Drishti

Revati sat idle by the window, a soft yellow wool ball resting on her lap. The knitting needles were kept on the round old table next to her. Revati was wondering if she should knit a cap for little Sana or a stole for Sana’s mother, her daughter. She loved this season of winter, the cosy feeling, sitting here by the window, the afternoon sun warming her socks covered feet and the touch of cool breeze against her face.

Soon this beautiful silent hour would end. Her daughter would walk in with a cup of chai, breaking into Revati’s reverie with her own loud voice, but till then the afternoon was hers and hers alone. Revati turned her head to face the window. The window was half closed, but that did not block the view of the green mountains in the horizon against the blue hazed skies. Somewhere deeper down in the valley the stream was gurgling away in a rushed frenzy, eager to reach some unknown destination. The big mahogany tree outside the window blocked the view to the stream. It was such a serene feeling, to sit by this window and day dream.

Lost in her own thoughts Revati did not hear the door to her room creek open. Her daughter had entered with the evening chai. With a loud thud she kept the cup on the round table by her mother’s side and started scolding her mildly, “ Ma, why are you sitting by the open window ? “ Revati was startled by her daughter’s entry, she somehow mumbled “ It is not very cold yet, and then you know.. how I love looking out at those green mountains in the horizon.” The daughter’s tone was on the borderline of frustration, “ Ma , you are dreaming again! How many times have I told you that there are no mountain ranges outside this window or any window of this flat, or anywhere in this city. And even if there were mountains, how could you see them? Why do you keep going back to imagining this strange mind space you have created. Don’t you remember anything of the present Ma? “

Revati was quiet for a few moments, angry tears ran down her blind eyes, wetting her crumpled cheeks. Memories these days had started playing funny games with her mind, sometimes totally deleting the line between the past and the present. It seemed to be just the other day when she could see her world with her own eyes and now the engulfing darkness all around at times threatened to engulf her very being.

Revati didn’t know what to tell her daughter, how could she explain that in her mind she could see the river, the stream, the mahagony tree. She did not need her eyes to see them. And speaking of the present, she remembered the harsh reality that Revati, the beautiful pahari girl named Revati, was now the old and blind woman living with her angry, loud daughter.

How could she explain to her daughter that it was this world of visualisation which filled her dark world with the abundance of light and colour. Why should she let go of this only power she had, to visualise a world of her dreams, a world of her past and live there blissfully, only if for a few hours. With a sigh the daughter picked up the ‘red’ wool ball from the floor, she picked up the walking stick from the floor and held her mother’s arm by the elbow…” Now, now, it’s alright Ma. Don’t look so sad and angry at the same time. Let me take you to the bed. Very soon Sana will be back from the playground and I will send her to your room, then both of you can tell each other all the stories of your day.”

A big smile gently replaced the tears and frown on Revati’s face. Soon her little Sana will jump into her bed and demand “Nani, tell me a new story today”. Of course Revati would tell her little Sana a new tale, and once again with her inner world of visuals Revati will create the story book of her eternal daylight dreams and she already had a name for it…Drishti.

Drishti

Revati sat idle by the window, a soft yellow wool ball resting on her lap. The knitting needles were kept on the round old table next to her. Revati was wondering if she should knit a cap for little Sana or a stole for Sana’s mother, her daughter. She loved this season of winter, the cosy feeling, sitting here by the window, the afternoon sun warming her socks covered feet and the touch of cool breeze against her face.

Soon this beautiful silent hour would end. Her daughter would walk in with a cup of chai, breaking into Revati’s reverie with her own loud voice, but till then the afternoon was hers and hers alone. Revati turned her head to face the window. The window was half closed, but that did not block the view of the green mountains in the horizon against the blue hazed skies. Somewhere deeper down in the valley the stream was gurgling away in a rushed frenzy, eager to reach some unknown destination. The big mahogany tree outside the window blocked the view to the stream. It was such a serene feeling, to sit by this window and day dream.

Lost in her own thoughts Revati did not hear the door to her room creek open. Her daughter had entered with the evening chai. With a loud thud she kept the cup on the round table by her mother’s side and started scolding her mildly, “ Ma, why are you sitting by the open window ? “ Revati was startled by her daughter’s entry, she somehow mumbled “ It is not very cold yet, and then you know.. how I love looking out at those green mountains in the horizon.” The daughter’s tone was on the borderline of frustration, “ Ma , you are dreaming again! How many times have I told you that there are no mountain ranges outside this window or any window of this flat, or anywhere in this city. And even if there were mountains, how could you see them? Why do you keep going back to imagining this strange mind space you have created. Don’t you remember anything of the present Ma? “

Revati was quiet for a few moments, angry tears ran down her blind eyes, wetting her crumpled cheeks. Memories these days had started playing funny games with her mind, sometimes totally deleting the line between the past and the present. It seemed to be just the other day when she could see her world with her own eyes and now the engulfing darkness all around at times threatened to engulf her very being.

Revati didn’t know what to tell her daughter, how could she explain that in her mind she could see the river, the stream, the mahagony tree. She did not need her eyes to see them. And speaking of the present, she remembered the harsh reality that Revati, the beautiful pahari girl named Revati, was now the old and blind woman living with her angry, loud daughter.

How could she explain to her daughter that it was this world of visualisation which filled her dark world with the abundance of light and colour. Why should she let go of this only power she had, to visualise a world of her dreams, a world of her past and live there blissfully, only if for a few hours. With a sigh the daughter picked up the ‘red’ wool ball from the floor, she picked up the walking stick from the floor and held her mother’s arm by the elbow…” Now, now, it’s alright Ma. Don’t look so sad and angry at the same time. Let me take you to the bed. Very soon Sana will be back from the playground and I will send her to your room, then both of you can tell each other all the stories of your day.”

A big smile gently replaced the tears and frown on Revati’s face. Soon her little Sana will jump into her bed and demand “Nani, tell me a new story today”. Of course Revati would tell her little Sana a new tale, and once again with her inner world of visuals Revati will create the story book of her eternal daylight dreams and she already had a name for it…Drishti.

London Love: Last day

I did not marry a chocolate cream soldier. Chalk does not understand flowers, chocolates or gifts unless told to do so! For him, the essence of any strong relationship is mutual respect, loyalty and responsibility. I too value the more meaningful aspects of life than the frills. And somehow life without the fancy frills makes it more easy at my age. As for romance, I am Cheese the romantic, I can do double shift romance, both for Chalk and myself.

For Chalk and Cheese special days are usually no different from everyday, but their children feel differently. They want to celebrate their parents anniversary and won’t listen to any of our arguments. Last year we were in Pittsburgh with our son and he had made his parent’s anniversary extra special .This year our daughter, aka Kessari was in London with us. She had meticulously planned the day, keeping in mind what Chalk and Cheese liked, but most of it was her secret, to be revealed gradually. It was almost like a parents day out kind of feeling for us.

“London has to be seen with the ‘London eye’ ” ; Cheese had said this to her daughter at some point and the daughter had remembered! The first surprise of the day was tickets to the London Eye. Chalk, Cheese and Kessari Iined up in drizzling rain for the ride. The wait was long, the wind and drizzle added to the chill. A panoramic view of London slowly unfolded as the giant observatory wheel completed one circle in thirty minutes. For thirty minutes we sat in a capsule looking down at The Big Ben, Westminster, St.Pauls Cathedral, the majestic buildings of London and the river Thames reflecting the city and its skies like an old trusted friend.

Our trusted Kessari had made plans of taking us for shopping . We followed her to the The Harrods department store. The cursory visit was more out of curiosity than necessity. The merchandise were mostly very steeply priced. My choice was clear, between empty pocket and empty hand, I preferred the latter.

A friend had recommended the store Fortnum and Mason. The store was established in 1707 as a grocery store, it has ever since gained in reputation and inventories and now stands as a luxury brand in London. It is heard that the Queen Elizabeth ll, visited the store personally and that the store has been the royal grocer for a century. Kessari, my genie for the day was making me feel nothing less than the queen. So the queen mother of Kessari entered Fortnum and Mason holding her daughter’s hand. Fortnum and Mason was indeed a beautiful store at every level. It had a winding staircase leading on to different floors. The interiors were elegantly done up, there were delicate glass wares on display, teal coloured tea sets, napkins, bags, and so much more. I felt adequately tempted to buy almost the whole store.

A visit to these landmark stores was definitely not about filling the shopping bags. Cheese was melting with other emotions. My daughter was holding my hand and taking me through the different sections of the stores , as if I was the child and she was my mother. She kept asking me whether I fancied anything in particular and with choked emotions all I could do was nod. I already had my world with me, holding my hand and walking along, how could I possibly fancy anything more precious than this moment .

Chalk and Cheese had started getting a little tired after all the store hopping, they wanted to sit for a while. On any other day we would have loved to find a bench at Trafalgar Square or Covent Garden, but this day was different. Kessari had hidden surprises at every turn. She had booked a table for afternoon tea at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.

The wide staircase with a red carpet welcomed us into the interiors of the theatre, almost like royalty. The tea room gave vibes of an old Victorian drawing room, an ideal place to sit back and enjoy a cuppa of English afternoon tea. But there was more on the platter than just tea. Elaborately layed out tables with the finest of tableware and delicate flowers had already set the mood for the evening. With touristy mode
footwear (screamingly out of place ) Chalk, Chesse and Kessari settled down to an evening of style. Tea was served along with three different courses of delicious savouries. The service and courtesy of the staff was impeccable, they also got us a cake for our anniversary . Keeping to the Coronation theme, pastries were shaped like the crowns of the King and Queen. Sitting in the heart of England, your Indian Cheese was biting into the sweet taste of the crown! What a magical moment indeed.

After such a stylish experience of afternoon tea, I felt my London trip was almost over. But the daughter had yet another special treat waiting for us. The celebration continued with a theatrical extravaganza at the Piccadilly Theatre London. As we took to our seats the curtains were still down but the artists were amongst us, gyrating in slow motion, enthralling us, captivating us; titillating the imagination of the audience till the curtains raised to the dazzling show ‘Moulin Rouge The Musical’. The colours, sparkles, glitters were as much on the stage as on our minds. The delightful performance of the actors and the craft of story telling got embedded in our minds.

It was certainly the perfect romantic fairy tale ending to our anniversary date. The curtain had drawn on the stage of “Moulah Rouge” and finally it was time to draw the curtains on our celebrations for the day. A beautifully packaged gift of love from our children, a day filled with wonder, grandeur and dazzle. Chalk and Cheese themselves could not have planned it any better.

Chalk and Cheese are now back in India, settled in the comfort of home and the routine of everyday life. Writing this series of Chalk and Cheese European trip would not have been possible without the support of my friends and dear readers. Your encouragement kept me going. I cannot end without thanking my son for constantly nudging me to continue writing. He has been my cheer leader and one man technical
support team in this entire series.

It is time to wrap up Chalk and Cheese tales for now. With a promise to come back with Chalk and Cheese when we travel again, signing off, your’s truly ….Cheese.

The End.

Turning Pages Through Ages

Waking up to London mornings, waking up to a wonderful feeling of anticipation of a new day, in a new city was slowly drawing towards its end. This would have been our perfect family holiday only if our son could have joined us. But perfection is an ever changing concept at its best. So Chalk, Cheese and Kessari made the best use of this vacation time by packing in as much as they could in the space of the given time. We traveled to places unknown; we saw what was unseen, and a lot more always remained unseen. The abundance of history, nature, people, culture, and much more could not ever be put into a box of a package tour. For me, each day ended with a tired body, yet a mind filled with so much wonder that dreams had no space to knock.

Reality looks like a dream when we walk through places we had never envisioned before. To stumble upon old traversed roads amidst lost forgotten forests, to find ancient monuments, or simply a church hidden at the bend of the road, such tranquil sights warms the heart and once more it reiterates, joy is in the journey alone. We drove through picturesque English countryside to reach the Warwick Castle and Windsor Castle.

Castles in the medieval period played a military role, battles were fought from here to protect territories. Castles were also the residences of noblemen. They were the epicenter of power of the ruler and a show of his strength. Warwick Castle was built by William the Conqueror near a meander of the river Avon. The proximity to the river helped to maintain good trade links as well as served as a tactical advantage point in battles. The high impenetrable stone walls of a castle guards the secrets of an empty barren world within . As tourists we enter this world to fill it with our imagination.

Windsor Castle (in the county of Berkshire ) is different from other historic castles. Windsor Castle has been home to royalty for over a thousand years. It is a working royal palace. Royalty still live here. Buckingham palace is the home of the King in the city and this is his home in the county. One section of the castle is open to tourists. We walk through the different rooms, the dining halls ( formal and informal), the meeting rooms , the room where the queen used to meet her visitors and so on. The grandeur and opulence of the place truly reflects the life of the royalty.

There is a doll house in Windsor castle which was built between 1921 and 1924. It was built for Queen Mary, wife of George V. The miniature doll house is a fascinating work of art. It is a miniature representation of the real rooms. The intricate detailing from furniture to crockery was absolutely amazing. From playing dolls to ruling a nation ,the royal life leaves their impression on our mind all the way.

As a testimony of buried centuries Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain stands amidst what seems like endless green fields. They are big vertical solid stones, set in a semi circular formation, and are prehistoric in age. Archeological research have different explanations to these remains. But to a clueless visitor like me ,they looked like massive stone pillars placed there in a symmetrical pattern. There are many variations to stories of how they came to exist in the present location, some mythical versions, some more research based. Stonehenge stands like a mystery of why and how but not eclipsed by the march of time .

As we followed the river Avon we reached the ancient city of Bath nestled in the river valley. Bath was built in Roman architectural style. The Roman Baths in England was once a religious spa where people came to worship the Goddess Sulis Minerva and bathe in the natural thermal springs. Bath is a beautiful city and deserved a longer time of stay to experience it in its totality. But alas, we were no more than passing tourists through a place which was centuries old.

As we drove out of Bath, Jane Austen was on my mind. Every house here looked like her house to me. In reality she had lived here for six years. I made a mental note to re read ‘Persuasion’ ( the novel was largely set in Bath ) once I got back home. Sometimes pages of a book tell us more about a place than a what we see as a tourist in a few borrowed hours.

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.”
William Shakespeare.


We were playing our part of a tourist, a traveler. We were not here to live forever but to carry the visions in our mind, forever. The bard was calling. We couldn’t come back from England without seeing Shakespeare’s birth town and his house in Stratford-upon-Avon.

Shakespeare’s childhood house was a small and simple house. Trying to understand the great bard’s life with one walk through his house was impossible. Reading an author is the only way we get to know them and also to understand a part of the world they lived in. Shakespeare’s plays were written for his time, for the Elizabethan stage but there timeless universal appeal makes Shakespeare and his work immortal.

The poets, novelists, playwrights who were born in this country through the span of many centuries, who wrote large volumes of work under these skies gave England and English literature a pedestal to stand tall in the world of literati. The universal appeal and everlasting relevance of great writers is measured by their work and not by the boundaries of the world.

Our Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore, wrote a poem on Shakespeare to mark 300 years of his death. Tagore wrote in praise of Shakespeare that though born in England, his writings were for the whole world. Greatness and genius recognizing each other. In Shakespeare’s house we walked into that section of the garden where the bust of our Kabi Guru Rabindranath Tagore stood amidst trees and flowering plants. We spent a few minutes in reflection, paying homage to both the Bards in heaven.

The Oxford Dictionary and the Oxford Book Store in Kolkata was the closest I had ever got to the word Oxford. And then, there we were entering the campus of the prestigious Oxford University, the university of dreams for many scholars.

Of course, we were still wearing our tourist shoes which meant our time here was limited. The daughter had been to Oxford earlier, so she once again got into the role of Kessari tours. Chalk and Cheese followed her around like two young graduates.

Those precious few days in London city and around English countryside seemed like a kaleidoscopic vision of multi-coloured pictures. At a whirlwind speed, we roamed from one place to the other. So many times we lost ourselves in the beautiful maze of panoramic views, of history, of culture, of people and their lives. My attempt at recollecting and putting my thoughts down in words and photos is my way of
preserving memories for a longer time.

Chalk and Cheese had their Anniversary celebration in London. A beautifully curated day by our darling daughter Kessari, and that my dear readers will be the last chapter of this series.

To be continued….

Postcards from London

I entered London with my own baggage, the baggage of my Indian origin. From East India Company to the British Raj and then the Quit India movement, till 1947 August 15th the stories are endless. The first East India Company that set foot on Indian soil for business was a Dutch company, the rest followed them. But it was the British who stayed back and the rest is history. Socio political history always leaves back a mark on the generations who live through it and also on the generations who come after.

Royal welcome

I was born in a free India but to parents and grandparents who had lived part of their life in the pre – partition and pre-independence India. Our history has not bound us to bitter memories alone, it has also shaped us in many ways than we would like to admit. Since then we Indians have resurrected our country to another level, keeping the sacrifices of our freedom fighters in mind. We have reconstructed our country and moved on with time. As I entered England for the first time, I held on to this feeling of being an Indian very strongly, lest it gets snatched away! But no, that cannot be. I carry my roots, my culture, my skin colour, my heritage , my passport, my identity with pride and dignity.

Black cab

Moving on to Chalk and Cheese journey, our train pulled into London Station on a bright and clear spring morning in the month of May. Chalk and Cheese stepped out of the station and in grand style Chalk hailed a hackney carriage for his lady. No matter how much I would have loved a horse driven carriage but it was not to be. The black cabs of London were also called hackney carriage. Lady Cheese was learning a few new things in this English country trip.

Chalk and Cheese were extra happy on reaching London for a very special reason. Our daughter, our ‘chalk-o-cheese’ was waiting for us in London. She was visiting her friends in Cambridge and Oxford and had planned to join us in London. Chalk and Cheese were excited like two children who have finally been united with their parent ! Roles were reversed. When your children start parenting you in their small little
ways, there is something soothing and comforting about letting go of the reins in their hands.

Letting go has its pros and cons too, specially when you have an over enthusiastic girl guide and two semi tired parents. My little girl gave us exactly ten minutes break at the hotel to catch our breath and then commanded “let’s go”. She had reached London five hours before us but behaved like she had been a Londoner all her life . She was wearing an oversized orange coat, a pair of well worn out walking shoes, a sling bag around her neck and a big big smile on her face. Sprinting ahead of us in her orange coat she looked like our Kessari tour guide. Chalk and Cheese started following their darling Kessari travels through the streets of London.

Primrose Hill with Kessari

The daughter, aka.. Kessari travels takes us to The Regent Park and makes us climb up the Primrose hill. A panoramic view of London greets us at the top. William Blake the poet who lived in London had written: “I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I have seen him on Primrose hill.” We sat there for sometime, not conversing. In silence, we looked into the skyline, the London skyline. Come tomorrow and we had plans to see London city and more.

The closest we got to royalty

The Queen was gone, the new king had taken his throne, coronation week was over and London city was getting back to normal. Our tour guide (an elderly lady and a devoted fan of everything Victorian) shared a royal secret with us. She told us that we were very lucky because all the royal jewelry had been brought back from the Royal palace after coronation and would be on display for tourists in the Tower Of London,
adding that only she knew about this piece of information. But standing in a very long queue to enter the Jewel House it seemed that a lot of other people were also privy to this royal secret!

Chalk, Cheese and daughter entered the Jewel House to see the display of royal jewelry, The Kohinoor and The Crown. Everything glittered, the gold, the rubies, sapphires, emeralds and intricately cut diamonds. But we are Indians, our eyes thirsted for The Kohinoor. We cannot ever forget how Maharaja Ranjeet Singh had parted with the Kohinoor, our Kohinoor. Every Indian sees a sparkle of India’s glorious past in the twinkle of that one piece of diamond. We also stood in front of the Kohinoor for those few extra minutes, trying to see the glimpses of centuries in those fleeting minutes.

A city is so much like a book. It has its own story. The roads, alleys, buildings, people, food, travel, all of them are like individual characters telling us a story. The more you walk, the more you learn about a place. We walked from Big Ben (not before standing there, craning our necks to look up in amazement at the big clock tower) … to Trafalgar Square. On our way, 10 Downing Street made us stop in our path for a
while, after all we do have an Indian connection in there, don’t get me wrong, I was only thinking about Sudha Murthy!

Later in the day met a very dear girl from India who lives in London now. It is very impressive to see how happily young people make a new place completely their own. We had dinner together at ChinaTown. China town because Chalk and Cheese were craving for some good chinese food, that familiar sweet and sour taste which would strangely give us home food comfort.

Like a typical tourist I entered random shops picking up souvenirs while impatient Chalk and Kessari waited outside. We walked around Trafalgar Square, we combed through Covent garden markets. Sometimes we got lost, sometimes we were happy to find a red bus back to the hotel. We were very impressed with London’s public transport system. The underground metro and the red double decker buses were certainly very convenient mode of traveling. Our dear Kessari made us walk, travel and eat like locals.

Sightseeing cruise on Thames took us along the city and under the, London Tower Bridge, Waterloo Bridge and Westminster Bridge. The British don’t pronounce Thames like you and me do. Their H is silent. I learnt to pronounce their Thames their way, and now I want them to pronounce Ganga the way we do at home and not call it Ganges! Seeing the London Bridge our age old nursery rhyme is bound to play through the mind …

“London Bridge is falling down…
Build it up with gold and silver,
My fair lady.
Gold and silver we’ve not got,
We’ve not got, we’ve not got,
My fair lady. “

This nursery rhyme revolves around the dilapidation and the rebuilding or repairing of the London bridge time and again. Wonder where they went in search of gold and silver? Anyway, my story is about our travels with our dear Kessari. Chalk, Cheese and daughter were yet to see the castles of England, the Roman remains of Bath, buried centuries at Stone henge, a visit to Shakespeare’s house in Stratford-upon-Avon. Our anniversary was coming up, and the daughter had planned a day for us. All this and more in the next London chapter.

To be continued…..

Summer Sojourn … Scotland

Chalk and Cheese

Packing completed, Chalk and Cheese bid adieu to Amsterdam, its canal houses , its tulips and head out for Scotland. All through the journey Cheese struggles with a suitcase which has suddenly developed a personality of its own; it simply refuses to walk along her side . Cheese is bending at an odd angle, pulling a reluctant suitcase like an unruly toddler. Chivalrous Chalk is walking much ahead of her, ignorant of her plight, for he is carrying the heavier burdens of the journey ! Lesson learnt , do not ever carry an old suitcase for travel, go ahead and buy a new one.

We reached Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland on a wet and damp day. As we set out of the hotel, rain hits us hard. Against the strong winds and gushing rains, my dainty umbrella turned turtle within minutes. I search for some shelter and luckily find the National Museum of Scotland across the road. Chalk on the other hand, with smug pride for his sturdy umbrella from Decathlon was behaving as though he had plans to cover the city of Edinburgh on foot, come hail or storm. However, we entered the museum ( free entry ) and spent an hour sheltered from rain and cold. To see some more attractions of the city we climbed on a hop-on hop-off bus. But soon realized that hop-off was not the best choice. The heavy rain kept us boarded on the bus. Sitting in the bus, with the rains blurring our vision, we caught glimpses of some impressive buildings belonging to the period of medieval architecture, adding much character to the city.

The next day we went in search of the hiding monster in the Loch Ness lake. The drive to the lake was long, through the scenic highlands of Scotland. The lake was quiet , big and peaceful. There are so many beautiful lakes in my own country, but we are not always capable of keeping it that way for long. We spoil our environment with our own doing. And here I was in a foreign country, sitting by a lake, feeling the silence all around me and thinking where we fail in our responsibilities when it comes to “Mera Bharat Mahan.”

We stayed in picturesque Scotland for four days. We traveled through Scotland by trains and buses. Learning our ways in a new country, finding new rail stations, bus stops, not losing our way through this zig zaw seemed like a mini adventure to Chalk and Cheese. Chalk was the map reader and Cheese was the observer. Journeying on unknown paths ,we were each other’s compass. The winding roads, lakes, green countryside all around, dotted with grazing sheep, the whole scenario felt like a motion picture. A cinema where the camera was rolling without any interval.

Nestling in the lap of stretched out lush green meadows, smokey lakes and undulating hills was a kingdom that I had seen in my imagination all through my childhood. This was a world straight from of the pages of the books we have grown up reading in our school days. Right from the beginning of nursery rhymes to those wonderful illustrations on the thick silky smooth pages of Radiant Readers; the pictures have always stayed back. Then we were introduced to volumes of romantic poets and novelists , pictures were no more a necessity . By then our minds had learnt the art of imagination. Words alone could paint a scenery and fill it with the colours of life.

Silence

From the first generation of Romantic poets like Coleridge, William Wordswoth and William Blake to the second generation of romantic poets Lord Byron, PB Shelley, John Keats, they had all lived in these surroundings and had been inspired by these unending landscapes. For me to behold the same intricate canvas of nature felt very surreal. The settings of Scotland brought to life the images of my imagination right in front of my eyes.

We traveled to Windermere from Edinburgh by train with one change at Oxenholme. Windermere has one rail station, connecting it to other parts of Scotland. William Wordswoth had opposed to the making of this rail station fearing it would spoil the beauty of his beloved Lake District. Our hotel in Windermere was perched on a small hill with a breathtakingly beautiful view of the meadows and lake. This hotel gave me the luxury of time, space and beauty. I sat there for hours in a contemplative mood looking out , reflecting on these fairytale days of life.

We were in Scotland on the coronation day of the King Charles lll. Social issues of the two countries Scotland and England can be different but their sovereignty holds them together.Though King Charles is the monarch of the United Kingdom we felt an altered narrative between the two countries. The English people, specially the senior English people had devoted sentiments towards their late queen, Queen Elizabeth , and were happy to see her successor on the throne. Whereas the Scotish people swayed between scorn and indifference about their monarch and his coronation. My summation comes from what I generally heard and saw amongst the everyday regular people of the two countries. It certainly has no political connotations whatsoever.

Since the ceremonial jubilation of London had not crossed the borders, the roads were not blocked, traffic moved unaffected, tourists did not feel it different than any other day. We peacefully moved around Scotland riding on Mountain Goats ! Ofcourse not literally, the bus company we had booked with was called the Mountain Goat. In a country where I saw more sheep in the meadows than people on the streets, this name seemed to fit so perfectly. The green landscape and grazing sheep, miles after miles, a few houses here and there, this world is surely fit to be a kingdom!

Scotland seemed to be whispering in my ears to stay on for a while. I was weaving unforgettable memories that would last me for a lifetime. We were driving through the English Lake District, stopping by to see William Wordswoth’s house in Grasmere village. We had time to stand and stare at the hills where he had seen ” a host of golden daffodils ” We tasted ginger bread from Wordswoth’s favourite bakery which still bakes the same bread. Amidst the fields I could imagine “the solitary reaper” bending at her work, ” to stop here or gently pass” was certainly a thought that will stay with me forever.

What is love I ask myself ? Is it not the pure emotions of joy and pain mingled together that I have nursed in my heart for years. The seed of romanticism, the seed of poetry , the seed of loving nature like a lover, were all planted years ago in my heart. With such happy thoughts and a content heart I move forward from one country to the other. London calling, will be the last chapter of this journey of Chalk and Cheese.

To be continued….

Leaning on each other

Of Evening Walks and more …

“Walk the talk” or “walk the walk” that is the quintessential  question Chalk and Cheese are dealing with these days.
Cheese loves  “walk the talk” and my business like Chalk prefers “walk the walk” , in absolute silence ! Long evening walks have become a regular routine for Chalk and Cheese in recent times. I love to talk while I walk, so much so that at times I feel I only go for the walk so that I can talk. To clear my own head, I ask the questions and I answer my own questions. I make philosophical points over simple matters and I admire everything  around me, from the tiny flowers on the grass to the hills and river banks . Yes, I chatter, I chatter ceaselessly and the vantage point being that the partner can not run away from me, and I get to pretend that he is listening ! In reality, I am in conversation with myself.

In such a scenario what does Chalk do ? After being the subject of this “walk the talk” evenings, Chalk has come out with a new strategy. I have told you before that Chalk is the smarter partner ; so he has now beaten me to my own game. He has very smartly Chalked the walk ! To put it simply, he has come out with new routes, torturous routes  (aah…the melting feet of delicate Cheese), for our evening walks. And guess what, he has succeeded in pushing Cheese into a silent zone. I walk beside him in a zombied mode, my mind racing but my feet aching, my throat parching, and the rest of the body groaning for attention. Well, he has silenced me during the walks but he cannot stop me from spreading the word here with my fellow readers!

With these well researched, longer routes and difficult terrain plans,  Chalk has started enjoying the evening walks twice as much. Like writing on the classroom black-board Chalk tells me stories of his various adventures. I am his only disciple on these lonely roads. He tells me of his Indian Military Academy days, when as a young cadet he and his course mates had to do the Golden Ring walk in the hills of Dehradun. These young men would be left in the jungles with certain coordinates  and some refreshments to find their way back , walking all through the night for more than ten hours to reach the reporting base at dawn. I hear in amazement and admiration. This most unassuming persona of my Chalk has so many layers to unfold. He is senior to me in age yet more energetic and more enthusiastic, an army man to the core. Cheese has stopped her non-stop chatter during her evening walks, it is more out of exhaustion than anything else. Cheese is learning the art of listening, her silence is rewarding her with sack full of stories.

At times we get lost navigating new routes, well as lost as one can get in residential sidewalks with Google maps on our phone. The son calls up once in a while to track us. Chalk tells him not to worry for his mother is with the ace navigator. What he says in jest is not very far from the truth. When he navigates I drive and when I chose to navigate he takes the steering,  together we have journeyed quite a bit uphill and now from the plateau of life we are enjoying the view around.

In the coming week Chalk and Cheese will be traveling  towards the east coast, we will be going to see our son’s  university city and attend his graduation programme. Next week I will come back to you my readers with the story of another walk.The walk our children will take , the proud recipients of degrees in their chosen field of interest.There will be many parents sitting in the hall with me and there will be so many of them sitting at home and seeing their children through videos and photographs. I may not know you all in person , but at some level we have a common thread , our children. I will write for the children and their parents. I will tell you every tiny detail of what I will see, through your eyes and mine, it will be my own way to “walk the talk”.

Forwarded.

The man of the house keeps sitting for hours with his mobile phone in hand and I see him smiling ,frowning or hear a hearty laughter now and then. There is a world of ‘forwards’ on his phone, which he receives from his multiple  w.app groups, and this ‘forwarded’ world keeps him absorbed for hours. The videos he plays can get quite annoying, for they start blaring all of a sudden. They can range from jokes to songs to ‘prabachans’ or even a diet plan, never lacking  in mix- matching variety! The man refuses to use his ear phones. Initially I was sympathetic to his dislike for ear phones. After all, as a pilot he has been wearing the head-set for the longest hours of every day of his flying  career, and now if he wants a break from putting noise pollution into his ear drums I am in complete compliance. But when the bedroom starts echoing various decibels of noise pollution at any time of the day, I do take offense.

I ponder, I think, I introspect, till I let guilt take over my  reasoning.The fault must be mine, I blame myself, infact I convince myself that my communication skills are largely at question. This gadget companion of my man ( the mobile phone )  could do what I have failed to succeed in in so many years of our life together. The phone can evoke various ’emotions’ in my man which I can not, no matter how hard I try. No one can blame me for not talking enough, I talk endlessly,  I don’t  expect reactions, I just do my bit…chatter chatter. He stays calm and quiet. All these years I was giving him the benefit of the doubt, I had started to accept that his emotional quotient was less than mine. I believed that the man was not capable of expressing or perhaps even feeling emotions. And here was this same man displaying more emotions than there are emoticons for them,  and his  expressions keep changing by the minute, depending on the ‘forwards’ he receives.  For me it is like discovering a  new man behind my solemn faced ‘fauji’ .For so many years I was content looking at a straight face ( thinking it to be equanimity) or a knotted brow (thinking it to be contemplation). But alas, my man has a completely hidden  side of which I knew nothing.  A world of whatsapp forwards!

Finally I gather enough  curiosity and ask him to share with me this private world of his ( which of course cannot  be too private for most of the forwards read ‘forwarded many times’) .To my surprise he happily introduces me to his  sanctum of entertainment.  Soon, a bit too soon, my mind gets the answers to my man’s muse. I think I would rather choose my man as my muse to w.app forwards ! He angers me, he frustrates me, but he also makes me smile and laugh like no one else can. Therefore let him continue filling up his spare hours and his mobile phone’s storage with whatsapp forwards while I fill my hours with my words, Netflix, and Prime. Let us each have our own guilty harmless pleasures in peace.

A last note, the man of the  house has read this blog before I thought of posting it. And guess what..I got my first reaction/ emotion…”it is funny ” said the man. Hurray,  I have made him smile at last. Long live the pen! Tring,  tring, tring, that’s  my w.app calling , bye.

The Stethoscope Of Heartbeats.

I am a doctor’s daughter. When your father is a doctor, you grow up amidst stories of patients, patient behavior,  diseases , medical representatives and loads of medical  journals all over the house. I don’t recall ever wishing my father on doctor’s day , father’s day, or even on his birthday.  My father fell ill, very seriously ill twenty five years ago, and the medical  profession he had lived for couldn’t give him a second  chance. So I miss him ever since, I miss him everyday and on these special days I want him to know that  “Baba, you were special “. I want to write about a few of the stories I have grown up hearing . They are the sweet and sour stories of a doctor who chose to practice medicine in a small town instead of shifting to the big city.

Warisaliganj was the name of the place where my parents lived,  the place where I grew up till I had to be sent away to Kolkata for better education. Kolkata made me the person I am today but my fondest memories still go back to that small place called Warisaliganj. But this story is about Baba and his patients.

Since the town was very small Baba had opened  a pathological laboratory within the premises of his chamber. Little did he know that one of his naive patient would one day land up with a ‘mithai ka handi’ filled with his morning job’s  sample and place it on the doctor’s table with a victorious smile. Baba had just about started scolding the person for getting him rasgulla when he was stopped short and was told about the contents within the handi, it was a sample for the path-lab! Needless  to say what happened after that ,but my poor Baba lost his appetite for handi full of rasgulla forever.

In the seventies, the small towns and villages of Bihar were often attacked by dacoits in true Gabbar Singh style. The ‘gaon walo ‘ would run indoors, shut all doors and windows and wait for the bombarding  to stop , which was an indication that the  dacoits had left. No one ever dared open a door or come out to help anyone. But a doctor’s door is open at all times without any discrimination towards the patients. One such night, when the dacoits were raiding our town , amidst  bombardment someone rang our bell loud and sharp and insistently. Baba opened the door, only to find two armed dacoits in black clothing with their faces masked standing there. They had not come to rob us, we were not wealthy enough to be robbed ! They had come to take Baba to their adda/ thikana ( whatever you may call it ) to treat a fellow dacoit who had suffered  bullet injuries. Yes, my Baba had to go that night with the dacoits. They blind folded him before starting their jeep. I still remember the extreme agony and tension Ma went through that night, though quite young I too stayed up the night with Ma waiting for Baba to come back home. Baba returned home in the early hours of the morning .Though such incidents were never again repeated in our life but Baba loved to recall this hair raising experience in light jest and call himself “Daku ka Doctor.”

If poverty is a curse, being poor and sick is a bigger curse. I understand now the immense sense of purpose Baba must have had to spend his life amidst the poor, to give them access to healthcare they otherwise might not have received. He spent many nights in small huts to be next to his ailing patients. His resources as a doctor were not many in that small town. Many patients had to be referred to the bigger hospitals in the adjoining district towns, but Baba stayed on with grit and determination. Another extreme story of poverty had left its mark on my childhood  memory. During a house visit to a seriously ill patient Baba noticed the man of the house leaving  home stealthily with ‘pital ‘ utensils. On being asked he admitted of not having any money, he planned to sell his utensils to pay for the medicines. Baba paid the medicine bills for many such patients. He had set up an arrangement with the medicine shop. He would write the word “free patient” on top of the prescription,  this was a code for  the shopkeeper to understand that the bills would be paid by the doctor himself and not the patient party. His diagnostic expertise and selfless dedication made him the most famous doctor amongst many districts of Bihar. People thronged from far and wide for their faith in his medicine.  What Baba earned in cash fell short to what he earned in kind. He earned trust, he earned goodwill, he earned the blessings of people who didn’t have much to give.

These stories were not meant for the world to know,  these  stories were not meant to sing his praise. These stories are of my Baba, who just lived a simple life being truthful to the oath he had taken once as a medicine man. Ending my story here with a last funny note. When my Baba and Ma left Warisaliganj and came back home to Kolkata to start their retired life, his chamber did not shut down. Baba’s very accomplished  compounder continued  practicing ( as a quack doctor ) in the same chamber with “Dr. Chakladar” written on the board. Many admonishing letters were sent his way, whether to any avail or not, we do not know.

Thank you Doctors, health care providers, and scientists.  Thank you for holding our hands all through the pandemic raging days. A big salute to our real life super-men and super-women.

Tenancy Laws

Tenancy Laws.jpg

“Don’t push you chair back, it will spoil the wall ” said a house owner of a Versova flat we had gone to see. I was caught in a haIf sitting position and almost winced an ‘ouch’ before smiling back politely. No, the wall did not have fresh paint on it. Some people like their four walls spotless and I do not judge them. But for me to live in a house with two teenagers and spotless walls was a definite no. Though the house offered a glimpse of the sea from it’s kitchen window, we chose to choose a house which we could make a home. My sea-view apartment dream has still not seen the dawn, but in it’s quest I have managed to learn quite a few by laws of the tenancy laws and some life lessons too.

My in-laws were the only ‘laws’ I had known in my life till we reached Mumbai some fourteen years back. The only similarity between the in-laws and the tenancy laws being that I get to enter a new house (where terms and conditions apply) courtesy those ‘laws’. But tenancy laws (especially the ones which are not written on those fine lines of agreement papers) are the most difficult set of rules to adhere, understand and deal with.

I learnt the difference between landowner and licensor, and of the tenant and the licensee. Our new identity was of a licensee who lives in the house of the licensor. Just when I start to understand the simple equation of a family needing a house to live and another family wanting to put their property on rent, a third and most vital character enters the story, he/ she is called a broker. The director and producer, that’s the owner and I have to take back seat for the broker. He is the legitimate script writer of my story ‘hunted-house’. He is the bridge between the director and producer. One has to give credit where it is due, the broker does a lot of house hunting before he is ready to show you some half a dozen empty flats. Mr. Broker has the keys to multiple flats, the doors to which open like Khul ja sim sim, and you get a peekaboo into these houses. They are mostly empty, dusty rooms, which makes me feel very lost and confused. The idea of making these houses my ‘home’ seems very remote on these visits. I want to be in anyplace but this, but this is a transitory feeling in fear of displacement. After the first few times I pretend to have gotten used to the idea of displacement. Once we had walked into a flat where a window had been kept open and some two dozen pigeons had already made it home much before us. Another house we saw was totally furnished, even with crockery, utensils, and furnishings. The owner insisted that we bring in only our suitcases with us and live in like you do in a service apartment. But alas, my attachments to all my earthly possessions, (aka linen, glasses, pans-pots, books, boxes, wall pieces,etc) stopped me from entering a house without them. One owner refused to take away his name plate from the entrance, and we insisted on having ours put up, both forgetting the famous bard’s line “What’s in a name? ”

After seeing several houses one realization dawned is that the trick is in letting the mind win over the heart. You have to learn to look hard with a trained eye to see damp walls covered with fresh coat of distemper, sliding windows that don’t always slide, termites hiding behind bathroom mirrors and pelmets that may fall off at the sight of curtains. The list is long but not listed in any contract paper.  I have acquired all this experience over a decade of being a licensee in this mega city of dreams. My husband had done the ground work of renting our first flat in Mumbai all by himself, while the rest of the family were sitting like nawabs in our nawabo ki nagri, Lucknow. Therefore, moving into our first flat in Mumbai had left us without any experience of house-hunt.

Monsoon was drowning the city the year we landed in Mumbai. Like an eager gypsy I had looked down at the city from the plane window with dreams in my eyes to see the place where I could make my own ‘ashiyaan’.  The blue plastic sheets over the roofs of Mumbai slums (the first glimpse of Mumbai from air) did not look anything like a dream. My Urdu sensibilities of ‘ashiyaan‘ jerked aside sighting ‘jhopar patti’ nestling comfortably all around Chatrapati Shivaji Airport.   “Life in this city would not be cake walk” my pounding heart told me as our taxi drove through crawling, rain-soaked traffic towards our new address. My still young children were trying to explain to me the meaning of BHK, a term they had just been introduced to. A definition of BHK, bedroom, hall and kitchen, marked your space in this apartment city. A four BHK would mean super luxury, a three BHK spelled very spacious, a two BHK meant comfort and one BHK was economy. I already knew that in the days to come I would be getting sad and miss my last house with a lawn, backyard, kitchen garden, and the big rooms for my children to run around and play hide and seek. But for now, I had to learn to play hide and seek with my emotions and practicality.

Our first rented house was a comfortable three BHK, but my nine-year-old son had exclaimed the cliche that first day, ” Ma why does the house end here? ” on entering the third room! Growing up in spacious government quarters till then, his understanding of four walls was much more expansive than what he was seeing in the ten feet by twelve feet master bedroom.  And why blame the child alone, we all missed our old home very dearly, but it was time for fresh perspective. The sliding windows of the flat kept injuring my fingers for some time, and then I learnt to slide the windows without hurting inside-out. The house owners of our first house in Mumbai were an elderly couple and in the years that we lived in their house bonded us like family and changed our relationship from licensor/ licensee to uncle-aunty / beta-beti. There are laws above tenancy laws, the laws of human bonding, of love and compassion.

From one lease period to the other we will keep finding a new home for ourselves. Maybe the larger picture is for me to understand that nothing that you own or assume to be your own is yours in reality. The bundle which I can hold within my heart and hand is perhaps all I need for a fulfilling life. Could not end this note without quoting these favorite lines which so beautifully sum up the story of our existence.

Time you old gypsy man , 
Will you not stay, 
Put up your caravan 
Just for one day. 

Last week in Babylon,
Last night in Rome, 
Morning, and in the crush
Under Paul’ s dome;
Under Paul’s dial 
You tighten your rein-
Only a moment,
And off once again;
Off to some city
Now blind in the womb, 
Off to another 
Ere that’s in the tomb.

Ralph Hodgson