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Friday, November 7, 2014

Vegetarian Non Vegetarian

12th July 2013

he  : Why are we vegetarians?
she : Because we are.


he   : Why don't we eat non vegetarian food?
She : Because  we do not.


he   : What would happen if I eat non vegetarian food?
She : Why would you?.We are vegetarians


he   : You are a vegetarian because your is father is one !
she  : And you are a vegetarian because your father is one


he   : That is the only reason right?
she  : mmmmmmmm.. Yes!


 he  : What would you say to my eating a bit of chicken?
she  : Would you?

he    : Maybe !
she   : Would you be able to pick up a piece and put it in your mouth ?

he    : Yeah.. probably
she  : Would you be able to relish it?

he  : I wouldn't know if I didn't try

 she  : Are  you longing to try one?

 he ; No

 she : Then why the discussion?
he : It would be a convenient option


 she : Convenient option ?
 he : Yeah, rather than waste time, hunting for a veggie place, what if I popped a chicken or a fish  into  my mouth


she : Okk so it is not that u r curious and wanting to experiment
he : No. just a matter of convenience


she : Are you asking my permission?
he : N
o... just a simple discussion.Your thoughts. What would you feel if I did indulge?

she : I wouldn't want you to. But if its a choice between going hungry and eating a bit of chicken.. go ahead, eat.   Okkk.. as long as you are not dying of hunger   !!






(when the 19 yr old boy  was to leave for a 10 day  trip to Spain)

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

The Love is all there.



the love is all there,
it is the passion that is missing


the passion is there too,
just ..
not for you

I wonder what you are thinking 
when you look at me with those beautiful brown eyes.

I look at you...
a question in my eyes ,
a tempest in my heart


The clear brown eyes
that stare back at me..
they are filled with an honesty..


I only see a calm in those eyes.

The desire
which reflects  in my eyes...
is shamed to a guilt.


I know I am looking for emotions that do not exist.
 
I look away ..

I simply have to. 

I cannot meet that gaze.


 feb 2014


मांचो...mancho .... with the n pronounced as an "anuswar" rather than a full न, is what we call a bed in Konkani.

Today I was talking to a friend. We were discussing and dissecting the movie Highway. Both of us held opposing view points and I realised that the ' gappa' session would be a long one. I got up from my chair and moved towards the bed, wanting  to curl up in there and comfortably chat with her. In this, while my phone was tucked in between my shoulder and neck , the chubby cheek touched the touch screen and the call got  disconnected.


 I called her back . "kya hua" she asked. She is an old friend and a bestie.... a Konkani married to a Gujarati. 

" kuch nahi , Manche pe baithne jaa rahi thee... call disconnect hua"  I replied

She burst out into a hearty laughter and said  "  arrey.. M A N C H O"..I  haven't heard that word being spoken in years.     BED , is what I refer to it.    At home the  spouse and child while speaking in Gujarati , also,  refer to it as the bed. "



Her glee at being reminded of  a forgotten word, in turn, reminded me of another incident.

For the first eleven years of my life, I lived in a Maharastrian neighbourhood. A Marathi speaking CKP family, a Marathi speaking family from Belgaum, a Marathi speaking Brahman family, and another  family who spoke the language with a less 'susanskrut leheza'.  


The women would discuss, "aaz kay swayampak".. and aai  would say "aaz bazaar aanla aahe." Baazaar would mean the sea food.  

I would argue with aai... "You  went to the Baazaar to buy the fish  You bought some fish , not the 'entire Baazaar'     "  


Marriage had  brought me to Andheri and  a cosmopolitan neighborhood   - Muslim, Christian,  Malayalam speaking families, Punjabis and then a few Maharashtirans.

We would all meet at a haldi kunkoo  or at the New Year's eve party  and 
other functions celebrated in the building.   The ice breaking conversation amongst the senior ladies would usually be "aaj kya banaaya lunch mein... kaay swayampaak." .    "Rajma, chole, chowmein.... would be the usual answers.. and then one day I heard a neighbour say,  " kaahi naahi ho, aaz Baazaar kela. "

A wide smile spread across my face ... "Why are you  so excited ", they asked..."you don't even eat fish"


How could I explain to them .... that one expression.... it was  music to my ears.  It  had transported me back in time..reconnecting me  to my childhood, to the  memories of my favorite people

 Yaadon ka kya hai.... they come unannounced,  unheralded .  Anything can be a trigger - sounds, smells ,  fragrances, songs, words....

And then a thought came to the mind .   Aren't we forgetting our languages? T
erms, phrases, idioms, the quirks.... which are uniquely ours... those, which connect a community together...      In that effort or rather effortless adhering  to the use  of  the (dominant)  common language,  English ,   Hindi or any other.... we are sometimes forgetting vocabulary which is peculiarly ours.... distinct.


Language,  is but  a means of communication.... yet it is an  identity.    There is something about the 'matrubhasha' which is close to the heart.   'My mother tongue', is a  relevant term even today, giving us a sense of belonging... roots.


The chawl culture, the trusting days of  a bygone era , where we hopped in and out of the neighbour's homes,  the single channel world of television.... it exposed  us to so many languages.. customs.

It pleases me to hear a familiar word in another language...'motte' in my mother tongue - konkani,  is an egg.   It means the same in Tamil or Malayaalm.   Bengali and Konkani have some similar or similar sounding words. I love drawing  such comparisons.  

Pass on your legacy, your  culture, your language.  It is one global village we are citizens of, yet, is it impossible to retain a  uniqueness?   Differences attract, don't they?


Thursday, October 9, 2014

A Goondoo Tale


Goondoo tales..... after a long time!

It's been nearly two years now, since Goondoo and family have moved back to India after about 4 years in the UK.  He and his badey bhaiyya,  have settled in, into the new environment ,  pretty fast and without much trouble.  A huge relief for my sister and all of us.


Goondoo is now, all of 9.

He is really good at communication and can express his thoughts and feelings  precisely, clearly .  His choice of words, vocabulary never ceases to amaze us.  Sometimes he does  sound. mature for his age.  And then there are times when he has us in splits

The other day his mother, my younger sister, rattled of a list of chores he had to complete before he could go down to play.   "Why don't you do them, for a change.  You are a ring master " he retorted.  My sister could not even pretend to be angry at being back answered so !

Goondoo has an elder brother .. older to him by four years.   At thirteen, he is not as much fun to talk to as   Goondoo is.  More often than not , I call my sister only to speak to Goondoo. He is the baby of the family after all.  Sometimes he indulges me.

Today evening I called up my sister.  Goondoo's bade bhaiyya, my older nephew , answered the phone. The moment he heard my voice, he called out to Goondoo... "It is mhaave (aunt) for you" and he went away.

Goondoo and me had a good conversation about school , friends and food.  Then suddenly he said, "Please talk to my brother, it will make him happy"

It was like a slap across  the  face for me.   I had been so very  insensitive,   inadvertently   playing favourites.  I loved both of them.. equally.  But the cuteness that was Goondoo...he always won me over !!


I had unknowingly, unintentionally ,  hurt the older boy.  A teen , an adolescent, he was that much more  sensitive. 

It had taken  some plain speak from a nine year old to drill some sense into me .






Tuesday, October 7, 2014

There... I admit it.



Keeping away from you,

not seeing you, 

would be the best way to get over you, I thought.

But seeing you,
meeting you..
works best.


The truth stares me in the face....

 

Those  limpid brown eyes,
framed with the longest lashes,
do not hold any love for me.

The dark lips
do not smile for me.


We are not meant to be.






 

Monday, September 15, 2014

You cannot  take out the 'mother' from a woman.. she has those nurturing bits programmed in her.

Then why the attempt to wrest out  the 'woman' from the  mother.....

Can't they co-inhabit that body.

The other day I was reading  an article about Ladakh...going through  the pictures mostly and I remembered what I had felt when I had been there .  The first thing that had registered was  the  sky .  The azure blue sky and  it's  wide, vast expanse. It  was so,  so attractive... that feeling of space.

Very recently
my teacher in the Bhagwad Gita class , mentioned the Panchamahabhutas.  Of these, one is aakaash ie  space.  And  the relationship clicked.   Spread your arms.... lie down... look up.  It's just the sky and more sky... space.

Such a bloody contrast to my claustrophobic urban existence,  where when,  I peer from any of my windows, I  do not get to catch a grab of the sky. The balcony lets me have a pocket handkerchief sized view.

तैसेची माझे विश्व.........Limited ......  Bound by boundaries.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

a full stop or a comma....

that is the question !

Friday, July 25, 2014



15th April 2014

Today afternoon I had been to Wadala Math... a typical community hall.   The husband's uncle had passed away, and today was the thirteenth day  ritual ceremony . Usually it is he who attends such do's.  He  somehow juggles it into his schedule and makes time to be there. And that is one trait I really  admire in him

Today was one such day when he wasn't in town. He knows me well enough .. so he didn't ask me to go. But I knew he would like it if I went... so I did.

I did not know too many people there,  except for one cousin , who was the host. ...and she was busy attending to the other relatives.

I went up to her , spoke to  her,  and then found myself a chair to sink in. 

There was a elderly lady sitting two places away from me .. familiar, yet, I could not place her.

In the meanwhile the cousin was introducing  relatives to each other.... "This is Mrs H.. wife of our Dr H . We call her Mrs Doctor." she said of the elderly woman  It was then that realization dawned..  It was S's mother.  S was a classmate from school


S and me had a strange relationship in school. The girl had given me much grief. As also her mother.

S and me were both good students and  nearly always scored the same marks, especially in primary school. 

 After examinations,  an Open House would  conducted in school, where parents could go through their child's answer papers and could interact with the  teachers . S and her mom had that very competitive streak.  S's mom would grab my answer  sheet from my mum's hand,  compare it with S's and then rush to the teacher..." Both  have written the same answer... why did S get 1/2 a mark less".  On one ocassion , the exasperated teacher warned  my mom.. "Next time you show her your daughter's paper... I am going to minus your marks."


We graduated to secondary school.  In  class 8 ,  once while I was going over my class notes ,  before  the class test, S came and stood in front of me. She waved her palm and fingers in front of my face, contorting them, much like a tantrik would  while mumbling the "O Kali Calcuttey wali",  and  said,  ..."Now you will forget everything you studied. You won't remember a thing."

I was horrified to say the least.

Another time, in class 9, I suffered from a very bad bout of jaundice which caused me to miss nearly a month of school.  A very frail and a weak me, joined school after recuperation. S came in and hopped up and down, "I am so glad you fell ill and missed the classes.. No way will you be able to  beat me now."

All through the years, memories of school would bring this one  memory to fore. I didn't remember much of my school  days (or so I thought) and yet remembered S and  her mother. Every time I thought of S... there would be a heaviness in my chest...made me uncomfortable, very unhappy

S had that killer instinct. She had declared that she would be a doctor.  I used to think of her sometimes.. and I would wonder....., though a part of me would be  sure that  she would have made her dream come true.  

She had.

When we classmates  met on FB, I had made up my mind that  the day S joined the group, I would quit the school group.  I did not think I was up to dealing with such unpleasantness once again.

Today I looked at the elderly woman..  There was  none of the aggression I  had remembered.

I went  up and  introduced myself.    She was surprised... confused. It took her a while to connect the dots.  

She spoke to me very affectionately...for having remembered her... "Yes, you  all were children then and now are grown up... It's natural that you would recognize us,  the parents.  Nice of you to have come and spoken "  .  We talked about S, her siblings, their children and about mine.  We related.. even as mothers.

Throughout the ceremony our eyes met several times and I found her staring at me, and each time , we smiled.  Memories of a long time ago, bound us .  It was a trip down the memory lane for the both of us. 

I was glad I spoke to her... a great weight off my chest. My demon seemed exorcised.. I had held something against this woman.. She had seemingly forgotten everything... while  I had carried the burden for so many years.... A moment,  into our conversation and   all the gloom in that corner of my heart was washed out. Replaced with a warmth.. even affection.


The woman to woman bond is much stronger... especially when there is no burden of expectations

While leaving the hall I said my farewell.  She introduced me to  S's dad... "This is A... our S's classmate... she was a very good student in school.. hushaar... S and she were always in close competition".  And she smiled

That smile  was one without malice.


Wednesday, July 16, 2014

I think I am an absent minded person.  Forgetful.  I usually do not remember where I have kept the keys, the cheque book, my headphones, telephone diary...  .  In fact every thing which I have stored very carefully , remembering to remember where, are the things which I can never find. 

 I would remember to write down things and forget where I had kept that list.  My father has thoughtfully kept a writing pad near the phone...   He had been horrified to see me scribbling on the  newspapers and then hunting for that newspaper in our "raddi  kapaat" trying hard to remember the headline of that day, piecing together sequences so that I could lay my hands on the correct one.

The scribbling pad is a boon.  I diligently write down the name and the telephone numbers.... yeah,, this is an improvement.  I have been known to write numbers on newspapers, on the back of magazines ... and then trying hard to figure out whom the number belonged to.

The writing pad has made things easy.  Did I say,  'easy' ?  I write down grocery lists before hitting the mall, or the Sahakari Bhandar...and I forget to take it along.   I write down telephone numbers only to  find that the diligent ones at home would have torn and junked that page, leaving a fresh one  for the day's scribbling and that too,  just a  couple of minutes ahead of when I needed it most.  I would have forgotten to update the telephone diary, you see.

I am forgetful.  But I think my long term memory is better than my short term one.   There are some incidents that are so so clearly etched  in my mind, I can picture them in every detail.   Probably, I lived that moment to the fullest and that could be the reason I remember them so vividly. 

When my school mates bonded through Facebook in 2011, after nearly 28 years, I could remember but a few of them.  Yet I realized there were some memories that were crystal clear...My first memory from the school days  was one of the class  picnic .. when we were in Junior KG.

I remember wearing my red checked uniform, waiting for the school bus outside my building in the morning... my father waiting with me to put me on the bus.  The picnic was to be at Juhu Garden.

I remember the concrete aeroplane  - the highlight of the park,  the train -   which was just a  couple of concrete cylinders with largish portholes- we four year olds could negotiate them comfortably. I remember the taste of the sweetish tangy red coloured sherbet that was served to us by Benny and Mehroo , our school helpers, that day.

Several years later, when we were in primary school, my  maternal uncle shifted residence from Naigaon to Juhu.  I used to spend a couple of days at his place during my vacations.  I had my cousins who were all older to me.  The youngest of my six cousins was older to me by 6 years and the eldest .. by 20  years.    They were a fun bunch and vacationing with them meant I could be away from the strict rules and regulations which were enforced at home.

They humored me , took care of me and it was a crazy time at their place when my maternal aunt's children joined us as well.  We would be 9 of us cousins in that 4 bedroom apartment.  At night , the mattresses would be laid on the floor in one of the rooms, with  us  sprawled out.   We laughed ourselves to sleep  playing antakshari , mixing up and making up new lyrics.  The trees outside would cast shadows on the walls through the open windows of their ground floor apartment scaring me.  There used to be a small roundish  flowerpot on the window sill... the shadow which was cast would appear like a face at the window. and I would be scared.  "khidkit chor dislaa tar kaay karshil?, they would tease me.  "ghaabraycha nahii... gaana mhanayacha..-  "disla ga bai disla" .  from the marathi movie Pinzara. and we would burst out in giggles

Hide and seek was best enjoyed in their home, as we hid in any of the 4 rooms, in closets or under the beds.  The cousins would even pull  a table cloth over themselves and crouch underneath pretending to be a small stool.

Evenings would  see us playing lagori along with the other kids in the building.  On some evenings my cousins would take  me to  the Juhu Garden. I loved that  aeroplane out there.  Jumbo Jet, I would call it then... I even remember  referring to the garden as the aeroplane garden.  There would always be at least  7 to 8 children ahead of me in the queue to board the plane.  I would rush in, and make a dash for  a window seat, from where I could wave out to my cousin standing below.  Some days I would pretend to be the pilot.   Later when I had grown up and the  aeroplane was out of bounds, it would still fascinate,  as   we walked  past  the Juhu Garden with the cousins ,  to the  SV Road , for the bus which would take us to my home.   By then we were hearing stories of vagrants making the aircraft , their home for the night. ..

Several years have passed by now, my  Uncle has passed away, so has my aunt.  The cousins are married and so am I.  One year, there was a Kid's exhibition held on an open ground next to the Juhu Garden.  Children's books, story books, craft books. puzzles, toys, drawing and craft activities .   I was there with my four year old

After we had done the rounds of that one, while  we were waiting for the car to arrive, I happened to stroll on the pavement and  found myself outside the gates of the Juhu Garden.  There was a uniformed security guard,  at the gate.  There was also an engraved board on the compound wall.   Raheja garden it announced.    And I also understood that there was charge for entry to the garden.

I was offended.  An entry fee??  Yeah, I realized it was for a better maintenance of the park. The entry fee keeps away offenders who otherwise loitered around and were a nuisance to the children and others who loved the space. Yet, there was the distinct feeling that things had changed .    Anyway , by then the car had come in  and we returned home.

Some years later  I read in the newspapers about the mishap in the garden, with the wings of the aeroplane collapsing and killing a young boy.  The plane too was demolished soon after.   Pained as   I was,  when I heard of the freak accident and the loss of a life, the demolition had hurt too.

I wish I had willed myself to pass through the gates of Raheja Garden that day... I wish I had taken the son along ..... guiding him through the train... taking him into that aeroplane  - the Jumbo Jet - and sat on those red concrete seats.   He would have laughed at his mother , having had flown on a real aircraft .  But  years later, he would have thought of his mother, fondly, for having included  him into a part of her childhood.  Perhaps  when he had children of his own??





Sunday, July 13, 2014

N Kaaku



February 10 2014


Today , I strike out a name and number from my contact list.  I lost a  friend  today. 

N Kaaku was a little younger than  my mother....in her early seventies.  She and another neighbour, Rao Kaaku,   a 80 year old , were my closest friends.........friendships , relationships, attachments...they are rarely limited by  contraints of age.

Every day, the three of us would exchange a couple of phone calls.   " काय केल , काय खाल्ल  ... काय स्वयपाक , कुठे  गेली होतीस .. एक संपूर्ण    दिवस फोन नाही तुझा  .. कारण दाखवा..."  I was expected to report to the two , everyday. They expected because they cared. I was only too glad to. I  love sharing, I love listeners. Their age and experience made them a calming influence on me. 



I had met N Kaaku for the first time,  when my son was born.  That would be   a good 21 years ago. She was a neighbour I had not known existed. It turned out that her husband and mine, belonged to the same village in Udupi.

She was not a beautiful woman, in appearance. But she was a beautiful person, full of life.  At 52, she sported huge golden rings  in her ears.  Sometimes they were replaced by jhoomkas. She wore 2 bindis on her forehead. a round 'tikli' and a vertical arrow above it, arrow head and all.  She was always well turned out. 


Over the years, I got to know her better, and got to love her too. She was a fantastic cook. She was born a maharashtrian.. CKP to be precise. The community is known for its love for food , food which looks as good as it tastes. A casual mention of a favourite dish and the next day a dabba full of the goody would be sent over.

She loved conversation.... "बोल ना … सांग  ना काही मजा मजा".    She was  the life of the women's group in the building.


She shared recipes … and was encouraging when they bombed as I tried to replicate them. Summers would see her buying whole spices, roasting them, getting them ground to specification in the mill... washing the glass 'barnis'.. drying them in the sun and burning an incense stick inside them…" आमची आई अस करायची  ", she would explain.   Little packets  of the masala would reach me in a few days.

वडी च  सांबार ,  वालाचे भीर्डे ,  खव्याच्या  तिरंगी करंज्या , उकडीचे मोदक, मेथीच्या दाण्याची उसळ … all CKP specialties which I had relished as a child , I got to dig into them once again, thanks to her.

And one day all of a sudden her husband passed away. It was a Tuesday.. September 12 2006. He had been a little unwell with diabetes issues. In the afternoon she called in a panicky voice…" घरी  ये पटकन ..  Kaka is not feeling well.. I don’t know what's happening… send for your husband".

 I rushed to her .  Kaka was very ill.  He was doused in sweat, unable to communicate.  He was only huffing, unable to get a word out of his mouth.. his eyes widened in panic.  We called up the doctor, he asked me  to pop a spoonful of sugar into his mouth… I did it and kaka pursed his lips tight.. I was cradling him in my arms.  He was foaming at the mouth.  Their son and other neighbours had arrived by then.  Kaka  was suffering, probably in pain… tossing his head here and there .. and suddenly in one instant his eyes rolled upwards, one hiccup and then there was silence.


CPR  was tried… mouth to mouth resuscitation too… and then he was taken to the hospital where he was declared dead before admission. 

I sat with her.. for the next 3 hours… I had not known of Kaka's passing away.  I kept reassuring her that everything would be all right. When relatives started assembling at her home, she knew something was seriously wrong. 

From then on  she was a different person.  Managing to sound happy in company, she gave up on herself.  Later , a fall at home,  made her lose whatever little confidence she had in her. Between us friends we took turns being around her.  Soon she assured us that she would be fine. 


Cooking had been  therapeutic for her. Now that she was home-bound and her movements restricted, after a fall in the bathroom, she would only reminiscence of the good old times when she reigned in the kitchen.  She would talk about the stream of guests who arrived at her home and loved their stay with her family.   She would tell me how she slowly and surely, mastered the Konkani cuisine.  She would talk about the food her mother cooked.   In the monsoons, she would long for the  fare, the rains brought in....pausalyatlya bhajya  - shevli, phodshi.....  Whenever I went to Vile Parle market for my veggies,  and spotted a vasaiwala I would call her up .  With instructions from her on the phone,  I would select a couple of bunches for her. Those would be duly cooked and packed for us -" सॅंपल आहे , चाखून  बघा " she would say.
  
Diabetes was her bane.  She would visit her doctor each month, and while returning, she would gorge on a Bhelpuri, or a South Indian meal, or even a Kolhapuri thali, in Vile Parle.    " आज आम्ही एक मजा  केली... शर्माजी कडची  भेळ खाऊन  आलो", she would begin enthusiastically as she told  us of her exploit.  Little thrills of having broken rules....childlike.


N Kaaku had passed away after a brief illness. She had been hospitalized .  It was for a cough and a  fever which did not subside, and then her sugar levels had spiked up too.  Chest infection set in soon.  The lungs too were affected.  Things did not look promising for her and her  condition deteriorated rapidly.  I had had a feeling that she would not survive this round of hospitalization.

She did not.

 
I was at her home today, with her family, waiting for her to be brought to her home from the hospital, one last time. 

The ambulance arrived and she was carried in to the drawing room, wrapped up in the white shroud.

Her face was then uncovered. It was a sight I knew I would never forget. This was not the woman I had known. This was not the friend I had known , loved and now lost.  The hair knotted in a bun on top of her head, - a style she would never have approved of.  Her jaws closed shut and  secured with a bandage which went around her face and tied in a knot above her head.

Death had taken away her breath, her life.... she would never smile now, never speak... that mouth forever shut now.  The eventuality, the finality of death, of her death,  came to me.   It was then that I broke down.

A revulsion...for life…. after everything, if it was going to end like this,  then why the incessant quest for all things beautiful. Death sure was not. ……….Why?    living itself was futile if everything simply  ended like this. 


I listlessly scroll  through my contact list on the phone , my fingers automatically resting at her name on the list.  It is  her lifeless form ....that image of her in the shroud , that came to my mind's eye. Every moment I thought of her, it would be that face which haunted me.

I long to hear her voice, her words, her reprimands.. her complaints that I don't visit her often enough, her lament that she was unable to cook my favourite dishes....

There are no conversations amongst us friends today.. phone calls that used to happen every 2 hours.. to ask about her, to talk about her, to pass on news of the progress she was  making on the health front...... our phones are silent.  The few calls made - to check on each other - were mostly silent too... 

Today I have nothing to do..... no prayers to a God, to take care of her , no pleas to get her  to recover...

देव स्वतः वर काही घेत नाही ग, ना जन्म.... आणि मरण तर कधीच नाही. ती रुख रुख तो आपल्याला  देतो . मन  चाचपडत  बसतो  आपण फक्त, Rao Kaku  said..... her frail hands  holding mine... tightly.


21st February

It was the day of her Vaikuntha... when she ascends to Vaikuntha,,, the 12th day of her having passed away. The rites and rituals were being performed at her home. Her family and friends were around.  She had touched  many lives and they were all there..recounting anecdotes.  It was then that my gaze fell on a large framed picture of hers. It was a beautiful picture of her.  Her smiling face stared back at me. It was probably clicked at a wedding... she had her finery on.  " Houshi" was an adjective everybody who knew her had applied to her.  She had had  a zeal and a lust for life.   Here she was,  just as I had known her.  I could not but smile back at her , at her picture. 

Now when I think of her,  it is her smiling countenance , like the one in that picture in the photo frame, like how I had always seen her , which comes to my mind.   A smiling face, a happy face.

I understood now, my family’s displeasure with me when we had posted an obituary for my father in law. He was 76 when he passed away. He had been a handsome young man, and one with an imposing personality even at 65 when I had joined his clan. In the last one year of his life, I had seen him ageing... daily....wasting away , bit by bit,  with Parkinson's.  The photograph I had sent to the newspapers was taken at a family function,  just a couple of months before his death . His face had looked gaunt  .... a sad  caricature of his former handsome self. 

The family was unhappy with my choice of the photograph and I had wondered what difference  a mere picture could make, when the person himself is no more… Aren't his memories. intact within you?  So what is is the issue with a photograph? 

All of us   carry memories....impressions, related to the people around us .  We carry a mental picture of them in our mind  and in our heart. Those pictures do not age, while we all do.

The mismatch is there.




Tuesday, July 8, 2014

“What screws us up the most in life is the picture in our head of what it's supposed to be.”


Socrates

Thursday, July 3, 2014

can you draw apart,
the veils that shroud me.

patiently?
every time i think of you
a tear slides down my face

i hope i am able to wash away  a memory of you

cleansing the heart
cleansing the mind of every vestige of you

emptying them.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

The Thunderstorm

the thunderstorm rages outside
battering the trees, the leaves
into meek submission.


they simply succumb.

चिंब ओली झाडे,
चिंब ओली पाने
भिजून निघालीत

 मनसोक्त !


they seem to welcome the assault.

come
take me...
they seem to say


मी चार भिंतींच्या आत,
बंद खिडक्यान मागे,
उभी ....

तो ओलावा,
तो गारवा,
हवा हवा सा वाटतो

हे बंध
माझ्या मनावरचे बंध
 मी स्वतहा घातलेले बंध.....
मोकळे करून टाकावेत?


त्या सरी मध्ये न्हाऊन,
चिंब भिजून जावे,
बेधुंद !


बंद खिडक्यांच्या फटीतून
वारयाची एक झूळूक
अंगाला स्पर्श करून जाते

एक शहारा,
उमटवून जाते

 a storm  rages inside of me.

 i know..
while those doors are shut.
while  the windows are shut.

i am safe.

secure,
behind  the binds,
the ones i have bound myself in. 

a step,
a tiny step into that storm,.
the raging storm,

i will be blown away.

cast away,
in the  whirlwind.

it is but a storm.
it shall  pass.

i will wait it out.

the leaves,
the branches,
the trees,

are standing tall once again.
mocking me.

we dared.

we experienced
the passion.

i stood behind the walls,
a silent spectator.
waiting for the raging  storm
to quell..
a longing in my heart.


the throat
parched.


एकूणच शुष्क

i am safe.

i wasn't battered,
i wasn't spun in the whirlwind.


the storm,
the thunder storm..

it has passed now.

i should be happy
i survived,
came out unscathed.


मग का हे रितेपण









Friday, March 21, 2014

Death takes some getting used to... no matter how many... or who ... it always hurts. it is the loss of the person .. as well as the reminder that any day it could strike closer.... and one day, you yourself

the mother and her daughter

 26th feb 2014

The mother was on her way to collect her daughter from the  coaching classes. The classes were just down the street. But there was this road which had to be crossed - heavy with traffic at all times of the day rash driving with no respect for rules . The mother wasn't really keen on taking any chances.

As she walked , she couldn't but thank her stars that the daughter was still open to the idea of being collected from her classes. She hadn't objected or even once thrown the typical adolescent tantrum.

The daughter came out of the building straight upto her and hissed.."Why do you have to come right up to the gate??. You could wait for me at the signal , up the road." 

The mother was livid and retorted... “If you really want to be so independent why don't you do the entire stretch by yourself? Walk home by yourself?”

The next day the mother once again was walking down the same street,,. to pick up the same brat from the same coaching class. On the way she saw two  little girls.. about six  yrs old. They were wearing the same school uniform as the daughter. They were prancing outside a store as their mothers picked up school supplies for them. The looked ever so cute in their tiny pig tails and pony tails.

The mother went back in time ..... Why Oh Why, do children grow up so fast ! Her own cute little bundle was now  a fire breathing teenager !

The mother was a running  a little late and she kept craning over the crowds in the street looking for her daughter. Yesterday’s insults were forgotten and her heart had been softened already at  the sight of the two little girls

Just  then, the mother spotted her daughter , she wasn’t alone. Walking with her was a young boy .  The mother tried to place the boy. He didn’t look like any of the classmates she had known.  But then she really didn’t think she would be able to recognize the boy as they all looked so different now from the cherubic ones  they had once been. They were growing up  too, sporting  young moustaches, pimples, a lanky frame….

Seeing her daughter with a boy, outside the background of school had shaken the mother a bit.


Looking at them from a distance, a bit detachedly... the daughter looked different. She didn’t look like the baby of the house anymore. She was a teen... a young lady.

She spotted me. I smiled at her and then at her friend. He smiled back awkwardly . When I
reached them,  they said their goodbyes and he walked away.

I asked her who he was. "From school?"

"No. from the coaching class, from another school," she said

I was trying to collect myself, when the daughter faced me and asked, “Can I walk with him? “

I looked at her hard, studying her face,  the expressions that flitted across . She was trying to act indifferent, but the look in her eyes was  almost pleading. I surprised myself and then her,  by saying a YES.

She happily ran ahead towards her friend, bridging the distance in a jiffy.

Bridging the distance... that was what I want to do with my  brat pack. Closing the distance between us .. or at least making the first move at doing so…attempting to build that bridge - of trust

The daughter and her friend were chattering away.. laughing . Soon her friend had to take a lane on the right, to his home  and my girl came back to me .


So what was the big deal....

For one.. until now, the frame of reference had been home, school and a circle of close friends. I keep harping away at her at home - 'you are a grown up girl' .. but to me she had only remained the younger child. I had not accepted that she had really grown up. Seeing her with another who was unknown to me,  was a first . The thought that soon... very soon.. her loved ones would include a whole lot of new people .  The thought that I might not approve but I might not have much of a say….... Ouuuchhhh !! That hurt. 


I guess , it is not so much about control, but that part of being just a bystander that is hurtful. 

It is time I grew up. I have to learn to  let go...