The Salesmen

1_the bahubali sale

When Shahrukh Khan sells vegetables and fruits (on bb) it does not feel good. He was supposed to take ‘Dil Wale Dulhaniya’ home and live happily ever after, he was supposed to spread his arms at a twenty degree slant and assure all swooning girls and aunties, ‘ Kiska hai ye tumko intezar mein hoon na’. But no, our swadeshi Tom Cruz had to sell bhajis like my thela wala, and it was not even ‘ papi pet ka sawal’, for him at least. Dear hero, sell if you must, sell those lovely sheets and upholstery with your wife, looking ‘oh so in love’ ; give us the incentive to buy those curtains with our next Diwali bonus. Sell the time keepers watches, for we know that time keeps changing ! Sell the fairness cream if you so want, after all beauty is just melanin deep, and we understand your needs. But please don’t sell vegetables, no matter which side of fifty you are in , don’t try to look domesticated, we are not buying it.

Humanity is a virtue not many can pride to have. But having your own brand of ‘ Being Human’ is another story altogether. Salman khan the bhai of the industry is a man with a large heart or so we are told. Thus when ‘Didi tera dewar diwana’ hero bares his chest at the drop of a hat people don’t count his packs they just see a big heart ! Our heroes take all the trouble to decide which brand of vest is best for us,or which innerwear gives ultimate comfort, in return all we have to do is smile and give a ‘Thums Up’ to our Big Boss. The ‘Dabang’ persona of a hero ends with the word, cut. But in a fan’s mind they remain The dabang man. A character called ‘Bajrangi bhai Jan’ becomes the humane answer to all our cross border tensions. I hope people remember that “being human” is more than wearing a shirt, it is a way of life for some.

Mr. Bachchan senior on the other hand can sell almost everything. That baritone voice gives a sense of assurance, command and comfort, all molded into one. The voice makes you want to believe, job of marketing is half done when trust is ensured. The chavanprash will make you stronger, the cream will heal your skin, the hair oil will cool your nerves, it will all work. We do not buy a product, we buy magic, a solution, a cure. But Mr. Bachchan endorses more than supermarket products. His larger than life persona becomes the common man’s voice when he speaks to us about social issues, from one drop of pulse polio to ‘swatch Bharat.’ His richness reflects even in his mundane regularity. He dazzles us when he buys jewelry for his wife with the elegant ease of royalty. On Sunday Times full page advertisement, Bachchan family portrait smile at us, totally taken in by the grandeur we almost smile back in courtesy. And then when our own need to buy the purest of pure metal arises we ( the malleable aam admi ) go to the same store as shown by our stars ! The chain we buy chains us further with star power .

The Priyankas, Shilpas, Kajols, Aishwaryas, of every neighborhood will trustingly buy the shampoos, creams, and lotions endorsed by Priyanka, Shilpa, Kajol ,Aishwarya and the other leading ladies of Hindi cinema. They are in every sense of the term dream sellers. But when dream girl ( aka Hemamalini) herself sells the ‘sabse shudh ‘ drop of water, draped in a aqua marine blue sari, you wonder what Basanti would sell in those days of ‘ chal dhanno ‘. The star power is big in a country where movies are the biggest entertainment grosser. When the stars sell, it is hard not to submit.

This summer with the temperatures soaring , dear stars, don’t even bother to sell us those bottled aerated drinks , we will drink them anyway. Meanwhile the ‘nariyal pani wala ‘ can stand with his basket full of thirst quenchers at the nukkar, haggling over the price of thirst.

Yes, thirst does sell , we thirst for almost everything, it only needs to be marketed well to make us believe that we are thirsty. Bring in the stars, fill up the pages of magazines and newspapers, prime time and on line shopping with advertisements, and make your product seen ,heard and believed, and voilà, magic happens.

All other professionals, sportspersons, soldiers, leaders ( leading what not very sure ), doctors, lawyers, educationists, can evoke many sentiments in us, but idol worship still rests with the film fraternity and a section of cricketers. As frivolous it may sound, it is the truth with the masses. There is a reason for this trust and admiration for film stars alone. They essay many a roles on reel, and the gullible mind after a point forgets the distinguishing factors. The actor becomes the character they play on screen. The characters bring the credibility to our minds, we start thinking ” Raj, Rahul, Vijay, Vidya, Simran ” can do the insurmountable. The trust is built on screen, the vulnerability of imagination is stretched and played upon to its hilt. The common man in desperate need of change starts believing that the change is possible, only if he apes his hero. Real change does not happen, but the follower follows, the fashion, the brands ; imitate to the point of affordability !

The filmy glitterati are the stars, the brand ambassadors, they have the star power. Their smiling faces stand out in a million, their life inspire millions (surprisingly it does, the celluloid and beyond ), and when rest of the millions, billions, gladly, smilingly, embrace the star power and feel ‘thanda thanda cool cool’ even in this plus thirty degree centigrade, who are we to object. At the end of the day we too are just one in a million ! So let the ending chorus for all of us be “Main tera hai re jabar, hai re jabar Fan ho Gaya”. Fans are mostly reliable , runs all through the year.. without question, but what if it falls or fails one day ! The responsibility to secure the fan is huge, the responsibility to enjoy the cool breeze is even bigger.

A tale of Two Cities

 

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The mileage points keep adding as I shuttle ( Oh so frequently ) between my temporary address and permanent address , the city of dreams ‘Amchi Mumbai ‘ and  the city of joy ‘Amar Kolkata’. In recent times I made a choice to live in two cities, Mumbai and Kolkata, alternately. I divided my time, house, books, furniture, wardrobe, kitchen, between the two homes I set up in the two metros. Since then I have been swinging like a pendulum between the two cities and feeling quite dizzy;  I have no one to blame for this situation but myself. Thus in this dizzy state of affairs I try to keep pace with the time machine I created for myself and here is my oscillating attempt to share the woes or wows of my experiences.

Like thousands of Indians who reach Mumbai with a dream, I too had one, a small one or so I thought at that point. My dream was to live by the sea and count the waves on a full moon night. Admittedly a very childish and ignorant dream of my incorrigible romantic mind. But dreams are dreams and they defy logic. Soon I learnt that in this city of dreams only two sections of people live by the sea,the rich and famous ( not so sure about the fame though ) and the fishing community. The latter sure keep count of the waves for their livelihood depends on the tides of sea , but the rich perhaps have no time to count waves. For the rest of us we live in busy narrow lanes and cross roads of suburban Mumbai mainland. We  live in  high towers, counting either a hefty rental or EMI each month, and the dream of counting waves soon get washed away. But on sudden days the smell of sea hits me and the sea breeze carelessly flirting with my  hair reminds me of the waves, the roars, the sand and my dream. I rush to the beaches of overcrowded, litter floating sand and sea, I see the setting sun in its glory and drive back home counting road bumps.

Home is reached even though the journey is bumpy and the google maps are busy locating my destination as Kolkata.  Kolkata is the city where I grew up, my building blocks of memories are from this city. I keep them tightly packed in a box called nostalgia. Years back I had moved out of Kolkata, I traveled and stayed in various smaller cities and towns of India. But like an umbilical cord the city kept pulling me back no matter how far I went. The bend of roads, meandering Hooghly, the iconic Howrah bridge, landmark Victoria memorial, familiar shops, road side eateries, schools, colleges, all hold the familiarity of home to me. The city landmarks change with time, new ones come up but the charm of the city still remains. In the years that went by Calcutta changed to Kolkata, and Bombay changed to Mumbai, but character and essence of these two old cities stood strong and unshakable in the hands of time.

Mumbai gives me the zeal to seize the day, this city challenges my hours and minutes. The  work culture of Mumbai inspires everyone who comes here, from the daily wage earner to the movers and shakers. The simple philosophy which operates in this crazy chaos of Mumbai is live and let live.  Kolkata on the other hand gives me the much sought passion for life. Kolkata people are passionate about almost everything, be it music, food, literature, football, cinema, politics, travel, education, the list goes on. But in context to business, finance, work culture, the laid back and casual attitude often disturbs me. Every second person on the streets of Kolkata has a political and social view point but in deliverance lies the problem. This I say with no disregard or prejudice to any individual, it is the sum up of a general feeling I often get myself and also hear from people around me.

NH 6, connecting Kolkata and Mumbai perhaps sees less traffic on an average day than the emotional traffic of my brain that keeps traveling everyday between Kolkata and Mumbai. In one city I have a home of my own ( keeping aside the transient thought for a while ) and in the other city I have an empty nest. In my city of joy I get lured by fish curry and strong Darjeeling tea. Together with friends and family we raise a storm of opinions warming both our heart and hearth. As quintessential Bengalis we are very opinionated and vociferous , whether politically correct or incorrect, adda holds the center stage. In Mumbai,life is more centered around work, making people a little impersonal and self centered. With everyone chasing some pursuit it is easy to feel lonely and left out in Mumbai. I long for both the cities simultaneously, I miss not being in one when I am in the other. A sense of being displaced chases me as I keep shuttling between Mumbai and Kolkata.

I feel amused with my confused love affair with my two cities. My taste buds, my musical ear, my choice of clothing , the languages I speak, the emotions I feel, are constantly torn between two choice. Sometimes I feel richer by this unique blend of two cultures within myself. With chameleonic ease I  change my personality as I shift between the two cultures.

Draped in a cotton sari, wearing large ear rings I attend a musical evening of rabindrasangeet in Kolkata. Where as in Mumbai I don’t dress particularly for any occasion, such is the pulse of the city. A very casual dress code defines my Mumbai style and a more elegantly dressed me defines my Kolkata style. But the woes of my divided wardrobe is very obvious.My wardrobe has suddenly thinned in size after this division of clothes between two homes. I remind myself that I must have had had more clothes than I could wear to begin with.  My pink churidar set is in Mumbai but the perfectly matching dupatta is resting in my Kolkata wardrobe. If my tussar sari is in Kolkata my blouse for the same will be in Mumbai . The smell of moth balls fills the air as I pack up each item in airlock zip bags, unsure of when they will next see the light of day.The brown heeled shoe smile back at me when I start looking for the black sandal. As I lace up my running shoes and start running in an illusionary attempt to bridge the gap between the two mile stones, I feel that distance is only a state of mind.

In my constant state of transit my taste buds stay happily busy and always wanting for more. From pani puri to phuchka, Mumbai bhel to Kolkata jhal muri, mishti doi to shreekhand, I am spoilt for choice. One can never have a favorite amongst the favorites. How can it be easy to chose between Aminia Biriyani and Berry Pulao from Britania !  Will I vote for Amar juice center against Badsha rolls, no. Both the cities delight me with mouth watering dishes. The confusion starts when I enter my own kitchen and start looking around for the pots and pans, spices and grains on the wrong shelf of the right pantry. I make meticulous grocery lists, or so I pride, soon to be ridiculously challenged by the mix up I make between my two kitchens. I buy what I think I need only to realize it is for my other home. Between my two kitchens I perhaps have enough stuff to open my own store, but ironically the needed stuff is never in the needed place. Thus these days when taste goes wrong I promptly blame the kitchen, not the chef. The chef scurries from the kitchen to a more favorable place, my library.

Our library too has not been spared from this divide and rule policy of mine. My children like me are absolute book lovers. They find it difficult to forgive me for having send more than half of their books to another home in another city. Kindle is still not an answer we are ready to accept. When I get the sudden urge to read Keats or Shelly ( yes some die hard romantics still read them )  or a novel of a particular author, my book shelf seems too far, too out of reach. The Internet is always an option but the pleasure of leafing through tea- brown pages of a book with memories attached to it cannot be imitated. Therefore we keep buying new books all over again, and wait for the pages to turn tea-brown. Like memories I keep adding books to my lives, for no matter where I choose to live  books shall always be my best friend.

There are other cities and other worlds where the sun and moon travels to, where the waves break on lonely shores and rivers flow under wooden bridges, someday I will go there. Till then I sit in my balcony looking up at the sky to catch a glimpse of the full moon between the high rise apartments. I remember my favorite moon chase game from my childhood. During long drives at night I would look up at the moon and wonder whether the moon was chasing us or were we chasing the moon ! Perhaps it is a little crazy counting waves and chasing moon between the city of joy and city of dreams , but it is a blissful lunacy which keeps me swaying like a pendulum. Both Kolkata and Mumbai enrich me, my nomadic life and my two beautiful homes. This is my ‘ Tale of two cities’ .

Desert Muse

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A grain of sand has been calling out to me,
Has been calling out to me since eternity.

Since eternity I am waiting to meet,
Waiting to meet through rain and sleet.

Through rain and sleet, through heat and dust,
Through heat and dust my wait and trust.

My wait and trust for my love for a land,
My love for a land, where there is a grain of sand.

A grain of sand ,with endless miles to run,
Endless miles to run in the blazing sun.

In the blazing sun with the glistening light,
With the glistening light on a full moon night.

On a full moon night without any sleep,
Without any sleep in my dreams it will seep.

In my dreams it will seep a grain of sand,
A grain of sand from the desert land.

From the desert land to the shores of the sea,
To the shores of the sea I roam in search of thee.

In search of thee, yet you slip through my hand,
You slip through my hand, a twinkling grain of sand.

A twinkling grain of sand, holding time in an hour glass,
In an hour glass, eternity shall come and gently pass.

Shall come and gently pass the echoing calls to me,
The echoing calls to me, is a mirage of my destiny.

A mirage of my destiny, the desert calls and I cannot refuse,
I cannot refuse, for it is buried deep within me, my desert muse.

I Am The Buyer

For long they have been selling their dreams,
And I am the buyer.
For long their slogans churn the stream,
And I am the buyer.
They sold harvest, they sold gold.
They sold Marx , brave and bold.
They sold a comrade, they sold voice.
They sold placards, deafening noise.

They sold the darkness of a damp cell,
What was I buying I could no more tell.

For long they have been selling their thoughts,
And I am the buyer.
For long their slogans brewing wrought,
And I am the buyer.
They sold wisdom, they sold help.
They sold freedom, but not for self.
They sold light, a bit too bright.
They sold praise, they sold fire,
They sold a future with a date to expire.

They sold a world down in a well,
What was I buying I could no more tell.

For long they have been selling their faith,
And I am the buyer.
For long their slogans igniting wrath,
And I am the buyer.
They sold agitation, they sold purification,
They sold terror, they sold fear.
They sold the hearts of someone dear.
They sold religion to suit their region.

They sold faith in a closed shell,
What was I buying I could no more tell.

For long they have been selling their progress,
And I am the buyer.
For long their slogans deepening in regress,
And I am the buyer.
They sold commotion, calling it revolution.
They sold racism, burying humanism.
They sold a house with a rigid wall.
They sold a market where values fall.

They sold a heaven which looked like hell,
What was I buying I could no more tell.

For long they have been selling potions of power,
And I am the buyer.
For long their slogans of decaying desire,
And I am the buyer.
They sold knowledge of a twinkling land,
They sold a world within your hand.
They sold restless, jaded generation,
They sold youth without passion,
They sold ambition with delusion.

They sold a soul which can not sell,
What was I buying I could no more tell.

Come to me my words.

Come to me my words,

For once again I fly,

Up here the sky meets the sky.

Come to me my words.

Birds of feather fly down below,

In the light of a faint blue rainbow.

Come to me my words.

I am over the glades and hills,

I am in the sky and sky above me still.

Come to me my words.

Do not fail me today,

For this moment is not here to stay.

Come to me my words.

My mortal flight has taken wings,

Perhaps an end of new beginnings.

Come to me my words.

This journey is my destiny,

My mind may die of its own mutiny.

Come to me my words.

Before they snatch all I know,

To knit the thoughts in a neat flow.

Come to me my words,

I am ready to touch the land,

My grip is loosening on my magic wand.

Come to me my words.

For one last embrace,

To bid adieu with grace,

Come to me my words.

Unfaithfully Yours

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When the pocket sized, green covered,New Testaments were periodically handed over to us in our convent school, matters of faith, religion or dogmas of moral behavior were of little importance to me. The silky thin white pages and the fine print marveled me, the contents had no significance . Between school and home my religious upbringing swayed like a pendulum. Though the goal of both must have been the same, to indoctrinate in my little brain the values of good living. At home there was an alter with various Hindu Gods and Goddesses, there were incense sticks, evening diya, little sugar crystallized balls of prasad, and Slokas in Sanskrit ( the meaning of which I still don’t fully comprehend due to my ignorance of the Sanskrit language ) . Back to school , there was the chapel, holy water, morning prayers and the hymns. Thus happily I grew up singing ” The world around us sings of The Lord.. ” in school and “Mon ek bar Hari bol” at home, both with equal ease and fervor. Why the fervor the mind never asked, it just knew that religious practice is an important world of the adults in which we were being tutored to partake.

My brain had not started it’s uncomfortable questions yet, but curiosity was perhaps the first seed of question ! The divide between Moral Science class and Catechism class in school made me curious. We knew that us, the non- Christians were supposed to attend Moral Science class. But I was curious to know what was taught in Catechism class which was different. In a vague way my child mind had perhaps already understood that the teachings of being good from bad cannot be differentiated by sitting in different class rooms.

The seeker seeks everywhere. The seeker is almost like a lost lover knocking from door to door. There is no difference in the silence within a gurdwara or a church. There is no difference between my fasting or yours. There is no difference between your namaz or my puja. When I hear a Bangladeshi Muslim talk of Durga pujo, when I see young adults practice lent and giving up more meaningful things than food , I feel like telling myself “All is well”. For we the humans are not mere puppets of mass hysteria, we have faith in one religion ,called Humanity.

No one in particular teaches you this but the young mind learns to understand that God is the immediate helpline number you dial with folded hands and closed eyes. This need for helpline is simple when we are young. Just before every exam, report card,or simply to sort out silly differences with best friends ! Even today I find myself praying for the ‘report card ‘; this time though it is for my children. The obsession with ‘report card’ keeps chasing me. A voice within keeps mocking and reminding of the true meaning of ‘report card’.The need of Gods intervention from the school report card to life’s report card happens in the process called growing up. I stumble and fall, I fail and lose, I hurt and reconcile. The lessons of life are learned and unlearned many a times and many a ways.

With every festive fervor my questioning mind awakes. The uncomfortable questions of why and how we seek Divinity arises. The atheist and the believer both dwell within me. In the battle of logic and faith the realm of reality and metaphysical collide. The answers are not simple. Often I have come across true atheists with much deeper knowledge and study of the scriptures than the blind believer. To quote Paramhansa Yogananda ” Faith means expanding your intuitive awareness of God’s presence within, and not relying on reason as your chief means of understanding.”

I sway once again like a pendulum between being ritualistic and spiritual. Rituals keeps me busy and distracted, spiritual seeking needs hard work. But peace descends when I sit at my altar with the single candle burning. My mind wants to surrender and grasp that fleeting moment of complete bliss which does not flicker with the flame. With age I have realized that the helpline I have been dialing since childhood has always been redirected to me. The answers I have seeked out wards have always come from within. It is time to look within and reconnect with the seed of strength already sowed inside my heart. As the world prepares for the festive season , the true blue Bengali me rises at dawn to listen to the chants of Devi Bandana, is it religion or culture I forget to question. The walk on the path of self realization is arduous and the journey has just begun.

“How happy is the blameless vessels lot,
The world forgetting by the world forgot,
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind,
Each prayer answered, each wish resigned.”

Alexander Pope

MONSOON WASH

Monsoon Wash.

I was standing on my terrace getting wet in the rain feeling foolish,feeling happy, feeling sad. My love affair with the rains always does this to me every monsoon, makes me step out of the four walls of my dwelling. I want to write to my paramour, the rain, but words fail me. William Shakespeare so easily said,”Words are easy, like the wind”, but for lost lovers like me “Words don’t come easy to me”( F.R. David), but feelings do, as easy as the rain. I am overwhelmed with feelings, like a tidal wave all my love surges with the wind for a last embrace of rain. The heavy downpour drenches me completely, and I can only think of two words, monsoon – wash ! This will be my little ode to the season I love the most, monsoon.

All shades of grey lazily float above us .The clouds are in no rush to retreat and the sun is happy hiding behind this grey slate. This is the season for love songs on radio, rain dances, muddy feet, playful children, sharing umbrellas, soaked clothes, holding hands, garam pakoras, steaming tea, a romantic novella and poetry and then some more poetry. To have loved and lost or never loved at all ; to have lived for love or left for love ; there is poetry in everything in these rain soaked days. Then why does my mind mock me for being blind in love. Love and hate has easily learnt to coexist in these troubled times. There is no poetry in wrath and blood shed. There is no romance in war. The war orchestrated by selfish few but the price of which is paid by all. Humanity is stained and shamed .Yet monsoon comes periodically offering to wash it all away. The strength of this beautiful rain we know not yet . It can evoke emotions far stronger than the gentle drops of rain.

Monsoon washes away the dust laden branches of the trees. Monsoon washes away the earths crust. It washes away a lot more than our naked eyes can perceive or see. Monsoon washes away my mind of all grime. Each drop of rain washes away my pain, my agony, my cunning, my anger, my guilt, my giving and my misgivings. Bathed in relentless rain I stand up as new as an olive branch. As every blade of green glisten in freshly bathed splendor, and every waterfall gushes down with youthful bounty , my being too feels cleansed of old rusted chained marks of time. Come forth and bathe with me, bathe in this pure ecstasy of freedom. Freedom from the clutches of shame and defeat, for you and I are born of the same pain. Let the monsoon drench you and me alike.

I do not draw the curtains when I go sleep, for every morning I want to wake up seeing the curtain of rain pouring on the other side of my glass window. I want to feast in this beauty of dark grey clouds and torrential rain. The clouds don’t threaten me with gloom. Clouds are messengers of good news, they quench the thirst of parched earth, mind and soul. Grey is somber, wise and pregnant with the dew drops of life. In contrast all other shades of the spectrum may seem bright and joyful, yet so dull would their sheen be if they couldn’t pride to be fairer than grey ! So grey delights me . Grey roars in thunder like the deepest cord of a symphony. The thunderous rain which pelts down upon me from the heaven of grey above washes away all my rigid believes of sin and the sinner.

But darker than all the shades of grey and black remains the darkness of the human mind. All the rain on earth will not wash away the blood soaked patches of human treachery. Blinded by his own doings man sees not the opportunity to wash away all that hurts.The real magic will happen when man will learn to cleanse himself from deep within. Till then nature continues to shower love on man unconditionally. The lakes are overflowing into the rivers and the rivers are gurgling down to the sea, their cup of joy is filled to its brim. The ocean swells with pride .The fields sway once more with lush green crop. The thirsty earth will no more threat to crack apart. The roots have run deep ,drunk in nectar, holding each grain of soil in its strong grip. Only if man could learn to hold on to his values, goodness, and humanity with the same strong grip.

As I bid goodbye to the last drops of rain, my tears of joy and pain mingle together with the rain. Salt and rain flow down unashamedly, and I make no attempt to hide .I stand getting drenched as rain falls through my hair, my forehead, my cheek, then softly, gently caressing my lips they fall at my feet for one last time. My love with rain will come back to me another day , another place, another time. Monsoon wash perhaps will one day wash away all our troubles in an utopian way. Till that day I shall stand and wait, drenched but feeling pure and beautiful and singing “sawana gagane ghor ghana ghata…”.

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Mind Space

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The sky is my space ! I live there with my dreams, I live there with the twinkling stars, I live there with the sun set glow, I live there with the hues of blue. But down here on Mother Earth I live in an apartment with a veranda which is the window to my sky abode . Once I tried reaching the sky in a para glider, the exhilarating experience finished even before my heart beat stabilized. After some pondering, I came to a conclusion, that no matter how beautiful it felt up in the air like a bird, I would henceforth chose airplanes only, to fly !. My passion for flying with wings never saw the day of light ; but occupying the passenger seat is something we all do so often. As I live near the airport I get to see airplanes everyday flying very low above my house. Half a century of staring at the sky and looking up at airplanes has not diminished my gaping wonder of this flying machine and of the vastness of the skies which makes the planes appear like tiny birds as they keep soaring higher and higher .

Whenever I fly , I look out of the aircraft window trying to catch a glimpse of my house below. But I have never been able to spot my house. All houses from the sky look the same to me, their distinguishing characters vanish as I keep rising higher. The vast dome unifies us all till the the sky and earth meet up at the horizon. The horizon too is a line of our fantasy which keeps deluding us the closer we reach. Therefore we must take to wings and fly, to see what lies beyond, for “man’s reach must exceed his grasp or what’s the heaven for”.

Coming back to my story, I had to travel, I took a flight. My journey began in the most predictable manner. A delayed flight, a window seat and soon after take off I had settled down to sky gaze. As the aircraft kept gaining height I soon lost awareness of my surroundings, submerging my senses in an oneness with the world I saw out of the tiny oval window. My imagination turned the clouds into magic carpets, waiting for me to alight. Like a hypnotized person I got up from my 23 alpha seat and moved towards the aircraft door, with a practiced hand movement and one smooth twist I opened the door of the aircraft and took one hesitating step on the closest white ball of puffed up cotton or was it a cloud ? I did not fall in the bottomless pit of the space below. I took another tentative step and then another till I stepped out completely and shut the door of the plane behind me.


Like a bus which had dropped a passenger at a deserted road, the plane dropped me off at my cloud junction. The plane then gathered speed once more and kept moving ahead. I saw myself standing in a big ocean of blue sky and waves of clouds all around me. I do not fall, though I cannot fly but I do feel light as a feather, running , jumping and dancing like a ballerina . I kept moving from one cloud to the other in pure ecstasy, feeling of home… at last. I was wearing a red dress, red soft silk of hundred pleats swayed in gay abandon with my dance movements. Was I dead or still alive ! I could see my plane pass by. Curious faces on the oval window stared back at me in amazement. I smiled back and waved a hand at them till the plane vanished from my sight. The dance of my dream continues , I lose all sense of time and place. Dancing with the floating clouds, singing my own song, I am intoxicated in bliss. At some point of my dancing trance I stop mid way, my well trained ears wait for the familiar echo of applause. I look around for my audience. But there were none. Panic grips my senses. My glide freezes , my graceful steps falter, I fall on a cloud a step lower. I look around once more, my audience, my audience, cannot see a single human face far and wide.

A sense of emptiness hits me hard. My cloud keeps on floating as I sit transfixed in a daze. From some deep coma of remembrance Wordsworth comes into mind “I wondered lonely as a cloud.. ” the rest of Daffodils fade away. The same line keeps going on and on in my mind as in a broken record. Why I wonder, I do not cherish wandering alone on a cloud? I am where I have always wanted to be. I am in my sky, my airplane has brought me here, my clouds are all around me, yet I am scared. With this endless sea of pristine beauty all around me I still feel deserted. I cling on to the seam of my red dress. Red becomes my hope, my symbol of life, my colour of reality. Once more I need to find my house amidst many undistinguished houses. From the edge of the cloud I peep down searching hungrily for one glimpse of my house below, my apartment with a veranda. But all I see is an ocean of blue turning grey to welcome night. I cover myself in red and sink in the lap of a floating cloud waiting for sleep to come and take me beyond my fear. Within the aircraft, seat twenty three Alfa remained empty, or so it seemed. red_aunty_2

EVE N ADAM….Once more.

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After writing ‘living with Adam’ ( November 2015) few of my friends (surprisingly only eves) wanted to read about the other side of the coin, ‘living with Eve’. This summer heat must have driven me crazy enough for daring to write about Adam’s point of view after this long hiatus . Yes, it is dare indeed to tread into unknown territory.Though my Eve- mind refuses to acknowledge any other point of view; nonetheless I am going to don the man’s hat, wear his cape,and try to fit into his extra large boots and give Adam an Even chance.

After the moment of “I do” at the alter Eve changes her promise to”I don’t” for reasons unexplained. This keeps baffling Adam for the rest of his life ! His sweet understanding girlfriend turned wife, becomes a person he cannot recognize . I don’t like this, I don’t eat this, I don’t have the mood for this,I don’t want to go, I don’t cook,I don’t watch football, and many such “I don’t ” becomes her regular chant. Adam keeps pulling his own hair in a desperate attempt to understand ,till his head is left with very little hair to pull. The journey from ‘ I do’ to ‘ I don’t ‘ maybe unexplained but male balding pattern has just found an explainable theory.
Adam has heard all stories of mothers changing into mother- in- laws after a sons’ marriage. But he believes that his mother is different .What he does not realize is that no one is different. All are equal in the eyes of law and the law affects each one of us indiscriminately. Soon after the honeymoon period his honey becomes daughter in law and his mother upgrades her status to mother in law. Mr. Pivotal Adam becomes the only judge in this lawsuit and an unique judge at that, who can only hear the case but is not in capacity to pass a judgement. He learns to accept that all cases in this family court of law will be kept pending forever. New dates will keep coming up again and again till Adam the judge loses the count of hearing dates and his own hearing ability.

The transition from two wheels to four wheels makes Adam more domesticated. Gone are the days of zipping speed, winding roads and bike races. Yet this domesticated Adam gets dizzy driving around town with Eve. Adam has a mental route map of every city, town and suburb of the place where he lives and does not live ! Whereas Eve thinks every man standing idle on the road is a local google map, she rolls down the window and with that special sweet voice will ask for directions. Of course that weird looking man on the street gives wrong directions, but that does not deter Eve, after going round and round the same loop three times she rolls down the window sighting another google man ! Only if she would talk to Adam with that melting moment voice and trust his sense of directions he would not have felt so lost. But getting lost in the garden of Eden with Eve by his side can be a life long adventure. And Adam is ready to shift gears if that is what the wheels of life demands.

The ‘other men’ know better syndrome of Eve follows Adam inside the house too. A leaking flush tank or faucet, a blinking tube light, or the wobbly leg of the study table, Eve is quick to call the plumber, electrician or carpenter. They are always on her favorite call list .She fails to accept that Adam has a high end tool box, all shiny and new waiting to serve this very practical purpose. The electrician cum plumber fellow is treated like a scientist or an engineer in his own house while Adam gets the royal ignore. He wants to plead with dear Eve to accept him as her very own one man army. But in those dreamy eyes of Eve her Adam is nothing more than her ‘chocolate cream soldier ‘!

Eve is Adam’s ‘mistress of spices’. If not for her he would have never know the aroma of desi ghee, the spelling of asafoetida , or that saffron costs more than silver. But all this knowledge comes with a price tag from his ever so hot Eve. Eve loves to experiment in her kitchen when she has the mood and time. The report card from Adam has to read a perfect A+ even with a protesting tummy. There is another cardinal rule of the kitchen, never to praise another woman’s cooking more than the wife’s. Adam often ends up sleeping on the couch after breaking this cardinal rule. Days when Adam wants to eat out Eve thinks he does not appreciate her cooking and if he does not want to go out then he is blamed for not being romantic anymore. The fine balance between dining- in and dining- out often tilts the balance off to no- dining ! But what is life without a few sneezes in the tempering of marriage.

Adam thinks that Eve should make a personalized celebration calendar and put it on the wall for all to see. Then life would get so much easier for Adam. If Eve could have her way she would start celebrating all ‘first days’ of their life. The first date, the first kiss, the first fight, the first cake, the first house, the first dance,the first holiday. In short it is an endless list with new additions updating automatically. Adam has no choice in stopping these updates, he huffs and puffs to keep up with Eve in this memory game race of ‘first day’ list. Adam wants to tell Eve that day by day she has started resembling his history teacher in school and he wants to bunk all her test days. This routinely forgetting of Adam and then being reminded by Eve, ends with another new milestone of something first.

Crazy Adam misplaces important things, crazy Adam forgets dates, crazy Adam leaves wardrobe upside down, crazy Adam can only boil water to save his life, yet Eve must be crazier than him to love him all so unconditionally. To accept each other as you are is the first rule of the game. The Adam brigade could agree or disagree with this feeble attempt of an Eve to read their mind with her ‘sense and sensibility’. But as long as ‘pride and prejudice’ does not creep into ‘love and friendship’ the Adam and Eve story will not need any other ‘ persuasion ‘ to make life a beautiful journey. With that I take off Adam’s oversized boots, and get ready to run with my Eve friends down ‘Mansfield Park’. 🙂

Remembering you.

Remembering you.
We write because we think .We read because we think. Thought is the most personal possession we have, nobody can steal it .My father was a man of thoughts. I called him Baba .A doctor by profession ,but his romantic and thoughtful mind ruled his personal life. Be it teaching me about the constellation sitting under the open sky on our terrace ,or reciting poetry with my sister, or reading out stories from a novel to my Ma. This was a way he shared his love with us. I wondered then why can’t they (my parents) read their own books individually. Years later I realized that this was their way of sharing time and romance. He inculcated in me the love for books and reading. Today whenever I sit to write I realize that without ever trying to teach, my baba strangely taught me how to think ! When I think passionately, deeply, earnestly I want to put down those thoughts on paper. My baba used to translate his thoughts into letters, beautifully composed letters.Those were not the days of mobile or internet. Having a land line telephone connection at home was a luxury few neighbors had. Letter writing had not become an art form till then. It was a regular mode of communication used by all. My Baba wrote letters for communication and much more. Whenever he had the time he would make his letters long and beautiful. He preferred letters to telephones. Baba would say telephone talk is like taking a shower, quick and practical, whereas letter writing is like going for a long swim, enjoying being in the water. A little strange but his very own parallel drawn so many years ago stayed back with me. Wonder what would be his reaction to today’s time and smart phone world ! The romance of creating words with ink on an empty page holds its own charm through the ages. So he wrote letters. In his letters he wrote to us (my sister and me) about everyday life, his day with Ma, their long walks, the sky, the heat, the rain, the weather, his patients, our dog, menu of the day, evening guests, sharing with his children the home they stayed away from. Ma had to find space in the same inland letter card to pen down her lines . It was also her responsibility to write the name and address, for Baba was a forgetful man and would often mix up names and addresses. My parents were in a hurry to go ; perhaps that is why Baba taught me all he could in those few years we had together. He taught me to think. I write because I think. I have passed on this legacy to my children, they too are people of words ! Even in today’s day of phone and internet, my children write beautiful letters. My daughter buys hand made paper to write long long letters . She is wiser than me , she has learnt to preserve her letters in a box. I have lost mine.Today I want to write a beautiful letter to Baba and Ma .Tell them all that I have been storing in my heart for years.Tell them about their letter writing grandchildren. Tell them that all four of them have grown up to be wonderful people. Tell them about their daughter who records her recitations and wins hearts. Tell them that I write because they taught me to read and think. Tell them all this and more for one last time. But I do not have their postal pin code. The famous gazal by Jagjit Singh comes to mind, “Chitti na koi sandesh, na jaane wo Kaun sa des ,jahaan tum chale gaye….”!