Saturday afternoon reminisce

My mind  shifts with ease,
to the reverse gear,
conjuring life and times,
long gone.

Like an alert child,
it wanders about known territories,
where memories lay scattered.
Its careful not to wake up
the ones she had put to sleep, eternally.

Gently, it treads on them-
some lie with their face down, like ashamed children,
some hide, nervous,
and some come right ahead and greet,
in a manner that's rather obvious.
(Like they knew, I was there looking for them)

It is those memories I seek,
the ones with a warm fuzzy smile,
those that come rushing, to hug me.

It is in those memories I wish to saturate,
laze and natter with,
on this forlorn Saturday afternoon.

For only  in those days,
I seem to find,
my quiet and rest,
and live again like I did then, to the fullest.

So here’s to those memories-
memoirs that make me smile,
and make my jaded Saturday afternoon worthwhile.

Of Gods and accessories that please them

I am not a religious person. I am rather secular and offer prayers to the one(s) above. The ones above could  be Jesus, Zeus, Allah, Durga, Satyanarayan, Saibaba, Guru Nanak Dev –  just about any one who qualify as Gods. Having said that, it doesn't mean I don’t idol worship at home. I do. But this post is not about religion and idol worship. I don’t think I can churn out such an exalted post.

A while back I lit a candle when the sun set – the act called ‘Shondha’  or ‘Sonjo’ as they refer to it in Bengali and Oriya respectively.  No thanks to the ultra sensitive smoke detectors (which btw, I set off 3 times, all because of the husband’s wretched Maach Bhaja/fish fry), I have to make do with an aroma lamp burner. Oh! yah, baby, I am a modern worshipper. So, my Gods have this spa like environment around them- inhaling whiffs of lavender perfume,  and the t-light candle serves for the Dia. Sometimes I also play Bhajans straight from my ipod Nano fixed to a portable speaker. I told ya, I am hip.

But, what I miss most about the entire set up is a conch and conch blowing/shankh bajano. I miss it so much. You know how you associated with different sights and sounds at different times of your life? I associate conch blowing with many things – as a primary school kid, shank bajano always reminded me that there was not much time left for the night to come- so buck up and finish those bloody chapters for the next day’s exams! As a a teenager, it only meant- ‘girl, you’re stuck now, no point asking ma if you can go out, even if its for 10 minutes.’ But as I grew, the sound of it relaxed me, gave me a sense of peace.

But the most special memory of conch blowing was during my wedding. The fact that my in laws live 3 floors below, made the conch blowing almost like a competition..I clearly remember, each time we heard sounds from the first floor, my mum picked our’s. There was a mini Pujo happening at our apartment. Each time people from the first floor blew the conch, it was our clue to blow our’s, coz something was about to happen. Either Totto was on its way up to our place or something on those lines . Our wedding was the most amusing one . So when the time for Bidai  finally came and mass tear glands were dutifully at work-  I could hear both, the shankh bajano at flat  404 and at 101. The 404 one sounded heart rending as hell, and the 101 one sounded happy and festive- Pujo like, heralding the new bride to her brand new family.

Amusing as hell , I tell you.

Digressed enough.

God, forgive me, for I am unable to offer you the sights and sounds you are familiar and comfortable with. It must be tough for you to live with the sounds in this house. And I also know, that you know, its difficult for me, with a 3 year old who insists on pressing the plus sign of the volume button till our neighbour’s eardrums burst. Perhaps you can help? Only divine intervention can stop us.

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PS: One more memory- Sunday morning – Mahendra Kapoor croooning away soon after the blowing of the ‘Shankha’- Mahaaabhaaaaaaaaraaaaat, Mahaaaabhaaaraaaaaaaaaat, Mahaaabharaat!

A click will help.

Haven’t done this before. Dunno if it will work. But will give it a try. Would love the feel of a win. So if u really did like those short stories and laughed, do vote for my posts here and make me the Indiblogger of the month. You got to be a member of www.indiblogger.in , to cast a vote. 

 

:D

Oddments

I asked this question to ma when I was in class 8- it was more of a rhetoric question, actually. But not once did I ever imagine that I will be asked a similar one, by my puny little three year old rascal.

Mishmash: Ma, tomollow we go to Tamanna house?

Me: No. She has school tomorrow.

Mishmash: I have school tomollow?

Me: Yes, you do.

Mishmash: Mummy has school tomollow?

Me: No. I am ‘big’ and am finished with school.

Mishmash: Big people no go school? Mummy no go school?

Me: That’s right.

Mishmash: When I be big? I big ma. Sharanya (a friend 4 months younger) small baby. I big . No school tomollow. Ok ma? Ok? Maa, ok? ok?

Me: Not ok.

Mishmash: waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan.

(I had asked ma, ‘how long should one endure school,  I am big enough to give it up’ . I was 12.)

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This weekend told me living in Sydney was not going to be such an alien experience after all. We had an invitation packed weekend. The Sunday lunch was at a bong’s place. We had a double lunch invite (touch wood, I never had this kind of active social life back in India either). We dropped by at the first place and then went over to the second, bong lunch. The husband obviously had not bothered with breakfast- a bong lunch needed a lot of free space in the system. (So dutifully he downloaded, full marks to his super efficient metabolism and digestive system. Just like he can sleep where ever and whenever he wished to, he controlled his bowels, similarly. Its amazing. Really. ).

Anyway, we landed there- the first ones to land. Should have known, this was a bong get together and adhering to time was an insult. It only meant you have come to just eat and leave. On the contrary, reaching late and starting with drinks and entrées even if it is well past lunch time means, you are the true blue bong- the adda baaj bong. Soon the rest arrived and the adda began. After 2-3 pegs of Gin, things got clearer and the adda more passionate. Yes yes, coming to the point. And mind you this kind of adda can happen ONLY amongst the venerated pure bred Bengali. The topic in debate was- how to take over -a now in tatters tire company. Should they email Mamata didi or call her directly? One dada strongly objected to email- saying her juniors would never let the ‘voice’ reach didi. So the Dada in question would himself call Didi and explain their business proposition. The money to revive would come collectively- through various loans. The husband tried to interrupt and add his two pence- setting up an industry in Bihar was simpler than West Bengal-..before he could go any further, the dadas, ate, chewed and beat up this opinion supported by a hundred theories of how things had changed in WB.

And mind you me, this was not just another chat where one heard guffaws and snorts now and then- this was a full fledged serious discussion- how to revive a dead company. 4 dadas with Gin and lime in one hand and sheek kabab in the other, were going to save West Bengal, from its doom. had there been a dada or two, more, Didi would be summoned herself, to calm their soaring spirits.

Adda in its purest form, entertainment at its best.

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The husband to be was visiting Pune. This was 8 years back. Roomies seemed disinterested in the entire event. Said they didn't have the time to pick him up. Actually, like clandestine revolutionaries they were all the while making those atrocious placards you see in the pictures below and recording dhin-chak hindi numbers. One of them I think reads- ‘Das band’, and the other reads “aami tomake khabo’ (meaning, i want to eat you – a personal endearment i often used, which was made rather public by a vishwaasghaat.)

                               

They appear out of no where at the railway station with garlands and those placards with chiranjeevi and Rambha, to welcome Jamai-babu to be. If i remember right a few 5 rupee notes were also thrown in the air. And all the four danced the Govinda dance. A portable tape recorder perched on Pravi’s shoulder that played the cheapest songs ever in the history of Bollywood. Needless to say, I was  livid and didn’t know where to hide my face and was sure the man who arrived from Delhi, would take the same train back that very moment. But he stood there gloating, like a local MP. Almost as if no one in his entire life had ever showered such love. I guess that was his first (and last) ever moment of public glory. People standing on the platform gaped at the Tamasha. Some clapped. Some smiled. Most frowned. Like me.

Today, I am laughing my guts out. And praying fervently to gimme back those days- take me back, take me back- just for a day. Pretty, please?

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Is old, gold?

If there is anything at all that really scares and upsets me it is old age. And I am equally sensitive towards the said leg of one’s life.  Its not the fear of death. Death looms large everywhere and all the time. No point being scared of death. But what overwhelms me about old age is the fear of losing the ability to hold together everything- loved ones, your own life and everything else around you.

Today Meeshu refused to talk to my mum – one of her moods. Ma didn't take too kindly to it though- she said this was the fourth time Meeshu refused a chat, and obviously I knew she was hurt. I think the word is ‘rejection’ here. Dad and mum are aging gracefully, touch wood, but there are certain things that scare me when I put myself in their shoes. Both their kids live away from them, and they live away from their native and have made Hyderabad their home, regardless of how much dad would like to disagree to that statement. I am sure they feel lonely at times. Their social life is more active than ours, but still. I am certain they miss us and as they grow older, they grow that much more dependent on each other, with none of us around, and that is heart wrenching.

The other thing about old age is seclusion. Given my tendency to go into long periods of meaningless depression, I wonder, what kind of old woman I’d make. A real wound-up, sarcastic one, is my guess. Lets leave that to time, ok?

Old couples always move me. When Thakuma (granny) left Dadu (grand pa), way early, Dadu became a recluse. He stopped playing chess with his grandchildren, and I never again saw him laugh his hearty laugh again. The two were inseparable. I remember when Thakuma went to bathe, Dadu would dutifully take out her petticoat, sari and blouse outside the bathroom. He chose them everyday and washed them too. Thakuma was severely diabetic, and Dadu tried every possible ayurvedic, allopathic, homeopathic remedy in this world to help her. Of course the main issue lied with food. Dadu discreetly  looked the other way when Thakuma gorged on all things forbidden to diabetics. And when Thakuma passed away, my dad, the eldest and most loved of all her sons, grieved the most- more because he felt he couldn’t do his bit for her, staying away from her. And she left too soon. A  similar sentiment runs through my mind too. I don’t believe that a girl once married leaves her home behind. I look at it differently. I think a woman has more than just one home after her marriage, and her ties with her parents, only get that much stronger. And she needs to keep both the homes together. Not that its her sole responsibility, but I think women are so much more deft and competent in handling such matters. I know its a blanket statement and not all will agree.

Sorry, I know my thoughts are very muddled.

I have always wanted to retire by the sea- but that kind of seems way unwise or whimsical. Of course, old age is charming, if you make it to be- but is it that easy? I know of many charming old people. They make their life beautiful by constantly doing something worthwhile and more than that by being lively. And that’s precisely my point- when u grow  old, you have to be relevant, shiny and effervescent, to be loved. And when will sons and daughters learn it is never about money, it is about them- their presence in their parent’s life, at times when they most need them. And mind you these times are not just when they fall sick.

And lastly respect- that can come only with love. And love is seldom bestowed on old age. Its usually sympathy or complete apathy.

Double sigh.

I’d can’t end the post like this. So here’s something that happened this morning: I lost my cool with Meeshu, over her finishing the morning glass of milk. She simply walked up to her room, dug out her magic wand and waved it at me saying- Abla –ca- dabla turn mummy into a cock-loach. And coolly walked away. What unnerved me was the fact that she usually turned me back into mummy, but today in her anger, she’d left me that way - a sick little Cock Loach, and I’ve remained one since morning.

Do cock-loaches grow old? They sure survive nuclear explosions, so its not so bad after all.

XXX

The Bestseller

She liked dreaming-
they kept her busy.
As an attempt, she set to dream a dream,
but this time it was of a literary variety-
what of all those people asking her to write,
she decided, a novel it would be
and a full fledged one at that.

But endless dishes and laundry kept her from the mighty pen,
and she loathed the humdrum of her grey laptop keys.
(A Mac book pro, some day, she wistfully mused)
Determined to write anyhow, she resolved to do it her way,
while simultaneously performing dismal chores,
she penned the bestseller in her mind.
Contrary to what she had presumed at the outset,
the means to put together her novel , came to pass as much fun.
She’d be assiduously fighting the cobwebs and a lethal spider,
while in her mind, the hero mercilessly beat the goons .
As she deftly got the tadka sizzling with red chillies,
she orchestrated a steamy scene.
The protagonist blew bubbles at her lover,
while her toddler splashed water in the bubble bath,

Her favourite was while she did dishes,
the more she scrubbed, the longer the fight scenes between the couple got,
and the wretched frying pan, came out all clean.
(Sure, the couple made up too).

However it was a cause of much embarrassment,
when she drifted into her fantasy world penning a faux dialogue.
The guest invited for tea asked questions, only to be stared back blankly,
with a wide beaming smile.
Insulted, the guest declared the host deaf,
and much worse, nuts.

But she worked hard,
and the harder she worked at the wearisome chores,
the more imaginative and descriptive, her story got.
She was pleased.

She ended each day with work left for the next,
and in her mind words and unfinished sentences floated,
like strange verses.

Soon, she was tired, and wanted everything to halt-
meaning well, she wanted  the story to end,
but the elusive climax never did come.

Sighing, she got up to vacuum,
and bitterly brooded, that’s how it was schemed to be.
These dreary chores will never end,
and the imaginary book,
likewise, will remain one-
unfinished and illusory.

Next morning as she embarked on making an omelette,
she broke open the hero’s skull,
almost spitefully.

A dream

I looked at the quiet, round face,
her wee thumb gravely parked on her chin,
and eyelids lightly shut.
But the eye balls rolled about fiercely behind those lids-
dreaming perhaps, I thought.
Was it a giant Dinosaur? Could be a pink candy floss,
or big warrior mosquito, at the most.
Those were her favourites, after all.
Also, what more could those wee eyes dream of?
She snuggled deeper, into my arms,
and opened her eyes at last.
They were twinkling, I noticed,
in glee.
What could it be? Had she seen a mammoth Barbie in her dream?
I was informed, before she could be asked-
“Ma, the big bad Michael* police, desssstoy the school”
she recounted with mock shock.
But nothing that she did or say, hide the sheer joy in her eyes.
(Note to self: postpone talking to kid about dreams coming true)

*A character her parents created out of utter desperation, to instill some amount of dread in an otherwise ‘out of hand’ child. Notice how she now uses him for her personal purposes.

Once upon a Phulka

Non FB users must be irked beyond belief that a person (a full fledged adult in her thirties) can churn out two consecutive posts inspired by something as unseemly as a social networking site. Ok this one’s not so much to do with the site itself, but for the response I got to a particular photo that I had published- yes the same one u can now see. When I woke up last morning to see a huge barrage of responses to the picture – ‘My Phulka Phooloed’ (not sure how I’d translate this- my flat bread fluffed?), my head immediately reached out to the memoir zone for a story that was aching to surface.

 

It was just before I got married. I was an exceptional cook, even back then (sorry, can’t help suppress the humility in me). I could dish out just about any cuisine and feed a packed party full of bong Kakus and Kaki Mas, who btw, eat a helluva lot. And it was in one of those bong parties that, I was asked the most imperative question of my new- life-to be : “tui ruti banate paarish?’ (Can you make Phulkas?). I wish I was asked if i could sing instead. Because saying no to that was easier than denying the latter. Ma who was standing behind me suppressed a giggle. I was further informed- do you know you will be marrying into a house hold who has two diabetics, and have ‘ruti’ as part of their everyday menu?  Thankfully she asked me this in her mock masi-sasuri (aunt-in-law) voice, because I was itching to retort back. So to that I said- the house I will be marrying into has a cook of 15 years, she makes them ruti, didn’t you know?

The answer led into something else, which I better not discuss now, should the post run into a tattletale instead. So lets leave it there. But the stigma of not being able to ‘belo’ a phulka remained with me. And in those days I was the crusader of every unjustified cause. I was this rebel who was waiting to be roused. So I gave this whole phulka incident a feminist twist. I rattled away on how women are being judged and that women are still inspected and interviewed goods, all this much to my mother’s amusement and chagrin. She clearly understood the dissonance in my head and knew, all I wanted to actually do was learn how to roll out a fluffy phulka. However, I repressed this desire to the darkest corner of my head and forgot all about phulkas. To make things better, Raj is a rice lover. Imagine my delight. Also, post marriage, I always had cooks, first at my in law’s and then later when we moved out. And all my cooks, ‘beloed’ beautiful round fluffy phulkas.

But who knew what fate had in store 6 years down the line? Who knew that it was cheaper to eat out everyday, than have a cook in Down Under?  After living on rice for months I was beginning to look like a perfect guinea pig for Atkins diet researchers. Last weekend when I finally stood on the weighing scale after successfully pushing it out of my sight for 8 long months, I thought of that evening. So can you make ruti?

So I tried (of course, I had tried several times earlier in India and I’d end up having burnt, hard phulkas, that resembled different country maps every day. I had finally given up). With Raj by my side to gimme that added support- ‘yes u can make those perfect round rutis like Tarla Dalal’, I set to make the elusive phulka.

 

And the rest I’ll leave to the picture, they apparently say a thousand words?

The socialite

 

(Warning - Only for facebook addicts)

Without any make up on, in sheep print pajamas, and a glass of Pinot Noir,
she socialized.
Effortlessly, she went from person to person, men, women, even children;
With a hello here, a smile there, she decided to mingle with more authority-
she begun with liking people’s pictures, gave thumbs up to her boss’s inane notes
and left a *sigh* at a cousin’s ‘we are off to Bangkok’ status message.
However, she didn’t know how to react when a random colleague sent her a request,
to be her neighbor, at some farm.

She gifted a Louis Vuitton bracelet to her up market friend,
and sent some jalebis to her desi pals;
she got back some too- a box of chocolates and a pair of Hawaianas
She speed dated and compared her movie taste with a few ex colleagues.
So now, she was a pro.

A socialite, like a million others out there.
Time now for some tomfoolery and mischief-
she flung Justin Timberlake at a few, threw some jellos too,
even tripped an old classmate.

With romance on her mind now,
she badly wanted a bubble bath with him.
That’s when, she saw his mom, gawking at her,
and in the same breath calling her a ‘mutual friend’, of her and her son's.
How could she not greet her? Such impertinence was not in her,
ummmmm send her a polite private message, maybe, instead of scribbling on her clean wall?

So she did.
However, she made a faux pas,
like she always did, while socializing (clumsy, inept goat that she was).
But how would she have known that one click would mess it all?
(Did it serve a premeditated, impish purpose of placing the two links above each other?)
Oh,to think of all that effort to befriend her in real life, and later ‘friend’ her in virtual life too.
It was not her fault of course, it was the mouse's.
The insolent acrylic rat, instead of clicking the message link, poked my partner’s mom.
Oh! How harrowing!
Of course she knew, the word ‘deliberate’, would be the point in argument tomorrow morning, over the phone.
Traumatic indeed.

Next time, she decided, she’d take an auto rickshaw.
She’d go meet her, face to face,
say hello and share a real cup of tea.
Then, for sure, hit the bar and party in a cocktail dress,
hug a friend, backslap a few, and go soak with her partner,
in hot water and some actual bubbles.

(Difficult to appreciate or criticize, if you are not on Facebook)

On someone called Migraine

Like a much disliked lover, he came to pay a visit (exactly after her husband left),
this time, with a suitcase. (Perhaps a way of saying, I’ll stay for long?)
The abhorred lover, seemed familiar and always came at odd times.
He usually made grating conversation, and thrived on coffee.

So numerous were his visits, that he had
a favorite place, a corner usually, (near a temple, behind the cool shades of her eye).
He also had a taste for music, The Metallica, (or that’s what she reckoned) ,
you know, those guys with drums and all.

Akin to the mighty mosquito, that was immune to Good Knight,
our man here seemed to show the finger, to the humble Paracetamol.

He had been around for three days, chewing, irking, demanding more coffee;
that’s when she offered him something else (it was not in her to be violent),
that seemed like an unexpected assault.
A stench of lavender spread,
dizzy and nauseous, and sure of being sedated on the sly, he was asked to leave.

Humiliated, he left and snoozed off in a Barista, only to wake up to the aroma of Full City Roast.
Alive again, rubbing his hands with glee, he found his prey-
a woman who had in front of her, an empty box of tissue and four shot glasses of Esspresso,
(she almost seemed to signal with her bulging red eyes, come hither sweetheart, make me yours).
Now ain’t that head a welcome abode, he told himself, excited.

Hi honey, how about sharing a Jamaican?

Still wallowing in memories

To get the bar of Cadbury fruit and nut and a 20 rupee note, I had to wait for one long year. And with each year, as we got older, I saw ma adding 5 bucks to the 20 and by the time i reached class 8 I was getting about 50 bucks and a bar of Cadbury. I also remember parting with the 50 buck once because you needed it more ..so u waited until ma went out of sight and then begged me to give you back your gift for an exchange of something, I don’t remember) .  And quickly you grew up, and got your first pay check. That’s when you bought me my first pair of Nike and took me for a joy ride on the retro blue Bajaj, around Tank Bund.

But these are not the best memories. I still like the picnic under our mango trees the best. And the early morning 4 am History and geography revisions we did together under the mosquito net on chilly wintery mornings.  You helped me with math, and i only wished you also helped me gulp down that steel glass full of milk, which you so diligently finished, while ma scowled at me. And I finally accept that I didn’t really mind you taking away my Atlas Sport star on our way back from school- I quite liked it- you were the head boy then, and it was only a pleasure to let you have my cycle. I was only jealous of one thing- your stamps. You could have given me a stake in them you know. I was your lil sis after all.

To this day, on Raksha Bandhan, I long to go back to those carefree days. Days we fought and made up with a quick exchange of orange candies. Days we had pillow fights, days you took me to the loo in the night coz I was scared of Vikram Aur Betaal. And you were the best ever when you held my hand and walked me on the roads, lest I got run over (did u do that because ma had asked u to?) . And da, ma still tells me you stood by the crib making faces and kept me entertained when I was a baby, while ma finished her chores. I imagine you making those faces when you stick out your tongue and roll your eyes for Aadi.

U were never really a sloppy bro- the types who sang phoolon ka taaron ka..but u stole ‘that rose for Ms Cicielia from Madhusudan aunty’s garden’  for me. And no matter how much you deny being soft centered, I saw you crying like a baby clutching my hand, never wanting to let go, when I left home, symbolically, during my Bidai.

Happy Rakhi (no no, I won’t wish the Sawant variety in a zillion years on you), da. Have a good one.

You can make an electronic transfer, if sending cash is difficult.

A lifetime more, to come.

choti baatein, choti choti baaton ki hai yaadein badi

Bhule Nahin, beeti hui ek choti ghadi..

Indeed, its the small little nothings and gestures that has the greatest memory, and no, I haven’t forgotten a single one of those cherished moments.

The memory of the rubber band behind your back, tucked safely in your hands, stays safe with me. The memory that you wanted to profess your love with that fancy piece of plastic, will remain etched in the remembrance zone, forever.

Calvin and Hobbes has quite a different impression on me - they make me laugh, sure, but they also remind me of a XXL tee, a mighty old one, that came in as a parcel, from you, the very first time. It promised me a lifetime of love and seemed to say, I might not have all the money in the world to buy you your first gift, but I do have a sense of humor, am a sucker for the sentimental, and am in love with you, head-over-heels.

A 48 hour train journey with a back-pack, in an unreserved compartment, because your girlfriend asked you to spend a day more with her, at the risk of getting ousted from university, only told me, you wouldn't mind knocking on NASA’s doors, to reach the moon and bring it back for me. You are pretty capable of doing the unthinkable, for the sake of love.

You waited, what 6 years(?), to tell me that you were in love with me, when, all the while I gave you that indifferent nod in the elevator, everyday, and absolutely no acknowledgement during Pujo?  And you finally made an attempt with a silly email talking about Pune’s weather and MBA?? You remind me of Marquez’s, Florentino Ariza. But I think that email was the most endearing thing you have ever done.

The lie about the sudden move to America in December, and hence a rushed wedding in August was the only solution, it seemed then, to reduce the lingering distance and wait  between 3 floors and 4 long months. It was by far your best attempt, to show how far you can go to make a smile appear on your lady love’s face . Quite a lot, rather, for a smile. Your parents, am sure have forgiven and forgotten that lie, but your wife of 6 years, remains awestruck.

The night you decided to spend in the loo, by the pot, thanks to Old Monk and coke, I was distressed, but was also glad, you didn’t just stick to lemonade.

And don’t you think I have forgotten the time you were by my side- in the OT (you rightly say, you are the only one who knows me inside-out- from the intestines to your convoluted head- i know you the best, dearest ). I know it wasn’t too far back, but it seems like it was just yesterday. And yes, I am still jealous that you were the first to see her.

Bed teas, Sunday afternoon coffees, steam engine like snores, very very rare flower surprises, chicken curry with excess Garam masala, conversations from Amsterdam on a roaming SIM card, ludicrous fights,  ‘Amla’ Hair oil, a honeymoon with Voveran tablets, hyper acidity, love, laughter, sunshine, tears.

You’ve been mine for 6 years, you’ll remain that way, ceaselessly. Happy Anniversary.