How do you do it?

The fragrance hits you first, as if you are suddenly transported to a heavenly garden full of exotic flowers. The tip of a dainty shoe in the most unusual of colors, slowly peeps out and a perfectly coordinated apparition slowly emerge out of a squeaky clean car in the office parking lot. A sleek laptop bag on one shoulder, a small handbag made of exquisite leather in exactly the same color as the shoes, hanging from the crook of the other arm , a perfect pair of legs clad in spotless linen trousers, a toned upper body shrouded in some kind of ethereal material, a shrug that shrugs itself casually across the shoulders, a face that looks as if it is moulded from the best aromatic wax and oh, that lovely crown piece, the silky hair flowing gently in the breeze with not a strand out of place. Not to forget that light pink lipstick on the pouting lips, the kohl lined eyes that are hidden under that huge Prada shades and a pair of not so tiny diamond ear rings and the exquisite neck piece.

Now, if you can drag your eyes off,just for a moment, take a look at that dusty car that has just tried to knock you down. The door opens all of a sudden, something that resembles a bundle almost falls out, before straightening itself out into a human shape that resembles a pumpkin perched on a pair of drumsticks. A coconut for a head and its husk for hair that is flying frantically in all directions. A pair of brown shoes that has seen much better days, and a backpack that is still trying to figure out whether it is black or grey. “No handbag?”, you ask.”What is that?”, she asks back. Is it a hallucination, you wonder. That’s me, I answer.

Just how do they do it?

I have always been in awe of these all lady, not even a bit of tom boy- ish kind of women around me. The first one in my life was my grandmother. Whiter than the whitest ‘chatta’ and ‘mundu’ (a traditional christian ladies wear in Kerala), starched to a stiffness that it could easily replace a school master’s rod and a ‘kavini’ (made of the ubiquitous kerala saree material of much better quality than what we get today), she was a real lady from head to toe. My mother was not as perfect, thank God for small mercies, but good (err…bad?) enough. And the common grouse was always, “why is this girl like this?”. No kajal, forget the bindi, at least get rid of those sack clothes. And I would be like , how dare they look down on my classy khadi-wear?

School days were kind of okay, thanks to nuns and uniforms. College also passed by with friends most of whom were only marginally better than me. Then came the hostel days. That is where I learnt that blush was more of a noun than a verb, mascara was something that you put on your eyelashes and not eat (that it was called mascarpone and not mascara was something that I learnt years and years later) and that manicure was something that was done to your nails and not just how the lush green lawns in Rajendra Maidan looked like. The word gauche must have been invented after someone saw me in action. Then, as now, the saving grace was the book in my hand that branded me an intellectual. Ha!

The less said about the saree days of the CA times. Our sir had this typical notion that girls looked professional only in sarees (now that I look back, what profession was he thinking of, I wonder ). Obviously he had never tried getting into a private bus in Ernakulam, on a typical monsoon day. Eons ago, if any of you have happened to see a frustrated soul trapped in a drenched cotton saree splattered with mud, twisted in an awkward angle, trying to close an umbrella with one hand, hold on to some huge hardbound files with the other, turning her shoulder like a nagina in a c-grade bollywood movie to keep her hand bag squarely in place and at the same time getting on to a red bus that is ready for take off, I confess, that was your truly, my friends!

The first thing that I did after getting my first real job (which sane person would consider their CA days as a real job, those were days of free lunches and movies) was to throw away all those six yard pieces of torture. Actually, I pretended to be offended at my sisters who confiscated the loot, little did they know what a relief it was not to wind it around me any more. So I started my first job, determined to look very professional. It was cottons again, silk came much later. The salwars were like tents and the duppattas like walls. The hostel mess got their rice from the ration shops, a look at the kanji-water would stiffen even a slouch like me, so just imagine the plight of an ordinary piece of cloth. I use to gape at some of the girls there who looked even more better turned out in the evening than they were in the morning. That lasted till I realized why it was so difficult to get work done from most of them. How can you complete anything when you absolutely had to run to the ‘rest’ room every five minutes to keep your hair back in place and lips back in shape. Time for the next confession. I tried combing my hair thrice a day, that lasted till I lost my comb on the second day. Then I didn’t comb my hair, at all, for three straight days. Yes, I actually went to office for three days without combing my hair, God promise! It must have been on the third day that someone described me as, “Oh, that girl who looks as if she just had fever!”

Then I got married and as a consequence, had a child. What a relief, I could look or not look like whatever I wanted. That blissful period lasted not very long, unfortunately. This time around, I was even more determined. I had Fabindia on my side, no one could beat me now. Those dresses were so damn classy, I could wear it everyday. And that is exactly what I did. Until my BFF at office whispered to me one day, “don’t take me wrong, but please don’t wear these salwars to office anymore, someone told me those are actually holes on the duppatta and not Turkish embroidery”. Okay, I confess, I made up the Turkish embroidery bit. But you get the drift, right?

Next job, lot of women around and all impeccably turned out. There are client visits and we are the ambassadors of our country, our organization, of fellow women and so on. Now cottons have made way for silks, but they still come from Fabindia. The first visit went off extremely well. The girls around oohed and aahed. They just loved the flow of the raw silk top and the design on the khadi silk duppatta and was stumped by my freshly smoothened hair. The heart attack that I got after seeing the bill for pulling the seven and half strands on my head straight was totally worth it. This happiness thing you see, is very transient. It is a very fickle partner, especially when you have to turn out perfect at eight in the morning to attend to a client. House is war zone on school day mornings and I somehow stuff myself into one of those favorite silk dresses with that ‘only you can find these’ kind of duppattas. I reach office, go into the ‘rest’ room so that those strong urges at the most inappropriate times do not happen, hang my duppatta on the hook to keep it safe and…………. the color of my ‘out of the world’ salwar had fallen so much in love with the duppatta that came in from ‘some other world’ that they decided to live happily ever after.

All you exquisite, elegant, attractive, chic, dainty, delicate, polished, stylish ladies out there, save me and pray tell me, how exactly do you do it?

 

Monster Mom

First came Smitha’s post, then it was Roshni. The last straw was a conversation with a colleague. Her brother was planning to bond with his one and a half year old son over the weekend. So what, you ask? Well, it has been meticulously planned by a parenting club. They conduct weekend sessions for parents and kids with classes from child psychologists, pediatricians, counselors, child care givers and the likes. These sessions apparently teach you how to be a good parent, develop a healthy relationship with your children, and turn them into a perfect combination of an angel and a wunderkind. There are specially designed games, dedicated time separately for mothers and fathers and what not and all these conducted in some star studded hotel or resort with brunch, lunch or high tea thrown in. Mind you, these are for what you would call normal, healthy kids and their seemingly normal parents. Whatever happened to good old parenting, I wonder!

 

I have been accused of proudly spanking my kids, giving them too much freedom, being too casual a mother, not taking care of their health and nutrition, talking to them about adult stuff, making them do things on their own, in short, being a  total monster. Then there is a close group of my friends who thinks I am ok, some even think of me as a super mom No prizes for guessing whose opinion I value.

Smitha asked whether we would tolerate bad language in kids and I said I wouldn’t hesitate to give mine a solid whack where it hurts. And oops, that really hurt a reader who thinks we should be really careful about the kid’s sentiments and what they would feel and how nothing should be taboo so they are ready for life. To each her own was my response, but then it really set me thinking and took me back to a time when son was about two or three.

My weekly super market visits were a nightmare. Our pact was he could buy one thing of his choice, either a pack of juice or a small chocolate. There was a bakery on the way back, and trouble would be waiting for me there in the form of Kit – Kats and Cadbury’s milk chocolates arranged very artistically at the window. The act would start with a loud wail from junior and a firm no from mother, slowly progressing into higher decibel levels and finally culminating in a scene where you would find an angelic boy rolling on the floor with tears streaming down his face and a draconian mother dragging him and literally throwing him into an auto. The climax would be enacted at home with the sound of a loud whack on a baby bum, supported by a background score of a reggae mix of hoarse shouts and fading blues. Those were tough times for both of us, it set the tone of our relationship and now when I look back, boy, am I glad that I stood my ground!  Today, he is a mature, independent and intelligent 11 year old (at least, that’s what people seem to think ), who knows his limits and what his parents consider as right and wrong.

Doesn’t he demand things that his friends have, you ask. Oh yes, he is like any other boy of his age, who would absolutely love to have an i-pad all for himself, free access to internet, games and FB, a pair of F-50 football studs, Real Madrid or Man U T-shirts in his wardrobe and a holiday in Madrid, Spain. And he shamelessly asks for these also, albeit with a grin on his face. And that grin is the real payback for me. The boy knows what his parents can and not, what is a want and how it differs from a need, and hopefully what the really important things in life are. 

The journey with daughter has not been any easier either. It wrenches your heart to not give in to perfectly shaped quivering lips and angelic eyes with a tear drop just waiting to fall off from them. It is hard to ignore their arguments of how their friends have and do it all. Our answer is a firm and never wavering, “this is how it is in our home, you are free to take it or leave it”. I used to be scared to death when I say that, would they take it literally , I used to wonder. After some years and two kids,  I now realize they are not  dumb dolls. They sense and grasp  things much better than their parents. Their mind is a sponge that absorb and retain stuff pretty efficiently. What they squeeze out entirely depends on what we pour into it, though.

Roshni mentions her friends who are fiercely protective of their kids. I have seen parents who will not let their thirteen year old children walk down to their gate to get into a well chaperoned school buses. Yes, I too feel terrified about  what can happen in the big bad world out there. It is a jungle with wolves in sheep’s clothing, tigers waiting to pounce on you and vultures ready to devour you. But then doesn’t it also have peaceful deers, elegant peacocks, graceful giraffes and powerful elephants? As parents, aren’t we supposed to show them the beautiful scenery along with the things that mar the pretty picture?

Son reads the newspaper end to end including page 3 gossip and bollywood reviews. He wanted to watch ‘Kai Po Che’ after reading the review, and then saw the book on the shelf. Isn’t it too early for him to read such a book, a friend asked with genuine concern. Having grown up in a house where the only thing that was never considered taboo was books, the thought did not even cross my mind. Yes, there was some so called ‘scenes’ in ‘Three Mistakes of My Life’. But then, I would rather have him read about the magic of ‘making  love’ before he learns about ‘having sex’ . On what grounds do you deny a book like that when he has started joking about periods and sperms ? Don’t be shocked and wake up to the fact that they know more that what we give them credit for. Both of us have turned into excellent actors, we have learnt to mask our shock and turn them into grins. We want our kids to feel free enough to come and discuss anything under the sun with us rather than relying on some dubious source. We take care not to shout at them while we may be screaming inside about what they are talking about. 

I am no super woman who have perfected the art of parenting with a pair of super kids with impeccable manners. They bicker, fight with each other with their tooth, nails, hands, legs and their whole bodies. They still try throwing tantrums, son has started walking off in a huff and a puff, daughter wails, stomps her feet and screams at the top of her voice. They play in the hot sun, run in the rain, shower their head with sand and dirty their feet in mud when they can. They are sometimes allowed to eat a biscuit without brushing their teeth and and sleep in dirty clothes. Son reads anything that he can find at home(that reminds me, need to hide that Nancy Friday book for a few years more ;) ), daughter goes up and down in the lift all by herself. 

Yes, I am a monster mom that way and rather proud of it too. Because I believe my kids have their hearts right where it should be. They might do things that they are not allowed to, their conscience would poke them real sharp, though. In the end, I guess that’s what matters the most! 

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Son, “Amma, what’s the meaning of Leah?”

Amma, thinking of cousin’s daughter by that name, “That’s a short version of Elizabeth”

“Ammmmaaa…nooo…’liya’ in Hindi?”

“Took?”

Now, with ‘that’ grin on his face, “so what is the meaning of cochlea?”

 

A friend in school told him this joke, in case you are wondering ;)

 

‘Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter’ by Mario Vargas Llosa

Off late, I am discovering a universe of words outside the English speaking world. I have crossed seas and time to a Nazi Germany (‘The Book Thief‘), a war torn Nigeria (‘Half of a Yellow Sun’ and ‘The Purple Hibiscus’) and 13th century Persia of Sufis(‘The Forty Rules of Love‘). The latest was to a time before Television in a far away place in South America. This one was again an ‘on the spur of the moment’ pick. The ‘New Statesman’ review on the back cover was what did it in for me:

“A comic novel on the grand scale, written with tremendous confidence and verve. Mario , 18-year old law student and radio news-editor, falls scandalously for his Aunt Julia, the 32 -year old divorced wife of a cousin, and the progressively lunatic story of this affair is interwoven with episodes from a series of radio soap-operas written by his friend Pedro Camacho.”

Sure enough, the beginning is hilarious. Mario, the protagonist,is a law student. He has a job, “with a pompous sounding title, a modest salary, duties as a plagiarist, and flexible working hours: News Director of Panamericana”. To his fairly uncomplicated life comes in two characters in succession- Julia, his aunt’s divorced sister and Pedro Camacho, the crazy writer of radio soap operas at Radio Central, a sister concern of Panamericana. The story goes up and down between Mario’s growing affection with ‘Aunt’ Julia that turns into an affair and the unbelievable success of Pedro’s serials.

The main story is interspersed with the serial stories, each of which ends in a host of old world movie notice kind of questions, “Would he go through with it? Would he thus deprive himself, in one stroke, of his integrity? Would he sacrifice his body, his youth, his honor, as an ethico-abstract demonstration?”. Pedro, the author is a fifty year old and truly believes that men reach their prime at this age. Unsurprisingly all the stories take place when his heroes reach that magical age in their lives – fifty!

The anecdotes in the radio station, Mario’s large family who interferes in each other’s lives albeit with love and affection, the easy going camaraderie between Mario and his friends , all these take you into an era that is resplendent in its old world charm. As the tale progresses, Pedro’s serials gets more and more bizarre with the characters jumping from one story to another, a dead person in one serial miraculously ressurected in another, the plots getting murkier and then all the stories moving towards a totally confusing, yet similar end. Marios’s life also gets complicated along with Pedro’s serials, both culminating in a climax at the same time.

Pedro loses grip of his plots towards the end, and you get a feeling that the book also loses it progressively. I was confused whether it was the serials or the book itself that goes wayward until reading a review that this is somewhat an autobiographical novel. Shouldn’t have come as a surprise I suppose, when the protagonist’s name is the same as the author’s.

What I liked about the book is how deeply the characters are etched. Each of them stays with you, for a few days at least after you have finished reading it. The feeling of going back in time was also quite magical. The last chapter was like reading a documentary. The overall effect is quite interesting, to say the least. The language is brilliant and the imagery is vivid, I could actually see the scenes unfolding in front of my eyes. And the best part is the thread of humor that is embedded deep through the narrative.

Verdict – Glad that I found this author, will try out more of his books. Can’t say it is a must read for everyone, but for those who like unusual reads, do add it to your list!

 

Vodafone Mornings

Life has been a hectic merry go round for the past few weeks. Sometimes, a wish that you had made long ago comes true all of a sudden, surprising even you, ever so plesantly. From the day we moved to Bangalore, I have been telling all and sundry that this is where we are going to settle, without having the faintest of ideas how. See, the problem is my tastes are very simple, I love only the best Even heaven and earth and all of ourselves put together may not have been enough to afford the best in Bangalore. But then, isn’t good, better and best all relative? Anyway, now I know for sure that when you really long for something, at least some part of the universe joins in your conspiracy.

So we moved away from the heart of the city to one of its arteries, into our ‘own’ apartment. Kids love the place, lot of space and friends galore, their universe is total bliss these days. School for daughter is a bit tough, though. She has to continue in her current school till the end of the year and this is close to our old place. So mother starts her day even earlier, cajoling, coaxing and finally hollering, shocking the daughter out of her peaceful slumber. In the process, mother has turned into a horrendous morning grouch. My lips curl into even a semblance of smile only after adequate amounts of caffeine have spread across my veins along with some amount of solids in the digestive tract. The poor little one, whose definition of time is her very own, gets the brunt of it. Till the father bear had to tag along one morning last week, and took to me to this place for breakfast.
Tucked under the shade of some huge trees at the corner of a busy Lavelle Road, its always been packed whenever we’ve been there, usually in the evenings and sometimes late at night too. None of the business district spohistication and niceties, the Airlines Hotel looks like a very basic eatery, a lodge attached to it as well as a branch of Bangalore’s favorite ice cream place, ‘The Corner House’. Appearances can be deceptive is a saying that you quickly agree to, as you see the eclectic mix of people hanging around in groups. Boys and girls in casual attire, half of them with a cigarette hanging in between their fingers, intellectual type salt and pepper haired men and women in their Fabindia attire, loud and boisterous families with their women in garish outfits and more glitter on them than a Christmas Tree in Times Square, this place presents you with a slice of Bangalore. Food is good, specially the crisp dosas, the hot jalebis fresh from the frying pan with the sugar syrup oozing out tantalizingly and the steaming hot chai in those nostalgic long glasses instead of the prim and proper cups and saucers.

Going back to the morning, the place looked as if it had just had its morning bath. The marble top tables washed anew, the blue chairs wiped clean, a cool breeze gently wafting in and rustling the leaves of the twin banyan trees that stand guard to the place. It was as though we had entered the peaceful precincts of an ashram. The mood suddenly shifted from the early morning sullenness that was borne from an almost automatic expectation of a hectic day at work, to a near meditative feeling. The silence was more intimate than the most eloquent of words.

This has become a morning ritual now, albeit alone. After the shouts , stomps and the mad rush, I find myself at one of the tables, with a book in one hand and a crisp vada in the other, dipping into a bowl of perfect sambar and thick coconut chutney. It feels like heaven, or maybe it is moments like these that heaven is actually made of.

And on the almost forty odd kilometers that I cover every morning, Prthivi keeps me company. Prithvi who, you ask? I love the incessant banter on the FM radios and that is where all the bits and pieces of bollywood gossip is gathered and I get to know of what is happening in and around the city. And this guy who runs the show ‘Vodafone Mornings’ from 7.30 11 AM on 94.3 FM in an absolute riot. Some may not like his whacky sense of humor, as for me, I just adore him. The retorts are instant, quirky and on your face. He flirts with men and women alike and the best part of the show is the ‘Birthday Bakra’. With no sun film on the car windows, people have started giving me weird looks when I break into splits while listening to this absolutely no holds barred pulling one’s legs program.

You see, every cloud does have a silver lining. Always a night person, I could stay awake till 4 AM, but could never get up at that time. The only thing that drags me out of my bed at these unearthly hours is a feeling of dread that the kids will miss school, it has actually happened a few times. I curse everyone and everything under the sun , mutter the worst profanities under my breath (the kids still have that illusion that they have a fairly decent mother, don’t want to spoil that) threatens my family that I am walking out on them (hoping that they do not call my bluff) and generally feel totally depressed and unhappy about life. And then I step out from these dark clouds of my mind onto a rainbow of serenity and calm. And all is well with the world and its inhabitants.

Happy Vodafone morning, afternoon, evening and night, my friends!

 

‘The Forty Rules of Love’ by Elif Shafak

Rumi caught me, yet again.

Have you ever had the feeling that when you love someone or something deeply, somehow they seem to drift into your life as if by chance? Then it is upto you whether to grab that chance or hesitate and hold back. Its been less than a year since I came to know about Rumi and his poems. First couplet of his and I was hooked. I was a bit confused though when I saw some of his poems attributed to Shams of Tabriz. There were allusions to the relationship between Rumi and his beloved in an earlier, disappointing book that I picked up just because it said, a study on poems by Rumi. Elif Shafak has given me all the answers in ‘The Forty Rules of Love”.

It was the picture of a woman lost in her thoughts, wandering along a beach that first caught my eye. The name befit a chick lit rather than a mystic journey, but something made me pick it up and read, ” So when Ella reads a manuscript about the thirteenth century Sufi poet Rumi and Shams of Tabriz, and his forty rules of life and love, her world is turned upside down”. In less than five minutes the book was mine and there I was in the next door coffee shop already lost in a quintessential, all American household in Northampton, Massachusetts and from there to the mysterious inns, streets, mosques and of course the sufis of thirteenth century Turkey and Baghdad.

At forty, Ella has it all, or so it seems. A husband “who worked hard and made a lot of money…a big busy house with children, elegant furniture, and the wafting scent of home made pies..“. The author beautifully summarizes Ella as ,“Building her whole life around her husband and children, Ella lacked any survival techniques to help her cope with life’s hardships on her own. She was not the type to throw caution to the wind. Even changing her daily coffee brand was a major effort.” And this sets the tone to the dramatic change that a book and its author brings into her life and that too in a matter of a few weeks.

Her children having grown up and her husband busy with his profession and his mistresses, she starts working for a literary agency based out of Boston. Her first assignment is to review the first book of an author based in Amsterdam , “SWEET BLASPHEMY, a historical, mystical novel on the remarkable bond between Rumi, the best poet and most revered spiritual leader in the history of Islam, and Shams of Tabriz, an unknown, unconventional dervish full of scandals and surprises.” Thus begins Ella’s and in parallel, Shams’ journey through paths of questions, faith, trust and ultimately love.

In a stage of life where she has lost faith in love and romance is found only in books and movies, it is only clairvoyant that something in the authors’s note touches a raw nerve, “For despite what some people say, love is not only a sweet feeling bound to come and quickly go away”. On a whim, she mails a note to the author. The book then weaves in and out of the growing relationship between Ella and Aziz and the life of Shams and Rumi. The writing style is crisp and tight, that one can seamlessly move between two widely different time periods and not even notice it. You are eager to know what happens after the last letter, at the same time wanting to go back to Shams’s life.

Lovers of Rumi know that no one could ever describe love so longingly and deeply as him. This book tells you his own personal longings, how he had to free himself of every possible truth and comfort that he had ever known to realize what real love is all about and the endless pain such abandon could bring about. It also takes us through what it really means to lose one who is not just your soul mate, but a mirror which reflects who and what you are. It shows us a love that transcends all boundaries and one that can be understood by only a very rare few.

Ella’s story of love is told through a series of letters between her and Aziz, whereas the tale of Shams and Rumi is narrated through the eyes of a host of characters who wander in and out – Suleiman the Drunk, Hasan the Beggar,Desert Rose the Harlot, Baybars the Warrior, Rumi’s wife Kerra, Kimya his adopted daughter, his sons Sultan Walad and Aladdin and a few others. Intertwined with this engrossing tale are the gems, ‘The Forty Rules of Love’ . Love here transcends the boundaries of all the definitions that we know of and have heard. It is love in its ultimate form, and which can be attained only through great pain. And these rules are as relevant today as was centuries ago.

“There are more fake gurus and false teachers in this world than the number of stars in the visible universe. Don’t confuse power-driven, self-centered people with true mentors. A genuine spiritual master will not direct your attention to himself or herself and will not expect absolute obedience or utter admiration from you, but instead will help you to appreciate and admire your inner self. True mentors are as transparent as glass. They let the Light of God pass through them.”

He consoles Desert Rose, who considers herself impure,

“Real filth is the one inside. The rest simply washes off. There is only one type of dirt that cannot be cleansed with pure waters, and that is the stain of hatred and bigotry contaminating the soul. You can purify your body through abstinence and fasting, but only love will purify your soul.”

I could go on and on and write more than a few posts, such was the effect that this book had on me.

Verdict : A must read for all the Sufi souls and Rumi lovers and anyone else with at least a whiff of mysticism in them.

 

Home Alone

“Mmeee…”, we would shout after opening the gate. If it was morning, she would come out smiling from the kitchen. If afternoon, you would first hear the shuffle of slippers, she would be getting up from her daily afternoon siesta, again with the very same smile on her face. And if late at night, there she would be sitting on the sofa, after her customary bath in the evening, with a liberal splash of Cuticura powder on her face and the smile would still be there.

The house was no more a home after she left us four years back. Visits went down drastically and almost came to a stop after the remaining lonely soul also moved out to be with the son. Home had always been a place where the doors were open with lots of laughter inside. And now, there I was, trying to pry open the rusted lock on the gate, looking around at the dried up plants, the cobwebs and dust on verandas. For the first time I had returned home to closed doors, with only memories for company.

That I would feel depressed and may even break down in bucket full of tears was a given even as this trip was planned. And I was totally prepared for excatly that as I opened the gates. But as I walked in and opened the door, a sense of calm seemed to envelope me. The rooms were covered in dust, there was work to be done, but all through this, a peaceful feeling permeated my whole being and it seemed to tell me, this is still your home.

The room on the western side, the’padinjaare muri’ , as it was called was a haven for us. My mother used to complain that her kids disappeared to this room as soon as they reached home. There was something about it that instantly gave you a warm feeling, that soothing feel that lulls you into a sleep that was calm and free from worries. Why was I even surprised that nothing had changed? The moment the house was spruced up and the girl who helped me had left, my body hit the floor and mind and soul eased into a much needed sleep. It was as if the walls made a soft cocoon for me and the cool breeze was singing a lullaby.

The next few days were no different. My sister reached that night with our fairly new sis-in-law. We had one of the best times in a long time. No men and kids, just us meeting up lots of old friends and family that we hadn’t met in years. Hearts truly grow fonder with years. Two meetings will be remembered fondly for a very long time. Incidentally, both were my brother’s friends, and we must have last met them more than twenty years ago. The sheer joy on ther faces, the non- stop, “I can’t beleive it”, and the wide grins as we talked about those fun filled, care free days, is going to stay with me for a long time.

We spent some relaxing time with some dear relatives just listening to old family yarns, some skeletons tumbling out inadvertently and some still kept very safely in family vaults. The end of those four days, there I was , tired to the core physically, but totally relaxed, happy and content in mind and soul. I had gone home expecting to come back sad and depressed, but the journey taught me a few things…….

……that yes, it is the people in a house that makes it a home. But a home is a home as long as you have happy memories associated with it
…..your dear ones take care of you in a deeper sense, irrespective of whether they are with you or not. I could feel my mother’s calmimg presence within those walls of brick and mortar. It was as if I could almost see her in her usual places throughout the house
…..distance actually makes hearts grow fonder
…..accidental meetings can sometimes give you more joy than planned ones
……old memories are as fascinating to the young ones as it is for the older generation. My young cousin was sitting open mouthed all through our reminiscences with regret writ largely over his face that his childhod was totally different
…..and most of all, the fact that we are actually much tougher than we think we are. Our yard was a virual riot of colours when mummy was alive. Now it is almost arid. But , there are still some toughies that survive on the love that was showered on them when they were growing up. Isn’t it so true for us as well? When things seem to go wrong, when a feeling of sadness tries to creep into us, don’t we always delve deep into the reserve of love and strenghth that was poured and sometimes stuffed into us? Like these lovely flowers that still spreads cheer as I opened the gate with trepidation in my heart..

 

‘Ek Khwaab Ki Dastak’

I fell in love with him one late night in the eigthies. My knowledge of Hindi movies and songs were limited to some random shreds of news items in the local paper and some dog eared copies of ‘Stardust’ or “Filmfare’. I had heard of neither the movie nor the director before that. The titles started rolling and the scintillating voice of Asha Bhosle got me hooked. Even as a teenager in a small town, I knew the actors – Rekha and Naseerudin Shah. As for Anuradha Patel , I got to know her name much later. Emotions marched past my mind in no particular sequence, and I can still remember the feelings each of the scene evoked in my impressionable mind. And I wanted to watch it again and to listen to the songs in a never ending loop. The movie was ‘Ijazzat’ and the director, ‘Gulzar’. The rest, as they is history. I fell heard over heels and then heels over head and then went on and did a few somersaults as well.

Affairs have highs and lows, people fall in and out of love, but this was one connection that has only grown with each passing year. Whoever said remote relationships do not work have not known the pure joy and ecstasy of one between a writer and his readers. Each movie, every song of his, has strengthened my undying admiration for this man. At first it was the pure simplicity of his lyrics. Slowly, I started noticing the sheer brilliance of the imagery in his poems. A song of his could transport me to another place in time and space, introduce me to persons hetherto unknown and make me aware of feelings that I had never known before. The fine line that separated nature, love and lovers were almost invisible, they flowed seamlessly from one to the other and back. Mundane things in life were expressed in words so simple, pure and profound.

“Poetry Reading by Gulzar and Javed Akhtar’ – the line caught my eye in last Thursday’s TOI. And my mind was made up, whaetever happens, I am going to be there. And there I was last Saturday in the green lawns of Jaya Mahal Palace, eagerly awaiting the presence of two stalwarts.And when someone announced “Javed saab would not be here today” I was more happy than disappointed, it meant more of Gulzar saab. And in he came, sprightly steps, his customary white kurta pajamas and an off-white shawl swung carelessly across his neck. Sanjana Roy Chaudhury who has worked with him for more than 16 years started with the introduction aptly titled ‘subah subah ek khwaab ki dastak par’. And he started reading out with this first poem. Till now, I had thought Amitabhji’s voice was the best. Suffice to say, my opinion has changed now. The voice and the poem, the asides and anecdotes in between, I sat there mesmerized, and then I knew why people go ‘wah! wah!’.

The following two poems were about rain and clouds – the first one made you feel the caress of the cool breeze against your cheeks and the refreshing feel of a fresh summer shower. The next one was about the angry clouds and thunder that sometimes scares you. It was as if your whole being was cooled by those drops of water on your face and then the peace shattered by a loud thunder and strong gales. After the shower he invited the crowd, “come, lets go up to the mountains and see how beautiful and different is the night up there”. “Raat pahaadon par kuch alag hi hoti hein”, and the audience nodded their heads in agreement. Suddenly you were in a place high above, where the sky is never completely dark, stars seem like zari work, the wind actually speaks to you and two waterfalls talk to each other loudly like two rustic friends discussing the activities in their village.

And he went on about life of an old man in a new apartment complex, the banalities of middle class life, how the sun upturned like a pot that was full and the final one about his love for Urdu. The emotions that his words evoked cannot be described in mere words. I now understand how artists paint their feelings. If I could capture those moments in colour, it would be a collage of all the brightest colors that you could think of. I now know why poets of those foregone years were so revered, why kings accorded them so high a status in their courts, why women swooned over their ‘shaayaris’.

He does not talk about the complications of life or love, instead he talks about everyday things and ordinary emotions of people like you and me and then turns it into magic. You can actually see the constant twinkle of mischief in his eyes, the quick repartees to questions have to be heard to be believed. And as to his continued inspiration, pat came the reply, “Aap our Zindagi”

Yes, this man weaves his magic out of us and life, and boy, what a feast it is!

I look at this and get transported back to that magical morning