Red Letter Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Princess!!

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

Rat-tled

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

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

My mornings were as nightmarish as ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Metro jaunt

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

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

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

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

Never say Never again

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

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

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

I went, I saw, I was conquered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summers of another era

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This one's for you, Son

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

 

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

 

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

February 17-  Kozhikode- IMI, Qutb Industrial area

February 18-Indore-Indian Social Institute, Lodhi Road

March 5-Lucknow-IIM Lucknow Noida Campus

March 7-Ahmedabad- IIFT Qutb Industrial area

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

March 14-Calcutta-IMI, Qutb Industrial area

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But the best was yet to come.

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

Laundry blues

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

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

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

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

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