Ushering In Autumn

                                         

                                                    

        A multicoloured liquid bindi case. Small  tubes arranged in a circle on a plastic base. Each filled with red, pink, blue, green ...a cap with a wand. Two dozen silver bangles or bright coloured glass bangles. Tube balloons twisted and shaped into flowers and animals.  Pinwheels that rush into a burst of shades with the breeze. Tiny lips blow on whistles, interrupt the melee in various  notes and pitch. Shiny pistols crack with the turn  of the chamber. The red roll of ammunition sitting pretty in tiny round papercases with a pink paper cap. Chatter of the people, squeals of delight, bawling tantrums and Bollywood music rise above all the din. Only to be lowered when the priest take the stage. Our grandmothers did not endorse idol worship but no one stopped anyone from joining the festivity... Memories from a childhood faraway.

Courtesy www.amazon.com

                                 
                 The hypnotic beats of the dhak. Heady fragrance of the incense smoke. Dhunuchi dance bring out smiles and and gather the audience. The elite few rush around with round pleated satin badges stuck to their chest. A badge of pride for some and awe for others. Endless rounds of meetings for these in the committee. Evenings spent under the empty half done pandals. Important organizing matters stray into this and that. Sometimes these badges work wonders to push that puja thali ahead in the queue for the favoured few. Coy glances stolen. Rosy hopes rise within. The evening cultural function. Hurried dinner at homes and rushing to take the best seats. The local artistes croon out one song after the other till warned by the committee to stop hijacking the show. Some latch on till abruptly asked to vacate the stage. Shouts and and smart repartees from the ownerless voices at the back. Checking out crispy new saris and dresses rustling like the autumn leaves. New shoe bites lend that ache and limp. Desperately looking for an empty chair or anything to perch on. Endless stream of the devout and those on the look out. Matrons of the neighbourhood gossiping and complaining of what the world was coming to. Dishing out earfuls to those in the committee for the mismanagement... Youth, a receding memory.

      Idols no longer hold the  attention. Come to think of it, it never did. Apart from the aesthetics. It was  always the festivity. Watching the events unfold as if in a loop. Different places, strange faces. And yet the same, all over again. The cynical distance and disdain for the extravaganza lose out. Anandamela, the most awaited part of the four day exrtravaganza. Aroma of home cooked food from the bhodroloker bari. Smiling at familiar faces, exchanging pleasantries with acquaintances.

                                     

   When the earth cruises ahead in its planetary path, extricating itself from the smothering embrace of the star, the dews gently adorn the grass once again. The mornings promise of gentle days. When that maddening fragrant assault of the xewali or the coral jasmine takes over the senses, a smile within lightens the soul and is assured of better days.

From Western Ghats to the Nilgiris - The Perfect Road Trip

"Where are the water bottles?"
"Behind the seats. Did you check the room?"
"Hm... nothing left behind."
" Oh! Wait! What about the potty, bucket and the mug?"
" Safe in the boot...your potty and your bucket!"

     With the map on the dashboard, we drove off from Pune one early June morning. Our good old Maruti 800 was going to take us through the Western Ghats, along the Western Coast to Coonoor in the Nilgiris. Having started from Nasik two days back, we were leaving behind our first halt Pune and moving to  Belgaum, our next halt.

   This was a dream trip for many reasons. Husband was back after six months of keeping vigil on the border. It was a kind of family reunion after a couple of years of staying apart prior to this stint at the border. My daughter hardly knew him. And if she could talk, she would have probably addressed him as 'uncle'. Our final destination was Defence Services Staff College in Wellington, Coonoor, a milestone for any fauji worth his boots.
 Apart from being my husband he also happened to be an excellent driver knowing when to go easy on the accelerator, how to take the bends or drive up a hill. This was very important since although I love travelling, ironically I have this bouts of motion sickness. And there has been an instance when I've actually asked the driver of a cab taking us to Guwahati, to swap places with hubby since he was getting too fond of the clutch and the brake.
   But the most important part of this trip was our route, a dream stretch of the ghats, beaches and the hills. I had always thought of this trip in my dreams. Friends, if you ever plan a trip to the Western Ghats, Monsoon is the time. What lushness, what abundance! The dripping foliage, swayed throwing different shades of green! The dark, rain sloshed roads gleamed ahead.
    We rolled across Kolhapur with its undulating fields and dark clouds threatening to come down. With the kind of weather, pav-bhaji and batata vadas seemed perfect for the road. The best part of moving across different places is the variety of food the tummy is appeased with. So if it was pav bhaji here, it would be  fresh fish at the beach side shacks in Goa, the dosais in Udupi and soft fluffy appams and idiappams with ishtew in Kannur. I firmly believe that if you have had good satisfying food on a trip, it becomes all the more etched in your memory.

 After a night halt at Belgaum we moved on to Goa. As we climbed the last of the Ghats, suddenly  a wall of thick mist stoically greeted us...with a board beside it that hazily said "Welcome to Amboli". Visibility was barely one metre! We slowly rolled into the  mist, awed by its beauty. Objects on the roadside were  blurred outlines. There was a thunderous roar of a waterfall that kept getting closer. It was extremely tempting to stop but we had a schedule to adhere to.  Amboli is the last hill station as the Ghats meet the coastal plains.  We extricated ourselves reluctantly from its soft embrace and moved on with one last look. As we reached the plains the sun sparkled unveiling stretches of green fields. Amboli has remained an enigma for me to this day.

   Goa, needless to say, lived upto its name and let us revel in it. The beaches, cruise on the Mandovi river, the churches and its people left a warm fuzzy feeling. We moved on after a couple of days along the coastal Highway. There were stretches where the waves lapped against the boulders along the Highway. What a sight! The sea on one side and the fields on the other! From Goa it was to be one long drive to Kannur with Udupi in between for a lunch stop- over. We were geared for this marathon with food supplies (sandwiches and chips actually) in the car.

  When we reached Kannur, dusk had already set in. The home-going traffic jostled aorund with groceries to be carried home. We made our way into a hotel solely because it promised a hot breakfast of appams and ishtew. Making our way into the room we looked up at the hills nearby that beckoned us with twinkling lights. That was to be our last stretch to destination Coonoor.

  Early next morning saw us excited and all ready for the home-run. With a warm feeling of fulfillment mainly derived from the promised breakfast, we climbed the Nilgiris at a steady pace. We found ourselves in the middle of sloping tea gardens at times. Then there were times when we discovered coffee plantations, having never seen a coffee bean in our life. The only coffee I knew then, was the one in the Nescafe bottle. We crossed cashew and pepper plantations that left us in awe to see them in their native existence. "Oh! This is how they look actually!"

   Having made our little discoveries and rendezvous with realisations, the Highway took us into the intimidating Mudumalai  forest. Twelve years back it was advisable to cross this part during daylight and in convoys  since it was rumoured to be  the dreaded sandalwood smuggler Veerappan's territory. The forest lived upto its reputation by turning dark and foreboding when we went deep in, even as the sun was at its zenith. The only sounds were those of the birds and some monkeys. I kept my eyes peeled at the faraway dark bushes and branches waiting for someone to drop by la Tarzan style. Thankfully, we finally made our way out of its dark depths.

   I never realised at which juncture did this trip turn into a journey of discovery. The wonder at the changing landscapes, the surprises sprung around the corners or the languid motion leaving a sense of content...The 800 gradually wound down the slopes of Ooty to take us to Wellington, tucked away in the folds of Coonoor. There was a slight drizzle and the clouds kept crossing our path teasing us with views of our final destination.

   But that was not the end.  Hubby had to report his arrival where he was handed over the keys to our apartment that was to be our home for the next ten months. Along with the keys came the paraphernalia of two LPG cylinders, a packet of rice, dals, vegetables, six electric bulbs, a dozen eggs, butter, packets of milk and so on. We looked at each other and got down to work. The Maruti accommodated the  two LPG cylinders, a packet of rice, dals, vegetables, six electric bulbs, a dozen eggs, butter, packets of milk and so on in addition to two suitcases, a bag of footwear plus the odds and ends that appear just before leaving a place, the potty, the bucket, the mug and the makeshift bed, a child and two adults. It was literally an uphill task winding up Gorkha Hill that was to be our address.

  This journey ended in a typical dream like sequence when I opened the windows of the apartment to let in fresh air...little mists of wayward clouds wafted in as if to welcome us after a long drive...




This post was written for the Ambipure "The perfect road trip" contest.
http://www.facebook.com/AmbiPurIndia

Living In Leh

                                 

In this blistering Delhi heat, when the mind flounders to find an oasis in the white fury, I indulge in some nostalgia – of a stay in Leh where the temperature plummeted to twenty degrees below zero. Over the years I’ve felt that a tourist’s perspective is transient, a sweet memory till the next trip. However, living in different places changes the way one looks at life – humbling, enlightening and teaching tolerance in many ways.

As the winter stealthily swept in freezing everything in its path, I realized what it was like to live in barren and cold lands – stoic and dignified in their acceptance of the elements and yet unrelenting in submission. The green patches of summers with traipsing streams and gurgling waters of the Indus and Zanskar turned silent, quietly biding their time. Even this silence threw up some beauties like the quaint tinkling music of the Indus as the many ice pieces clinked against each other. The fading prayer flags over the narrow bridge brought in some colour relief. This was a great place to sit down with a book or simply with your thoughts.

The many Ladakhi homes that edged the road were layered with hay on the roof to insulate against the cold. Smoke twirled over as the women got busy cooking hot meals with sun-dried vegetables stocked for the winters. I learnt the thriftiness of “thukpa”when vegetables became scarce. A simple wholesome meal in a dish with some vegetables, pieces of meat and strands of noodles served with a fiery chilly garlic chutney that kept the stomach full and the body warm. For someone like me used to the abundance of assorted greens and vegetables of winters like lai xaak, spinach, carrots, green peas, babori  from Beltola bazaar, it was quite a revelation and a new found reverence for the produce of the earth. I now considered myself blessed if I could find a frozen cabbage from the corner shop. I learnt to respect the dehydrated onions and bitter gourds that we got as a part of our ration and coax some flavor out of them.

In the darkness before day-break, I often heard the porters talking and stamping their feet as they broke the ice in the Syntex outside our tin sheds,  to melt into water for our needs. Doing the laundry was in stages. Sitting near the bukhari , a kerosene contraption, with buckets of water fetched in by the Tashi, as the porters were called, clothes were scrubbed and rinsed from one bucket to the other. I’d seen many Ladakhi women washing their household clothes, utensils, vehicles down to their carpets by the river. Water from the taps was a luxury for most of us whether civilian or in uniform . Although the sun was out, the drippings from the washed clothes froze into icicles at the hem. These then were snapped off and the clothes brought in and dried around the bukhari . I realized the importance of the stove and how the lives of a family revolved around it. It brought to mind the many Russian tales I read as a child and how the stove was a permanent fixture in them. Even curd was set near it by my North Indian friends with the utensil snugly wrapped in a muffler! 

But what took the cake was managing the loo at night. We may wrinkle up our nose at such unmentionable bodily functions but it was a routine that ensured a smooth function for morning ablutions. However tired we were, late night parties or whatever, one chore none of us ever forgot was to pour some kerosene into the pot at night to prevent the water in it from freezing. Amnesia in this case would result in grim faces of the shed occupants in the morning. The only remedy was firing up the respective crude sewer pits behind our sheds to melt away the ice inside. So that’s one chore none of us forgot. Ever.

                                           

As  I learnt to adapt myself to this exotic land the more I fell in love with its nuances and its people. They were warm and friendly, wrinkling up the corners of their eyes when they smiled with a cheery “Juley”. The sky over Leh was the bluest I’d ever seen. The mountains changed colours as the sun travelled across the day. Climbing up the hill to nearby Spituk Gompa, on one of my long walks mandatory for acclimatization, I found some interesting offerings to Lord Buddha. A “half” bottle of Old Monk, a packet of Maggi, some glucose biscuits and assorted dry fruits. In a land that does not yield much especially in the winters, even the Gods are not demanding. It reminded me of the myth of Shiva devotee Kannapan who offered meat and water from his mouth in his innocence.



                   

                           

Serene Gompas abound in the Ladakh region, each with its own aura and veil of mysticism. But the one that intrigued me was the Hemis Gompa which according to local belief, was never plundered by looters from across the mountains. While all the other Gompas lost their riches, Hemis was spared the ignominy since it was well hidden within a mountain. I actually never realized it till we literally reached its doorstep. One of the oldest in the region, it is famed for its architectural uniqueness of the monastic complex. The colourful murals and the courtyard where the mask dance during the Hemis festival takes place, only added to the charm of this shrine.

Walking down the road I heard at a distance the lilting notes of some melody. On the far side of a field was a group of men and women, singing the notes of their land as they went about their work in the benumbing cold. Strangely it reminded me of the ice tinkling on the Indus river and the poignancy of Wordsworth’s “Solitary Reaper”…     

Please Note :- This write-up was published in the Melange supplement of The Sentinel dated 16th         June 2013.

Are you my 'addiction'?

                                                 Image Courtesy FreeDigitalPhotos.net
                                                      Image creator: mack2happy      




There is always a niggling doubt at the back of my mind. Have you become an addiction with me? 'Addiction' is the only word  I can use to express our relationship. We are under the same roof and yet so far...Everyone in the family knows about you. But  they are ignorant of how far we have gone.

My children run to your place.There they can laugh, sing and explore their fantasies. There are times when they find help  with the school work.I watch them play there, from a distance biding my time. My husband shares and consults at your haven before taking any major decision. He goes on and on  for hours together, while I walk around in circles with a hope of catching a moment with you. My husband doesn't know. By the time he leaves, it is too late. I am a married women with two young children.I cannot afford the late nights...

Oh! How I long to be with you! Alone with no worries of tomorrow or the children with their persistent demands...With you I am a different person- happy and content. You let me be 'me' with no tags of a wife, mother, daughter, sister with their baggages attached. With you I dream of a distant world, feel the waves lapping at my feet at an exotic beach. I smell the tingling freshness of the mountain air with you by my side. And the friends we have made...Yes, our 'friends' know about us. For them, you and I are inseparable.We have had such wonderful times with our friends-sharing ideas,thoughts, laughing together or pondering.

Its been almost two months now. The festive season and school holidays  kept us away from each other. I couldn't have been with you as myriad other chores tugged me away. The children had to be dropped and picked up from their respective classes half -way across the city through all that festive traffic. Did I mention their share of birthday parties to attend? And then doing up our apartment took its toll. There were times when everything had to be dropped and dash to the apartment since the plumber kept the pipe jutting out and the tiles-guy was at his wits end; or the carpenter forgot the design of the kitchen; hunting around for the right tiles and handles for the doors...

And all this while, you were always there. In my mind. I felt guilty for not meeting you. I knew, I would forget everything once I met you. All else would be relegated and time would cease to exist.Would you understand, if I told you that I couldn't even do 'facebooking' let alone blogging!! My dearest blog, I do hope you'll forgive me for not updating and 'maintaining' you....I am a married woman with two young children...






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Road Trip from Nasik to Wellington- I

                                                                                       

    We have been on many road trips, an inevitable part of being married to an Olive Green. With a shoe-string budget,it was our good old Maruti 800 and accomodations at Army Guest Rooms that made it possilble. Every trip had its own charm but the one that has to be shared, is the trip from Nasik to DSSC (Defence Services Staff College) in Wellington, Nilgiri hills. I still go ga-ga over it for two reasons. One, the men were back after six months at the border after the Parliament attack alert. Two, the  troad trip was a dream stretch along the Western Ghats and the coastal areas.

  We started with two suitcases wedged between the front and the back seat, a bucket and a mug (you never know what you maybe up against during halts), a potty (our daughter was a year and a half ), a bagful of footwear, odd ends and bits that couldn't go in the truck but had to reach DSSC. And Oh! a folded cotton mattress was thrown in that covered the back seat and the suitcases to make a bed for Pahi, our daughter.
 
    And so we started, a convoy of three families ,off to the salubrious Nilgiris. Our first halt was at NDA Pune after almost four hours drive. We spent our time going through the campus and gaped at normal routines like a cadet carrying his cycle over his head. Another was standing at attention under a tree as he isn't supposed to move alone unless he is in a squad of four.We were shown the hostels and rooms of our husbands, proudly with sheepish grins( probably they went back to their 'antics' and 'punishments'). Then there was the huge dining hall that fed hot sumptuous meals to around 1500  ravenous cadets in one sitting, without any noise and chaos!

Singhgarh

                                                                  (Courtesy wikimedia)

     I was taken in by a nearby verdant hillock "Singhgarh" and expressed my desire to explore it. However, the men didn't seem  keen on it. They had too many painful memories of that lovely place...of running cross-country with heavy backpacks to the top and back, as punishments. After  two days in Pune gorging on the farsans and sizzlers, we continued our journey through the vast rolling greenery of Western Maharashtra skirting many quaint towns like Kolhapur. Well! We just had to buy the famed Kolhapuri chappals and also picked up a tiny pair for the rear-view mirror! Here I've to mention that monsoon IS the time to explore the Western Ghats! What lush vegetation with the grey sky stooping low showering with the rains! After a long drive of  335 kms we reached Belgaum in the evening for a night halt. We were excited in the  morning since our next stop was  Goa...

 We were just not prepared for what was ahead...As we climbed the last of the Ghats, suddenly  a wall of thick mist stoically greeted us...with a board beside it that hazily said "Welcome to Amboli". Visibility was barely 1metre! We slowly rolled into the  mist, awed by its beauty. Objects on the roadside were  hazy outlines. There was a thunderous roar that kept getting closer. It was a waterfall closeby...Although I badly wanted to stop and savour each moment, we continued. We had a schedule to adhere to.  Amboli is the last hill station as the Ghats meet the coastal plains.  The mist released us gently, on our way down the slope. As we reached the plains the sun sparkled unveiling stretches of green fields. Amboli has remained an enigma for me to this day.
                                              
   With the Ghats behind, we drove down the coastal plains eagerly into the much sought after Goa like a bunch of teenagers on an escapade. With the beaches just within reach, our convoy zipped over a bridge that heralded our arrival. Barely did we get in, we found a couple of Goa policemen eagerly waiting for us at the other end of the bridge. We had over stepped the pedal way beyond the speed limit! Even being admonished like truant juvenile  and the fine paid, did not dampen our spirits. Now I can say, "been there, done that". It was beaches, Bom church, beaches, cruise on Mandovi, beaches and beaches...Here I shall not indulge in the details, for much has been said about the place.

   Then it was time to move ahead. After all we had more to discover in the journey that would take us to Mangalore, Kannanur and finally Coonoor in the Nilgiris. But more of that in the next post. Someone rightly said, it is the journey that matters not the destination...






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I almost got a Taj Mahal...

   It took Shahjahan 20 years to build his Taj Mahal for Mumtaz Mahal. It took my husband 12 years to give me mine. Only, that the Emperor was building a mausoleum for his beloved wife and my husband was trying to provide a roof over his only wife, after years of nomadic life.

   Booking for an apartment 12 years ago, at Dwarka, a sub city of Delhi, we never realised it would be a long agonised wait.We paid every instalment and waited and waited and waited...With each wait, the builder's demands for more finances grew and our hopes gradually gave way to despair. The battle between the builder and the members of the apartment, is another story.

 I'd almost begun to believe that the builder had a mausoleum in mind for the members.  And finally, two days back my husband brings home a bunch of keys in a ziploc bag," Keys to our Flat!" In a ziploc bag? They should have come in puja plates, complete with Band, Baja and Baraat! Er... not the Baraat.

 Now we are on an over-drive to make the place liveable. You can very well imagine our joy, sudden burst and clash of ideas. Its now a battle between practicality and aesthetics, requirements and finances,working out the nooks and niches, optimising space...but its a battle that's making us smile. As a couple of families have already shifted into our building, they give us an insight into the teething problemsof a yet-to-live apartment. I wonder if this is how the first settlers of any place shared their concerns and arrived at solutions...

   For hours together, my husband studiously studies the monitor that searches for his product information till late night. I'm sure he has never burned the midnight oil in his entire student life, painstakingly jotting down information. Armed with this, he literally interrogates various vendors, till the vendor is probably contemplating change of profession and I'm  squirming in my seat.

  Wherever we go, unconsciously we take in the details of smart optimising techniques of other homes. On our morning walks, our gaze is mostly drawn to the high rise apartments to see if we can spy on something useful. This invariably has us stepping on pet dogs' poo. Now, thats another pet peeve of mine- pet dog poo on public pavements...

   However,still jumping over poo , with rising costs and over- shooting budget, we plan to move in, in a couple of months with our sanity intact and marriage still in one piece. Friends! Please feel free to drop by at our abodeand bless this mahal of mine, I mean ours...  





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A Warm Window

Looking for door and window solutions for our new apartment led us to a basement shop which we missed the first time around trying to locate it. There was a lone tailor deeply engrossed in his work. His employers were not in. Just as we turned to leave, a very graceful lady in her late 60s at the doorway said," You must be looking for my husband".

She proceeded to advise us on the particular brand. With salt and pepper hair hurriedly tied behind and a twinkle in her eyes, she dropped several household tips.There were  beautiful blinds made with old scarves of hers. "Never live in a city after retirement. No vegetable costs less than Rs 60 per kg." She had just  come back grocery shopping from a mall... In between, she managed to call her husband and his partner," You have clients  waiting..." We agreed to wait for them since they were on their way.

 On learning we were from Assam, the lady turned dreamy eyed with a hint of a smile lighting up her face. "I love that place. We spent 17 years of our life there...The people are so simple and charming.The lush greenery around.Oh! Those were beautiful days..." Well, this just made me swell with pride (what with the recent spate of violence) and connect with her. She went on about how they spent their days in Digboi since her husband was with the erstwhile Burma OilCompany (BOC),now Assam Oil Company (AOC). Their recent sojourn to the state, for Burma Oil's centenary celebrations at Digboi , thrilled her as she met many who still remembered her.

However, we were still waiting for her husband and his partner to arrive. This time, she hollered into the phone,  "Their kids are coming back from school. Where are you? They are getting late!" Ten minutes later two smart elderly gentlemen walked in. As we were introduced, she happily announced," They are from Assam." Her husband broke into a gentle smile,"We have warm memories of that place. I have travelled that region extensively." Our conversation turned to the present strife gnawing at the state and its people...of its causes and possible villains...In between, they obliged by talking business, the very reason of our presence there. However they seemed happier when talking about other issues.

As we drove back, I couldn't help feeling warm and snug. Three complete strangers had so effortlessly coccooned us with their advice and memories of days gone by...offered us a peek into their lives, their children with rich anecdotes. We came looking for window solutions and were thrown open a window that took us back in time...a time we forgot had ever existed. 

Cleansing

     A task postponed for ever so long, was finally dealt with today. Cleaning the refrigerator... :) Out came the shelves with their 'left-over' occupants. A wet cloth gave a good wipe, cleaning the stains and spots of dried spills. A toothbrush dipped in vinegar took care of the stubborn ones. Food that was intact, went back to the squeaky clean fridge, and the stale went into the waste-bin.
     Satisfied with the outcome, I took a break with the newspaper in hand. After a couple of news articles, my mind nudged me to pull out an old file cover.
     It was a gift from one of my old friends... a mustard yellow cloth cover with golden weavings (Mohua , do you remember this?). Each paper was pulled out. Academic credentials smugly rested at the back...some horscopes of husband and the children...old salary slips and contract papers of mine tumbled out. As I dug deep into the pockets, I found a photograph of my husband posted in some remote corner of Kashmir, passport snaps of my daughter, some film negatives yet-to-be-developed, work related material..and oh! a couple of recipes too.There were prescriptions, and  a couple of letters written in our times of separation. Funny! how they remained stashed together all this while.                                                                                                                            
    Again the waste went into the bin. The snaps and the slips went back into the pockets. Letters were re-read with a smile on the lips. Sometimes old letters are good prescriptions too! 
   And then I found a copy of a poem, that I'd come across long ago in a woman's magazine. It was by Jyothi Singh Viswanath. It touched a chord deep inside then, and which I'ld like to share with you  today.                                                                                                                                                                                                       Am I Here

   I came to your house 
   With a suitcase full of
                                    dreams
Myself, my identity
Wrapped delicately in my
                                     trousseau 
Now,
What stands before you
Is a mirage-
An image that disappears
              on close inspection.

The visage is
That which you have created
and within
The substance that I've lost.
My old self peeps out of
Faded photographs,
Books fragmented,the pages
          turned yellow with age
and
clothes that don't fit.
Trapped
By the should of your love
        and the could of my past.

Somewhere, deep inside
                the battered suitcase
Lie my dreams.
Wings broken,
Wrapped carelessly in an old
                          T-shirt.
Burdened by the waste of a
                                 life
That is vague with
                            confusion.

That was me, I was there...
Am I here?      

Marching in hostel...

   If you have lived in a hostel, chances are that you are rich with anecdotes. Each anecdote at times, is a milestone of your growing years.

  Rehearsals for Sports Day of a school , right behind my apartments, reminded me of early winter mornings at CG Hostel, Guwahati. Each hostel competed for the best marching contingent. Marching was mostly done by the 'freshers' while the seniors drilled them into discipline. Waking up at crack of dawn for practice evoked many subdued mutterings. But once out, the girls were seen giving their best with a hot,watery cuppa thrown in at the end. After many such mornings, when there was a semblance of order and synchronicity in the ranks, gates were thrown open for a march, down the street in front of the hostel. With Dighalipukhuri  on one side, the girls' team smartly marched. It would so happen that at the same time, the boys' hostel teams would also choose exactly the same time to march by the girls' hostel.
    Friends, you will appreciate the effect of girls on the boys, and also the other way round. The young boys who were missing the warmth of their hostel beds,walked leisurely  with a few exceptions. A stifled yawn here and an infectious loud one there.This however did not perturb the 'senior supervisors'. At the sight of the girls,  suddenly order was restored in the team. And as the groups crossed each other, a call for salute( "daine dekh")  was commanded of the boys. Lo and behold!Within a second, the boys pulled up their socks and marched confidently in nearly perfect unison!  The girls who were marching so confidently, with smart synchronous  movements, suddenly floundered and found their hands and feet moving on their own. From the quiet and focused ranks, came forth  nervous giggles and glances. All the hard work put in,  unravelled with a mock salute...However, with some more practice and firm resolution, this phenomenon slowly subsided.
 ... At the end, the girls' took the trophy home. Happiness over-flowing, fostering new-found kinship away from home and a bond growing that brings a smile even after so many years have passed by...    

Trysts With Maid

      All the time-saving contraptions and home appliances in the world,
      Cannot take away the importance and luxury of a maid at all....

   Hmmm... the verses are not great, but thats the phase I am going through, for the last couple of months ever since we changed localities. Keeping a maid for house-hold chores may be a luxury for my friends settled abroad. Here, in India it is unthinkable to do without them.Many of us have had our share of anecdotes and interesting notes to share.
    It also reminds me of a show that was put up by the ladies at  DSSC Wellington. It was a showcase of all the important women who have contributed to our lives right from Gargi , Jhansi Ki Rani, Sarojini Naidu, Indira Gandhi etcAnd bringing up the tail of the show was the quintessential "lady with the broom" without whom none of them could have achieved what they did probably.
     I was fortunate in the past, to have been helped by a couple of genuine and sincere souls. And them, I can never forget. And then there are some, whom I can never forget for various other reasons!!! But the one I recently changed takes the cake...
    We mutually decided on 9.30am to begin work in my household. Everything was hunky-dory the first few days. Then timings shifted on its own          to   9.45.....10.00....10.45........11.00....11.30......12.00....11.45... Average arrival time hovered over 11.30- 12.30. And each day the dial of the clock moved beyond the decided timing, I'ld vacillate between picking up the broom and craning my neck out of the window or the balcony ( depending on which, I thought would give me a better view of Her arrival).I shared the same sentiments as Hamlet and he had much more serious issues in life....  And as the clock ticked away, unaware of the rising temperature, my family members would keep away from my path and seething silence.
    So I thought , Okay lets speak rationally instead of a verbal match. Keeping in mind the literacy levels of both the affected parties, I tried 'discussing' the issue of non- compliance with the Agreement. She had her share of problems ...she stayed awake till late trying to entertain herself after a hard day's work ...kid leaving for school early in the morning...household chores to be completed...So, I gave her a deal.
  " If you come on time for a month without delays, I'll give you an extra amount, your salary notwithstanding". I was trying to buy my sanity here, actually.She agreed.
   But domestic bliss was just not what the Horoscope had in store for me. She stuck to her 11.30- 12.30 window. So, yet again I tried the humane angle. " Alright, what exactly is your problem. Lets work this out and arrive at some solution..." So after much cajoling and talking heart to heart of woman's problems and the rest, she finally admitted sheepishly.
   She has a son who watches cricket matches on TV at night. This deprives her of her serials. And so she catches up on her serials after 10.00 in the morning and hence she comes in late! Finally, the reason was out but not that it helped solve the problem. She continued to be a defaulter. I decided I couldn't risk my sanity to her serials and so she has to be replaced.
   Today I am in a better frame of mind, as of now!

global warming and childhood

      How many of us have smiled and laughed when relating childhood antics to friends and children? I guess, all of us...provided they are incidents you can retell :) And the place where we spent those precious days, leave an indelible mark in our memory.
      But a report in yesterday's TOI  of Delhi edition jolted me from one such reverie. According to the report, many low lying areas like Vellachary, Kotturpuram of Chennai, will nowhere be on the map in fifty years time! Something snapped in me.

     Part of my childhood and most parts of my adolescence was spent at Kotturpuram. The gang of the neighbourhood always played in the park adjacent to our building...come what may...rain or sunshine (hardly any of the former and overdose of the latter). We had many a moonlit dinners on the terraces of the buildings and organised fete... just us, the kids of the block. Playing Rounders was the high point of the evening games in the park. Rounders was a rudimentary baseball where we used the hand in place of the baseball bat.And yes, we have had our share of breaking people's window panes which, in some cases, we had to repay with our pocket-money( that pinched!)                                                                                                                            One such evening, we must have been playing either Rounders or Seven Stones( Pitthu), when we heard the sound of shattering glass. All the groups of children playing in the vicinity stopped in their tacks, for we didn't know which one of us was it. As luck would have it, it was Us that  day!All hell broke loose when we realized it was Female's window pane! Now I don't remember why we honoured her with the name, considering she was a female. It must have been one of those casualties of childhood... Probably the fact that she was always ranting at us even after we had long gone home, must have helped us, to arrive at such a nomenclature.On that fateful day, female was sitting on her throne in the loo,  when our naughty ball broke that very window pane!!We ran helter-skelter to hide at our homes. And female, that evening, ranted like never before... Now when I think of it, we should give her a box of chocolates, like they show in the cadbury's commercial,for all the nuisance we must have been.            
            Kotturpuram, gave my brother and I, the freedom to grow and explore our childhood. We cycled down, on its then wide road, to IIT campus where another set of friends were there. With them we explored the IIT jungle with impromptu picnics, treasure hunts, enjoyed a good movie( Sound Of Music, Chitty chitty Bang Bang etc) at the Open Air Theatre...
       And this very Kotturpuram, they say, will be submerged in fifty years time. The Kotturpuram, that is testimony of our childhood. And there are many such places, which I am sure has many memories for you all that will meet the same end...And I am not talking of faraway Maldives, Mauritious and any other exotic landscape...thanks to Man's insatiable greed...                                 

Hidden Treasure

   It was a chanced remark made, in the Nehru Park on 14th November that prompted me to share this with all of you. Four families were out for a picnic, so the kids could  have a free run of the green expanse. Most importantly, it kept the kids out of our hair and they in turn, were out of range of our nagging.

         After the games of badminton, football, flying discs  we were just lazing on the grass and discussing everyday stuff, dishes and snacks( recipes of 'litti' and 'thekua'- part of eastern UP and Bihar cuisine), time of the year it is made, non existence of school pressure on the kids, what the world is coming to...Now when I think of it, we must have sounded like old hags who had "seen- all -and- done- them".
         One of us, who has just started her domestic life and was juggling a career also, very excitedly related how at the fag end of the month she had sold the old newspapers and added Rs eighty to her household kitty!! And immediately, we( the seasoned ones) pounced to narrate our own stories of apparent hardship days, or you can say the initial days of household mismanagement( not that we do a great job now).
        The first dinner I hosted single handedly, after marriage was in Jullundhar in the peak of summers( someone who's been there at that time of the year, will empathise). To be on the safer side, the bachelors were my guests. Being officers and gentlemen, they would refrain from making any comments on my culinary skills! But even they could not finish the humongous amount of food . Anyway, the bright side of it was- I wasn't slogging over the stove for the next three days( if you ask my husband, he'll say seven...they have a habit of exaggerating). The flip side was- we couldn't look at 'rajma', paneer' etc for the next few months...

       Having been flung to all God-forsaken places, we were very happy when in his 17th year of service, he was posted to civilization, I mean, Delhi. We gaped at malls, like a simpleton awed by the high-rises, the affordable food joints were explored sumptuously after much hunting, the escalating school bills and other related bills were paid. Thank god for places like Sarojini market! Oh! and the movie halls were awesome with Dolby digital!!!And the guests... ( we love entertaining and having people over)!!! It was wonderful!!!!!

    ... By the 17th of the month, we were staring at Rs 800 in the account, in a place like Delhi, with two school-going kids and guests announcing their arrival... So when I find tokens of Goddess Lakshmi stashed under the clothes and long forgotten, or by selling old newspapers- its a Jackpot for me!!!!

Summer Camps at Grandmother's home

     Modern Day Scene -  Long summer vacations today mean tripping over children and their play things at home. And they, of course come with unusual sounds and eerie silences( giving a premonition that all is not well).So whats the next best thing we do ? Scan the ads and papers for "summer camps", hobby classes...anything that will take them off your hands, and at the same time teach them valuable lessons in life.

   Flash back 30 to 40 years - Vacation time!! We have been waiting for this for months now! All my cousins will be there, has called all of us. My favourite mama  has already come to pick me up. The best part of the deal is - No Parents!! Yippee!!Finally we all land at Aita's place and there are so many things to share! We wake up to hot tea(a strict no-no with my Mother). We are allowed to make our own chapati on earthen stoves.All the chapatis turn into maps of various countries and hence we reinforce our geography lessons. And then we go into the fields just for the heck of it. There are so many trees to be climbed and so many fruits to be plucked. And the science lessons seep into us( not that we think of them there...are you crazy!). The impromptu picnics in the middle of the huge vegetable patches.We love to help Aita and Mamis with spinning thread and weaving. Every darn thing is home-made...
  
                  Evening times are spent playing "hide and seek", "house- house",making dolls out of old clothes and all the games of childhood. Under the starlit night we listen to Koka's stories of their heydays amid the distractions of catching fireflies!When a cousin reminds us that catching fireflies makes you wet the bed, we immediately stop.Sometimes we enact plays, complete with home made costumes and screens and props! How we rehearse! They eventually end up in squabbles and fights...but we make up too after the sulks. And the D day for the show has enthusiastic grandparents and uncles and aunts, clapping away and laughing at the silliest of jokes!!!! Then the Party Pooper...holidays have come to an end. Hey! Where did the days go?Never mind, there's always a next time.




  Back To Modern Day - I am sure my mother also must have said "Yippee!" when she packed us off. On the hindsight, that was a true Summer camp with loads of bonding, team spirit, life enhancing skills, EQ, IQ,organic lifestyle... all thrown in together but enveloped in unconditional love of grandparents, uncles and aunts...

Morning rush

I am yet to hear anybody claiming that their mornings, on any given week day is orderly and quiet. Especially if you have school going children. As in other places, schools in Delhi believe in starting the learning process early- which implies that the parents wake up at ungodly hours. Waking up the children begins with gentle cajoling (unless the parents themselves are late). And then the quality of the voice and the intensity of the pitch increases, depending on the position of the hands on the clock. Socks not found, the expression on the childre's face of "how-did-this-homework-come-up", new notebook to be dug out, half wailing kids with "teacher will kill me" and the retorts "you deserve to be."All this while there are other distractions of saving the lunch from burning, pushing food into their mouths.
And finally when they tumble out of the house, I sit and wonder why does this happen everyday in my house? How do I make this more methodical as in an "assembly-line"?


One such morning, after having packed of the kids, I had the luxury of looking out of the terrace. There were children in various uniforms waiting or rushing for their bus. My house had the advantage of being bang at the common and last stop for all school buses in the area.There were screeching tyres of cars, parents ensuring that kids don't miss the last stop.Some senior kids had books open but busy in discussing other interesting facts( there were exceptions though).There was a child of 5 years, dressed up as Hanuman who had to be lifted and pushed into the bus because he refused to go dressed the way he was.In the course of the event, it looked like a reluctant Hanuman flying into the bus, accompanied by unwanted sounds comming from the bus. A mother was pulling a half sleepy 6year old, whose brother had already kept the bus from leaving his sister behind.

After most of them left, I was enjoying the morning sounds when the last school bus pulled in.And the final lot of the children boarded. And that, I thought was the end of the morning chaos.However the bus didn't move for a few minutes. The conductor stepped out, craned his neck for some stragglers since the number of children must not have been complete.As the bus inched forward, the conductor gave one last try for some missing child. And then I saw, from my vantage point...a cyclist furiously pedalling like his life depended on it. As he came closer, I saw a child sitting behind him with school bag on his shoulders, a water bottle around his neck with both hands holding on to the seat of the rider...he had a chapati rolled and stuck into his mouth. Some hapless mother must have been at her wit's end and as a last ditch effort , she must have shoved the "chapati" into the child's mouth. As he came near the waiting bus, the conductor sprinted, lifted the child and transported him into the bus. The bus left immediately.

And so ended another uneventful day for every home in my area.

Making Homes out of Nothing At all

       As a newly wed bride, I certainly did not realise the ingenuity required to make homes out of different structures and material. As far as 'innocent me ' was concerned, you make homes out of minimum 3-room set-ups that exist in concrete- which is your personal space, sometimes thrown open to entertain friends!
                                           

     However, the first home that I stayed in for a month was in Jullundhar, at a friend's house, whose wife had gone on a month's leave. She had left the Separated Family accommodation (SF in the Armed Forces  parlance) for us, to join her husband at Field location in Leh, during the summer vacation. Except for the linen nothing in the house bore my signature. After marriage I guess you give in to the instincts of playing 'house-house', and relive that game of your childhood.  I decided to curb this feeling for a more suitable structure. ( You see, married accommodations were hard to come by in a peace station)

     As the initial month came to an end, we moved into something that seemed like a train of rooms with a door that opened at the front, and another such hole at the back.When there was no electricity supply during the day, you might as well have played darkroom. But I was determined to play 'house-house'. So the first cavity was given the semblance of a living room.The next in sequence, was a long hall kind of space, that was divided into two parts with the kind consent of a rickety old wooden almirah.This served as the dining space and our 'bedroom' respectively. And as you continued your amble from the front door towards the 'back-hole', you would come across the kitchen that was just a hop away from the bed.
    After a tiring day's work of trying to bring about some kind of order to the place on the day we moved in, we decided to crash in early. Every joint was aching and all the nerves were tingling. We could have slept like logs. But Heavens had other plans. It rained that night. Apart from making noise on the tin roof the rains felt like playing 'catch-me-if-you-can' with us. We were caught unawares when a steady drip on the bed woke us up. We were running around the place with little bowls and big bowls to hold the dripping roof, a bucket( the only one we had), a frying pan etc. All the suitable belongings were given a different role to play. After all how much do you really own in the first two months  of marriage!!

       I was happy. It was my home. I would scrub, clean and do everything required to give it a squeaky clean look( domestic helps were hard to come by and in anycase they were a lot smarter than me). In spite of all my efforts the place refused to relent and gave out a strange musty smell. It baffled me , challenged my training in household matters. However, it was short lived as we moved into another dwelling after a fortnight. Later I was told, the 'train- of- rooms' was a horse stable during the British rule. That explained a lot of things !!

The one I moved into after this was a cute two room set-up, with an orange tree right at the doorstep. It also boasted of a hanky-sized lawn . The kitchen was so tiny that it could accommodate only one person at a time. But I fell in love with this place. I still consider that my best home.

Frankly these homes start growing on me, and I tend to shed a few tears when its time to leave and start all over again, at some other place. After three months, we were once again uprooted and hurled into the exotic land of Leh. This time , the challenge came in the form of a 'tin- fibre-wool' one room shed. Considering the altitude and climate of Leh, the space alloted to us was cosy and snug. Once again a partition came up to demarcate 'kitchen' and 'living room-cum-bedroom-cum-dining room-cum-TV room'. Again I was happy to modify it into a cosy nook and ahem..ahem...people found the shed quite pretty. We were all living under the same circumstances i.e., in Juggi Jhopdi ( JJ Colony).  I was proud of my home. Apart from the aesthetics, I was the proud owner of a sink in the kitchen( courtesy , my husband's resourcefulness which was activated once I told him " I Will Not Wash Utensils In The Loo. Bring Me A Sink Or I GO BACK)

I guess vanity has to pay its price. When we were at our home town, enjoying the last few days of the annual leave, we got a call from one of our friends in Leh, " Hey! When you come back, get some more woollens and blankets to see you through the winter. Your house was burned down and I can still see it smoking".


I cried . I cried not for having lost our belongings in the fire. I cried for having lost my 'home'. I cried, for not being able to take my newly born girl to her home. I couldn't have possibly taken her in severe winters ,when the temperatures plunged twenty degrees below zero, without the basics. Yes, those sheds were fire hazards but it was my HOME.

bake a cake

If you are sighing," Oh! Another recipe for a cake from a- stay -at -home- mom!", rest assured this is not one of those. Its just that, I like to bake a cake when I am stressed out. The mixing together of the sugar and the eggs infuses me with new energy. The blending together of the flour that releases the rich chocolaty colour and rich texture excites me.

Pop it into the oven . And gradually your house is taken over by a delicious chocolateyyy...( pl xcuse me dictionary) aroma that transforms it into a home. And when the children come home in the evening, ( well! I am a part- time - stay-at-home-mom) and bite into a warm chunk of buttery chocolate cake with a grin , you know every bit was worth it. It fills you with bliss and satisfaction, when every crumb is wiped off the plate.

I guess creating anything is blissful. It is calming to know for yourself, that you have achieved something. And being appreciated for it , is like icing on the cake. But I like my cakes without the icing.I mean, when it comes to eating them. The ones with the icing are a little messy. The home baked ones have more warmth in them, like the pullovers that are hand-knitted and require you to stand many number of trials with your back turned.

When I am tired or feeling blue, I trip to the kitchen and reach out to my old friends, to pep me up!

No TV

Courtesy Google Images

     People have always looked at us with incredulity written large on their face when we tell them that we don't own a TV. Their various expressions and responses can be translated into "Are you crazy?"One of my in-laws went to the extent of saying "Don't worry, I'll lend you the money". We found these responses quite amusing. And no, we were not trying to be "different" in an adolescent way. What began as an experiment, soon became a habit. We found the TV intrusive. But of course we had our adjustment blues.

   Let me start at the very beginning.The brainwave occurred to me when my husband was posted to Dehradun. We were moving from the lovely Wellington in the Nilgiris. As is the habit we were disposing certain stuff, and TV happened to be one of the casualties. Prior to this ,we have had our share of family warfare ,on the issues of channel surfing. On reaching the new place I said "No TV". My husband was confused ( You see he is an irrevocable cricket addict!) But he was a sport and went along with the plan. Those were difficult days for him. You could say he was going through withdrawal symptoms. He was glued to the phone as some kind colleagues consented to give him a ball by ball telephonic commentary. When we were around any market area, he could be found hovering around little kiosks or big stores that had TV in them. My daughter couldn't be dragged out of my neighbour's house. There were times I felt guilty and asked him to buy one. But maybe he was gradually getting used to natural sounds( of which Dehradun had plenty to offer). We were talking more often and not just in monosyllables.
           

Coutesy Google Images

   It was liberating . Suddenly our lives were no longer dictated by the inane serials and loud , sensationalizing news channels. . We had the time to pursue hobbies and 'listen' to each other. And we did not feel like misfits in society. Our daughter certainly didn't grow up as an underdeveloped and deprived individual. The time gained was utilised with some habits like reading, sharing thoughts and ideas . The journey into discovery had begun. This does not mean that every thing on TV is mindless. It has its moments of glory and sensibility. But we like our life without the electronic media as of now.