Celebration Time

Life is full of all kinds of new experiences that often take us by surprise and the recent one was one such. We had blithely planned to meet for the joint celebrations of the birthdays of the youngest members of our families-my sister’s and mine-with our brother and his family joining us, to add to the fun quotient. What with it being exam time for the younger kids (one of the ‘budday’ gals included) it was decided to keep it short and sweet, to spend minimum time away from books, that is. Also, and keeping in view the fact that while we all live in the NCR, it’s precisely that-NCR with no two people living in the same state. So if it’s a rushed get-together, with time being a constraint, the commute time plays a vital role. With us in Noda, my sister in Delhi and our brother in good ole Gurgaon, a hasty meeting, albeit birthday celebrations, have to be planned judiciously.

And so it transpired, that despite three homes in the NCR, we decided to descend on CSOI, the conveniently located Officers’ Club of which my sis and her husband are members. Barely thirty minutes’ driving distance from all our homes, we thought we’d meet, have some snacks together, generally wish the two young ladies and then beat a retreat. After all, ominous exams loomed large on the morrow’s horizon!

As is a mother’s wont, I generally checked with sonny boy if he’d change out of his casual Tantra t-shirt, which looked a trifle crumpled after the day’s wear but he stoutly refused. It looked just fine, he said and I decided not to press the point. The birthday girl was well turned out and I was just trying to cajole the lad to don a smarter t shirt, but he stood his ground. We left for the venue around 7 p.m; rendezvous time being 7.30.and managed to make it in good time, though we were still the last to reach.

I walked in with spouse in tow and wished my little niece, looking chirpy and pretty in a smart dress. I looked back to see if my own birthday girl had made an appearance (in an almost identical dress!) and was surprised to see that the kiddos were nowhere in sight. When a few minutes had elapsed and they had still not showed up, I walked to the hall’s door, wondering……it was impossible to get lost in so small a place, a place they had visited many times before. Just then, the two arrived, and sonny boy said, with an abashed grin, that he had been stopped at the entrance because of being attired in shorts!! Somehow, he had managed to convince them and made his way in. We nodded happily as they settled down.

No sooner had they got seated and begun munching on the hot crispies than an official looking man approached our table and said that shorts weren’t allowed. My brother and brother-in-law said in unison that okay we’d keep this in mind next time but the fellow just stood there, glowering. We exchanged looks, not sure what to do next. The platefuls of snacks kept arriving so we got temporarily, and justifiably, distracted. The fellow also seemed to melt away but not for long. He was a determined adversary, a great warrior. He came back in five minutes, accompanied by another official, who parroted the same line-shorts not allowed.

With wisdom born out of such situations we all realized that these buggers meant business. Also, the fact that at the end of the day, rules were rules and if these chappies were sticking to their guns, it was only fair that we accede to their request. So very rapidly, we beat a retreat and decided to shift venue to my sister’s place, postponing the revelry by a few minutes.

It’s another matter that that this turned out to be a great decision as not only did we relax and enjoy the warmth of home ambience much more, but finally ended up having a sumptuous dinner and a wonderful evening of prolonged celebrations and togetherness.

As someone so sagely said, all’s well that ends well!

Parenting

Oh! the joys of parenting and ah! its vexing moments!!

Rainy Rapture

Walking through the rain, what an exulting experience that was! Pouring, unceasing rain that came down in torrents, breaking the tranquil calm of the atmosphere two minutes before…it seemed magical! The transformation that happened within seconds, in front of my fascinated eyes, was unbelievable. When I had got into my car, to do the customary round of the local market, the air was still and the sky overcast but there was no hint of rain. So much so that it seemed eminently wise to dash across and finish the mandatory, Saturday recci before the kiddo, home for the week end, woke up and one’s precious time (whose precious-ness quotient can only be gauged by a parent whose children live in different cities) was wasted.

So, equipped with a to-do list, as is my wont while on such errands, I set out; if not exactly whistling a tune or doing a jig, pretty much near it, as it was an unbelievably pleasant morning. Just right for an outing, I told myself, clutching the purse in one hand and the umbrella in the other; the latter more a matter of habit than any real apprehension of rains. But a short ride of 15 minutes later, when humming the tune playing on 92.7 was all that was on the mind (mundane grocery and fruit-veggie shopping never transporting most of my ilk to any kind of rapture that shopping for clothes, shoes, accessories and what-have-you invariable does) I found myself at the nondescript entry point of the humble market. Even as I prepared to step out gingerly, so as to avoid any crevice in the ground, I noticed the sudden change in the immediate surroundings and became aware of nature’s watery onslaught. Rain, thick and fast, the kind that one doesn’t normally witness in or around Delhi, was all around me. lt was raining the proverbial cats and dogs and the landscape (read Noida roads) were suddenly, cataclysmically inundated!! Frailer hearts would have quailed at the sight, the meek would have deserted the earth, but not yours truly. Ever the adventurous sort, not given to easily throwing in the towel, I ventured out of the car, unfurling my dainty umbrella to brave the odds.

The torrential force hit me like a physical blow and I fell back for a moment. But the very next, looking the spate full in the eye as it were, I equipped myself to face the situation, and holding my bag while balancing my feet precariously on the fast-disappearing ground under my feet, I tip-toed my way into the market.

Oh how wonderful that felt! Walking in the face of cascading rain, the water doing a neat tangential spray on me as the surface of the umbrella deflected the misty spray my way, making me want to break into a tango. Not since I was a naughty kid, or perhaps, an audacious adolescent, or okay let me concede a sedate middle-aged person…well that’s immaterial. Not in a long time, did I remember a moment so magical, so refreshing, quite so fun-filling and so absolutely exhilarating!! Adding to the zing was the sense of achievement-for, as far as the eye could see, I was the only shopper, with nary a competitor. In fact, even the shopkeepers had withdrawn to the safety of temporary refuge, abandoning all idea of profit and commerce and I could see tell-tale signs of hastily-beaten retreat, as many a stall could be seen covered with tarpaulin or water-proof material of all kinds.

I waded in resolutely, encountering bemused looks from all sides-some may even have doubted my sanity!-but I had not a care in the world. It was too rapturous a moment; the sheer exuberance was too precious to be wasted on such trivial matters. My feet couldn't see where they were going, the place was ankle-deep already in muddy water, a misty film had formed on my glasses so vision was impaired, the bottoms of my trousers were drenched the footwear soaked and past rescue but the predominating feeling was one of ultimate bliss!!

Ah, the simple joy, the inexpressible pleasure of walking in the rain!!

Two ends of the spectrum

Two extreme comments in less than forty eight hours' difference!!
At a family wedding from one-who-knows (extremely bright IITian-turned bureaucrat) "McKinsey is the best company in the world to work for!!" transporting me to heights of maternal pride and bliss.

And this morning, from one-who-should-have-known (an ex-Symbiosis Pune guy) "McKinsey? What does it do? Why didn't you join some other company? Campus placement nahi mila kya?"
(The last with a distinct touch of sympathy)

As they say, munde munde matri bhinna (every mind thinks differently.) 

Magical May

It seems just the other day when, clutching my finger tightly with her tiny hand, the little one walked towards the bus stand, school bag perched firmly on her back. 7.15 A.M and we’d be off, to the corner down the lane we lived in, straight walk and a right turn, ten minutes in all-and waited for the familiar bus to amble into sight. Attired in their smart school uniforms, the pristine white of the starched shirt off-setting the navy blue skirt, admirably complemented by the white socks and polished black shoes, these little girls-yes more of them converged at this point from different directions –made a pretty picture as they waited for the bus to carry them forth to school and enlightenment. As the mother of one such girl, I would study their excited faces, listen to their endless chatter or simply observe the quieter ones, who preferred standing under the shady tree that grew right there, as if its sole purpose in life was to shade them from the morning sun.

They say a lecturer’s job is a cushy one. One is not sure if that is applicable in today’s day and time, but in those halcyon days of the early nineties, this sure was true. A normal working day meant leaving home around 9 A.M and after a ‘tiring’ schedule of two to three lectures, being back by 2 P.M, at the latest. Such were the timings, that a working mother didn’t suffer the pangs of conscience that have become a part of the collective working mothers’ psyche now; that she wasn’t spending ‘quality time’ with her kids. For here it was a perfect setting: early morning, escort the little ones to the bus stand and come afternoon, be right there to pick them up! As sonny boy grew older, this ritual kind of waned but in the case of the little gal, it pretty much remained the same-right till the time she was in the 4^th or perhaps 5^th standard. No matter where I was, no matter what the schedule or season, I would turn homeward the minute the hands of my wrist watch indicated that 3 P.M was approaching. The foot on the accelerator subconsciously pressed harder as I would make my way home on those ‘specially hectic’ days when one had to work oneself to the bones (read for more than four hours) and my tryst with the bus stand seemed threatened. But no matter what the task at hand, I always managed to be there, in the nick of time to pick up daughter dear. On most days, this routine used to be different (as I would come home first and then walk to the bus stand after lunch) and it was only on ‘extra heavy’ days that the need to go there directly arose.

In other words, this rendezvous was sacrosanct and over a period of time, became a habit.

Cut to the present. So much water has flown under the bridge!
May 2012.
For more than a month now, we followed a fixed routine when we went out together but the scene was quite different from the mom and li’l girl one all those years ago. The day now started with the not-so-little-one and me getting ready, but not for school and college respectively. Instead, we would both be headed for similar destinations-our workplace. No more the school uniform and black shoes…instead, there was sober office wear and formal shoes, complemented by a smart bag hung from the shoulder, as my girl would step into the car along with me, a mature, adult companion, walking shoulder-to-shoulder (a head taller, actually!) making interesting small talk as we made our way to her drop-point: the Noida City Centre metro station. She took off for work every morning after being dropped by me and I carried on to my office, two equals in the corporate world. At the end of the day, and again my timings were so well coordinated, I invariably found myself at this modern ‘bus stand’, waiting, as her mode of travel would bring her back home.

As the saying so tellingly goes, the wheel has come full circle. A lot has changed: the little one has grown up and found her vocation; she doesn’t need to be accompanied every day, it’s just a practical arrangement, a pretext to spend some extra time together, but what has remained unchanged is the immense joy and pride I take in watching her take confident strides into a world just waiting to be conquered.

Band Baaja Baaraat

Well, the first wedding of the third generation of clan Kadam Kuan, that much-looked-forward to event, is finally over. As is wont, any occasion that is awaited with undue fervour, leaves a sort of emptiness in its wake. The eager anticipation, the shopping, the choosing of gifts, the options related to what the family would wear (once the kids had decided whether it would be Western or ethnic, that is) the colour coordination, the footwear and accessories to match, the endless chats with other cousins, checking on who was coming and when…the count down was truly exciting.  And what was especially impressive was the single-minded focus with which gen Y-all interestingly born between 1987 and 88-planned to make it to the wedding..

The wheel having come full circle; these five youngsters are all working men and women now, attending this event was especially difficult for the three girls-living in far off Calcutta, Manipal and Bombay .One a fresh MBBS graduate had joined internship and had no leave due, the other, a dentist had similar challenges and for the third, who had joined the Banking-Insurance industry, her job was literally a nine-day wonder. Taking leave for all three was tough but whoever said When there’s a will, there’s a way must have had these youngsters in mind. Their determination and sincerity paid off and each of them arrived in style, on the morning of the wedding. The young guys, in the meantime, were already in town, one luckily working from his Gurgaon office those days, the other having winged in from the United Kingdom a week before.

All in all, the stage was set as the very popular Bhaiya prepared to don the shervani and lead the baaraat. The entire clan descended upon the venue, resplendent in their trendy best, and then followed what can only be described as marathon dancing by the selfsame enthusiastic lads and gals. We, of the older generation, looked on benignly, but now and then, were pulled into the merry circle, while the even older generation beamed from the periphery. A good hour or more later (the groom’s dad having finally beaten the crazy traffic of Delhi on a week-day and arriving) the frenetic dancing ended. In stark contrast to the swaying movements, and with measured steps, the baaraatis converged at the hall’s entrance and were welcomed with warm smiles and traditional, flower garlands.

It was pretty much a regular, big, fat Indian wedding but what distinguished it was the large number of cousins who had made great efforts to be there, from different parts of the country and even more heartwarming was the spirit with which they met one another after long gaps. The magic of the extended family was palpable, the joy writ large on each face, very heartening. The sense of kinship and bonding were  tangibly felt by everyone.

Truly, a memorable occasion!!

Ah friends....

The fortnight from the last week of Feb to the first week of March had a magical quality-spent as it was in the company of some of the dearest friends I have made along Life’s winding way. And it was special in more ways than one-for after three decades, four young girls who had shared more than just a room-whose dreams and aspirations, plans and crazy ideas had all been similar-converged at one point and shared space, albeit for a brief interim. Oh the joy of reconnecting with long-lost friends, friends with whom one’s association goes back years and years, who one has shared the better part of one’s life with…and the occasion was no less special, as it was the wedding of the first one of all the offspring-another first for the four chirpy ‘gals’ of room number 4, PWCH, 1979. A first of sorts in many ways, and therefore that much more important. From the Sangeet to the recci around Dilli Haat and GIP Mall, from catching up with other mutual friends to the latest gossip involving some hapless hosteller of those days, we did the gamut. And emerged refreshed and rejuvenated.

And then, the very next weekend, spent with another very dear, hostel friend-again, one of the closest and dearest that I have-transported me to the good old days once again. There was endless chatter, rollicking laughter, easy banter and yummy food. Truly memorable, and went on to prove how the intervening years-decades really-have not taken away an iota from the ‘giggling girls at heart’. Once back in the same company, the years simply fall away and it’s amazing to see each one of us revert to that carefree persona when inane conversation and senseless giggles become the order of the day. Incredible how we, responsible and sedate middle-aged creatures of the world, with careers to boot, have remained the unspoiled, unsophisticated, naive (in many ways) people, untouched by all the rough and tumble of life. Or is it that temporarily we revert to that persona while the rest of the time, we are worldly-wise and cynical and very much in sync with current times?

Good question to debate…..but whatever the answer, what is a fact is that such lovely interludes pass off in a trice. Even this lovely week-end got over too fast and soon she winged it back to the Wild West (!) but not before we had created some wonderful memories.

Which will keep us going till the next such meet happens.

Jisska mujhe thha intezaar…..

saying 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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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........