24 hours. Though it isn’t half as difficult as it sounds, if one could keep quiet and not tax one’s vocal chords unnecessarily. A luxury, unfortunately, denied to those in my calling! But if one manages to tweak one’s schedule for a day, the need for drinking water can be managed.

The first thing I did on reaching office was to remove the inviting bottle of water that is thoughtfully placed on each work station every morning. A personalized bottle with our initials, a gesture deeply appreciated on other days. But today, it was best out of sight (though not out of mind for sure!) The demo for a client needed to be finalized and the next few hours were spent busily pursuing that objective. Checking the presentation for errors, if any and duly rectifying them when spotted was what I focused on. The next few hours were well spent in the dry-run, the only challenge being averting my gaze completely each time laden trays of tea/coffee and assorted biscuits passed under my nose.

Two fruitful hours of animated discussion and one emerged from the hallowed precincts of the conference room suitably enlightened about the future of training in general and soft skills in particular.

6 p.m. The rest of the day went past and I somehow managed to edge out of a last-minute meeting and get into the car to head home and perform the pooja before sundown. Another en route halt ensured that readymade gujhiyas (sweets that were painstakingly prepared for Teej by chirpy housewives, amidst a lot of bonhomie and banter, in the good ole yesteryears) were bought and I was finally home at 6.30 with just enough time to dash upstairs, bathe and change into a new saree ensemble, which had been specially readied for the occasion. All preparations were hastily made and the pooja performed in the fast-forward mode but without skipping any sequential step.

7 p.m and it was over and I rose from my seat feeling satisfied at a deed well done, a day well spent.

TV and music saw me through the rest of the evening, till it was thankfully slumber time and I called it a day, a little earlier than usual.

The next morning brought in its wake an early shower, donning the same saree ensemble-bindi, bangles, jewelry et al-a customary short pooja, a token donation and the touching of mom-in-law’s feet to seek blessings and the ceremony was complete. Next came the long-awaited moment- descending on the dining table and gorging on the lavish spread: hot puris, spicy aloo chana sabzi, gujhias, halwa and a steaming cup of tea: a veritable feast after a literal fast.

D-day: Wednesday. The client proto we had been agonising over had to be presented at a formal meeting with them.

8.45 a.m ; I was ready in my grey business suit (string of pearls and matching ear-tops complementing the get-up) hair swept back with a neat clasp, laptop firmly placed on the left shoulder, the black folder with the hand-outs in hand. The metamorphosis was complete as I descended the stairs towards the waiting car………………...

The case of a split personality? No, the arrival of the new-age corporate Indian woman!!

Musings of a meaty kind

2008-08-14T09:15:00.000-07:00

Bloggiversary??………mmm…..a new term. Well, here goes:

Such a hardcore non-vegetarian born of a pure vegetarian mother!! This was the oft-heard exclamation when people discovered the carnivore in me. I grew up on liberal doses of well-meant advice on how non-vegetarian food wasn’t good, how we should exercise restraint in its consumption, for fear of obesity, high cholesterol and what-have-you but the die-hard fan of these exotic goodies that I was, I remained undaunted.
If anything, the love for this genre of food increased over the years

My college friends, with a wicked glint in their eyes, were often heard wishing that it would serve me right if I got married into a purist family, where even onion-garlic was taboo, as that would really teach me a lesson! I would vainly-and perhaps a little immaturely- quip that I would never say ‘aye’ to such a proposal, so there was no question of such an eventuality.

Well, life was kind and I got married into a family which metaphorically and literally ‘lived to eat’ and where the favourite topic of conversation, once a meal was over, was what would be prepared for the next one. Ad infinitum. Existence seemed to revolve around what the next nutrient would be. (This absorbing pastime exists to date.)As non-vegetarian delights featured high on the list, I was introduced to a wide variety of foodstuff, hitherto unknown to the palate.

Adjusting into such an environment was a chicken (sorry!) cakewalk. The mornings dawned bright and sunny, with wholesome mughlai paranthas dripping pure ghee, luncheon menu evolved luxuriously-as the mid-day sun matured and reached its zenith-and succulent, mouth-watering, kebabs or simmering stews made their appearance on the table. And the evening snack-more often than not-brought in its wake ‘simple’ fare like French toast or egg-rolls. In short, life was a variety of victuals and no non-vegetarian aficionado could’ve asked for more. (It’s another matter altogether that an ardent weight-watcher like me ended up gaining ten kilos in the short span of a month-a feat in itself. But, I reasoned naively, it was small price to pay for the gastronomic delights I savoured day after day.)

However, like every story worth its name, there was a flip side to this rosy picture. A greenhorn in the realm of cooking, I had begun making tentative, tremulous forays into this fascinating world, only to be ticked off that that was not my cup of tea. I couldn’t ever hope to attain the heights of expertise that were required for churning out such exquisite cuisine. No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough. There was always a flaw that was unceremoniously pointed out: an unerring comment on what was wanting, rather than encouragement for what could’ve been dubbed a good attempt. Being steeped in the rich tradition of flavours and aromas, tastes and colours, the spouse and his family were pastmasters at passing judgement on food: self-acclaimed food-critics-nonpareil!.

The years turned into decades and a lot of things changed but what remained constant as the Northern star was the preoccupation with food and the fault-finding exercise that inevitably followed. Gradually, my sensitivities hardened and I would no longer be upset at “well meant” remarks that invariably informed me how the recipe-so painstakingly prepared by me-would’ve been so much better if it had a little more of this ingredient or a tad less of that or had been stir-fried for two more minutes………. all this with an aura of smug superiority clearly suggesting that only a privileged few were privy to such fine sensibilities! I developed an in-built defense mechanism and learnt to filter out such “constructive” criticism with élan.

Till the other day, all my disappointments-accumulated over years of negative feedback- were amply vindicated. No, it wasn’t as if I staged a culinary coup of sorts, completely winning over the self-appointed critics or that they suddenly turned appreciative of my prowess. It was something completely unexpected, dramatically different. But it was still a great victory-a record no less than India’s first individual gold at the Olympics- seen from my viewpoint.

On Friday, all of us converged at the dinner table, pretty much as usual, after the customary queries on what was for dinner and whatever it was could be vastly improved upon etc etc. But, as it turned out, the actual meal was met with approval as the cover of the steaming hot, main dish was lifted and an appetizing aroma wafted through the air. The sight of peas and mincemeat was welcomed enthusiastically and the better half and mom-in-law attacked the food with gusto worthy of a nobler cause. My daughter, who rarely condescends to make an appearance at the dinner table (and whose appetite magically changes in direct proportion to what’s there on it) was roped in for the event. She joined the merry twosome, relishing her favourite keema mutter as much as the others. I ate alongside, observing three generations of the clan heartily gulping morsel after morsel. In between the selfsame mouthfuls, I was reminded how I should’ve taken tips from m-i-l for a better version and how possibly, the next time, it could be improved, with help from the same, hallowed quarters. These suggestions, though, didn’t affect the quantities being consumed and any casual observer could’ve been forgiven for thinking that they were enjoying the preparation, as the quantum of intake was a definite index. The entire serving bowl was polished off in a jiffy and was empty in no time!

It was only the next morning that I decided to enlighten the ‘discerning’ twosome that what had been eaten with such unconcealed relish, such uninhibited glee was the humble nutrela (from the Soya clan)-peas curry and bore not the remotest connection to the exalted, pedigreed mutton/mince family. Connoisseurs indeed!!

Did I hear someone say one who laughs last laughs loudest??

21magical guidelines for this sojourn called Life

2008-07-20T10:49:00.000-07:00

For Saagar, my son, as he turns 21 on July 21

Live life to the fullest
Be fearless but don’t exhibit false bravado or resort to foolhardiness.
Look people straight in the eye when you know you’re right.
Always lend a helping hand but don’t be taken for granted.
Remember the dignity of labour and learn to be as self-sufficient as possible: don’t assign menial tasks to others.
Love music, song and dance and recognize them as the ultimate expressions of joy.
Build a few, self-disciplinary rules, stick to them and know the value of Time.
Be sincere; never voice views/feelings you don’t mean and honour every commitment you make-big or small.
Respect not just your elders but also your peers and those younger/socially inferior to you; and be civil to strangers too.
Be truthful and honest in all your dealings and have the courage to side with the minority if that’s what is right..
Despite spiraling crime graphs and scams of all kinds, have faith in the intrinsic goodness of man.
Cut your coat according to the cloth-and practise saving a small percentage of your income every month.
Keep in touch with friends-they’re the mainstay of life.
Do not get into monetary transactions with friends/relatives (what are banks for??).
Learn to commune with Nature: let the gentle breeze ruffle your hair, walk through woods, dance in the rain, drink in the beauty of the setting sun………..
Make sure you do some charity- silently, anonymously.
Have compassion for fellow human beings especially the poor, the old, the very young, the disabled and the unhappy.
Preempt the needs of your parents- especially as they grow older-and remember these needs are more emotional than material.
Rejoice with dear ones in their good times, but more importantly, be there for them in their distress.
Be proud of your lineage, uphold family values and always be proud to be Indian.
Celebrate life-even a small success deserves to be made an occasion of.

With love and blessings from
Mamma

The writer's dilemma........and after.

2008-04-25T12:12:00.000-07:00

The urge for self expression is something so strong; one can’t suppress it for long. And yet, the banal activities of this business called living sometimes keep us away from that which we love doing the most. In my case, it’s writing.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve given vent to my feelings, lent wings to my imagination or simply killed hours of sheer ennui, by indulging in my favourite pastime: writing. Years of maintaining diaries-albeit with sporadic, sometimes juvenile ramblings, further cemented this habit and the weekly essays assigned with relentless regularity by the dedicated English nuns at school-though perceived as hateful in those days- helped polish one’s abilities.

Came college and these forays into the world of writing became few and far between. There was ample opportunity for verbal expression though-debates, dramatics, quizzes-and one was gainfully employed in trying to make a mark as a wannabe Demosthenes. My one year tenure as College Premier provided further exposure in public speaking, in the form of inter-college activities. But all my adventures (and misadventures) were limited to the world of spoken skills and quizzing and we harboured the delusion that we were good at both. Till our awful debacle at IIT Kanpur’s Spring Fest firmly disillusioned us and put any such crazy notions firmly in place. With deep chagrin-we realized that we stood nowhere in the firmament of Quizzing, ignominiously eliminated as we were in the very first round at that prestigious festival!

A chance to hone my writing skills presented itself when I became the editor of the college magazine. I made the first, formal foray into the magical world of weaving a rich tapestry with the beauty of words. Rediscovering my love for the pen was sheer joy which trebled manifold when, one fine day, an article, sent half-heartedly to The Statesman, found a place in the coveted Now & Again column on the paper’s edit page. That sure was a red letter day! I could scarce put my feet on the ground- sheer exultation made me feel light headed! And this occasion got more than its fair share of recognition. It was put up on the college notice board and Sister Aquinas insisted on reading it out-in her distinct nasal twang- to a bunch of hapless students of the English honours batch, who had no option but to simulate expressions of profound appreciation.

That let loose a spate of half-baked ideas expressed in corny write-ups. All diligently dispatched to different dailies but none seeing the light of day. (The number of rejection slips and ‘regretting’ editors’ “compliments” of course kept piling up in inverse proportion.) Till, about five years down the line, the second in the series of articles, finally got published. And then another, and another and another………..my penchant for self-expression had finally found a gratifying outlet. I became a recognized name in my city back home-when seldom was an article sent by me rejected by the HT, my favourite newspaper even then.

We were barely into the new millennium when our historic move to the nation’s capital happened. There were a lot of major- and some minor upheavals- but all said and done, the consensus was that there were positives all around. Folks couldn’t stop congratulating us on our timely move; it was decidedly a change for the better from every conceivable point of view.
Except that my pen was stilled, the budding writer was lost in the milling crowds of this huge metro……

But all is not lost. A new era has dawned with this phenomenon called cyber space where I’ve found my own little corner, my niche, so to say.

Thank you, Technology and thank you, you Blogging world, which has let me into its fold, reviving the creative instinct and rescuing the writer in me.
*************************************************************

Full Circle

2008-01-18T00:21:00.000-08:00

Each time I let my thoughts take a jaunt down Memory Lane, I feel warmed to the core of my being as memories of some lovely times suffuse me. Chief among these are the numerous trips that I made with my two little kids and the spirit of adventure that invariably characterized most of these sojourns.

My mind goes back to that first journey we made together-me and mine; only six and five years respectively but scintillating company even in those childhood years. The destination was Calcutta.. er Kolkata (but it will always remain Calcutta to me) and the entire plan had been swung into action with great planning. Having spent a considerable part of our growing up years in Calcutta, it was a city always dear to my family. With my brother having pretty much settled there-his having been married a few months before had added to the list of reasons (‘getting to know sis-in-law’ being one of them)-there were too many factors for wanting to go there. My parents were also there with him those days, plus the little ones-who had been brought up on liberal doses of ‘life at Cal’, needed to see things firsthand. And last but not least was the ultimate attraction: the Rajdhani Express had only just started plying between our home town and Bengal’s capital and it was one big challenge to travel by this oh-so prestigious train.

But the way to happiness was fraught with hurdles; the main one being-how did one balance one’s precarious budget? Those were the days when luxury trains were few and far between, when traveling by them was a far-off (literally, as they didn’t venture anywhere even remotely near where we lived) dream, especially keeping in mind one’s pocket. The event would burn a sizeable hole in one’s modest income and redressing the balance would need a great deal of financial wizardry. Yet, despite these constraints, one’s never-say-die spirits were always on the look out for some scope. And a golden opportunity presented itself when one fine day I found a little ad peeping from an insignificant corner of the newspaper. It was inviting applications from wannabe academics for a Post Doctoral Research programme in the land of ultimate opportunities: the United States. Having, through one of those inexplicable quirks of Fate, written a doctoral thesis (may my guide be blessed for all the inspiration he provided or this would never have happened) I realized that I was eligible to apply for the same.

Not one to think too much beyond the immediate, I did so with alacrity, but was surprised into minor shock a few days later, when an impressive envelope bearing the embossed address of the American Center at Calcutta arrived. Would I, its contents enquired in no uncertain terms, please present myself for an interview on the said date at the appointed time, at the stated address? The first class train fare to and fro would be reimbursed…. Oh wouldn’t I??! Why else had I shot that random arrow in the dark if not for this glorious moment? Of course, I had never really believed that they would buy all the hogwash about ‘my academic aspirations and plans for the future’ but apparently they had. So now that the plan had worked, there was no way I would let it slip through my fingers.

Excitement was palpable in the air, the kiddos started cheering and clapping their hands in glee to express their solidarity. But all was not hunky dory and clouds loomed on the horizon as another obstacle reared its head. The spouse looked doubtful and expressed the opinion that I was getting too carried away and traveling alone with two, small children wasn’t such a smart idea after all. I won round one by using invincible logic. I said that he shouldn’t operate from the mindset where going to Calcutta had meant an overnight journey-this super fast train would take us there in 7 hours flat. It didn’t even entail travel by night, so where were all those risks he was talking about? Besides, our children were smart, responsible citizens of the world and would rise to any contingency admirably, I went on, with touching maternal confidence. And the final master stroke, to which even he could not demur, it was so prestigious to be called for interview to a Post Doctoral Research programme, had the verdict swinging in our favour.
We heaved collective sighs of relief as no further objections were raised.

Plans for the trip got under way amidst buoyant spirits. Suitcases were retrieved from under the beds (their age old resting place) dusted and the children had a field day selecting their favourite outfits (A common practice was that clothes were segregated into two categories: daily wear and party wear and such occasions naturally necessitated the use of the latter, much to their rapture) and giving them to me to pack. With a sense of relief I realized that I wouldn’t have to pack loads of food-the unappetizing and cold puri-sookhi sabzi and sandwiches, not to forget the water jug that was invariably lugged and mostly leaked through the journeys, creating singular bad blood between us and our co-passengers. These thoughts, added to the fact that we could dispense with cumbersome blankets, contributed significantly to the collective joie de vivre.

D-day dawned and my young companions and I were duly escorted to the railway station. The fact that it was an unearthly hour-4 a.m or thereabouts (we had reached the station well in advance not taking any chances) and still early March did cause us our share of literal shivers, but cuddling the kiddos close, we managed to survive. The train, when it finally chugged leisurely into the sleepy station, was more welcome than anything we could remember..

The cushy interiors, the plush seats, the soft music and the over all ambience left them speechless. Though not for long, ‘cos no sooner had the train left than began the incessant flow of queries, only the very young are adept at asking. Chief among them were when would we reach? This particular one started coming within five minutes of having started-and it soon became a refrain; coming from one kid or the other with unnerving frequency. The arrival of bottles of water distracted them and there was a brief respite. Only temporarily, though, as my son, always one with an enquiring mind (bless him!) wanted to know why the bottles had been given and I made the mistake of telling him that breakfast would soon follow. Now it was the turn of the little lady to demand-in a shrill piping voice which I was sure could be heard right through the compartment- why it hadn’t arrived till then!! Somehow, I managed to placate her and told her it was on its way and luckily, we didn’t have to wait for long. There was golden silence for a while as trying to maneuver the bread and omelet with knives and forks kept them gainfully employed. It was another matter that in his effort to slice a piece with his fork, young Saagar got too enthusiastic and it bounced right off his plate and fell neatly in the middle of the aisle, causing me considerable embarrassment, but that was the only faux pas. On the whole, they did me proud and the rest of the meal and the juice were consumed with élan.

But once done, it was back to the question hour-oh they would’ve put our parliamentarians to shame with their questioning skills!-would we also be served lunch on the train? This one came from Srishti and the hopeful-would it be non-veg from her enterprising brother. A firm 'No' to both queries put paid to all their hopes and there was a lull for some time Then a passing station caught their fancy and I was flooded with a barrage of fresh queries: its topography, population, modes of travel, schools and what-have-you: all of which I fielded bravely.

So much for childlike inquisitiveness and enthusiasm! And my role in assuaging their curiosity and answering their questions to the best of my knowledge and patience. Today, the wheel has come full circle and I do most of the asking when we travel together and my children graciously enlighten me on myriad different subjects.

That journey to Calcutta was memorable, it being a first in many fields; and also because it had materailised after so many impediments. We enjoyed it to the hilt and felt like royalty, travel as we did by the Rajdhani Express. Years and many family trips later- when planning and financing have been simplified to the click of a mouse and the punching of a credit card, I’ve realized that though we may have traversed huge distances, flown to exotic locales and touched international shores, the sheer novelty and exhilaration of the first 'luxury-train journey' with the kids is nonpareil!!!

********************************************************************

Life's Little Surprises

2007-12-03T20:27:00.000-08:00

My little-or perhaps not so little-niece, Jayati, is an interesting kid. All of twelve years, this young lady knows her mind and is very focused. In fact, a lot of times, she even tries to know other people’s minds, in the sense that she’ll plan things for them down to a T and then expect them to oblige. That doesn’t work a lot of times as, in these days of independent thinking since age 3 or less, no one wants to do something s/he doesn’t want to.
But what truly endears the kid are her warm, caring ways. From the time she was really small, she would make lovely cards for us on birthdays and special occasions, would always remember to call and thank us even if we did something very small for her and has always been very perceptive of people’s needs and moods. Coming from a kid 7, 8, 9 years of age, this was no mean quality. And of late, her sensitivity has been amply borne out by the beautiful poetry she composes-truly unbelievable for one so young. The depth of feelings she captures and the topics she chooses to write on have left us amazed.

But at the end of the day the kid is a kid-just that. A loving, caring kid who invests a great deal of herself in people –she has the ability to do a lot for folks who matter to her.

And thus it transpired that on Monday, she wanted my sister to bake a cake for her school friend, whom she wanted to ‘surprise’ on her birthday the following day. Now if there’s one thing my sister can claim, in terms of culinary prowess, it’s her ability to bake superb cakes. She makes the very Best-there’s no other word for it (perhaps, as she herself humbly explains- and as her family never tires of reminding her- because all her cooking talents get concentrated into baking that one gourmet item) So Jayati’s request was not uncalled for, especially as the occasions when she had carried cake as part of her lunch had always left her pals licking their fingers……….however, for my sister, it was a fairly tall order at the end of a week day, bogged down as she is with heavy responsibilities and long hours of work. And without prior intimation, mind you (in the government that’s pretty unthinkable I would say!) But mothers are mothers and the occasion was special, so, tired though she was, she agreed to do the needful.

A yummy chocolate cake-the very pinnacle of her repertoire- was duly baked. As it happened, in an effort to help my sis, my brother-in-law enthusiastically put the baking dish into the microwave oven. However, he placed it on the top shelf instead of the middle one and therefore the cake was crustier and of a darker chocolate hue than it ought to’ve been. Immense dexterity was brought into play and the object was inverted gingerly into a round, ornate box-the exquisite work on which would, it was hoped, distract the consumers from the unhealthy tinge of the cake. This strategic move also successfully concealed the burnt portion as it magically became the base, instead of the erstwhile top, and though it was considerable reversal of fate for the self-same top, it was a veritable lesson in military camouflage!!
It is another matter altogether that after all these precautions were taken, the dear girl informed my sis that she had asked for vanilla flavour in the first place! Adhering to the time tested philosophy of che sera sera, we’ll let that pass and move on to the more interesting happenings of the day.

Having done her good deed for the day, Leena, my sister, was feeling at peace with herself and was fondly visualizing the moving scene that would unfold in the school the following day, when delighted and dewy-eyed, the birthday girl would taste the chocolate delight and embrace her loving friend for the thoughtful gesture. Quite caught up in her reverie, she suddenly became aware of a loud wail somewhere in her immediate vicinity. Always quick on the uptake, she sprang to her feet and rushed in the direction from where the sound had emanated. And sure enough, it was young Jayati, sobbing away inconsolably. Marvelling at the mercurial change in demeanour-and feeling bewildered at what could have wrought such a drastic swing of moods so fast-Leena started her inquisition. Seasoned though she is at crisis management and handling tough situations- confusions and mix-ups being an integral part of the bureaucratic world- she was still taken a back when she made sense of the situation. What seemed to filter out-in bits and pieces- between racking sobs-was that the birthday gal was throwing a party to which all and sundry had been invited but not our loving protagonist. Any number of calls asking her if she had been invited had been received and the heartless world seemed to be mocking at her plight.
Now this was definitely a piquant situation and Leena’s heart went out to the child-but there was nothing that she-who organized international meets and conferences with enviable élan-could do about it. She felt helpless, watching the child cry and trying to console her that this happened to all of us sometime or the other. Parties and do s we were sure of being asked to, sometimes left us out in the cold, but her reasoning cut no ice with a twelve year old who had so set her heart on greeting her friend and spreading joy and sunshine in her life. It was a cruel anti-climax that the very same ‘friend’ did not seem to even consider her in her immediate circle of friends. Had Jayati possibly miscalculated the quality of their friendship? Were they simply ‘lunch-time buddies’ and not really close friends, Leena wondered? She tried questioning her but drew a blank, given the incoherent words and recurrent sobs.

At this point, I, who had so far played the role of the quiet listener admirably, decided to butt in with a query. As the surprise-springing had been planned for that very day and the news of the dear niece being dropped like a hot potato had cut me to the quick-I expressed the mean hope that the cake had not been taken to school then. The girl surely hadn’t deserved it, I reasoned.

No, I was informed. The cake had duly been carried to school. All the heartbreak of the previous night notwithstanding (Bless the child and the touching innocence of a childhood that knows no rancour.) And did the birthday girl appreciate the surprise, the super-thoughtful gesture …you may well ask!! For-and here’s the wonderful catch to this saga of love and tears- the said girl chose not to turn up in school that day!
Of course, with the native wisdom and resilience of the young, the other girls consumed the cake with alacrity but Jayati remembered to bring back a few slices so that her parents and sister could also taste the same.

And the post script to the whole merry event was that the birthday girl hadn’t invited anyone till then. These over-zealous gals had been going into a tizzy calling one another and checking if anyone had been invited, when the formal invite hadn’t been issued to anyone!! And since no one had thought it fit to mention that she had not been invited either, it caused such unwarranted misery.

The poor girl has most respectfully invited everyone to her party which is due tomorrow (anyone game?)……..and here's a toast to over-enterprising youngsters with super active imagination!

The Case of the Surpriser Being Surprised; eh!!