The Evening

He was once an officer with the State Transport Department and speaks reasonably good English. He lives in the Vridh Ashram of the Gurudwara Rara Sahib near Ludhiana. His world is limited to a bed and a window. He is very possessive about his corner but he has never seen this world of his. When we wanted to move his bed to clean beneath it, clean the window, and to dust his surroundings, he insisted that he had been keeping 'his' area clean. But my girls wanted to clean the entire dorm which was badly stinking of urine, vomit and faecal matter.

The girls took half a day to clean the dorm, shake and make the beds, scrape the floor of all the dead skin and other matter that seemed to have been there forever. When this man came back, he was upset that we had moved his bed. I apologised and offered to set his bedding right. He strictly refused to allow me to touch his bed.

He said, I will make my bed myself and would see what all is missing. (The girls had only put someone else's quilt on his bed which he apparently didnt like.)

She is from Calcutta. Her name was Kamla and now she has been renamed Mukhtiar Kaur....what all has changed for her?? Has a few sons and daughters - all 'happily married'. I met her first when I visited them one day prior to Diwali last year. I think I have a special connection with Bengalis. I locate them or they locate me...somehow. But this was the most unlikely place I would find one. Her bed is in the middle of the big

dorm that houses women inmates of the ashram. The moment she saw me today, she extended her hand in recognition and we exchanged a hug. Then she was all smiles. A small frame, shining eyes - half her words incomprehensible. (I have not learnt Bangla. Mental note- I should learn. I am sure I was a Bengali in my last birth and would be one in my next too. Mahesh, please make the necessary recommendations for yourself to dear God...the story of seven births you see.). Mukhtiar Kaur didn't want me to go away. She likes her current place of residence. I wanted to go meet other women also. So she let me go. My girls sang with some old women, gossiped with others and laughed with many. What would Kamla sing? Perhaps only I would be able to bond with her Bengali songs.

These are the son-in-law and the little grandson of this cheerful person. The moment we set his bed right, he invites them in. He hands over his share of biscuits and fruit to the kid. The tall old man rushes to the langar hall to bring kheer for his guests. Guests? The little man seemed to be on an outing. I teased him about gobbling up

his Nanu's biscuits. And I wanted to tell him to do exactly this to his parents when their turn came. He would, even without my training, I am sure he would. There is a saying in Punjabi, I dont know how you translate it into English, "The knots you tie with your hands will have to be opened with the help of your teeth." Will this young man in the middle and his wife one day have these beds as their worlds?

Will he, too, one day pose with a painful smile for some teacher from a college?

The Play

I am a character in a play, you said.

…..

I am fighting with myself, you said.

….

Perhaps

One character

Is fighting with another...

A play within a play?

You filled a void.

You left a void.

I filled my void,

I created my void.

What is this place?

Your presence

Makes the heart lonelier…

Words,

Our connection-

Broken,

Chapped

Bleeding,

Hurt.

I with You

I am a name

a face

a smile

a glow

to you.

To me

you are

a dot

in the dark

that you weave around

yourself.

The dot

that

I refuse

to

move

or

remove.

Jam Baby

She would be called a Jam Baby or perhaps Baby Jam. Or perhaps Zardari Jam. No, they wouldn’t want to associate her with Z . Lets call her Jam Baby.

Lucky, isn’t she? That she is born. Even if it is in a Jam. Isn't it better to become a Jam Baby instead of having been preserved in a Jam Jar? Zardari should not be upset about her for She and her mother are stronger than those babies and mothers who are forced to suffer the glorious practice of saving female fetuses from the trouble of being born. We women should honor and applaud them both. Even Zardari should be honoured for providing the baby an opportunity to show her strength.

Talking about a different sample of woman power, I have always been somewhat doubtful about the abilities and the merits of our own President, Madam Pratibha (Who??) Devisingh Patil. When I compare her to APJ Abdul Kalam, I often wonder what merit did she have to succeed a man of Kalam’s temperament. Just the accident of birth! Not that I am against her becoming the President. She has raised my own ambitions to the sky. Everytime I see her on television and everytime I see her talking about the imaginary babas that visit her in her dreams, I console myself, “Mampi, tera number bhi ayega.” I would also, inshallah, be the President of India one day. If SHE can, anyone can. And I am not that bad, am I?

Now, I was on a prominent Delhi road, waiting for my bus one day when the President Pratibha (Who??) was to pass by. The security personnel on duty (poor chaps) were requesting the people rather forcefully to go behind a barricade. Everyone moved behind the bus stop screen. Why they did, I failed to understand and I didn’t go behind the screen. I had to work hard to stop myself from laughing. I, however, moved back a little. The Delhi Police Jawan was not happy with the way people hid behind the screen. I wasn’t either, but I didn’t matter and the policeman did, obviously. He asked the people to move further back.

"Where?" The people wanted to know.

"There." He gestured. So the people moved behind the road on a link road.

"Further back," he demanded. I refused to budge. "Why should I go hide when my President moves on the road?"

"Orders from above, Madam." He was trying to be humble.

"But she is our president." I was adamant.

"Whatever. You got to go behind that barricade." He meant business.

"But you are also a danger to her, what with your gun and all. And, for all that you know, I can throw a bomb at her from that afar also, hee hee hee." I teased him. He was stunned.

"Chaliye chaliye, madam."

And I dragged my feet. Though I wanted to spring on the road militant style and tell Madam Pratibha Who?? that she had no business disturbing our life like that. But then, she is not at fault. After all, she does not know that she is causing this kind of inconvenience to people. Hell, she does not know many things. Poor lady didn't even know that she was to become the president of this country when she did.

I know, you Dilli walas/walis would say, "Mampi madam you suffered it one day and we are suffering it everyday." I would say, "Well that is part of the fun of choosing to live in the capital city."

Thank God I was not pregnant and due when Pratibha Who?? passed by.

Otherwise I would have been nursing a Jam Baby too.

...And On this 9th March

You went

I crumbled away.

then I gathered the bits again

and built myself

limb by limb

again.

Some days

the pasting was

just a bit harder

then life came along

to give me a wall

to lean against.

Now,

why am I scared

of forgetting you?

***

Some days you do not have the luxury to cry. On those days, you do not have the compulsion to laugh either. You go back, and again try to balance all your equations. And you suddenly find that life was not fair to you. That life took from you what you desperately needed. And then you suddenly realise that another side to balancing the equations is to start counting your blessings. You had realised that three was not four and five was not six; but you recall that you have had some threes that plussed with one to make a four, and some plussed with two to make five.

Life gave you the cards that you could deal in your own way. It were your hands that mattered. But some hands are just not lucky with cards.

Like clay. It destroyed a pot, then you picked up the bits and pieces, and kneaded it again and wet your hands again and then you put it again on the wheel. It took another shape to give you one complete whole.

You are scared, lest this new vessel should break too. So you cover it, so you protect it-at all costs. At your cost. And then you set it free.

I know the story is not complete. It can never be completed. Not by me...

Love La

Congratulations !

You failed

my borsalino test

when I said

“no”.

I built my bridges

but

did not cross them

over to you.

Now,

all that remains

is

lingering around in

lonely

libraries

looking

at dusty covers

and

faded loves.

Journeys...

The sign at the Metro Station

Announces

“The Train Ends Here”

“Yatra Samapat”

... I walk on...

Wake Up ! Mampi

I have been away from this mad mad blog world. Reason is Yoga. Yes, I have become one of those who would sit on their aasan in that ultimate yoga pose and chant OMMMM, and laugh pointlessly when the rest of the class does that, and clap like mad when the instructor tells them to clap. Right in the middle of the clapping session do I realise that I am such a fool and that if one of my students were to be brave enough to pass by this garden while I sit in the front row clapping my brain away, he would go and report in the class and they would all end up sniggering.

Going to yoga class at 5 .15 am since October has had its own advantage. I have suddenly found that over the years I have become stiff as a log of wood. And that I cannot do the SarvangAsan anymore. That of course hurts. By god, it is actually devastating. I mean I could never do a headstand but then SarvangAsan culminating in a Halasan was the best alternative for that. Add to that the fact that I cannot twist my arms at my back and in an attempt to sit in a Gomukh aasan, I tend to sway and finally fall like a broken statue. So I have found a way out. I pretend to sit in the Gomukh aasan and support myself with my hands while all the grey haired men and women around me perfect themselves in the art of twisting their bodies wonderfully and looking at me with a what-a-lazy-bum-she-has-been-till-she-came-here look.

So, day after day, I go to the Rose Garden to learn and enjoy yoga. To be able to reach the yoga class at 5 a.m., I got to get up at 4:30 a.m. Yes it IS an UNEARTHLY hour to wake up. But I have been braving the urge to have another 10 minutes of snooze. Not only that. So conscientious have I been in waking up early that you would be amazed at me. I myself have been.

The other morning, I woke up, suddenly panicked that I was late for my yoga class. Without switching the lights on, I looked at the wall clock opposite my bed (from the lights streaming in from outside). I rushed to the washroom and quickly bushed my teeth, freshened myself up and ran back to the room. Changed from the night dress and then loked at the cellphone to see the time. And boy, it was 2.30 a.m. Wow. What a big fool ! And without switching the lights off I fell like a chopped tree on the bed-laughing hysterically and alone, hit myself on the head and got into my blanket again. Then the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. as usual and Mampi woke up pretending nothing had happened in the night.

Hota Hai, Hota Hai !

P.S. This post was written sometime in November 2008. Now that the conductor has taken some time off work, she thought of posting it.

P.P.S.- Happy New Year 2010. I would read blogs regularly and try to post regularly. No, it is not a New Year Resolution. It is just a resolution.

...Zindagi...

Bus de conductor wangoo
Ban'h gayee hai zindagi apni

Safar wi nahi mukk'na

Tey jana wi kiteiye nahi...

***

Bus ke conductor ki tarah

Ban gayee hai zindagi apni

Safar bhi khatam nahi hota

aur jana bhi kahin nahi...

***

Life has become like a Bus conductor. The journey is endless to no destination...

The Family That Whistles Together....

....Stays together. This is the logic that Mahesh gave to both the kids while counselling them to learn how to whistle using their fingers and their mouth with their tongue twisted inside the mouth.

Last year, he had challenged me to teach the kids how to whistle. “Mampi, YOUR kids should know how to whistle.”

“MY kids? Wow... And by the way, how do you expect me to know how to whistle? You mean I have been whistling at people... Bole toe MEN? You are the man, you are the father, YOU teach them how to whistle.”

This touched a raw nerve somewhere, “I don’t know how to. Otherwise I wouldn’t bring you in picture.”

After an extensive session of YOU YOU ME ME, we finally decided to take some professional help in teaching the kids how to whistle. That was much easier than convincing kids why they should learn how to whistle. My funda is straight. If you can learn to whistle, you can bully people, you can tease people, you can hoot in the auditorium. My kids are rather worldly less wise, so I believed that the ability to whistle would make them more confident human beings.

Once Mahesh expressed his inability to whistle (and believe me, with that he absolved himself of ever having teased a female on the road, or ever having made a pass at one of his pretty classmates), I had to look for someone who could teach the kids the fine art of whistling. Once I found the boys who would help me in doing that (no girls knew how to whistle real loud). But as they say that you can bring the horse to water, but you cannot make it drink. So I, too, could not. My kids were shy, they were reluctant, and they enjoyed cycling more than whistling. So here comes Dad with his logic that I mentioned in the very beginning. He said, “Look, if you learn to whistle, you will have a survival tactic right within you. You can raise an alarm, you can catch someone‘s attention if you need to. If you are stranded at sea, you can even bring down a helicopter.” Okay, this last one was exaggeration and he didn’t say this. Jai was totally exasperated at his father's convincing tactics. "Papa, why dont you just buy us a whistle if it is so important to learn how to whistle?" Anyway, the persuasive devil that he is, Mahesh made both the kids go with me to the ‘whistling classes’. The whistle teachers are my college Bhangra Team. The boys are usually in the auditorium, preparing themselves for the coming Youth festival.

They all know me as a rather weird teacher, but this? They were all wide eyed.

“ Teaching your kids how to whistle? Ma’am, how can we whistle in your presence?”

“OK guys, I can pretend I cannot hear you.”

Most of them were on the verge of crying. “Ma’am if our parents had encouraged us to whistle, we would have reached places. We have been beaten mercilessly for having whistled.”

My heart went out to them. Poor Boys!! I said, “Consider me your mom and whistle away to glory. Practise, practise till you make my kids really good at whistling.”

Every day, in the evening, after swimming class, both my kids would stand with their fingers in the mouth in front of the auditorium and try to whistle. Initially, the whistle was only a forceful breath and the fingers got wet with the saliva they forced out of the mouth. With a day or two of practice, Rasan was able to bring out some semblance of a whistle out of that breath. Another day and she could produce a loud shrill whistle. Then there was no stopping this girl. She would whistle for visitors, she would whistle for parents, she would whistle in the car, in the pool, on the road, on the phone, at night, in the morning before brushing and after brushing, before meals, after meals, in the bathroom and even in the restaurant. “Papa, if I whistle here, nobody would suspect that a little girl with innocent looks has whistled.” And I thought of the group of boys who would get a sound beating for having whistled in the restaurant.

No, Jai cannot whistle yet. He should have learnt it before her; after all he is a Punjabi Boy. But given his dad’s track record, I am rather apprehensive that he would. Coming back to the Family Whistling mission, I am midway into the lessons but Mahesh has withdrawn from the whistling club.

....And I thought Indians were the Greatest Bahanebaaz(es)...

A friend sent me this email. Not sure if you got it from your friends or not. I was about to send it out when I thought that I must share it here.

These are absentee notes from parents (including original spelling) collected by schools all over South Africa .

1. My son is under a doctor's care and should not take P.E. today. Please execute him.

2. Please excuse Lisa for being absent. She was sick and I had her shot.

3. Dear School : Please ekscuse Shadrak being absent on Jan. 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, and also 33.

4. Please excuse Gloria from Jim today. She is administrating.

5. Please excuse Blessing from P.E. for a few days. Yesterday he fell out of a tree and misplaced his hip.

6. John has been absent because he had two teeth taken out of his face..

7. Moses was absent yesterday because he was playing football. He was hurt in the growing part.

8. Megan could not come to school today because she has been bothered by very close veins.

9. Chris will not be in school cus he has an acre in his side

10. Please excuse Justice Friday from school. He has very loose vowels.

11. Please excuse Pedro from being absent yesterday. He had (diahre) (dyrea) (direathe) the sh*ts. [Words in ()'s were crossed out.]

12. Please excuse Tommy for being absent yesterday. He had diarrhea and his boots leak.

13. Petros was absent yesterday because he missed his bust.

14. Please excuse Jimmy for being. It was his father's fault.

15. I kept Beauty home because she was to go Christmas shopping because I don't know what size she wear.

16. Please ekxcuse Wiseman for missing school yesterday. We forgot to get the Sunday paper off verunda, and when we found it Monday, we thought it was Sunday.

17. Sally won't be in school a week from Friday. We have to attend her funeral.

18. My daughter was absent yesterday because she was tired. She spent a weekend with the Marines.

19. Please excuse Jason for being absent yesterday. He had a cold and could not breed well.

20.Please excuse Mary for being absent yesterday. She was in bed with gramps.

21. Gloria was absent yesterday as she was having a gangover.

22. Please excuse Burma , she has been sick and under the doctor.

23. Maryann was absent December 11-16, because she had a fever, sore throat, headache and upset stomach. Her sister was also sick, fever and sore throat, her brother had a low grade fever and ached all over. I wasn't the best either, sore throat and fever. There must be something going around, her father even got hot last night.

24. Please excuse little Jimmy for not being in school yesterday. His father is gone and I could not get him ready because I was in bed with the doctor.

AGYAAT, LUCK, LOVE AAJKAL

1- What kind of a movie does it take to punch a good man?
Answer -AGYAAT-supposed to be unknown.
2- How much does it cost to produce such a movie?
Answer -A lakh or two, because all that the cast has to do is to run through a jungle and go on running in just a single change of clothes. And their roles go on ending one by one, through convenient elimination, blamed on something/someone unknown.
3- How much does it take for this movie to hire a fight master?
Answer -Nothing, cos you cannot see the villain/vamp.
4- How does the movie end?
Answer -With a single hand asking childishly, who-killed-them-all, and the protagonist says, "Hell yaar, no idea who killed them all. Thank god the shooting for the movie is over."
PHEW!
RGV-what did you do my dear? You are the man who produced and directed Satya, Sarkar, Sarkar Raj, Rangeela, Shool-what on earth is prompting you to go for making horror movies? You are making one horror movie for every socially relevant movie that you give us. But then you are the man who gave us Ram Gopal Verma Ki Aag too. Absurd!
You made Phoonk and when I came back from the movie, I vowed to myself that I would never go to another horror flick ever ever ever. But then being a beautiful little Phool that I am, I allowed myself to be tempted into watching 1920. I have not forgotten the horror yet. I kept postponing watching this movie Agyaat. But then the cruel man that my husband is, he persuaded me to watch it with him. Since I am his only movie buddy, he would either watch it with me, or would not watch it at all. And he always succeeds in persuading me, all that he has to do is to talk about the popcorns.
Coming to the movie, the tension starts right from the beginning as is RGV’s wont. But then this time I was amply disgusted with the gory show every few minutes. I was smarter though, this time I just closed my eyes everytime I suspected a death would take place in the movie. Mahesh refused to be moved by the horror . He said the movie failed to scare him. All through the movie, I kept digging my nails in his arms (whenever tension mounted). Poor guy, he will curse RGV. I mean it is not okay if BEEWI digs her nails in your arms while watching a movie... is it??
For RGV makes this absurd movie and aptly calls it Agyaat-the unknown. And he has the cheek to end the movie by telling us that COMING SOON is AGYAAT 2. I have never threatened my husband with anything. I am such a docile beewi. Today I told him at the end of the movie that he deserves a punch for making me go and buy tickets for this movie. Yawning, he started the car in the abandoned parking of the multiplex. It was at that moment that I again warned him against even suggesting that he wanted to watch Agyaat 2.
I had been whining that I don’t want to go watch a horror flick. I would have been happier sitting home and reading all these beautiful blogs if he had not wasted my precious 1.50 hours watching this movie. But then he is not the only one who is to be blamed. Told you, I had gone there to gobble up those yummy popcorns, movie be damned. And the tragedy is that I didn't eat any. I ended up eating nachos ! Bah, what a colossal waste. I should at least have had my bagful of popcorns. Now i will remember the jungle and water, and Agyaat by the nachos that I had there. Sometimes things just combine to give you that sub-natural feel.
That reminds me to count my blessings. Love AajKal is one of those blessings. It is a fabulous movie. Well, I like any movie in which the hero/one of the heroes is shown as an intelligent romantic Sardar, the way they actually are. Yes, I am racially/communally biased. Saif looks good as the young Rishi Kapoor wooing Gisele Monteiro. Boy, this girl is simply cute-every inch an innocent Punjaban like me, well not so old, nor so fat, but almost as cute. Transparently cute and sweet. Wish her luck.
Deepika is totally smashing. Mahesh did not like her (He finds her too thin) but the moment I told him she is Prakash Padukone’s daughter, he was visibly impressed. Is it something unique with him or is it with you all men?
And the week before that was Luck. Luck-a different kind of movie though they had used too much of the word Luck, Luck, Luck, Luck. 'Luck' in Punjabi is the word that we use for a waist. I have something far more than a waist, hence I have a lot more Luck to my credit. This is why I loved the movie. Imran looks cute, Shruti looks good, Sanjay looks great, Danny is fit as ever. The concept is different, the locations breathtaking. Though towards the end, it was more like a common Hindi Bollywood movie in which the hero saves the heroine in that 15 second period that goes on and on for about 30 minutes.
Next week it would be Kaminey, though I and Mahesh have been laughing at Shahid exposing his muscles, and then next week something else and so on and so forth.

Conclusion: Go watch LoveAajKal
Go watch Luck
Puhleez don’t go watch Agyaat .

But then some people always learn from their own experiences. Didnt the ticket counter guy tell me also that Agyaat was ‘so-so’ kind of a movie? Did I heed his advice in my over-enthusiasm to become a pativrata bhartiya nari out to accompany her husband to a horror movie show?
Mind you, I am writing this post within half an hour of returning from the cinema. Now what kind of a movie inspires you to do a post? Of course something like Agyaat. Mahesh said it didn’t deserve a blog post. He was right, wasn’t he?
And he complimented me liberally once we were out of the cinema hall and I was creating some kind of sounds with my singing. He said, "You are better off with the horror thingy." Now, a husband can get only this cute na !!

the lock

Every night

Before sleeping

I remember

to lock the heavy gate

Outside the courtyard

Of my house

From inside.

I do not want

Any intruders.

Tonight

I picked the golden lock

And pushed a silver key in.

I was attempting to lock it shut.

Papa

“Mama, when will Papa come?”
“He will come soon”, she says
and looks out of the window
of her father’s house to which
she has returned, a stranger.

“Does Papa love us?”
“Yes, he loves us a lot”, she says
glancing at the wedding band on her
middle finger
even gold pales with time.

“Will Papa send us money?”
“Yes, pots of it,” and she
pushes back the yellowing strap
peeping out of the neck of her
frayed silk blouse
silk shines but does not last.

“Will Papa bring me toys?”
“Yes, a boxful of them,” and
she looks at her brother’s son
playing with the toy train
forbidden to her daughter
toys are prone to break.

“When did Papa go?”
“Only two months ago.”
she is happy that her
daughter has not yet
learnt to count
it is difficult to count days.

“Why does auntie give apples to
Sonu and not me?”
“Your Papa will bring you apples”
and lies rest in the vermilion
mark on her forehead
Some marry only for a dot of lies.

“When will we have
Our own house?”
“Your Papa will come and take us to
Our own house,” she says and draws
a house on her daughter’s slate
it is easy enough to draw a house.

“What will you do when your Papa comes?”
The little girl looks up, surprised
since when did her mother learn
to ask questions?
and she answers slowly:
“Mama, Papa will not come.”


posted with permission from the poet NIRUPAMA DUTT from her book The Black Woman and Other Poems (Aesthetics Publications, Ludhiana, 2009: p 41-42)

The Last Day

My Little NewPinch has posted a poem The Last Day on her blog.
Since this blog has been running arid for a few days, why don't you go visit her?

Riddles

Is love a one-time-lump-sum investment that you make to go on enjoying its returns unlimited?

Or is it a daily wage earning that you must work for each day?

Why is it so hard to reach out to the one you love? Is it ego? Is it confusion? Is it a lack of understanding of the situation? At that moment, does love take a back seat? Mundane existence then, is a mere reciprocal? I reach out to you, you are condescending; you reach out to me, you are patronizing.

Should I, then, wait till you reach out to me? Will it not be too late by then?

What do I do with the days thus spent waiting? Shall I subtract them from my life or shall I count them in? If I count them in, would they not be too painful to retain?

If I subtract them, will not my life become too short?

Of My Pounds and Hair-Matters

Yes, it is a kind soul that informs me that I have won British Pounds 750,000. I know you will dismiss me as another drooling Indian who does not value Indian Rupees the way she can grovel for the British Pounds. No, you are mistaken. I will drool for Rupees 750,000 in much the same way I am worried for these 750,000 pounds lying somewhere in the world in my name. Every day I get an email informing me that I have won millions and the phool that I am, I go on deleting this information without even reading it. I delete it for I mistakenly think that these pounds are going to translate themselves into kilograms, into tonnes, into quintols and then, and then, ahhhh, I will be a celebrity.

The cynic that I am, I am rejecting celebrityhood. How will my poor spouse handle so much of fame that his wife will attract? So, like a good Indian Pativrata Nari, I kick this good luck. Ah, the bad luck. Kismet! I will die poor and wretched and wrinkled and arthritic and with a bad knee and bald.

Bald ! Someone help. I am losing hair like the money in my wallet, only my spouse and I do not fight over the lost hair. But I am worried, seriously worried. I just went to shampoo my hair and the hair fell like rain used to fall in Cherrapunji. Wasn't that the name of the place that used to get the maximum rainfall. Talking of rainfall, we had two wonderful rainy days and now again, we have the powercuts, and miserable days and generator sets working overtime. Rainfall makes me digress. I am losing hair. I had heard that the hair fall in rainy season. But then it is the rainy season for my hair all through the year. Help, Help. Boys you can ignore the post, or at best you can ignore the last paragraph while commenting and focus only on the pounds. Girls you can get creative about my hair-loss and suggest something good that will help arrest this fall. For your information, I am using henna, not using color. My hair dresser told me the other day that henna is the primary culprit for my hair fall. Is it? I suspect that the greedy fellow wants to earn commission from the L'Oreal people. I am using mustard oil like rustic babes. He hated me for that but said nevertheless that it was good to use. However, he insisted that I use color to hide the strands of grey that I am getting now. Bah, I have other plans about my grey hair. So come on, all you creative BlogWaasis, help me.

I might die fat, I might die poor, I might die wrinkled, but must I die bald??

Powered Rain and Dharamsalaed Trek

Punjab has been reeling under power crisis. Nothing new, considering that the two prominent contenders for power have always been at verbal loggerheads with little time and energy to think of common people. And do not forget Mr Sukhbir Badal contributing his (unfortunately worthless) more than two pennies too. Anyway, I desist from political commentaries and I stick to the bijli crisis that we all suffered and which was a supreme case of mismanagement, rowdiness, and haphazard supply. As a result, you have a paddy cultivating Punjab suffering badly with a power supply released for half an hour every two hours. Anyway, this post is not about power.

Thankfully, for the past two days it has been raining hard and good and I cannot help grinning. Rasan, ecstastically hugged me yelling, Mama, hun bijli nahi jayegi na? (there will be no power cut anymore, right?) Never in the last five years have I celebrated rains in such a spirit. Why, you would say? My previous residence was a closed kind of building where you did not get to see the stars. Mahesh loves to see and show off the stars to kids here in this residence. Here, I hear the koel, I hear the crows. Sadly there are no small house sparrows that I grew up watching in my house. I loved the way they picked at the grains that we scattered in the courtyard for them. They are innocence incarnate. Where did you all go, dear little sparrows?? And here I get to see grass growing so fast that the gardener is unable to finish trimming the whole garden in one go, By the time, which means days actually, he gets to finish the lawn, the grass at the beginning, much to his and my chagrin, grows back and yells for his attention. Being a sarkari banda, he doesn’t bother though. Grounds filled with water, cool breezes, jamuns falling off the trees in front of the main gate. You deserve a video. I will post it soon.

But then this post was not about rain also. This post was about our recent visit to Dharamsala and the trek that we enjoyed with the kids.

the fortunate girl, the unlucky boy

Before we set out for Dharamsala, everybody discouraged us saying that there is nothing much to see in Dharamsala. Sure they were right, if you go by the standards of a standard Punjabi family looking for fun. The staple fun that they expect in a hill station consists of these ingredients -there should be a good hotel, sumptuous food, car-able road (road where you can take your car and blare the stereo at full volume to disturb others), drinks – mostly for men, and shopping-loads of it-for women. We are different.

buddies

I mean I am different. My family was looking for the fun, sans the drinks. This time around though, I had my way. I made them live in a lodge with few luxuries. I pushed them out of the rooms at 8 am and we trekked all the way to a nameless waterfall. Most of the people who have been to dharamsala would understand that I am talking about Bhagsu Nag. Sure, we went there too. I found the priceless FBI at work there. This other waterfall is way higher above McLeodganj and Dharamkot where you leave your car to go into the wild to explore the priceless waterfall. I and Mahesh would have loved to go there alone but we had kids along. So we had a family meeting, took kids' consent that they would walk all the way to the waterfall which was about 4 kilometers uphill through narrow trails. It was fun, because with every step that we took, we were heading away from civilisation.

in the middle of the trek, we could hear the waterfall and could not see it

Kids were apprehensive, Mahesh quiet. I am sure he was thinking if it was a good idea to take his family into the wild. 1 hour and 45 minutes into the trek and we reached the waterfall. It is infact an assortment of 5 waterfalls and three wonderful pools that they form. With only two trekkers who reached prior to us, we were a total of 7 people on site. The seventh being Sansar, a man of 35 who runs a cafe here.

Sansar, the gutsy guy who lives alone at the waterfall

The cafe has the barest refreshments but the guy’s attitude is far more refreshing than anything else. A few minutes of talk with him revealed that he is unmarried and that he enjoys staying here-far far away from madding crowd. When asked if he misses living near the city he said “Those who live in stress need meditation; I am meditating every single minute of my existence. No, I don’t miss the village nor the city” It was somehow strange to find a humble businessman uttering these words.

I had a big fall on the rock near the waterfall. With an already injured knee it was a bit too much for me to handle. I wanted to cry, as in , I wanted to weep but just about managed with a yell and Mahesh rushed to my side, made me stand in the cold cold water to cure the knee of any fresh muscle tear and I was able to walk back through the tricky trail that we had chosen to spend our morning in.

the end of the trek-a tired trio, atop a cement ka ghoda

The day prior to it had been spent in roaming about in the McLeodganj market. Kashmiri stalls of trinkets and silver jewellery arrested me a lot of times but my favourite cop came to my rescue and released me from the shackles of avarice for newer pieces of junk jewellery. The Namgyal temple, its great wooden interiors , the funny signboard that warned us thus,

even when you are inside the temple? You gotta leave your eyes outside...

chess in every cafe, momos, Tibetan bread, bad humoured waiter serving us French toasts, a cool waiter bringing in chicken tikka, thin crust pizza,

bole so nihal, sat sri akal slogans in the McLeodganj main square, lunch in McLlo, dinner in CarpeDiem, cold drinks sans limits, half the night atop the lodge roof-under the stars, no internet, no TV , a dried up Dal Lake (yes there is one Dal here too- a duplicate one), St John's gothic Church and Lord Elgin's grave and Mahesh trying to play ghost,

this bell was foundered in 1915 in London

-that is what our two days consisted of. The third day, we went to this trek and said adieu to the hills, till we meet them again.

FBI @ Work

Recession is so so so bad that FBI is forced to sell Malai Barf (old styled ice cream):


Please do not notice his hand and knife, for soon he wiped the knife on his jeans and 'cleaned it', no idea about the hands about where/if he cleaned them:




Mission accomplished, time for a smoke:beedi jalayee lay...

Edited to add: I did not try the Malai Barf. Could not dare to.

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.