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.
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Friday, April 25, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Full Circle
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!!!
********************************************************************
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!!!
********************************************************************
Monday, December 3, 2007
Life's Little Surprises
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!!
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!!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Passenger from Frankfurt
Frankfurt 4.40 PM and the sun was already disappearing over the horizon. I looked at my watch incredulously. The days were so short here! I was filled with surprise.
On my way back from a cousin’s wedding in San Jose, I had boarded the plane after a well-deserved 90 minute break at Frankfurt. The flight from LA had been uneventful but the connecting flight from San Francisco before that couldn’t have been dubbed uneventful by any stretch of the imagination. The very thought of it gave me the creeps all over again…………………
That was on the 29th October, two days before we were scheduled to return to India from LA. Having gone to San Jose for a cousin’s wedding, we were all in high spirits most of the time-literally and figuratively. That day was particularly delightful as the bride was to come home and-like all marriages where one is on the groom’s side-there was an air of triumph, an unspoken exhilaration that stemmed from the fact that there was a new addition (acquisition??) to the family. The entire baraat was on cloud 9 as the bride and the groom started off, from SJ to San Francisco, in a spotless white limo, duly chaperoned by four little boys of all shapes and dispositions. The mood was festive, the colours we wore vibrant as we waited for the newly-wed couple to arrive
In short, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
We-my brother, sister-in-law, their kids, my sister and I- were in a bit of a tizzy as we had to be a part of the celebrations while keeping a furtive eye on the watch. Because we needed to catch the afternoon flight to LA and though suitably enthused by it all, couldn’t help experiencing slight trepidation each time we sneaked a glance at the watch and saw the hands crawl inexorably closer to departure time and the bridal limo still nowhere in sight. Finally, when the suspense was getting almost deadly, it loomed on the horizon and all the rituals were fast forwarded in the vain hope that we would be able to bless the bride and present our gifts to her. The sumptuous lunch ordered from an Indian restaurant and organized on the 19th floor of the posh apartment had to be consumed too, so all in all; we were in the afore-mentioned tizzy. So much so that despite meticulous planning, my sis-in-law and I had to leave for the airport resplendent in heavy saris, instead of the jeans and tee shirts we had very practically and thoughtfully kept on top of our hand baggage.
We set off for the airport merrily enough, in two cars being driven by the groom and another Friscan cousin, well in time for the flight after all. It is another matter that we discovered that a Laptop had managed to get left behind in another van and an SOS of sorts had to be made to Chris, our American brother-in-law-a new entrant into the fold-and he rushed to the airport post haste, bless him. Pretty close but all said and done, we managed to check in eight items of baggage in the nick of time and proceeded for security check with forty minutes still to go.
What with all the song and dance of putting one’s jackets, purses, footwear, besides every conceivable metallic possession, into trays that are scanned, x-rayed and what not, the six of us took fairly long to clear the queue. Or almost clear it. For when I approached the frame through which everyone has to walk for the metal-detection test, I observed that my sis-in-law had been signaled to stand on one side of the line. Why, I was not able to understand. Nor did I have the time to figure it out because no sooner had I walked through that all important door than the red lights began beeping in a mad frenzy. I was as surprised as the next person and before you could say metal detector I had been waved to a separate place on the other side of the line. It seemed that the beeps indicated something sinister about me. Soon, my sister was made to join the not-so-merry threesome, except that the two of them had to stand on one side and poor ole me on the other. The chappie responsible for all these acrobatics was standing stolidly in front of us-an inscrutable expression on his face- refusing to divulge why we were detained and not doing anything further about it. The desperation on our faces kept increasing by the minute and my brother and his sons who had cleared the inspection kept waving their hands at us gesticulating furiously that time was running short. To our repeated queries the surly fellow would say that the beepers had gone off in my case and the other two “needed to undergo further security check” (was it her green sari??). No reason beyond that. A classic case of ours not to make reply, our not to reason why…….till finally my brother managed to request a lady official to take the proceeding further and prevent us from missing our flight.
She approached me with a stern countenance and feeling more and more like a felon, I followed her, while the other two watched me helplessly from their vantage point. I was asked to step in to a glass box of sorts and it closed on me from all sides pretty much reminiscent of the gas chamber, I thought and shuddered inwardly. A couple of more beeps later, I was asked to step out and the lady officer then proceeded to frisk me very thoroughly with a sinister-looking metal detector. Each time she ran it by my side it beeped! The other side and it beeped even louder! She asked me if I had ever undergone any knee-replacement surgery which involved the fixing of a metallic support and I replied in the negative. Then why was the detector beeping, she asked exasperatedly. I told her I was as foxed as she was and also more worried as only twenty minutes now separated us from our flight. The other two had been released after preliminary questioning and I could see them all waiting for me but there I was: as much within the clutches of the gorgon-faced woman as ever before. She refused to relent to my pleas that I would miss the flight and somewhere at the back of my mind I realized that I couldn’t really blame her. After all, she was only doing her duty. But where in the name of Beelzebub had I erred? It was a no win situation and a very piquant one too, given that the dear relatives were looking more and more harassed by the minute
Till suddenly, wisdom dawned on me. And I felt one with the Buddha as I experienced emotions similar to what he must have felt all those centuries ago, under that long-forgotten Bodhi tree. It was the zari in my lovely gold and maroon sari that was playing havoc. I promptly pointed this out, choosing my words with care and painstakingly explaining that the silk fabric was interwoven with liberal quantities of metallic zari and that’s what was causing the metal detectors to go on their beeping spree. Her assistant doubled up with laughter and she also condescended to flash a reluctant smile as she accepted the cold logic of my theory. Thereafter, it was a cake walk, or if I’m to be more precise, a cake run. All six of us sprinted towards the aircraft-high heels and heavy saris notwithstanding. Seconds after we made our entrance, the doors of the plane closed and we heaved collective sighs of relief...........
That had been two days earlier and now I was winging my way back to the homeland.
As the golden-red rays of the setting sun wove beautiful patterns in the azure sky, my mind relived the harrowing experience when the same golden-red shades had created considerable chaos in our lives.
But, I shrugged sagaciously, all’s well that ends well and consciously withdrew my thoughts from the trying incident. Instead, I concentrated on the joyous festivities I was returning from and gradually drifted into dreamless slumber.
On my way back from a cousin’s wedding in San Jose, I had boarded the plane after a well-deserved 90 minute break at Frankfurt. The flight from LA had been uneventful but the connecting flight from San Francisco before that couldn’t have been dubbed uneventful by any stretch of the imagination. The very thought of it gave me the creeps all over again…………………
That was on the 29th October, two days before we were scheduled to return to India from LA. Having gone to San Jose for a cousin’s wedding, we were all in high spirits most of the time-literally and figuratively. That day was particularly delightful as the bride was to come home and-like all marriages where one is on the groom’s side-there was an air of triumph, an unspoken exhilaration that stemmed from the fact that there was a new addition (acquisition??) to the family. The entire baraat was on cloud 9 as the bride and the groom started off, from SJ to San Francisco, in a spotless white limo, duly chaperoned by four little boys of all shapes and dispositions. The mood was festive, the colours we wore vibrant as we waited for the newly-wed couple to arrive
In short, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
We-my brother, sister-in-law, their kids, my sister and I- were in a bit of a tizzy as we had to be a part of the celebrations while keeping a furtive eye on the watch. Because we needed to catch the afternoon flight to LA and though suitably enthused by it all, couldn’t help experiencing slight trepidation each time we sneaked a glance at the watch and saw the hands crawl inexorably closer to departure time and the bridal limo still nowhere in sight. Finally, when the suspense was getting almost deadly, it loomed on the horizon and all the rituals were fast forwarded in the vain hope that we would be able to bless the bride and present our gifts to her. The sumptuous lunch ordered from an Indian restaurant and organized on the 19th floor of the posh apartment had to be consumed too, so all in all; we were in the afore-mentioned tizzy. So much so that despite meticulous planning, my sis-in-law and I had to leave for the airport resplendent in heavy saris, instead of the jeans and tee shirts we had very practically and thoughtfully kept on top of our hand baggage.
We set off for the airport merrily enough, in two cars being driven by the groom and another Friscan cousin, well in time for the flight after all. It is another matter that we discovered that a Laptop had managed to get left behind in another van and an SOS of sorts had to be made to Chris, our American brother-in-law-a new entrant into the fold-and he rushed to the airport post haste, bless him. Pretty close but all said and done, we managed to check in eight items of baggage in the nick of time and proceeded for security check with forty minutes still to go.
What with all the song and dance of putting one’s jackets, purses, footwear, besides every conceivable metallic possession, into trays that are scanned, x-rayed and what not, the six of us took fairly long to clear the queue. Or almost clear it. For when I approached the frame through which everyone has to walk for the metal-detection test, I observed that my sis-in-law had been signaled to stand on one side of the line. Why, I was not able to understand. Nor did I have the time to figure it out because no sooner had I walked through that all important door than the red lights began beeping in a mad frenzy. I was as surprised as the next person and before you could say metal detector I had been waved to a separate place on the other side of the line. It seemed that the beeps indicated something sinister about me. Soon, my sister was made to join the not-so-merry threesome, except that the two of them had to stand on one side and poor ole me on the other. The chappie responsible for all these acrobatics was standing stolidly in front of us-an inscrutable expression on his face- refusing to divulge why we were detained and not doing anything further about it. The desperation on our faces kept increasing by the minute and my brother and his sons who had cleared the inspection kept waving their hands at us gesticulating furiously that time was running short. To our repeated queries the surly fellow would say that the beepers had gone off in my case and the other two “needed to undergo further security check” (was it her green sari??). No reason beyond that. A classic case of ours not to make reply, our not to reason why…….till finally my brother managed to request a lady official to take the proceeding further and prevent us from missing our flight.
She approached me with a stern countenance and feeling more and more like a felon, I followed her, while the other two watched me helplessly from their vantage point. I was asked to step in to a glass box of sorts and it closed on me from all sides pretty much reminiscent of the gas chamber, I thought and shuddered inwardly. A couple of more beeps later, I was asked to step out and the lady officer then proceeded to frisk me very thoroughly with a sinister-looking metal detector. Each time she ran it by my side it beeped! The other side and it beeped even louder! She asked me if I had ever undergone any knee-replacement surgery which involved the fixing of a metallic support and I replied in the negative. Then why was the detector beeping, she asked exasperatedly. I told her I was as foxed as she was and also more worried as only twenty minutes now separated us from our flight. The other two had been released after preliminary questioning and I could see them all waiting for me but there I was: as much within the clutches of the gorgon-faced woman as ever before. She refused to relent to my pleas that I would miss the flight and somewhere at the back of my mind I realized that I couldn’t really blame her. After all, she was only doing her duty. But where in the name of Beelzebub had I erred? It was a no win situation and a very piquant one too, given that the dear relatives were looking more and more harassed by the minute
Till suddenly, wisdom dawned on me. And I felt one with the Buddha as I experienced emotions similar to what he must have felt all those centuries ago, under that long-forgotten Bodhi tree. It was the zari in my lovely gold and maroon sari that was playing havoc. I promptly pointed this out, choosing my words with care and painstakingly explaining that the silk fabric was interwoven with liberal quantities of metallic zari and that’s what was causing the metal detectors to go on their beeping spree. Her assistant doubled up with laughter and she also condescended to flash a reluctant smile as she accepted the cold logic of my theory. Thereafter, it was a cake walk, or if I’m to be more precise, a cake run. All six of us sprinted towards the aircraft-high heels and heavy saris notwithstanding. Seconds after we made our entrance, the doors of the plane closed and we heaved collective sighs of relief...........
That had been two days earlier and now I was winging my way back to the homeland.
As the golden-red rays of the setting sun wove beautiful patterns in the azure sky, my mind relived the harrowing experience when the same golden-red shades had created considerable chaos in our lives.
But, I shrugged sagaciously, all’s well that ends well and consciously withdrew my thoughts from the trying incident. Instead, I concentrated on the joyous festivities I was returning from and gradually drifted into dreamless slumber.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Swings of fancy
Strange are the ways people react. I had a first hand experience of this very recently.
Or so I imagine.
For those who know me, I get these fancies once in a way. By fancy I mean that I suddenly get hung on a particular thing, generally an item of home décor. Well, the latest in this line of fads was a swing. For the past year or more, I’ve had this strong fascination, this yearning for a lovely swing that could adorn the balcony of my home. Brought up on generous doses of Hindi movies where the leading lady draped herself on swings of exquisite designs in impossibly exotic locales, I always nurtured this secret desire for a jhoola. The smaller ones in parks all over found usage and did fulfil the dream in one’s greener years, but with the onset of middle age and an ever-expanding girth, such swings not only seemed juvenile but became a threat to one’s well being. Anyway, to cut a long story short, to savour the joys of swinging gently, to loll on a swing and read-far from the madding crowd-was the ulterior motive behind acquiring this home accessory.
So, like I said, the hunt was on…and how! From Kirti Nagar to Panch Kuian Road, from assorted furniture shops that have sprung up in different sectors of Noida to remoter ones on Mehrauli Gurgaon road, from the cane stuff dotting the Sarita Vihar avenue to similar products in Atta market nearer home, my search for a good swing-be it cane, gun metal, iron or brass-was untiring. I went from shop to shop, the same old question on my lips: did they have a swing of these specifications and within this range please? A doleful, negative shake of the head met me in most cases and if at all, a swing did turn out to be there, it was either too dilapidated or way too expensive. Every friend I had in the NCR was instructed to be on the look out for one and the number of reminders my dear sis and sis-in-law got cannot be kept track of. It’s only their innate goodness and high tolerance level that kept them from throwing the nearest object at me when I was within range.
But the exclusive item eluded me with the kind of consistency that was not only maddening but at times almost mysterious! I mean, was a simple swing so very difficult to find? It was driving me nuts!
Till one fine day, I noticed a nice, simple, white iron swing -just the kind that would do-on the balcony of a house I passed frequently. My sensibilities having been heightened to the existence of swings only a few months previously, it was but natural that I should’ve noticed it for the first time. Being of a fairly forthright nature-and simplest solutions coming quickest to the mind-the best thing to do, I reasoned, was to enquire where the folks who owned it had got it from. Accordingly, on my very next drive down that road, I got out of the car, made my way upstairs and rang the bell. A rather dour-faced maid opened the door and to my query if there was anyone at home, said there wasn’t. They left for work early in the morning, she said. I asked her if she could give me a contact number, she replied in the negative. So I left my phone number and explaining the reason for my visit, requested her to ask them to call me. She assured me that she would and I made my way back. Not surprisingly, days turned into weeks, but there was no word.
Undaunted, I stopped by at the house again, late in the evening hoping to catch the inhabitants this time. The same flight of stairs, the same door bell and the same maid who answered. The funny thing was the answer was also the same-the chappies weren’t in; they returned from work late I was told. Had she, perhaps, been able to find out where the swing was from, I asked hopefully. No luck she responded and went on to reluctantly add that she had conveyed my message and given them my number.What could she do if they hadn’t called she asked belligerently? I beat a hasty retreat.
All this happened a good five weeks ago and I had all but forgotten this incident. A lot of water had flown under the bridge since then. My constant search had ultimately borne fruit and I stumbled upon the most beautiful of swings-abs out of this world, my dream-swing, and within my budget too. It’s proudly installed in my balcony, nestling amidst the potted plants and the greenery –and my favourite pastime is whiling away whatever free time I have swinging lazily, book in hand………lost to the world.
What reminded me of the white swing and its owners was the fact that I happened to pass by the same house this morning. My maid had to be dropped somewhere and was there in the car with me. As we approached the house, I told her the whole story and said I would show her the swing. We passed by the entire row of houses: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7….it had been house number 7 and lo!there was no swing!! The house was there, so were the stairs and the balcony but the swing was conspicuous by its absence. And then I realized what must have happened. My own theory but this is what I think.
Being told that some strange lady had visited their home in their absence and had even got information of sorts out of their domestic help, had possibly scared them. A sad reflection of the times we live in but this is what must have transpired, I felt. Intimidated by the fact that this lady had come making facetious enquiries-not once but twice-and on both occasions had made sure to visit their empty home- had sent them into a tizzy. Was it a gang operating? Was this part of a larger plan? Was someone eyeing their prized possession, the swing? Or was it perhaps, part of a more vicious strategy where their home had been identified for some sinister motive? A robbery? A hold up? The white swing on the balcony would be a dead giveaway if someone had to recognize the house even in the middle of the night!
I could visualize the theories they may have propounded about the unknown lady, the possibilities of crime that may have come into their minds. Rather than live in such uncertainty, why not remove the offending article from there? In other words, solve the problem at the very origin.
I could be wrong but live as we do in these shifting sands of doubt and uncertainty, where crime has made its insidious inroads into our very homes; I have this gut feeling that my conjectures are not all that unfounded.
Does anyone have a different theory?
Or so I imagine.
For those who know me, I get these fancies once in a way. By fancy I mean that I suddenly get hung on a particular thing, generally an item of home décor. Well, the latest in this line of fads was a swing. For the past year or more, I’ve had this strong fascination, this yearning for a lovely swing that could adorn the balcony of my home. Brought up on generous doses of Hindi movies where the leading lady draped herself on swings of exquisite designs in impossibly exotic locales, I always nurtured this secret desire for a jhoola. The smaller ones in parks all over found usage and did fulfil the dream in one’s greener years, but with the onset of middle age and an ever-expanding girth, such swings not only seemed juvenile but became a threat to one’s well being. Anyway, to cut a long story short, to savour the joys of swinging gently, to loll on a swing and read-far from the madding crowd-was the ulterior motive behind acquiring this home accessory.
So, like I said, the hunt was on…and how! From Kirti Nagar to Panch Kuian Road, from assorted furniture shops that have sprung up in different sectors of Noida to remoter ones on Mehrauli Gurgaon road, from the cane stuff dotting the Sarita Vihar avenue to similar products in Atta market nearer home, my search for a good swing-be it cane, gun metal, iron or brass-was untiring. I went from shop to shop, the same old question on my lips: did they have a swing of these specifications and within this range please? A doleful, negative shake of the head met me in most cases and if at all, a swing did turn out to be there, it was either too dilapidated or way too expensive. Every friend I had in the NCR was instructed to be on the look out for one and the number of reminders my dear sis and sis-in-law got cannot be kept track of. It’s only their innate goodness and high tolerance level that kept them from throwing the nearest object at me when I was within range.
But the exclusive item eluded me with the kind of consistency that was not only maddening but at times almost mysterious! I mean, was a simple swing so very difficult to find? It was driving me nuts!
Till one fine day, I noticed a nice, simple, white iron swing -just the kind that would do-on the balcony of a house I passed frequently. My sensibilities having been heightened to the existence of swings only a few months previously, it was but natural that I should’ve noticed it for the first time. Being of a fairly forthright nature-and simplest solutions coming quickest to the mind-the best thing to do, I reasoned, was to enquire where the folks who owned it had got it from. Accordingly, on my very next drive down that road, I got out of the car, made my way upstairs and rang the bell. A rather dour-faced maid opened the door and to my query if there was anyone at home, said there wasn’t. They left for work early in the morning, she said. I asked her if she could give me a contact number, she replied in the negative. So I left my phone number and explaining the reason for my visit, requested her to ask them to call me. She assured me that she would and I made my way back. Not surprisingly, days turned into weeks, but there was no word.
Undaunted, I stopped by at the house again, late in the evening hoping to catch the inhabitants this time. The same flight of stairs, the same door bell and the same maid who answered. The funny thing was the answer was also the same-the chappies weren’t in; they returned from work late I was told. Had she, perhaps, been able to find out where the swing was from, I asked hopefully. No luck she responded and went on to reluctantly add that she had conveyed my message and given them my number.What could she do if they hadn’t called she asked belligerently? I beat a hasty retreat.
All this happened a good five weeks ago and I had all but forgotten this incident. A lot of water had flown under the bridge since then. My constant search had ultimately borne fruit and I stumbled upon the most beautiful of swings-abs out of this world, my dream-swing, and within my budget too. It’s proudly installed in my balcony, nestling amidst the potted plants and the greenery –and my favourite pastime is whiling away whatever free time I have swinging lazily, book in hand………lost to the world.
What reminded me of the white swing and its owners was the fact that I happened to pass by the same house this morning. My maid had to be dropped somewhere and was there in the car with me. As we approached the house, I told her the whole story and said I would show her the swing. We passed by the entire row of houses: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7….it had been house number 7 and lo!there was no swing!! The house was there, so were the stairs and the balcony but the swing was conspicuous by its absence. And then I realized what must have happened. My own theory but this is what I think.
Being told that some strange lady had visited their home in their absence and had even got information of sorts out of their domestic help, had possibly scared them. A sad reflection of the times we live in but this is what must have transpired, I felt. Intimidated by the fact that this lady had come making facetious enquiries-not once but twice-and on both occasions had made sure to visit their empty home- had sent them into a tizzy. Was it a gang operating? Was this part of a larger plan? Was someone eyeing their prized possession, the swing? Or was it perhaps, part of a more vicious strategy where their home had been identified for some sinister motive? A robbery? A hold up? The white swing on the balcony would be a dead giveaway if someone had to recognize the house even in the middle of the night!
I could visualize the theories they may have propounded about the unknown lady, the possibilities of crime that may have come into their minds. Rather than live in such uncertainty, why not remove the offending article from there? In other words, solve the problem at the very origin.
I could be wrong but live as we do in these shifting sands of doubt and uncertainty, where crime has made its insidious inroads into our very homes; I have this gut feeling that my conjectures are not all that unfounded.
Does anyone have a different theory?
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Golden Rule
It is never too late to learn a lesson. This fact was brought home to me, in no uncertain terms, last Friday.
It was the usual kind of day, yet different. No that’s a contradiction of sorts. On second thoughts, it was very different. Because it was one of the two days in the year that I keep a fast. And a fast doesn’t mean gourmandizing on an assortment of the choicest goodies churned out by every Indian home on such occasions-the sweets, the fruits, the juice and the saboodana kheer combined with crisp fried potatoes, peanuts and what-have-you. No, this was a proper fast (read 100 % deprivation) where even water is denied till sundown. After that- and a short pooja- all one has (and that is liberal folks like me) is sherbet and/or tea. That’s it. Full stop till the morning after.
Well, Teej as this special day is called, dawned pretty much like any other day. With me all geared to observe all austerity and ready to brave the world. In the sense that such a day at work can be really challenging, given that my work entails training most of the time, which in turn, translates into talking. And talking when you aren’t allowed to drink even a drop of water, believe me, can daunt the stoutest of hearts. But che sera sera, I was mentally equipped to let the what will be will be part ensue.
Till I picked up the morning newspaper and, in the process, happened to glance at my left wrist. My heart skipped a beat as I took in the fact that it was quite bare. What I mean is that the customary gold bangles that adorned it were not there!! I turned ashen as I remembered the hectic events of the previous evening………………..
On leaving office I had proceeded to the latest mall in the city, escorted by daughter dear, in order to pick up her birthday dress. We had done a recci of pretty much every shop worth its name and she had tried her way through about half of the outfits on display. This exercise had, quite naturally, taken a toll on my generally enthusiastic, energetic self, and by the time we were wending our way home, it wouldn’t be exaggeration to say that I was all but done in. To have remembered, then, that bangles for the following day’s festivity (how ironic, that fasting should be called festive!) hadn’t been bought was a galling reminder. Providentially, my driver suggested that there was a small bangle shop right at the corner of where we lived so a slight detour had us there. Giving myself ten minutes to finish the business, I got out of the car and made the transaction in the stipulated time……….
As if in flashback, the entire scene played out before my agonized eyes. I remembered that I had taken off my gold bangles to try on the new glass ones, and in the whirlwind hurry that I am always in, had quite forgotten to pick them up from the counter! I consoled myself that the lady at the counter would definitely have noticed them the moment I had left and all I had to do was to rush to the shop and collect them.
I did precisely that and as it was still early morning, had to actually knock on her door to make my enquiries (the driver having provided the expert information that she lived right next to the shop). She looked at me quizzically and I explained why I was there. Her blank expression should’ve prepared me, but it didn’t and I was shocked to see her shake her head in the negative and say that she had seen no bangles after I had left. I tried to explain the situation to her and to point out that it was impossible that she could have missed them but she was adamant. There were no bangles on the counter when I had left and my protests that that couldn’t be were quelled effectively by the argument that two customers had come after I had left and there was no saying who could’ve picked them up. Politely, yet firmly, I told her to convey to those customers (she knew them by name) that I wouldn’t sit quiet, that I would lodge an FIR and giving the whole bunch a deadline to ‘find’ the lost articles by 1 PM, I left for work. A suitably dejected entity.
1 PM came and went and predictably enough, there was no word from her. My veiled threats of a police case and the leeway to back off notwithstanding. Meanwhile, I had spoken to folks in the police service and had been enlightened out of my abysmal ignorance. It seemed that an FIR was lodged only in criminal cases; all I could to do was submit a written report. A constable would be dispatched and that would scare the living daylights out of the felons, I was advised. The startegy sounded good. I thought I’d wait a while longer, giving them more time to miraculously ‘find’ the lost goods and then take some steps at 5 PM.
The day seemed to drag interminably. My mind was not on my work-alternately cursing myself for my colossal stupidity and bemoaning the loss of twenty grand or more…hungry, tired with throat parched, I cut a sorry figure indeed!! My computer also decided to leave me in the lurch and I sought the help of IT guys to fix it.
While whiling away time even more idly-waiting for the computer to be fixed and to return to the charade of work-I kept looking at my bare wrist and groaning inwardly. Suddenly, a picture flashed before my eyes-the action replay of a hand removing the bangles in slow motion, as it were. And it all came back-as though from the netherworld, or from a previous life. The clear vision of my right hand taking off the golden accessories and applying a brand new cream to test its quality. …………. and, being extra careful, taking off the metallic items of jewellery in case of reaction! So the memory that I had removed the bangles was correct, but not at 8 PM in the shop- as my deluded mind had kept telling me- but a good three hours later, around 11 PM at home.
Seldom has the world seen me galvanise into action quite so fast. As far as office decorum would allow sprinting, I dashed to my telephone and called home. Five minutes of agonizing wait-though I was surer by the minute-the time it took for the maid to confirm that the missing articles were very much where I had left them and relief washed over me like a tidal wave.
I promptly called up the shop-lady and informed her of my mistake and apologised for having made it in the first place. The predominant feeling, naturally, was one of relief but along with it came a nagging sensation of discomfort and stern reproach directed at myself. Why had I suffered that momentary amnesia? Why had I acted so hastily? Why had I been so sure that I had left them at the shop? The answers seemed to point in one direction: I had too much on my mind and my impatience always kept me in a hurry. Had I not been in such a hurry the evening before….. or on discovering the loss, had I taken the time to think things through coolly, perhaps it would’ve come back to me. Of course the compulsion of leaving for work hadn’t left me with much choice, as not confronting the shop keeper in the morning would’ve meant the entire day being lost…but the lesson that was driven home loud and clear was to slow down consciously. The only sagacity I had displayed was giving the whole thing some time, or having reported the matter to the police would’ve boomeranged on me and how! (Perhaps deservedly)
Suitably chastened now, I have resolved to be more relaxed, to take things a little easy and to slow down the pace-in other words, to stop being BFN
Amen.
It is never too late to learn a lesson. This fact was brought home to me, in no uncertain terms, last Friday.
It was the usual kind of day, yet different. No that’s a contradiction of sorts. On second thoughts, it was very different. Because it was one of the two days in the year that I keep a fast. And a fast doesn’t mean gourmandizing on an assortment of the choicest goodies churned out by every Indian home on such occasions-the sweets, the fruits, the juice and the saboodana kheer combined with crisp fried potatoes, peanuts and what-have-you. No, this was a proper fast (read 100 % deprivation) where even water is denied till sundown. After that- and a short pooja- all one has (and that is liberal folks like me) is sherbet and/or tea. That’s it. Full stop till the morning after.
Well, Teej as this special day is called, dawned pretty much like any other day. With me all geared to observe all austerity and ready to brave the world. In the sense that such a day at work can be really challenging, given that my work entails training most of the time, which in turn, translates into talking. And talking when you aren’t allowed to drink even a drop of water, believe me, can daunt the stoutest of hearts. But che sera sera, I was mentally equipped to let the what will be will be part ensue.
Till I picked up the morning newspaper and, in the process, happened to glance at my left wrist. My heart skipped a beat as I took in the fact that it was quite bare. What I mean is that the customary gold bangles that adorned it were not there!! I turned ashen as I remembered the hectic events of the previous evening………………..
On leaving office I had proceeded to the latest mall in the city, escorted by daughter dear, in order to pick up her birthday dress. We had done a recci of pretty much every shop worth its name and she had tried her way through about half of the outfits on display. This exercise had, quite naturally, taken a toll on my generally enthusiastic, energetic self, and by the time we were wending our way home, it wouldn’t be exaggeration to say that I was all but done in. To have remembered, then, that bangles for the following day’s festivity (how ironic, that fasting should be called festive!) hadn’t been bought was a galling reminder. Providentially, my driver suggested that there was a small bangle shop right at the corner of where we lived so a slight detour had us there. Giving myself ten minutes to finish the business, I got out of the car and made the transaction in the stipulated time……….
As if in flashback, the entire scene played out before my agonized eyes. I remembered that I had taken off my gold bangles to try on the new glass ones, and in the whirlwind hurry that I am always in, had quite forgotten to pick them up from the counter! I consoled myself that the lady at the counter would definitely have noticed them the moment I had left and all I had to do was to rush to the shop and collect them.
I did precisely that and as it was still early morning, had to actually knock on her door to make my enquiries (the driver having provided the expert information that she lived right next to the shop). She looked at me quizzically and I explained why I was there. Her blank expression should’ve prepared me, but it didn’t and I was shocked to see her shake her head in the negative and say that she had seen no bangles after I had left. I tried to explain the situation to her and to point out that it was impossible that she could have missed them but she was adamant. There were no bangles on the counter when I had left and my protests that that couldn’t be were quelled effectively by the argument that two customers had come after I had left and there was no saying who could’ve picked them up. Politely, yet firmly, I told her to convey to those customers (she knew them by name) that I wouldn’t sit quiet, that I would lodge an FIR and giving the whole bunch a deadline to ‘find’ the lost articles by 1 PM, I left for work. A suitably dejected entity.
1 PM came and went and predictably enough, there was no word from her. My veiled threats of a police case and the leeway to back off notwithstanding. Meanwhile, I had spoken to folks in the police service and had been enlightened out of my abysmal ignorance. It seemed that an FIR was lodged only in criminal cases; all I could to do was submit a written report. A constable would be dispatched and that would scare the living daylights out of the felons, I was advised. The startegy sounded good. I thought I’d wait a while longer, giving them more time to miraculously ‘find’ the lost goods and then take some steps at 5 PM.
The day seemed to drag interminably. My mind was not on my work-alternately cursing myself for my colossal stupidity and bemoaning the loss of twenty grand or more…hungry, tired with throat parched, I cut a sorry figure indeed!! My computer also decided to leave me in the lurch and I sought the help of IT guys to fix it.
While whiling away time even more idly-waiting for the computer to be fixed and to return to the charade of work-I kept looking at my bare wrist and groaning inwardly. Suddenly, a picture flashed before my eyes-the action replay of a hand removing the bangles in slow motion, as it were. And it all came back-as though from the netherworld, or from a previous life. The clear vision of my right hand taking off the golden accessories and applying a brand new cream to test its quality. …………. and, being extra careful, taking off the metallic items of jewellery in case of reaction! So the memory that I had removed the bangles was correct, but not at 8 PM in the shop- as my deluded mind had kept telling me- but a good three hours later, around 11 PM at home.
Seldom has the world seen me galvanise into action quite so fast. As far as office decorum would allow sprinting, I dashed to my telephone and called home. Five minutes of agonizing wait-though I was surer by the minute-the time it took for the maid to confirm that the missing articles were very much where I had left them and relief washed over me like a tidal wave.
I promptly called up the shop-lady and informed her of my mistake and apologised for having made it in the first place. The predominant feeling, naturally, was one of relief but along with it came a nagging sensation of discomfort and stern reproach directed at myself. Why had I suffered that momentary amnesia? Why had I acted so hastily? Why had I been so sure that I had left them at the shop? The answers seemed to point in one direction: I had too much on my mind and my impatience always kept me in a hurry. Had I not been in such a hurry the evening before….. or on discovering the loss, had I taken the time to think things through coolly, perhaps it would’ve come back to me. Of course the compulsion of leaving for work hadn’t left me with much choice, as not confronting the shop keeper in the morning would’ve meant the entire day being lost…but the lesson that was driven home loud and clear was to slow down consciously. The only sagacity I had displayed was giving the whole thing some time, or having reported the matter to the police would’ve boomeranged on me and how! (Perhaps deservedly)
Suitably chastened now, I have resolved to be more relaxed, to take things a little easy and to slow down the pace-in other words, to stop being BFN
Amen.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Thank you JB
Today is Teachers’ Day; a day full of memories and fond nostalgia. Decades after having left school, I remember, with abiding gratitude, the person who was responsible for transforming me from a verbose writer to one who could express herself much better. She taught me how to be brief, avoid long circumlocutions and how to use short, pithy sentences.
“Vineeta”, she would despair while returning the customary, weekly essay that we submitted every Friday-corrected with a fine-tooth comb, the likes of which the present generation hasn’t seen-“why must you use such flowery language?!!”
And all my self-built perceptions of being a great writer would go crashing.
The assignment she returned first thing Monday morning would be replete with corrections: and liberally splattered with red ink. Looking at it, anyone could be forgiven for thinking that that was the work of a fairly challenged English student.
Because Mother John Baptist-JB as we irreverently, but lovingly, referred to her- was a perfectionist. She would not tolerate a word extra, a phrase that was irrelevant; and wrong spellings were anathema to her (thankfully, that was the one area in which she never had to correct me, may the heavens be praised!) But the ‘flowery language’ she referred to had this uncanny habit of making its appearance in most of my write-ups. To date, I haven’t forgotten her slashing of one of my essay’s protagonist’s pitiable plight-who had heart-rendingly for and by me “been put to permanent sleep” and replacing it with a very matter-of-fact, single word, “ perished’. That perhaps more than any other correction, taught me that ornate words never helped; what we needed was direct expression, succinct description.
JB-all of 70 years or more-with her signature black umbrella- was equally active on the games’ field. And woe betide anyone who tried to bunk games!! No one could evade her gimlet eye, as she flitted from upper field to lower field, from the concrete basket ball court to the grassy hockey expanse, traversing the sprawling acres of our vast campus with magical speed. Her alacrity and the unseen reserve of energy that she seemed to draw from never ceased to amaze us.
That was an era…long gone and forgotten. We don’t see teachers like her any more: it’s a vanished breed. The missionary zeal, dedication and commitment with which she-and some of her peers like Mother John Francis-worked may have gone but we, who bore witness to those times- will always remember………….with a deep debt of gratitude.
“Vineeta”, she would despair while returning the customary, weekly essay that we submitted every Friday-corrected with a fine-tooth comb, the likes of which the present generation hasn’t seen-“why must you use such flowery language?!!”
And all my self-built perceptions of being a great writer would go crashing.
The assignment she returned first thing Monday morning would be replete with corrections: and liberally splattered with red ink. Looking at it, anyone could be forgiven for thinking that that was the work of a fairly challenged English student.
Because Mother John Baptist-JB as we irreverently, but lovingly, referred to her- was a perfectionist. She would not tolerate a word extra, a phrase that was irrelevant; and wrong spellings were anathema to her (thankfully, that was the one area in which she never had to correct me, may the heavens be praised!) But the ‘flowery language’ she referred to had this uncanny habit of making its appearance in most of my write-ups. To date, I haven’t forgotten her slashing of one of my essay’s protagonist’s pitiable plight-who had heart-rendingly for and by me “been put to permanent sleep” and replacing it with a very matter-of-fact, single word, “ perished’. That perhaps more than any other correction, taught me that ornate words never helped; what we needed was direct expression, succinct description.
JB-all of 70 years or more-with her signature black umbrella- was equally active on the games’ field. And woe betide anyone who tried to bunk games!! No one could evade her gimlet eye, as she flitted from upper field to lower field, from the concrete basket ball court to the grassy hockey expanse, traversing the sprawling acres of our vast campus with magical speed. Her alacrity and the unseen reserve of energy that she seemed to draw from never ceased to amaze us.
That was an era…long gone and forgotten. We don’t see teachers like her any more: it’s a vanished breed. The missionary zeal, dedication and commitment with which she-and some of her peers like Mother John Francis-worked may have gone but we, who bore witness to those times- will always remember………….with a deep debt of gratitude.
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