Getting Engaged - Part III

Meeting the Groom - Part II

The Arranged Marriage - Part I

Of course, she did not expect him to call her in the interim, and yet, isn’t hope what everyone lives by?

Her friend Ritu helped her dress up for the occasion, teasing her all the while. Kirti tried to grin and bear, but her friend knew her better.  “What is this! The bride to be looking so pensive! Where is the glow?” she asked bluntly at one point, contradicting others who streamed in and claimed Kirti had the ‘bridal look’.

“Just tensed,” Kirti evaded.

“You must be too. What a great catch!”

Kirti’s eyes flashed as she asked tartly, “Why, am I not one?”

Ritu looked surprised. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Then stop saying it as if getting married to Sanjeev is a stroke of luck I don’t deserve.”

Ritu placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder and said, “Is everything alright? I have never heard you so angry all my life.”

Kirti took a deep breath in. “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean to lose my temper. But the way people go on… As if Sanjeev is some god and I should be eternally grateful.”

Ritu’s eyebrows knitted. “Well… aren’t you?” Catching a sharp look from Kirti, she said quickly, “I mean, if you were in love with him, that’s how it would be.”

Kirti was silent, pensive. “I was,” she whispered.

She would be called away any second, but Ritu pushed her against the wall and asked softly, “Was? Why was?”

Kirti told Ritu about the dinner, the absence of calls…

Ritu laughed. “Stupid you. That’s all!”

“What do you mean, that’s all?”

Ritu pushed her in front of the mirror and went about straightening Kirti’s lehenga and dupatta. “It is to be expected, of course. You have seen Neelam, right? Not easy, is it, to forget her.”

Kirti found nothing reassuring in that. “And what are you smiling for?”

“I am sure it is only to be expected that he still may have some feelings for her. The question is, are you going to let him off so lightly?” Her eyes twinkled and she winked at Kirti through the mirror. Kirti blushed and despite the tears glistening in her eyes, smiled.

As she stood next to Sanjeev a while later, she looked so radiant that a little bit of her lustre reflected off Sanjeev’s face too. The sharp angles of his grave face were blunted by an inexplicable softness. When she looked at him with uncertain eagerness as he slipped the ring through her slender finger, he looked just a bit startled, as if confused by the question they gently posed.

It was hard for her – as if trying to get a response from the wall. Womanly wiles were not her way, but she was learning fast. In the rush of the evening, she felt compelled to win him over.

But as the guests left one by one, she realised slowly that battling for his attention was not the purpose of her life. That she wanted some reciprocation, some effort from his side too. Was an evening too short a time to expect it? But it wasn’t just an evening, right?

She felt tired and confused. She drifted to the balcony, hoping for some quiet time.

“Quite an evening,” a voice broke through her reverie. Startled, she turned and made out the figure of Sanjeev leaning on the far side of the balcony. He was in the shadows, and she wondered if he had been hiding from people. There had been too much ribbing, as was usual, and it had got overwhelming as some bawdy numbers were belted out after the ceremony. A bit filmy, but to be expected from the actor-father of the bride-to-be.

She giggled uncomfortably. “Yes… Tiring…”

He looked towards the lawn and remained silent. Her heart beat fast. “Sanjeev,” the name rushed out of her mouth. “You… you don’t seem very happy.”

He looked at her quickly and glanced away. “Really? I am sorry if I seem preoccupied…” She waited and almost gave up hope of his saying anything more when he chuckled and said, “I am sorry to disappoint you. You would have liked to be wooed…”

“Well… a little bit of conversation would have been nice, yes,” she said weighing her words carefully, watching his face keenly.

“I am sorry to disappoint,” he said again.

“Sanjeev… Can I ask you something?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Do I have the freedom not to answer?” he asked trying to sound light-hearted. But deep down, he hoped he had that freedom.

“Are you really happy about… us?” she asked in a rush, not even pausing to hear his question.

He turned to look at her. He opened his mouth and closed it again. The silence weighed heavily on her. She desperately wished he would answer.

And then, when she heard his answer, she wished he had not.

“No,” his voice was soft but cut through the soft night like a knife.

Continued The Conversation - Part IV

Meeting the Groom - Part II

Contd from The Arranged Marriage - Part I

"Papa, aren't Sanjeev and I going to meet each other?" she asked her father that evening.

"Why beta, if you want to, you can, of course! Don't you trust your father?"

She shook her head and smiled. Mistaking it for shyness, he laughed. "Of course, you want to meet your future husband? He is a nice boy, well-behaved. I will invite them home, don't worry," her father assured her.

"No! I mean... I..." 

He relished watching his daughter squirm as she struggled for words. "You want to meet him alone?" he asked gently, finally relenting. She nodded glad that she had inherited some acting talent from him. "And, can I call?" Her father raised an eyebrow but nodded.

Her fingers trembled as she dialled his number. "Hello?" she heard his deep voice and felt her heart flip.

"Hi Sanjeev, this is Kirti." Please don't ask Kirti who, she prayed as she noticed the pause.

"Yes, Kirti, how are you?" he asked pleasantly but the doubt in his voice was evident.

"Mmm... Sanjeev," was it this Sanjeev her wedding had been fixed with? "I was just wondering... since we are to marry, could we meet?"

This time, the silence was painful. "I am sorr..." she started when he said simultaneously, "Sure. You had a place in mind?"

"Porch," she said and heard the quick intake of his breath.

"Why?" he asked finally, after yet another long pause.

"Nice place, I heard... But if you prefer something else..."

"No, it's okay." A finality. I will face it kind of an attitude. She felt cheap and admired his fortitude. "When?"

They agreed on Saturday, 7 pm.

She sat in front of the mirror, debating between dressing up or toning down. Finally, she decided to keep it simple. She wanted to marry him, but only at any cost.

He was there, in a black full sleeve shirt on light blue jeans, his eyes fixed on the menu card. He smiled pleasantly as she walked up to him. She looked around, wondering if Neelam Sikand would be there - as she was said to be on Saturdays around this time. What was this death wish, perversion?

As she scanned the menu, her heart beating fast at the proximity to Sanjeev, he waited silently. Say something, she begged. "Hello Neelam," he said, and Kirti became aware of another presence.

"Unexpected visit, Sanjeev?" Neelam said as she glanced at Kirti and their eyes met. Neelam looked stunning despite her professional attire.

"My fiancée wanted to try this place out. And since you have been asking me to make a visit," he said coolly and shrugged. There was no challenge in his voice, and yet he seemed to be daring her to something.

Neelam looked at him steadily, then turned to Kirti and said, "Have you decided yet?"

Kirti frowned. "About marrying Sanjeev?" she asked, perplexed, eliciting a laugh from Neelam and a stunned look from Sanjeev.

"I meant the menu. But looks like the two of you are not of one mind about the marriage!" Then she said smoothly, ignoring the embarrassment on Kirti's face. "Try our sizzlers. And, the welcome drinks are on the house." She left them abruptly and yet not seeming rude.

Kirti looked at Sanjeev stricken. "I am sorry, I misunderstood.”

“Was that intentional?”

Kirti shook her head. “Just the context… I misunderstood… Who was she?”

Sanjeev raised an eyebrow as they sat down. “You don’t know?”

Kirti looked at him with her eyes wide and shook her head slightly, as if wondering if she should.

He was silent for a minute. “She is the owner of this restaurant.”

“Oh, and a good friend of yours? You mentioned she had been inviting you…”

“Not a good friend.” Then he clamped shut.

“I am sorry if this was not the right place…”

“Please decide your order, Kirti. Neelam… or this place… doesn’t merit a discussion.”

“What does?” she made bold to ask.

He looked at her sharply. “Meaning?”

“What merits a discussion?” she asked, riled now. He glared at her silently. She felt nervous now, unhappy about the anger that had cropped up between them so unexpectedly. She took a few deep breaths. “Sorry,” she said, not trusting her voice.

He shrugged.

The evening seemed to drag. His ill-humour continued and she gave up her feeble efforts, defeated.

That night, she was sure the wedding would be called off, but surprisingly, there were no developments – not that day, not in the days to come. Preparations for the engagement went on as usual.

Continued: Getting Engaged - Part III

The Arranged Marriage- Part I

Kirti closed the door behind her as she entered her room and smiled, joy lighting up her face. Her marriage had been fixed with Sanjeev - a dream she had never dared dream.

Daughter of a popular movie star, her life had been confined to the shadows. Her overprotective father did not want his private life sullied with prying eyes and so Kirti and her younger brother had grown up in a boarding school.

She had met Sanjeev, son of a businessman who financed her father's movies, a few times in all the years she had come home on vacation. She had gone abroad to study and returned just a year ago. She had got a job in a financial institution. There was a function at home, and that was when Sanjeev and she had met each other. He had grown into a handsome and charming man. Their interaction had been minimum, since she was busy helping her mother in playing the hostess.

The next time they had met was at a lunch Sanjeev’s parents had hosted for her family. This time, they had more time together, and Sanjeev had slowly taken over her heart with his wit, intelligence and quiet attention, putting her at ease. She wondered how she had ever considered herself shy and retiring. She had found herself opening up and telling him things some of which she didn’t even know she remembered!

How could she not think of him after that?

But after that, their paths never crossed and she did not seek him out. She was disappointed that nor had he. Sometimes, some word about him trickled in, but was barely enough to quench the thirst. She feared that thirst wouldn’t be quenched even if she had ocean of information. She needed something more, much more.

And now this proposal. Had he initiated it? How her heart fluttered at the thought!

There was to be a formal engagement soon, her father didn’t say when. Kirti waited impatiently for Sanjeev’s call, expecting a teasing tone that wove out dreams of their togetherness.

But the next few days brought only silence. Sanjeev’s mother spoke. His father spoke. He himself remained strangely silent, except for the first call when he spoke to her father and formally told her he looked forward to it.

No… this was not the man she had met the other day. Or this was his way? Was he the conventional, orthodox kinds?

She told her friend Ritu about the engagement hesitantly. It all felt surreal.

"Congrats! What a good catch! And, definitely, he should be glad that it is you and not Neelam."

Kirti frowned. "Neelam?"

Ritu paused, surprised. "You knew, didn't you? Your families are so close!"

Kirti shook her head.

Ritu flicked her wrist dismissively. "Never mind. Neelam is now married, wife of Sikand." Kirti’s frowned deepened. "Owner of the Porch group of hotels."

"Oh!" Kirti said. Was this the reason why Sanjeev had not even got in touch with her? Was he marrying for convenience, to prove a point to Neelam, because he must marry someone? And she was convenient, a catch (too), a good way to score a point?

Her stomach seemed to settle heavily; dreams seemed to float away into nothingness.

Continued: Meeting the Groom - Part II

The Other Side

Miss America is of Indian origin; and this has kicked up a row where some Americans have expressed shock, displaying deep racist attitude. And others have condemned them.

Amidst all this, there was a report that said America leads the way in celebrating Indian beauty.

I feel deeply offended. I know the fetish with fair skin exists in our country. I know girls, and these days boys, also seek remedies to turn their dark skin to fair. But I think it is totally uncalled for to judge the general Indian psyche as being colour obsessed. We have had dusky skin Ms. Indias. We have heroines and people in the public sphere who are not fair. And Rahul Gandhi is not very popular despite his fair skin and half-foreign parentage. If he has any standing, it is because of his Indian ancestry. Okay, that just slipped in.

Why do we forget that foreigners have a fetish for the tanned skin too? For that matter, what about anti-aging!

This is not just about the skin tone. We believe that the recent sex-related crimes have happened because Indian society is repressive and so men give vent to their fantasies by attacking the nearest available, vulnerable women. And if a white skin is within reach, then why not. The implication being, in liberal societies, such crimes are not committed because there is no repression.

Read the Millennium Series, based entirely in Sweden, considered one of the more liberal societies. It is all about sex crimes. I read one very disturbing article about a 16-year-old American girl who had committed suicide because her friends had done graffiti all over her body when she was drunk, taken photographs and spread it on the Internet. Then, of course, there is the case of the girl raped by a football team. And, surprise surprise, these societies too blame the victims!

It happening there does not cancel out what happens here. What I am upset about is the way we think more liberal and open societies do not have such crimes and that somehow India is a potboiler for every evil happening in the world. We oversimplify the issue and so lose perspective. No corrective action works because we are barking up the wrong tree. The intelligentsia is self-critical to the point where only the bad is highlighted.

Everything is not right, I agree, but where did we lose the way? How did the externals become more important than developing the mind and the soul? Why have we lost respect for our work, our education, our elders?

Introspection, connecting with the self - simple practices that will keep us rooted... Can we bring these back in to our lives? Will that be the way forward?

I am a savage, you have a problem?

Death sentence is a mark of barbaric society, say some thinkers. Yes, true. But, we live in a barbaric society. We live in a society where six men not only rape a woman but also brutally maim her internal organs! We live in a society where women think twice before stepping out in the dark in lonely streets, lonely buses, lonely shops, watching their backs forever. We live in a society where even young children of five and below are not spared.

Will death sentence really deter the perpetrators of such crimes, you ask. Right. When the woman was helplessly screaming, were her thoughts about how to reform these men? Do you think such men can be reformed?

When the judge tries the case of Nirbhaya's rape, his duty is to first deal with that. And anything less than death would be unfair for it is not only rape but attempted murder too.

Take the case of the serial rapist in Karnataka who managed to escape from jail despite conviction. he was caught, fine. But may not have been too. Do we want that to happen again with these four men - I wish it were five, for the fifth's age makes no impression on me and the courts have proved they are 'civilised' enough by treating him as a juvenile despite the severity of his crime.

We need reforms. We need to strengthen the legal system. We need to ensure safety for women. We need to teach men to respect women from the time they are young. But all this will take a generation to implement, and that too, only if we continue to remain sincere and diligent.

The ones who are already hardened with time need to know that justice will be swift and merciless. The women need to know that they can go to court and they will not be held responsible for what happens to them. They will need to know that they can shout from the rooftops that they have been violated without being blamed for it.

And that the men will not go scotfree.

A New Cap to Don

My forays into teaching dance have been entirely due to others' efforts. A neighbour wants her daughter to learn; another is my mother's friend and looking for a teacher; a third - here for a short while... Nothing serious, no long commitments. My own work commitments prevented me from considering teaching seriously - I didn't think I would be able to train others for the long term.

Then, a few years ago, a few of my friends and neighbours requested me again. They overcame my resistance saying - Do it it till you can, share what you will.

A few more joined, but I have kept it to bare minimum due to paucity of time and space. Better to train a few well than spread myself thin.

Then suddenly, another opening, again, not for long term, but more formal. An honour to be part of this. Vazhuvoor style of dance is one of the leading forms, with several famous dancers including Vyjayanthimala Bali, Dr. Padma Subramaniam, Kumari Kamala and her sister and my Guru Rhadha coming from this background. All trained under the legendary, Vazhuvoor Ramaiah Pillai.

Now, Vazhuvoor Ramaiah Pillai's grandchildren are starting a dance school to further his legacy, and my guru deemed it fit to recommend my name along with another of her student's to train the students. Check out: http://www.vazhuvoorars.com/ About us page even has a brief bio
about me!

Keep your doors and windows open. You never know when opportunity will take you by surprise.

And, if you know anyone seeking to learn dance, you are welcome. Classes will be held on weekends, in the mornings.

The Whimsical

Soft and smooth

As a balm it soothes

Turning inside out

Cutting like a double-edged sword

Like a chick it falls

Bald and four syllables long

It sprouts the wings of a lore

Slipping from tongue to tongue

Meanings change

Intentions mistaken

A film of confusion

Covers the words spoken

Read the lines

And between them too

Find meanings

Even when not meant so

Sometimes rock solid

Like hammer on nail

Or hard to grasp

Slippery like the eel

Words, elusive words

With your many faces

Your many whims and fancies

Cause many to suffer.

The Eternal Search

From a seed hidden under ground
A tiny shoot shot out
Tentative, unsure
Promise of something new

Will it wither or survive
As it seeks water and light
Reaching out to another branch nearby
Hoping for friendship and some sunshine

The many paths they can take
Their desire forever unslaked
Intertwined like inseparable vines
Sometimes just the touch so benign

Or will it be harshly rejected
To be left alone, dejected
To culminate in a point nowhere
Hanging loose forever and ever

Perhaps another one more kind
Will wrap its fingers warmly from behind
Embracing the little one in its fold
To save it from miseries untold

The path of relationships so uncertain
Sometimes taking one up to heavens
Sometimes showing one infernal hell
Knotted, with many stories to tell

And yet the little branch seeks
All its life for one who speaks
The language of love, oh so sweet
To walk hand in hand till the eternal sleep.

Loving the Image

"East or west, mommy is the best" declared my daughter. Touched, I smiled. "West or east, mommy is a beast," she added, quite anticlimactically. Then she hastened to correct it but got stuck when the younger one piped in, "West or east, mommy is cheese!"

I notice a sudden sprout in demonstrativeness in an otherwise self-contained child. "Mommy, my head is aching," she rushed into my arms. I held her and kissed her forehead. She chimed, "Mother's hug is a medicine; mother's kiss is a medicine..."

I wondered... I am as small or limited as always. I am as susceptible to the vagaries of physical and emotional swings as before. Patience is in short supply, but suddenly there are vast hidden sources of anger that come within reach at the drop of a hat. I am not so lavish on the 'cuddle' or 'showering love' department. I am 'too busy' to join them in their games, and prefer a book at other times to their nonsensical babble. I am on the lookout for their lazy disobedience and try to keep them on their toes (unsuccessfully, of course) so that they turn out to be 'fine, well-rounded, helpful individuals'.

I try to see from her eyes and all I see is this larger-than-life image she creates of me in her mind. The image that she projects on me, making me more loving and lovable. I see myself in her, and my mother in me.

I know this image may take a beating as she enters her teens, and then grow large again as she faces the world alone. She will see the original for what it is, one day. But if even then she can say, 'East or west...' I may not have done such a bad job after all.

The Caregiver

"I want my mother!" cried out the 13-year-old trapped in the body of an 80-year-old.
Raji's senility was a cause for concern for all around her. Suddenly she seemed to have forgotten she was an old woman, a grandmother, even a great-grandmother for some of the younger children who played around her without a care. Her morose expression made her daughter Janaki - herself 63 now - worried.

Janaki had got married when she herself was just 16, and so the presence of her parents Raji and Shekar along with their son Mahesh had been comforting. Janaki's new home had been big enough, and her husband's heart generous enough for everybody to live under the same roof. This is where Raji's youngest daughter Parvathi was born. In fact, Janaki's first born - Lakshmi, and Parvathi were born just a few days apart. Janaki loved Parvathi like her own child. But she also knew that Lakshmi was the household pet - being the eldest granddaughter, niece and daughter. What Janaki did for Parvathi hardly compensated for the neglect by the others.

And yet, strangely, it was to Parvathi that people turned now for strength and comfort. Janaki was no exception as she called Parvathi across cities. "Mother is very unwell, and forgetful."

That was enough for Parvathi. "You want me to come over and watch her?" she asked.

"It will be a relief, yes." Janaki could take the liberty. Parvathi's two children were studying in a hostel and her husband traveled often. Parvathy had her own commitments, working in a home for the aged. If she were unable to make it, she would say so frankly. And if she could, she would fly across without hesitation.

Though Mahesh lived very close by and had been his mother's pet as the only son, asking him for help or even take their mother to his house was not an option. Janaki herself had been so dependent on her mother for so long that now doing anything on her own - especially care for the woman who had cared for her - seemed a task she was incapable of performing.

Parvathi arrived as promised. She was appalled to see the state her mother was in - Janaki had not given her a clear picture on the phone. "Did you take her to the doctor?" she asked.

"The family doctor said we can't do much."

Parvathi tut-tutted. She took the matter in her hands, her vast experience in dealing with the aged giving her the skill to deal with such matters. Of course, the senility was irreversible, but at least the care better now. Raji refused to get up from the bed and Parvathi stayed put, cleaning, wiping and feeding this helpless woman as if she were a child.

Over the years, her mother had been dutiful towards her; where Raji was concerned, Parvathi was just that - a duty to be discharged. She was not unkind, but just not the mother Parvathi would have liked.

So, Parvathi was hardly surprised when, despite days of untiring care, her mother responded to the names of the elder two children with recognition - Janaki, because of the long years of association, and Mahesh because he was a son. But when Parvathi's name was mentioned, Raji seemed totally blank and said, "I want my mother."

Full Circle

Fifteen year old Roshni tapped her younger brother, ten year old Rohit lightly on the head. Rohit let out a cry. The middle sister, Reshma peeped out. As did granny Kamala. "What's happening?"

"Roshni di hit me on the head!"

"Roshni?" granny asked severely.

"I didn't dadi! He is lying as usual!"

"No, it hurts..." the boy said dissolving in tears.

"Don't lie Rohit!" Roshni warned.

He ran to his grandmother and tried to land her a punch. She ran around her grandmother and managed to cuff him. The grandmother futilely tried to stop her but on catching her, slapped Roshni's wrist. "Why do you do this everytime? Why can't you leave the boy in peace!"

"Oh he is a cry baby!" Roshni taunted her brother, making him cry more and making Reshma laughed. Grandmother glared at the two girls. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Why! I didn't even do anything! He is just playacting and you fall for it everytime! See how he is grinning from behind you?"

Rohit indeed was, but expecting his grandmother to turn to look at him, he changed it to a droopy expression. Kamala hugged the boy and said, "Leave these bad girls. I will give you a chocolate, my poor darling..."

Roshni shook her head. "He can never do any wrong, the brat!"

A while later, Rohit snatched the book she was reading and she pounced on him, pinning the boy under him. "Dadi!" the boy cried out and got Roshni into trouble.

"Why are you always scolding me? You never say anything to him! He snatched my book!"

"He is just playing!"

"But he made such a fuss when I tapped him on his head playfully!"

"He is a small boy!"

"Granny, I think you are giving him too much room!"

"He is a boy, you have to accommodate for his playfulness."

Roshni stared at her granny stunned.

***

Reshma remembered this incident as she saw a similar scene unfold in front of her eyes fifty years later. Roshni and her granddaughter locking horns about her grandson. "He is a boy, he will be mischievous! It is you who must adjust, you are a girl!"

"Why!"

"Because adjusting comes more easily to girls," Roshni gave her infallible logic drilled into her over the years.

On Parents' Day

Contestants, judges and the anchor in a reality show shed tears remembering their parents and how the parents were their gods. Many of them are young children, so I can well believe it. But as I watched the elders, not that I suspect their sincerity, but I couldn't help remembering two incidents - one which I witnessed just a day before, and another, several years ago.
I was in the library, picking up books when one old lady walked up and asked the librarian, "Any new novels have come?"
"No, nothing new, all the same old titles are there."
"But why don't you get some?"
"Nobody reads Telugu novels except you."
"Okay, give me some books. I get bored at home."
The librarian turned to his assistant who said, "But her membership has been cancelled."
"Sorry lady, you can't take books."
The old lady took out a Rs 100 note. "Since you will anyway throw them away, give me those books. I will buy them from you."
"I can't, your son will shout at me," the librarian said. "Give me his number, I will talk to him."
"No, they are all busy at home. You give me those books, I will pay you, I am such an old member of yours. I have been coming here since you started so many years ago!"
"Give me your son's number," the librarian persisted.
"No, they will shout at me if you call," the lady said and left in resignation.
What could have made the son cancel her membership? She was probably in her late 70s but was mobile. She seemed sharp and her faculties still acute. Then why would her son deny her the pleasure of reading?

Years, ago, when I lived in a working women's hostel, a lady was brought to the only house-like building there. She was in her 70s or 80s. Her son and daughter in law were working and they thought this was a safe place for her.
It was. But it was filled with strangers. Though one or two of us dropped in out of pity, her repetitive conversations and whining and complaining kept us away after a while.
Yes, I could understand how she would be boring her son and daughter in law. But, wasn't she his mother? Hadn't she tolerated his repetitive babble when he was a child and a toddler? While her heart would have brimmed with pride at the gurgling nonsense, his son probably found it embarrassing.

Can we pass judgement on such children? Increasingly, I find myself wondering about vanaprastham and its significance in our lives. Elderly couple would often voluntarily leave the worldly life after their children had their own families to pursue higher knowledge giving up all material pleasures. Was this why this had been introduced as one of the four stages of our lives - because our ancestors had seen that not all children and their parents can live in harmony beyond a point. And so, instead of becoming a burden and in turn feeling neglected, they find their way out of this illusory lives when their faculties are still functional and then take up sanyasa when the time is right?

Otherwise, maybe we too need to go the Chinese way - legally binding children to visit their aging parents!

Always a Child

Kajal got off her friend's car and saw her daughter Keya getting off from a bike and the bike zoom away. She frowned. "Who was that? Do I know him?"

"Yes, of course," Keya said patronisingly. "That was Amrit."

"What are you wearing?" Kajal eyed her daughter.

"My friend's clothes? Aren't they cool?"

Kajal didn't think so. "What happened to yours?"

Keya waved the bag she had in her hand. "Here. We went out for lunch impromptu, and my t-shirt and jeans seemed woefully unsuitable. Ritu gave me this to wear."

"Why didn't you tell me that you were going out, or...changing? Didn't you tell me you will be back home for lunch?"

Keya rolled her eyes, shrugged and walked into the house without a word, leaving Kajal fuming.

As soon as Kajal entered the house. Her mother Geetha came out looking displeased.

"I thought you were going to be back home for lunch..." Geetha complained, looking at the clock pointedly.

"We got delayed and had lunch outside, don't worry. Did you eat?" Kajal replied.

"You at least thought of asking," her mother was at her sarcastic best. "What did you buy?"

Hesitantly, Kajal placed the clothes on display and saw the disapproving look on her mother Geetha's face and waited for the inevitable comment.

"Are these for you or Keya?" Geetha asked. "It will not suit you," she passed judgement on the capri, leggings and kurtis that Kajal had bought.

Kajal just chuckled and said, "That's what you will say! Nowadays women your age are wearing stylish clothes, looking smart and trim. This is how women my age dress, so stop complaining."

Geetha snorted in an unladylike way, adjusting her sari pallu. "Yes, and they look obscene. Many have their tummies spilling out and they look more like ducks than women!" As Kajal laughed, Geetha continued bitingly, "Don't think you look any better!"

"Oh stop taking off like that!"Kajal snapped, hurt to the quick. She placed her stylish leather bag on the table and heard her mother quip, "No doubt you spent a bomb on that one?"

Kajal threw her hands up in frustration, not deigning a reply. And then she heard her daughter's tinkling laughter. Keya had been watching the scene unfold and running up to her granny, hugged her. "I know where mom gets her training from!"

Kajal pursed her lips tightly. At 45, she did not need to be pulled up like a teenager by her 70 year old mother.

(Note: Some such story had been on my mind for a while. But when my mom and I had a very similar conversation yesterday, the story was bound to become a reality!) 

Airing the Room Upstairs

One of the two doors shrank to become the window. A window with the doors wide open.

The other door led to a path that grew and grew. And then, it seemed as if that too would have to be partly closed. But strangely, having opened the door, it was now not a question of whether it was a door or a window. For the path led me on, curving, undulating, zig-zagging, but always moving further and further - sometimes through dry patches, sometimes through lush green vistas, always exciting and wonderful.

The window? That I thought I could peep at the other world from, seemed to be shuttering up and as the day grew into mid morning and afternoon. It seemed that before night fell, the curtains would have to be drawn with not even a hint of light coming in through there.

There were many reasons to close that window forever. The light was weak, the breeze mild. And yet, those were reasons enough to keep it open - light still streamed in, breeze was refreshing still.

How children love to enter a house through unbarred windows! Opportunities find their way in just like that, taking me by surprise. They invigorate me, tease me with endless possibilities and add variety. The window may now not expand now to become a door. But the path takes a life of its own. It may be short or long, but it is there, for me to see, relish and cherish.

I am glad that I kept that window open.

Protect It Like Wealth

One Earth: Protect It Like Wealth:

Protect It Like Wealth

There was a time when 'wasting money like water' was a commonly understood maxim. Commonly accepted in fact. But today, the consequences of taking water for granted is hitting us badly. Globally there is a shortage of drinking water. Water resources are drying up. And rain flays us or fails us but does not do much to fulfill our water needs.

Because, we use more than we need... more than nature designed for us. We flush water down the drain, we flush waste into water bodies and think that somehow, money is going to find us water all the time.

Having got used to this system, it came as a shock when one retired IAS officer pointed out to me - we shit in water which is considered holy, pour more water to flush it across the city thus adding volume and then try to remove the waste and make that polluted water usable in some form. It has become fashionable to say 'recycle' but not 'stop polluting'.

Ecosan toilets has been tried successfully in some of the regions with high water table and a retired IAS official who had worked with it wanted a book written. After I met her to ghost write the book for her, the comforting sound of a full flush tank emptying itself in my toilet makes me feel guilty. These toilets work on the principle of liquid separation, letting the waste dry hygienically and use it as compost at the end of a period of time. Like in the traditional system, but with hygiene and privacy, it helps maintain the ecological balance and puts less stress on water. As I did some research to add supporting data, other consequences of the sewage system also came to the fore, as also the increasing demand for potable water.

Yes, it needs a huge mindset change. But it is either that, or running out of water sometime soon. Instead of grappling with more and more expensive technology that only addresses water purification after it has been polluted, it is important to look for ways to curtail the polluting habit.

We can no longer afford to waste water. The sooner we realise this, the better.

But... I Don't!

Namita dressed eagerly.
"Where are you off to?" asked her husband Hrithik.
"I told you, Rustom is down on work and I am meeting him for dinner!" she replied adding a dash of lipstick to her lips.
She saw him frown and felt irritated. But she didn't want to spoil her mood just now. She was bursting to the seams and only Rustom could understand.
"Is it necessary?" he asked in the tone reserved to show his displeasure.
"Is what necessary?" Namita retorted in a tone she wanted to avoid just now.
"This meeting with your friend, whatever his name is..."
"It is Rustom and you know it because you have met him. And yes, it is necessary. He wants to discuss something with me," she replied, adding that little lie.
"You could have called him home."
"Of course, and watched you making him uncomfortable."
"I make him uncomfortable! He makes me uncomfortable, dropping names, showing off..."
"You have a complex," she replied coldly as she draped the dupatta over her shoulder. "He made it in life, you didn't."
"And you like winners," he said coldly.
She shrugged. "Is that not normal?" She picked up her handbag, checked herself in the mirror one last time and started heading for the door when he said, "Aren't you over dressed?"
She rolled her eyes and walked away.
*
She was early. She found a seat from where she could watch the entrance. Finally he entered 20 minutes later and waved to her as their eyes met.
He was much the same, smarter than she remembered, dressed as men did these days in tight fitting clothes, his hair jet black (dyed?), perfume surrounding them as he took his seat, his after shave adding a lemony tang to the air.
She smiled, hoping she looked just as smart as he did. Now that he was here, her earlier irritation at having to wait vanished. She was eager to tell him her news but didn't want to drop it on him when his attention was still away from her. He was caught up in telling her about his day and she wanted him to get it out of his system.
As he calmed, his eyes met hers searchingly. "You were always so easy to talk to..."
She smiled modestly. "That's what friends are for... Even I have something to tell you."
"Tell me? Yes...?"
He beckoned the waiter as Namita told him of the milestone she achieved unexpectedly. "I am so excited, Rustom! I was nominated for a journalist award at the state level, and I am one of the finalists! I am so excited."
He smiled and then turned to the waiter saying, "We are celebrating. Give us the best food and drinks."
What a thrill shot through her! What a contrast to Hrithik's lukewarm response! There had been no celebrations, just congratulations, some sweets and then life went on as usual.
"I always knew you had it within you," Rustom said, sending a thrill through her. He reached out and clasped her hands. The warmth was comforting.
"Thanks, Russi... It is because of friends like you that I still am able to do what I wanted to... Otherwise, sometimes it all becomes very... you know, overwhelming."
He frowned. "What crap. I am just a gtalk away! How can you get lonely!"
She laughed. "You are a great friend to have around... I wish we lived in the same city," she said.
His eyes softened. His voice softened as he said, "I wish so too..." He continued after a pause, "Sometimes I long to hear your voice..."
She moved back slightly, unconsciously. "You can, anytime you feel like," she said, as a friend should to another.
He leaned forward. "You can't imagine, Namu, how sometimes things become difficult and you look for that someone who will understand you..."
"Yes..." she said. Yes, that's what she had sought when coming to meet Rustom. They had gone to college together, and of the gang of five, only these two were in India. Though they mostly chatted on the net, this was one of the very few times they were meeting. Over a period of time, their confidences to each other had grown. She found Hrithik very unwilling to talk shop at home and Rustom was a good vent. Especially since he understood better where she came from. From the time her name had made it to the shortlist, she had been eager to share it with Rustom, but the moment she heard he was traveling, she thought it would be best to tell it personally, to see him reflect her joy.
"You know how we dreamed, of how we had plans, ambitions... Of other things, life...love..." His voice dipped.
"Yes," she replied, transported back to those days. She felt his grip tighten around her hands. It brought her back uncomfortably to the present. She slowly withdrew her hand, relieved that the food was being served.
But the conversation kept swinging uncomfortably to what could have been. This was not what she was looking for.
When they got up, she was surprised at how relieved she felt. But there was more to come and completely unexpected. At the gate, he turned to her. "A nightcap?"
She looked at her watch and exclaimed. "I really must go now."
He slid an arm around her waist. "For old times' sake?" he asked huskily.
Her heart beat fast. This was not how she thought of Rustom. A good friend, a great friend, a handsome friend. Nothing more.
She smiled. "Yes, let me leave now, for old times' sake." And made good her escape leaving him to figure that one out.
She reached home to find the house plunged in darkness. She silently let herself in, feeling very disturbed. She stepped into her bedroom and could make out the outline of Hrithik lying on the bed. She changed groping in the darkness, her instinct telling her that there was volcano seething under the bed covers.
She silently slipped in, caught in the conflicting emotions of wanting to be left alone to deal with the evening's developments, and to pour out tears of disappointment on Hrithik's shoulders.
It was an aberration, it will be fine, Rustom will not persist, she told herself. But suddenly there was a message. 'Wish you were here for the nightcap...'
And it continued though she did not respond.
"Switch the bloody thing off," Hrithik exploded.
She quickly did.
"Is it not enough that you had dinner out? Do you have to bring that fellow into our bedroom too?"
She squeaked weakly, "Stop it, Hrithik! I am not responding. If he wants to message, how can I help it?" And she wondered how he knew it was Hrithik! What did he know or suspect? She added lamely, "And why should you think this was Rustom?"
He snorted and turned away. She placed a tentative hand on him. She couldn't bear to have the wrong man paying her attentions, and the Mr. Right mistaking her.
He shook it off and said, "Somethings don't need telling."
She sat up. "You are being unfair!"
"Was it him or not?"
She was silent for a second. "Yes. But I didn't even respond."
"He wouldn't have messaged without you encouraging him," he said bluntly. "Otherwise who messages so late in the night without getting a response."
She felt tears wetting her cheeks as she knew he had reasons to suppose so though she had done nothing to encourage this man.
As if hearing the silent complaint in her voice, he sat up. "Tell him not to message you."
She looked up sharply. "That's not fair! It is embarrassing."
"Why? Do you like it?"
"No, but..."
"Yes, or no?"
"This is not court to answer in yes or no," she said sharply.
"I don't like his messaging you like this."
"But you know him! You know he does not matter to us..."
Hrithik raised a hand. "Does he matter to you?"
"As a friend, yes..."
Hrithik shook his head. "No, you may think he is just a friend. But no... he does not think so, does he?"
She lowered her head. "He has never done anything like this before."
"But he has now." As she remained silent, he lay back and turned away. "I know how guys' minds work."
She turned to him. "Do you also...?" she asked surprised.
"Tch! No! But I move with them."
"How do you know you are right?"
"Your silence was enough." His voice was gentler.
She leaned against him. "But I thought a friend."
Hrithik's arm slipped under her and held her to him. He was silent, but she felt more at peace now.
She didn't know when the equations changed, how the balance tipped. But suddenly she felt that she needed to explore the possibility of making a friend of the man next to her.

Going Into Denial

I made it a habit of talking to plants first thing in the morning. The were lush green, flowering and gave joy to the heart.

Is it the summer? Is it the end of their lifetimes? Is it some negligence on my part?

My rose that bloomed non stop for three months is now leafless and its stem is becoming brown.

My tulsi dried, the next one never took off and the third is on probation.

One strain of money-plant is drying up.

My crotons have dried up. One set of plants I got from my brother died in a day, but the seeds are buried there, and I dread to do anything in a hurry lest I don't give it the chance that it deserves.

Yes, there are some healthy, flourishing plants too in the balcony. But somehow, I hesitate to go to them, to talk to them, feeling overwhelmed and guilty. Do I give them hope of fresh life as the season changes, or do I have to root them out and look for fresh plants?

Is this decision easy? It brings with it the weight of responsibility of caring for another life, of taking a decision on whether it is truly dead or if life is dormant, needing just the right circumstances to spring back to life. It seems easier to step back and wait, not go one way or the other.

Holding My Little Finger

He would return from work and fill every bucket, every mug with water before it stopped after freshening up and before having his evening tea.
And then he would settle down with the newspaper, immersed in the crossword.
Once in a while, I would need some drawing done and he would help me out with that - drawing the entire thing as I went about my other activities, like playing, play acting, watching TV.
He would tell me bedtime stories - he would be reclining and I would be up vertical and I would have to shake him awake to continue with the story.
He would ask me to sing - his only expectation of me - and I would howl in reply, singing through tears.
And then, we shifted cities, shifted homes. I grew up from a child to an adolescent.
I was shaken from my comfort zone - having known only one home for 10 years, suddenly I was taken to a city my family was familiar with but I wasn't. I left behind my school, my colony and my friends. From wide streets, I was looking at rooftops from my 8th floor balcony and unable to make out any trace of even lanes between the congested houses. I felt friendless and alone.
My first entrance exam in one school came to naught and I panicked, fearing his disapproval. He just smiled. "There are other schools, don't worry."
I made it in the next (and ironically, I would go back to the first school to complete my senior school). I struggled with the new school, passing only provisionally to the next class. Strangely, no fire and brimstone rained on me. Life seemed placid with just gentle cautioning. But despite having two brothers in IIT (one, in fact, doing his IIM by then), my poor performance in 9th went almost without remark.
And I discovered other sides to the man I called father. His broad mindedness, his easy going nature, and his Taurean temper that flared up once in a while, but never at me.
As I grew, he became less of my father and more a friend - a person I could tell my deepest secrets to without being judged.
And, even living away from home several times and now for several years, that bond remains - father remains friend, with whom I share my secrets, my joys and troubles. He is the listener every woman dreams of (he is not that with my mom, I know...), who shares my interests, and encourages me with his childlike wonder at what he considers my achievements.
I can be me with him.
Love you dad, though I often don't say it.

Removing Poison

Just as I stood poised to take the bow, be showered with words of praise, for the applause to come,   few random, unexpected words lodged themselves in my head, making all accolades bitter. The casual remark, not even meant for my ears directly, had pierced through several tongues to reach me. And like Rama's arrow that found its mark on Vali's chest piercing through seven large trees.

And yet, what was it? Though it pins me down to despair, can I pin the speaker to those words? For nebulous and ambiguous, the syllables change, the words change, the very meaning changes as different people hold the words in their tongues before pouring it into another ear, adding their own thoughts, words and syllables to it.

Am I that? That which someone implied? Or that, which others suggested? Or that, which I think I am?

When my very character is not the same, cannot be comprehended wholly, can those fluid words have more weight, more character, be understood better?

How then do I dislodge it? How do I let the bullet not poison my blood, my mind, my very soul? How do I swim above the overwhelming waves of grief and disappointment, smile truly, not just bravely, hold the eye, not shy away, nor accuse nor pity?

I remain I knowing I am this, and that, and sometimes even that other.

I remain I knowing through all this I am one - true to myself, and not untrue to others.

I remain I, letting my breath fan the fire of my soul and burn the garbage.

And it is then that the bullet is burnt, dissolved, dislodged and yet the poison touches me not.

In Search of Perfection

'Murder in the Cathedral' by TS Eliot has several beautiful lines on different aspects of sainthood and destiny. I summarise one of them on saints from memory since I studied this 20 years ago as part of curriculum and am unable to get hold of the book to quote verbatim.

Saints are men who are condemned during their lifetimes;  worshiped after their death; criticised after a few decades; and then completely forgotten.

During that time, for the first time (as I entered the wide world from the smaller one of school), I heard Mahatma Gandhi being criticised (by another lecturer) and these lines struck me as very apt. And I wondered about our deep desire to find perfection in human beings even when we know we are made of malleable clay, changing our shape and colour with the times. But somehow, rules seem to change when we examine others' actions and thoughts.

In recent times, there has been similar mud slinging on Mother Teresa and again the question arises - why?

The question to be asked is, why do we raise people on pedestals in the first place? Why do we need gods and saints, only to tear them to bits and throw them in the dustbin later?

Do we forget who we are, what we are capable of and how limited we are? Do we forget how under stress our own behaviour can change; with maturity, our thoughts ripen; with  circumstances, our emotions transform?

We seek heroes, and then we seek heroes who will be relevant at all times; if the contexts change, their greatness should somehow still be appropriate; but god forbid if they say or do something relevant to context but making them seem like turncoats!

A tall order indeed, but we go through this cycle again and again.

Though not a cricket fan, with so much being thrust on our faces thanks to the IPL scam - to me IPL itself seemed a scam - I see heroes (not saints by any stretch of imagination) again taking a beating - for not speaking, for not saying enough, for not saying the right things...

Why do we forget what and who made them heroes first?

This post is not in defense of those players. But I think, if we pause, we will know that the images of greatness are built in our mind - encouraged by the 'great' people themselves because they were at the right place at the right time saying and doing the right things. Let's leave them there, give them credit for what they did right, and be aware that they can be wrong.

The stress, in my humble opinion, should be on developing our own ability to judge and be detached so that their fall does not bring us tumbling down too. Inspiration and guidance can come from anywhere. Let's be grateful for that and take only the good.

And let's always remember, they are humans too.

Encounter with Elephants

Good from far, far from good

Kabini, 2004 September. A group of cousins with children on a jungle safari. Seeing some deer and boars near the mouth of a river covered with coconut trees, we paused to admire the scenery when a herd of elephants crossed very close to a jeep ahead of us. One of the elephants rushed forward and kicked fallen coconut tree trunk as if trying to score a goal. The boars dispersed in a hurry, getting the signal.

Just as we realised there was a calf in the herd which seemed very restless, the elephant turned
towards the jeep ahead of us, its ears flaring and the trunk straight stiff, trumpeting a warning at us.

The jeep driver slowly reversed and we escaped before the herd turned on us belligerently.

We drove a distance, again scanning the forest for other wild animals when this time we saw a lone male elephant. From fire into frying pan, we realised and escaped before the elephant noticed us or decided to explore the intrusion.

Our cottages faced the Kabini river and on returning from the safari, now a bit more reassured that we were safer, we headed to the river and one of the adults swam with his son also taking a dip.

When we returned a while later, we noticed a board at foot level. "You can swim if you want to, and you may find company" - and images of crocodiles were drawn next to it.

Well, we are living still to tell the tale.

But if we enter their territory, we had better be prepared to play by their rules.

A Lovesong

She curled her gnarled fingers,
In impotent rage
Have you  forgotten me
In my old age?

My once lusty body
And lush green mane,
How you sought me
Night and day!

Caressing me gently
With your breeze and drizzle
And in uncontrolled passion
Swaying me with stormy winds.

Sucking from me
All that you could
You leave me now
Alone in the wood.

Your heat sets me aflame still
My aged body helplessly trills
You blaze in glory and leave me no shade
Where are the cooling winds and the rain?

Let me rest in peace now
Cover me with a wafer of cloud
Be loving, be gentle
Show me that you care still.

The Single Mom

Four to handle, and she was all alone.
Several preying eyes ready to make away with the little ones, though she was the queen of her kingdom.
And the four were handful too, venturing out before their time.
The expression of the tigress as she picked up a vagrant cub just a few days old  and watched another rolling off the rocks to the floor was classic. I was watching a documentary on how tigers live and this moment remains etched in my mind. Some males in the animal world help their mates in rearing their children. But the tigress, the leopardess, the bear - they seem to do it alone. Even a leopard will kill a tiger cub, apparently. So when she goes hunting, the tigress has to make sure they are safely hidden from evil eyes as well as get enough for the demanding mouths.
I was wondering, how easy it would be for her to let out a small growl, enough to scare the cubs and tell them their limits. Just one snap of the jaws and the tiger cub would be reduced to nothing. And yet, she patiently went up and down, picking them up gently and placing them up somewhere safe.
As a parent who draws lines very quickly around her children, that patience was remarkable to watch. Let alone intimidating her children, she didn't even stamp her paw in frustration! Not even when she went hunting after they were slightly older, and the little one mewled (for that's what that roar came out as) to show who was the boss, scaring the prey away.
Motherhood indeed seems worth celebrating when you encounter it in this form.

PS: Snake mothers incubate and then scurry away before the snake babies hatch since they eat their own little ones apparently.

The Great Disconnect

I rarely read the newspapers. I am sure many will agree that it hardly makes for a great start to a day.

But the once in a while reading makes me wonder if there is any difference between the American and the Indian societies any more. When the American shootout happened late last year, raising several questions, India answered with its own volley - the Delhi rape case that rocked the country.

The Americans debated and lost the vote on making acquiring gun difficult. In India, the debate is more complicated. Is making women difficult to acquire the answer?

The good thing is that insensitive police force not withstanding, more such cases are reported. The sad part is that many of the victims seem to have not even crossed the single digit mark!

But the other menace that is equally scary is that of acid throwing. Today's paper has a report of a man in Coimbatore throwing acid on his male colleagues. No doubt, this has nothing to do with disappointed love. What could it be? Feeling humiliated, insulted, sidelined? Some deep-rooted psychological problem? Is acid the equivalent of gun?

Here I am tempted to quote from Vasistha's Yoga by Swami Venkatesananda. Sage Vasistha advises Rama: 'The eternal is not attained by rites and rituals, by pilgrimages nor by wealth; it is to be attained only by the conquest of one's mind, by the cultivation of wisdom. ... All that is good and auspicious flows from self-control.'

American society has been about pursuit of happiness, or rather, pleasures. That society is now in tatters. We have successfully emulated it in all aspects, having made pursuit of wealth and pleasure our main goal. But it has weakened the fabric of the society. Personal goals, desires, aspirations take precedence over everything else - including family and children, who need our care and love to be strong and self-assured. When neglected children with attention seeking behaviour grow up - will they suddenly become mature, confident, contributing individuals?

Let's stop deluding ourselves and introspect. 'Family' and 'sacrifice' have become out of fashion. Either we live with it, come up with alternatives, or go back to the basics.

Here and Now

A chocolate, asked the child
Not now darling, came the reply
Pouting, crying, throwing a tantrum
The best way to have his way

Get me this, get me that
Needs grew with age just like that
No was not an answer to be had
Pouting, crying, tantrum were for that

The needs and demands grew
And though he became older too
The years of practice in that art
Made unlearning not too cool

From simple things his mind moved
To reaching out for the distant moon
Sometimes not in ways too straight
But it was important to have it too

And then one day something tickled
His mind and it was getting pickled
Get me a girl now he said
Or else, the gun in his hand jiggled

All he got was a girl too young
With a sweet tooth and sweet tongue
Chocolate lured her into his den
Yet again he had won.

Hiding 18 Hours

"I was trying to call you and cancel the class. I have a very rushed schedule today," the lady said. Her daughter learns dance from my Guru, and I am filling in for my guru in her absence.

The mother is a homeopath. "I just got back and my husband was insistent that I take her today. But on reaching I had to catch up on my household work." Knowing she belongs to a traditional family, I could well understand how demanding managing a clinic, her eight year old daughter and her home which also housed her in-laws would be.

"I am going to the stadium to watch the IPL match today," the girl said enthusiastically.

"Oh, so you will also have to go back and pack dinner also?" I asked the mother sympathetically.

"No, but I have a Sanskrit class to attend," the mother said. That was unexpected. "It is for her," she pointed to her daughter. "She goes for sloka competitions, so I want to train her properly."

"How do you find the time?" I asked, imagining a day that would already be filled with enough responsibilities.

Indeed, before the end of the evening, I was humbled to have met a person with not only great time management skills but also great sense of social responsibility. In the clinic, she uses what free time she gets to make the envelopes and sources the glue from a slum in Pondicherry - she went there to see for herself and order the quantities so that poor families may get some source of income. She works in slums and especially with girls, educating them about hygiene and sanitation when treating them for other illnesses.


And then, when I told her about my interest in psychology in some context, she enthusiastically replied, "I started doing post graduation in psychology after marriage but discontinued because I was pregnant. Now I am thinking of completing it. I have several books on pyschology and love consumer psychology. I even apply it when dealing with my patients. I will get you some of them." I sat with my mouth open in wonder. And then she ended, "I may be writing the exam to get the degree this year."


"How do you manage it?" I asked her.

"My mother hides 18 hours of her time," the little one chirped in. "She spends 6 hours in the clinic and then slowly takes the remaining time little by little to do the things she likes."

What an apt way to save and use time!

IPL Vs IAF

Watching the IPL, I was wondering about the message that circulates from time to time in the Facebook - IPL players paid in millions while our soldiers (Indian Armed Forces) protecting the country getting pittance.

Mmmm... I know it seems unfair, but I wonder if I would really want the soldiers paid such obscene money. Won't it somehow make them solely mercenary? And then, the ones who sponsor such pays - since the government cannot afford it, I am sure - won't they want the payment to be justified (I am not even going to talk about tax payers who do not pay taxes or people who siphon off whatever they can in large projects, thus creating a greater deficit than is justified)? And just like the ordinance industry that justifies its production by encouraging terrorism, these people also want periodical wars just so the soldiers really earn their living? Which will mean there will be no peace times.

Something like the Hunger Games, maybe? And then, they will need to retrieve their costs - the sponsors, that is. So will they have these wars they create screened on TV? What about live spectators - maybe they will have people who love to live on the edge hogging the front rows cheering the soldiers?

And to add spice - for what is exciting about monotonous gunning - maybe some side shows that border on to horrifying sights that defy humanity?

No, I know the conditions of the army can improve, soldiers deserve better respect and recognition, and they definitely can be paid better. But to compare the act of service the soldiers do to a bunch of players playing for pure entertainment - it doesn't hold for me. IPL - the way the players are 'valued' - goes against the grain. But the way we root for the teams - it does pay to pay them, doesn't it?

And when there is a war? When there is a war, we would rather it ended quickly and peace returned, won't we? Where is the money in that?

Can Age Wither Passion?

At around 4 every evening, as I settle down with my cup of tea, the sound of mrdngam being played drifts through the window to my left, setting a mellow mood in the golden evening light.

The player - a neighbour aged somewhere between 83 and 87.

He walks diligently every evening, stopping to catch his breath in between. He does not carry a stick for support, and sometimes has a bag of vegetables he has bought from the shop outside. He carefully makes his way between boys playing aggressive football in the complex, random cars and younger children running hither and thither.

Every time I greet him, I have to introduce myself - not because he cannot remember people or things, but because his vision is hazy despite the thick glasses he wears. And every time he will apologise to me for not recognising me instantly - at his age, he needn't care.

So yesterday I stopped by and expressed my appreciation for the pleasant aura his mrdngam creates in the evening and the diligence with which he practices the instrument.

He told me the story of his love for this instrument that made me stop in wonder.

He had initially learnt mrdngam when he was 10 for a few years from a leading guru. Then because of work he had to give it up. At the age of 62, he decided to revive his passion and approached Music Academy. He found a guru, another leading mrdngam vidwan. Then, when he was in his 70s, he started a school so that young boys maybe initiated in this art. But there were many dropouts, because boys nowadays want to learn the drums, the banjo or keyboard. It hurts him even to say this.

It was with great effort I restrained myself to ask him to do something similar in our complex. He is eighty plus, and I need him to initiate my son into an instrument that elevates me always when I am dancing?

He stunned me again when he said, "When I see the meditation hall here, I want to bring a guru for the boys in this building." My jaw dropped. But still I held my tongue - for my son doesn't seem too keen on the gentler arts, preferring sports. Seeing a cricket bat in my hand he asked, "You were playing cricket?"

"No, this is my son's. He is seven years old."

"I shall enlist him also when we start the class."

Does passion wane with age? I bowed to him mentally.

And, oh, he explained to me why he can't recognise me. "Your hairstyle keeps changing, so I tend to get confused. Please don't mistake me."

This time, I was truly speechless.

Down Memory Lane

It was just another boring day. She was feeling frustrated, and yet, there was nothing big that had happened to trigger that frustration. Just a petty quarrel at home in the morning; a small payment pending at work; a new friend  acting funny; an old friend missing on Facebook... and deadlines piling up.

Her cell rang and her eyebrows shot up. The call was brief, unexpected and sent her down memory lane. Anil, her senior from college - a man she could never define her feelings for clearly. Did she love him, or it was the respect and affection you feel for a mentor, or just the joy of hearing a friendly voice? He was always pleasant, cool, encouraging, the wind beneath her wings...

The invitation for the alumni meet that weekend was just the shot in the arm she needed. And yet, she hesitated. The mood she was in, she was not even sure if she wanted to meet Anil with those mixed feelings he managed to arouse in her every time. And just now, she felt very vulnerable, very much in need of assurance.

She stepped out for lunch and the music player in the restaurant blared out an old Lata song - Chand phir nikla, magar tum na aye. It was like a punch in her stomach. Unexpectedly, tears sprang up and her eyes hurt. She blinked quickly and sat in the first available table, ordering a very boring roti and dal tadka. It was a day for memories, she realised, for this song was just how she felt when Akash left for the US for further studies. No letters, no phone calls. So typical. It did not surprise her, but it hurt her very deep. True, they had seen it coming, this parting that could be final. But to so easily distance himself from her? Was she so forgettable, really?

And now, though they were friends on Facebook, it was rare for them to even post anything on each other's timelines. What was the point? He seemed not to care. And she still cared too much.

She quickly finished her lunch and returned to work. Her colleague Tejas was pacing up and down. Handsome and fierce, there was an intensity that roused strong feelings in her, and many women in the office. Sometimes she wondered if he felt the same way about her. But since it stopped with that devouring look, she satisfied herself with sighing about him in private. Face to face, they were professionals.

Today, though, she feared something of her longing for those strong arms to wrap her in their comfort showed. "Anything bothering you?" she asked, throwing the question at him.

"I was waiting for you," he said, his deep voice immediately sending a thrill up her spine. But it was an anti-climax when he asked her to mail him some financial details. That's all? Sigh, of course. That's all. She consoled herself and went to her seat, focusing on getting the task out of her hands.

6! Where did time fly! She sat back, remembering her fight with Varun in the morning. Did she have to face him? She closed her eyes. And suddenly, the distance bothered her. She wanted to fly to him, tell him all was forgotten. Today, of all days, she couldn't bear sulking.

She would surprise him... get him something nice, for being there for her. But where would he be? She decided to take a chance and walk to his office. She hoped he wouldn't snub her.

Just the thought of meeting him rejuvenated her, her blue mood dissipating. She realised that Varun and she could celebrate their three years of togetherness today. Yes, there were others, there would be others. But just the thought of Varun, the familiarity, the comfort, the dependability, made her feel she was home.

The surprise in his eyes when he saw her at the reception, the joy when she dragged him out to the foyer and pressed the beautiful wallet in his hands that she picked up from the wayside shop, the promise of something more in her eyes. 'Avni,' he whispered.

Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Their eyes met,their hearts were united in one thought, of getting home right away.

The Omnipresent

You fill the air
And our hearts with despair
You never get defeated
Rebounding with flair

Nets and sprays
Cannot keep you out
A generation is all it takes
To come back and bout

We talk and try
Our best to find ways
To finish you forever,
Once and for all

And yet you return
Not letting us turn
Walk, sit or sleep
As you suck our very blood

Hail Mosquito
You are more present
Than the almighty
Who is sometimes easy to forget

The Human Touch

Thousands cover the green trees. Pelican, egrets, painted storks, plain storks, black beaked ibis... They come here for the warmth, the wa...

Let it Bloom

The green hides the beauty within
Promise of colours raring to spring
Layer by layer, with time it blooms
Petal by petal unravelled, none too soon

The wayfarer, passing casually by
The promise of colours catches his eye
Stirring up feelings that we dare not pry
For they make us tremble, fear and cry

Oh! What evil lurks under his skin
Why this wish to crumple this thing
That which needs tender, loving care
Rape, plunder and crush, he dare!

Let it bloom, display its colours
Spreading joy, smiles all over
Don't pluck the bud before it's time
Let it too bloom and shine.

Leisure and Literature

What did I do the last two days?

I had FUN and I learnt Literature. What I hadn't learnt in three years of doing BA Lit, I did in a day. To play this card game...

A break from work I could ill afford, but I decided to make the most of it. A train journey is meant for enjoying, even if it means bearing with sudden, startling, rheumatic breaks by the train. And then, what's a journey without entertaining co-passengers? I was most gratified to see our neighbours' ears glued to our conversations and smiling despite themselves. In the onward journey, the man, fearing he will miss his station early next morning, scooted to the top berth at his bedtime seeing the ladies in full form. Gossiping, teasing, laughing - we need large cousin groups, man...

In the return journey my education began. The old hands agreed to initiate two novices into the game - one a young boy fresh in his teens, and the other, yours truly - who had seen teens many summers back. But it is never too late to learn, is it? Breaking for soup and dinner was hard but we got back with rigour and managed 5 sets.

Now I am wondering how to get this group back to have more such rounds... And that too in train... Train, cards, cousins - a combination nonpareil.

PS: The wedding we attended was fun too... Let me catch up with my work now...

One Earth: Milk of Unkindness

One Earth: Milk of Unkindness: A recent visit to some villages was an eye-opener - something I could do without. There was much ado about how many of the women in the grou...

The Unceasing Waves

Day and night I crash against
The unmoving rocks in vain
Frothing in the mouth
Tired but compelled
Each wave rises with no respite

Angry sometimes, rising high
Calm and placid, content at other times
Touching all who come close
Drawing others deep inside
In all-consuming passion uncontrolled

The wind, the sun, the moon
All make me rise and swoon
And yet there remain
My questions arraigned
With no answers coming from you

Is this by design?
Or have you ordained?
That I bang in vain
Against the rocks unrestrained
Praying for a look of kindness and love
Seeking redemption from pain unsure

---Inspired by the Pondicherry seashore

Upbringing

"Where were you?" snapped Mother when Daughter walked in late.

"I told you, I am going for a movie!" Daughter snapped back irritated at the ill-tempered reception.

"Yes, but that must have gotten over at 3. It is 6 now, where were you till now?"

"Oh ma! Don't be a nag! I was with my friends at a cafe near the theatre."

"Why didn't you come home straight? And you didn't inform me either!"

"Where is everyone else? Bhaiyya hasn't come home yet?" Daughter asked to get her Mother off her back.

"He will come, you don't worry about him. But I have told you not to loiter, haven't I, but to come home straight?"

"And why not? You never tell Bhaiyya anything!"

"You don't worry about him. He can take care... It is you I have to worry about."

"Ah, that's what you think! If you knew what he was up to..."

Mother's heart skipped a beat. "What is he up to?"

"Hangs around outside the theatre and hoots when girls cross him. I was so embarrassed to even say a hi to him! That is why I waited in the cafe with my friends, waiting for him to go... Just so they wouldn't see what a loafer of a brother I have!"

"Shut up! Don't you call your brother names! He is just having harmless fun..."

"And if I do the same!" Daughter burst out angrily. But it was a slip of tongue she will regret. Her mother's palm connected with her cheek sharply.

"If I hear one more cheeky answer from you, I will cut off your going to movies!"

"And Bhaiyya?" she asked, unable to contain herself.

"How can you stop a boy? He will have his fun... That's why I want you to be careful."

Daughter stared stunned, speechless.

Just a Chalice

'The Handmaid's Tale' by Margaret Atwood is written god knows about where and which age. But nothing could describe our society better, given the knee jerk reaction from the governments to "protect" women. The answer, to put her behind reams of clothes, lock her up in a room, restrict her movement. And, oh yes, use her only for procreation. She says the women are just chalices with a body to cover it so that they may receive the semen from the men. Of course, men too cannot look at her. This, purportedly, is to protect the women who were "suffering" when free.

We are seeing much the same in our country now. Unable to come up with answers to the questions being raised about women's safety, the governments seem to believe that the onus lies with women solely to protect themselves - and that is by covering themselves from head to toe and remaining confined within the walls of their homes.

Respected administrators, please assure us that women are safe in the confines of their homes. That women in purdah countries are safe. That the more conventionally dressed women in the villages are safe.

That the answer to the problem lies with the victims and not the perpetrators. That if a man is murdered, it is the one killed who has to be punished and not the killer. That if there is a robbery, the robbed to be penalised and not the robbbers... Is this what justice is all about