Ah friends....

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

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

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

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

Jisska mujhe thha intezaar…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeh kahan aa gaye hum?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adieu 2011

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

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

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

Paradigm Shift

Last Sunday, almost the entire day was spent at the Arogya Vaidshala, an Ayurvedic (as the name suggests) centre, stationed across sprawling acres and a luxurious backdrop, nestling amidst abundant greenery: looking beautiful with its artistic, red architecture. This government hospital, run on oiled wheels, is a classic example of how things can be managed well if there’s an efficient machinery running it.

With a quiet and unhurried pace, you enter the premises and make your way to the uncrowded Reception area, get your token and silently walk to the waiting room where there are rows of chairs placed before a soundless TV. The doors leading to the four rooms where doctors are seated, mark the constant influx as digitalized red numbers keep changing with a ping, like the changing numbers at a food court or a Nokia service centre. You look at the TV screen and the changing numbers alternately, biding your time. It does seem inordinately long, but finally your turn comes and the doctor discusses the progress made, the new dose for your particular case-that funny allergy. All of it is meticulously entered into his PC, the command given and voila! You are instructed to go to the basement to buy your medicines.

As you enter the area, the fellow at the system promptly gives you the print-out of your prescription and you join the line at the medicine counter. Perfect discipline here too, as people queue up, awaiting their turn. Your chance comes and you make the payment. The receipt is placed on another counter and promptly removed by waiting personnel who take it into the ante room, to get the medicine prepared. You take a seat and there’s some more waiting till your name is called out. The bottles of varying shapes and sizes materialize into view and the helpful chap explains the exact dosage to you. You nod your head sagely, ask for a couple of clarifications and it’s time to wind your way out of this beautiful, serene super-smoothly-run place. How one wishes other medical places were more like these!!

Of late, such outings have taken centre stage in our scheme of things. The scene just described is a recent sojourn to this hospital nestling in the almost- tongue-twister place, Karkardooma. Last Sunday, to be precise, when we returned loaded with horrible looking, black medicines filling around six bottles . The taste of most of them is ugh and one valiantly wades through cupfuls, counting the days till they get over!

Now, this Sunday dawned bright and sunny-to the dilemma of watching movie A or movie B-tentative forays were also made into the virtual booking realm- but finally no decision was reached and all plans summarily dismissed. Instead, a few pressing needs were realized, some important errands came to mind. The digitalized version of the sphygmomanometer-the BP machine, in simpler terms-needed to have its batteries changed. It was months since it had justified its existence, making runs to the local doctor mandatory in order to measure the fluctuations in the spouse’s rate of blood flow while this idle gadget gathered dust in a neglected corner of the house. The batteries changed, the machine sprang to life and in the last twenty four hours, has already been used at least four times, more than making up for its earlier recalcitrance. Half the day was gone and then, in the evening, one remembered that the dear old Glucometer had also reached a defunct state. That too needed to be revived, the erratic sugar reports, the curiosity to know the outcome of brisk walks and strict diet control reared their collective heads. This was that stage of life where the vagaries of blood pressure and the highs and lows of the sugar level were much more important than the star ratings of the latest Bollywood releases. Nothing could have brought home the verity of this more clearly than our recent jaunts. All made to restore normalcy to those mechanisms which help us maintain our equilibrium.

It seems to be a new phase of Life……..…a sobering thought, folks!!

The Race

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

Close Encounters of the First Kind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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