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.