Narinderpal

Narinderpal was hardly 4’-8.” Her face was small, dark wheatish, and she would tie her very curly, very black hair in a plait. She gave the impression of being a little school kid – only until she opened her mouth. Her voice was too heavy for her height and looks.

We were together in the GNDU campus during our M.A. days. I was from Goraya, so I had to live in the university hostel. She was from Sultanwind, and still liked to live in the hostel. The top floor of the B wing ( I think it was B) was assigned to our class. Her room was right opposite the shared washroom, so we would often stop by to say hi to her. Her smile would extend right into her small deep-set eyes.

She idolized me – I never thought I was worthy of her attention, or of her hero worship, but she somehow looked upto me with a certain devotion that would invariably leave me slightly embarrassed. It never flattered. Sincere though they always were - I was always looking for ways to escape her compliments. She would love the way I made notes, love the way I planned my studies, love the way I carried myself, loved the way I handled the stage – but I somehow always wanted to escape that praise.  She would like to walk with me, but I was always kind of self  conscious walking with her –she was so short and thin, I was taller and plumper. (okay, fat perhaps)

She had a huge crush on our very handsome teacher who taught us "Saint Joan." Oh my, didn’t we all? She would look at the tall Sardar with moonstruck eyes while he would animatedly deliver Joan’s speeches and Bluebeard’s exhortations. (Why did I always think Bluebeard must have looked like him?)

M.A. I happened, and then M.A. II flew by. My father passed away just two months before our exams were to start. Narinder would offer support whenever she would find me sitting and crying alone in my cubicle. She would force me to come to her room, and would talk to me. I still remember she said, “Manpreet, you will die crying, stop this and focus on your exams now.” I would be amazed to see where she got the courage to scold me. I had always respected her, but she became some kind of a go-to person in those days. We somehow finished our exams and parted ways, with promises to write to each other. Yes, those were the days when we would actually write long letters to friends.

I began writing to her, as I wrote to all my friends during the hot summer days awaiting results of M.A. She would write back in her small, neat and emphatic handwriting. Then her letters stopped coming. I still wrote – angry some times, anxious at others – but I kept writing to her, asking her - "Narinder - Nanni/Nannu (we used to call her) - where are you? What's happening?"

Three months, or was it four months? I received a letter from her brother. It read something like, “Dear Sister, who are you writing all those letters to? She died three months ago!!”

I did not have the courage to ask what happened to her. I just wrote a letter of condolence to him.

She stayed on, in my mind, I always wanted to write about her, her voice still is around me. We were never very close, but she somehow still lives somewhere in my heart.

(June 13, FB)

My Mother, Head Cover, and Education

My mother used to wear a sari many years ago. She would have only two or three kameez salwar sets-that too when she had to go to her in-laws’ village or her own native village. It was perfectly normal for us to see her in a sari. In fact we associated her sari with her office-formal wear it was. She never used to cover her head with it.

Then she started to wear a kameez salwar and with it, a dupatta over her head all the time. I took some time adjusting to it, but then it was the call of the day and she being the ultra-flexible person, took to wearing what was the demand of the times. Sari had suddenly become a lewd and un-Sikh like dress. She stowed her saris away in trunks and cupboards, only to take them out seasonally to air them. We would wear them for some functions and flaunt our grown up selves in a changed attire. I still have not overcome the scare of having a sari coming untied down to my feet in the middle of an important presentation or a class, so I avoid wearing it. Mom still wears and carries well a sari for some functions where she does not want to cover her head.

Yesterday, we were at a friend’s place. Mom took two of her books for that friend’s family to gift them. The family’s daughter-in- law C and our relative H served lunch. Mom kept talking to the grandmother of the family. Mom wore a white cotton suit and a white dupatta and she kept her head covered all the time. H knows my mom quite well, C was meeting her for the first time. C kept talking to mom quite condescendingly, even sympathetically. After lunch when the customary seating pattern of men sitting separately from the group of women was repeated, we sat in one of the many bedrooms in the house. I left them for a few moments to check on the kids sitting in the kids’ room. When I returned, H was just short of ROTFL. She said, “Didi, C asked aunty (my mom), Thora bahut parhey likhey wi ho? (Have you had any education?)” I was aghast. Mom is a Ph.D, for dear God’s sake. This was the first time mom had been asked a question like that. I didn’t like it, but tried to smile and asked C whatever made her think that she was not? She said it was because of the head covering (dupatta) she wore. She tried to apologize but I didn’t want her to feel bad. She had a right to her opinion too. Mom turned it into a light one by quipping, “No, I aint educated, I just wear them spectacles to give a semblance of an educated woman.”

*****

Below is a video of my mother speaking on Jalandhar DoorDarshan on Female Foeticide. It is a fragment of the program that lasted an hour. Kindly adjust with me for the poor quality of recording. Mampi to be blamed for holding the phone rather awkwardly.

Friends are For Ever

She came, she stayed, she conquered. And she messed up all my plans of the vacations to be used for some technical reading, some exam-paper marking, some stay-at-home new year bash (if ever there is one) and some time for myself. She toppled my apple cart and I was left counting my apples on the floor. The night Roop and Pavan came, we sat till 3 a.m. I was not sure how Mahesh would like my blogger-pals, but he was so friendly with Pavan that all my doubts about my decision of asking Roop over vanished in a second. We had a late dinner. Mom was around. I tucked the kids into bed by 11 pm - way too late than their 9 pm curfew. The reason was that my daughter was absolutely crazy about her school mate who she has a weird similarity to in many things. They have the same school house, same tastes, same teachers, and even the same poem that they prepared. Once the initial niceties were exchanged, me and Roop became our nasty selves that we are on chat. Oh I forgot to add, we have christened ourselves as the two Mrs Chat-ter-jees (she junior, I senior) with due apologies to all my Bangla pals. Many friends think we are cousins, or long lost friends. We believe we are some strangely connected pair of buddies born about 8 years apart. Mahesh and Pavan said we resemble closely too. Told you, it is weird.

Me and Roop did a flash fight with our cameras, her pro Canon and my ghareeb Sony Cybershot, I even listened to Pavan talk about why he thinks there is no God. Mahesh was totally impressed at the way P was making up his case of no God. I and Mahesh are Phools who believe in God, if you remember, so it was kinda different for us. To cut it short, that night, till 3 am, we kept sitting in the biting cold in the dining room exchanging rare gyan about religion, society, curd, villages etc. Only the next day, unfortunately, the newspapers didn’t carry this news.

Next day, a late start, not much shopping. Again a 3 am good night, but that day she slept till 2 pm while Pavan went to some area near by, just for a cold stroll. I kept pestering him with a grandmotherly advice, “Give me a buzz once you feel you cant find your way back home.” Kept the phone handy in my pocket and kept cleaning up the house while Her Majesty slept. I went, pulled up the razai and told her, "Oye, You are not here to sleep." She said, "Mampi, please please, please." "Oww baby," and then I just tucked the razai neatly and moved out quietly. Why am I taken in so easily?

Then she wanted to go shopping again. Hell, what's with her dollars! And she wanted to go meet her relatives (29th December) and they came back on the 31st. A foggy day, and we were going 60 km away for the new year celebration. Kids, mom, Roopavan, Manmahesh, all had great fun. Crazy new year eve. And I and Mahesh are the kinds who would rather sit at home and have fun rather than go out and suffer the falling fog. But we went, danced while the Haveli people said they don’t want anyone to dance. How stupid can they get? But I guess that is the only way they can control the booze-crazy Punjabis on the night when they see beautiful dancers on stage and get drunk anyway without the booze. However, the people just lost patience once they saw Roop dancing at the end of the standing crowd and falling in the process. Ogling her, many others tried to match her zeal and fell too, and we laughed. Kassam sey, I saw people falling . The best part was Pavan's Jatt Punjabi act. Wished each other happy new year with unusual glee. We went there as domestic animals, we came back as party animals. The party got over by oo:30 hrs and we were seen off rudely by the Haveli people. Okay, not as rudely as the lurkers behind might have been. But we came when the others were still around. Mahesh loves to say, "Mela bharya chaddi’da hai." ( Leave the gathering when it is full) Drove back in blinding fog, all the while chattering away to glory at the back seat while Pavan’s words from the front seat got lost somewhere in his worry about the fog.

He flew the next day to Chennai and she went off and on to see her relatives, keeping me on toes. Mampi I am going, Mampi I am coming, Mampi my boutique wali will give my suit that day, Mampi this, Mampi that. Then I tempted her to come attend a wedding. I will spare you the torture of other details. But will love to mention that she straigtened my hair out for a more hep look and I put kajal in my eyes and Mahesh commented, "Tu fer la leya kala kala?" ( did u put that black stuff in your eyes again?) I frowned and scowled and then went to wedding.While I went to the jago with my friend whose brother was getting married, Roop and Avneet (Mahesh’s cousin who is crazy about dancing) made themselves comfortable by starting the dance and already setting the dance floor on fire by the time we came back after yelling and dancing in the streets as a huge spoilt group. And I too danced like there was no Rakhi Sawant. Even found a boyfriend there (so what if he is 5 yr old, he actually loved to see me dance). Again slept at 3 am. I really wonder why the night was day when this crazy girl was around. Talked about some serious stuff, some funny stuff, some teasing, some parenting etc etc etc. And then she went away on 5th noon. That’s why Mampi couldn’t blog saala.

I wanted to write about meeting NM in Delhi. Came to delhi on the 20th December and absolutely didn’t know how to reach her house. Was on phone for a considerable time to seek her blessings, errrrr guidance and reached easily. She was ready with her betu who is an amazing chap. I asked him, "How do you open that door outside, it is so tight. " He said “aise” and gave it a rough shove with his bum. Now I could surely do better than him and he was visibly pleased at this student who was a fast learner with better endowed push stuff. I cannot help but mention that NM is an amazing cook. She loves to feed you and that too in no time. she had her stuff ready and fed us a typical rajasthani lunch, which I absolutely adored. How Do We Know ( I know this doesn’t sound like a person; but I wont want to reveal her name in case she doesn’t want to) drove all the way from Gurgaon in the bad weather to meet me, and brought her little one with her who is such a cute hunk that he kept checking me out now and then, but then lost interest (guess he saw Mahesh with me) and gave up pursuit. Then his mommy and NM allotted him and Anirudh another room and he lost me, poor chap. HDWK, her son Ishaan, and Anirudh stood together, posing with a bicycle. And all looked age-mates. She is such a cute presence. I must mention the zeal with which she came. She doesn’t normally travel with her son in Delhi smog but she threw all caution to wind and came to see me. I am flattered, honored and really grateful that she could do that. Both the bloggers have given great accounts of our meeting. I am late, but blame that on Roop please.

Jasdeep came to visit me at my home while Roopavan were still here. So it was kind of a bonus for us all. He writes beautiful poems and also introduces us to new and old poetry in Punjabi. A simple soul he is. He told me that he had expected a fashionista welcoming him and here I was, a complete desi. But he was kind to mention he was not disappointed. Still I had my revenge at his modest comments. Wicked wicked me, I kept him hungry for 2 hours before I served the breakfast at 11 which was to be served at 9. Why? Simply because the host and the rest of the guests were not ready to face, umm, meet him yet. On that cold morning, the paranthas and chai never went cold, because there was this heated discussion on I don’t know what. Seriously, Pavan and Jasdeep got into argument on something communistic. I tried to quieten them by buttering them and by persuading them to take a lot of dahi. That proves that I am the quintessential granny?

2008 has been a great year in terms of blog–mates coming together. I met Pinku, Parry in Summer, rather met them twice, and look forward to meeting them again soon. Then there is Sumanto who is really a reluctant blogger, but blogger he sure is now. It’s different that I know him for 13 years more as a buddy than as a blogger. Mithe is very much around all the time, meeting me in the corridors of my college, but I acknowledge her talent as blogger first and foremost. I met Amarjit Uncle who writes brilliant Haikus in Punjabi. Then the year wound up with meeting Jasdeep, the great Roop Rai swayam and with pati. With so much of inspiration flowing around, I suspect Mahesh will soon come up with a blog of his own.

Coming back to where I had started from, I just about finished my deadlines of lecture preparation, marking exam papers (why are the kids made to sit for exams at all, I fail to understand; and then why does the cruel University want those papers marked at all??) clearing the backlog of reading of blogs, and catching up with sleep.

Phew, the junior Mrs Chatterjee flies out tomorrow.

(I loved being missed while I was away. Every single message left a grin on my face. Hell, I was more popular on Roop's blog than on my own. Thanks Roop, see this is why I wuv you.)

Mumbai Blood

Rana Bose is a multifaceted personality - aware, awake and alert to the times that we live in. You can read his brilliant take on the Mumbai Blasts here.

Dear Mama

You retire today. But I know that you never tire, so you will never re-tire. You are off from your regular duty of administering. I know how much you relished doing it. You have practically thrown yourself into the task of making the surroundings, institutions and everybody around you visibly better than when you first find them. I use the verb ‘have’ instead of ‘had’ because you will always remain this way. There is no past tense in your life nor your career for there is nothing undone, nothing that was wished for and not achieved.

If there is a life packed with action, action and more action, it has to be yours. No travel has been too long, no hour too late for your work. I have looked upon you as a super-human and a super-mom. Life literally threw stones at you and you used them to build a house for all of us to live in. When I look at you, I see you dancing with joy at my wedding; I see you at the gate of our house on a scooter with loads of groceries in the dicky of the scooter; I see you walking into government and non-government offices and commanding respect; I see you leading your staff onto welcoming the chief minister of the state with élan; I see a life so full that there is no room for emptiness. Weathered, conditioned, beaten by the winds, your face today reflects the strength that you have achieved over the decades, the strength you want me to have. Whenever I am low, whenever I feel I am not getting my due, I think of a woman who has worked overtime (without that overtime allowance) to give a better opportunity to her students, her staff and to do more justice to her job. It is then, that I think that I have a long way to go. Your life, your history, your study-career is an example so close to home that I have never been able to think beyond it.

You are not the resting kinds, I know you will take up another administrative assignment. It would hardly matter if it is paid or honorary. What matters is that it must afford you the opportunity to do something radical and different-otherwise it wont be exciting enough for you.

I came into your life clad in that saffron dress when you were close to reaching the peak of your career. The happiness that you exuded at my entry in your life has always been with me-through shine and through rain. I remember you got your PhD degree a couple of months after I came, and we were all one proud family. Your daily routine of getting up way before everybody else, giving me a dose of ‘work hard, it will help you’ and banishing me to the roof-top to study alone has actually led me to finish my own PhD project. Living with you is a daily challenge, of having to prove myself close to what your expectation of ‘perfect’ is. It has worked wonderfully to my benefit.

There is so much that I wish to say today upon the superannuation of a brilliant service. I feel I have not been able to express even half of what I had to say to begin with. Perhaps this is how we all are-lost for words when we need them the most.

But I have found the words that I wanted to say.

I am proud that you are my mother-in-law.

This Morning

My favorite treadmill in the gym overlooks an interesting segment of the road. To avoid looking at the calorie-time –distance-incline-speed panel, I usually concentrate on the people going by. Early mornings are always a familiar scene, whether you watch it from the treadmill, or from the window of your house sipping tea. Fathers with rumpled hair, sleepy eyes, nightclothes going to drop the kids on their scooters and bikes; reluctant kids hanging on to the seats, or onto the fat tummies of their still young dads who are going to flop on the bed the moment they reach back home. Rickety school buses carrying children to school-amazing how the cars and other personal vehicles come with all kinds of safety measures but the van and bus wallahs have modified the buses with seats to benches and kids sit there prone to falling in any direction should the bus take a turn. I always used to wonder where do all the old vans and discarded buses go. And now I come to know that they are employed for these “not so important” journeys. And kids going in buggies. Buggies - the very logic of which makes me cringe, but which, in any case, are better than the rickshaws manned by skeletal men who have to paddle fat men and women to their destinations. And of course, cars – driven by ill-clad chauffeurs (it being Ludhiana) and dads and moms who go to drop the kids to school.

Today, there was something special that I saw. There were five kids, probably slum kids-probably not - but definitely from lower middle class. They were all in motley dresses, not in the uniforms of public schools. One of the kids, a female, had a single crutch to support herself, and a carry bag in one hand. Other kids were younger, and all carrying school bags or plastic carry bags-obviously going to school on foot. They stood and had a deliberation amongst them over I don’t know what. Then they hailed a rickshaw that was passing by them in the same direction. I do not know what the exchange between them was, but I saw the rickshaw puller shaking his head indicating a negative response. The kids again talked to him, probably pleaded with him. After about 2 minutes of discussion, the older girl indicated to the kids to hop into the rickshaw. They all took their seats immediately on the main seat and the "tupp", and off they went.

From what I gathered with my over-oxygenated brain atop my sweating body, I presume the kids requested him to drop them to their school, and he refused. They then renegotiated and then he relented.

And I am 100 percent certain that the kids had no money between them.

Therefore, I admire the rickshaw puller, who got nothing in monetary terms from this trip, except perhaps some mental satisfaction of having helped a few underprivileged kids.

Would you, or I, or anyone else amongst us do it if we were going past them in a car ??

BITTO

Her name is Bitto, endearing term for Bitiya, as her parents must have called her when she was a little girl. I met her in New Delhi one evening when I was famished and wanted something good to eat after a whole day of rummaging through the books and shelves of libraries of Delhi. I was just walking aimlessly towards the Bengali Market when I saw her selling roasted corn cobs on the roadside.

It was a hot evening of June and Delhi walahs know how it is in June on the Delhi roads. And there she sat, in such a heat, vigorously airing the red hot coals. She had just opened her ‘shop’- if you may call the two brick makeshift stove and a wire mesh one. Under the tree that she sat, is the road that I have spent many an evening walking and smelling the great raat ki raani. It never fails to give me a nostalgic feeling for home. Coming back to Bitto, she sat there, in front of a house close to the road. I asked her to make me a fresh corn cob and after a stressful day, just sat there cross-legged, by her side, on a brick waiting for her to roast a good piece for me. In that W.H.Daviesian moment, I just stared at the cars going by, people passing by. And in their non Daviesian moment, people must have wondered what is this woman from an educated background doing sitting on the roadside with a corncob seller, apparently doing nothing. She asked me about my whereabouts, what I did, where I lived. She was suitably impressed with the kind of job I was in, and about the mission I was on in Delhi. When she came to know about my Punjab connection, she pointed out that I might be finding the corn cob too costly since we can get it almost free in Punjab. I laughed and said; no it’s no more like that. Though I myself come from a farming family, we no more grow it, so I pay roughly the same money for a feast like the one she was making for me. Meanwhile the cob was ready, she took extra care to apply more of lemon and less of salt as per my request, and I paid for it and moved on. I did not have to go eat junk.

Next day, around the same time, I was with her again. Today, she welcomed me with a smile of recognition. Today she was a bit different. She had her usual one eye on a perspective customer and another, very angry one, on a Delhi Police Cop who sat in a very small and tortuous beat-box close to her station. On asking she revealed that he had threatened her with destroying her “shop” because she had refused him a free snack of a corn cob. I jokingly said “de dena tha, bhikari samajh ke de deti”. She laughed and said, she had not done her “bohni” yet, “aise kaise de deti”. I laughed and said yeah then you did right. She was in a double mind. She talked to me more like she was talking to herself, “Kya fark padta, de deti, mera bhi toh dimag kharab ho gaya tha na.” I felt she wanted me to endorse her view. I said yeah, you are right, but now that you’ve done it, let it be. And then I asked her name. We became friends. She, by her own account, is in her early forties. Clad in an old sari, dark complexioned, she smiled, most of the times-except when she was reminded of her early evening rendezvous with the cop. She is already a granny, her grandson being of 3 years. And very understandably I was amazed. She said she had gotten married when she was all of 10, and she had had her elder son when she was about 14. And I was immediately reminded of my soon to be 10 Rasan, who still feeds from my hands.

She had been widowed at the age of 20. Her younger son was two when she lost her husband in an accident. I asked, “Did you or your parents not think of your remarriage?” She said, “Yes, my parents did pressurize me for a remarriage but then I refused.” I asked why. Throwing a few more black coal balls into the fire, she said, “What would I have gotten out of another marriage? A husband who would get drunk each night? And then beat me to pulp? I would have had to bear that and earn a living also. And feed him as well. I thought I was better off without a marriage. I had had children, and I did not want to have another owner.”

Then she told me about how she has been working as a cook and housekeeper for a very busy local gynecologist and her family. I asked her about her routine and she told that she moves from her house at Narela, a sub-urb, at 5:30 am, travels by train for the good part of an hour (or more perhaps) and comes to her employer, cooks their breakfast, then supervises cleaning and washing, then cooks lunch and dinner and moves out by 6 p.m. Then as an additional source of income, she has taken to selling these corn cobs. She sits here till 8: 30 p.m and makes good money. Right opposite to her, across the road, sits her “maami” in the same business. The Maami was about the same age, very quarrelsome and very suspicious. She did not like me sitting and chatting up with her rival-niece. Bitto told me this. While chatting up with me, she kept doing her brisk business too. I admit I did feel ignored at those moments. But of course, I was only a distraction to her.

My interaction with her lasted for three days. She and I became good friends. I felt a little guilty the last two days when I could not go to see her because coming back from the JNU, I would be too late and tired to venture out for the cob. She was winding up when I reached there one day before leaving. She said reproachfully, “I had been waiting for you.” I told her I was leaving for Punjab the next morning. We talked about my children, my family, her sons, and her extended family. And we parted, saying something like, nice meeting you, see you again soon.

What struck me about her was her attitude towards life, marriage, and woman’s status. A total illiterate person, with no scholarly consciousness, and yet so liberated, self dependent, aware of her rights, bold enough to lead a single life. Her will to struggle, to give an even better life to her family-all single handedly- is a thing I would never forget. Never once did she complain of poverty which was so obvious. The worries, the tiredness that comes with the state of deprivation were all too visible on her face, but she kept a cheerful demeanor. I took this picture with her permission and she was blushing when I clicked it in my mobile. Only the blush did not show through the dark evening that surrounded us!