To my dad...

My neighbors just had a sweetest looking baby girl.

Each day I saw the Mrs. , prior to her delivery, I used to wonder 'isn't she curious to find out which parent the baby would resemble.'

This made me think about the thoughts my parents would have had when my mom was pregnant with me. I asked my mom, but she didn't have much to offer- either she didn't want to remember or that part of her memory was blanketed by an amnesia approximately the size I am today (read huge).

My dad passed away when I was about 5 or 6 years old, so that takes care of asking him about his feelings when they were pregnant with me.

Which reminded me, I miss my dad.

I often wonder what he would have done in certain situations that I encounter. It's hard to fathom his reaction because my memory of him is quite vague, hence to decipher his response would be even tougher.

I also sometimes wonder if life would have been different, had he been around today. May be, may be not.

Then I think about the people that have influenced my life to a large extent- the elderly, the younger ones, my mom's family, my dad's family, my friends- all of them do their part and blur away.

Amidst all these families that I've known since my childhood are dads, moms, brothers and sisters whose behavior I think might be similar to a family that I imagine as mine in my mind. Would it have been identical to my family - May be, may be not.

Well I take them as inspiration for many a short story, but when it comes to writing about my dad I lack the imagination. My mom gets teary-eyed when she talks about my dad. Her siblings don't talk about him to me, thinking I might miss him even more; my dad's family isn't much help either.

Hence to develop a character sketch of my dad would be impossible for me given the number of years that have clouded out any memory that I might have of him.

My sister recounts the dreams she has of my dad sometimes, I don't have much luck in that department either. I have no memories of having dreamt of him.

Then I think of father-ly/like figures, some elderly relatives of mine, friend's dad, granddads, some who patronize, some who try to patronize. If I draw a quality I like from each of them and try to draw my dad's character sketch it just doesn't fit. It feels like drawing pieces from different jigsaw puzzles and trying to complete a picture- just doesn't fit.

Each time I see a father teaching his ward to ride a bike, fly a kite, teach them driving, drop them to school, go for a college admission, recommend his child for a job, buy them clothes, do anything mundane to anything that shows he cares, my mind says "Why did I have to miss out on all this".

Sometimes in movies and sitcoms I see a few characters, extensions from our society on the screen, for whom being seen with their dad is plain ignominious. I want to just tell them out loud "dude you'll regret that when he's not around". If God gave me the opportunity, I would have felt privileged to have a chance to hang out with my dad. Wouldn't I?

I sometimes think I could have learnt a lot more from my Dad, who was an extrovert, than from my Mom, who's relatively too reserved.

I would never be judgmental of my mom, not in a hundred years. My mom's a diligent woman, and her perseverance has been one of the virtues that I most admired in her. At the risk of sounding cliche, I would call her one of those brave souls who made lemonade out of the lemons that life threw in her face. When it comes to her only the proverb gets older with age, her perseverance has never flickered out.

And just when I thought I can never derive a character sketch of my dad I found his diary.

It was a log containing the day to day stuff he did, his work schedule and things-to- do lists plus some details here and there.

He was systematic enough to jot down and remember that he had to send a letter to my mom.

He wrote down the names of movies he watched, his financial details. Other than this in his log he had listed out his work schedule, and, more about his work schedule.

Well so much for this treasure I thought I had unravelled.

My grandma once drifted,very briefly, to discussing my father and told me he had a zest for life.

So now for lack of better details this is what I imagine my dad might have been. A man who picked up the lemons life threw at him and was zesty enough to make iced lemon tea out of them.

Does that help?May be, May be not.

The only picture, that I remember my dad by now, is the silhouette of a man that lay still in a coffin many years back. A silhouette so blurred by my tears that I could never see his face.

Do I think he's still there for me? Maybe...

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

There's only one piece of poetry that reverberates in my mind on all three national holidays in India. Be it The Republic Day, The Independence Day or Mahatma Gandhi's Birthday, one poem I learnt in school is the only thing that keeps playing in the back of my mind - Rabindranath Tagore's beautiful "My Country Awake".

My Country Awake

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action;

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

The story about the silver linings...

I'm overweight. I'm exaggerating, my BMI is actually 0.3 points below the overweight stratum.

The mathematical interpretation of which is that I'm not yet there, but with a little bit of help from a couple more cheese cakes, a little more chocolate mousse, a good number of dollops of that high fat Ice cream- Oh yeah! I'll get catapulted well within that territory.

I visited my physician, and when she pulled out my file, I was as stunned as she was when we both learnt that I had amassed 7 kgs since my last visit a little under 2 years ago.

Anyways, instead of suggesting rigorous exercise to torture that bad cholesterol out of my system, she was kind enough to suggest walking for 45 minutes every day.

This I liked, and whole heartedly welcomed. I like taking long walks.

Now my only problem was - where do I start and where does it end? 

My problem was solved by the magnanimity of the Electricity Board, which built it's outlet at some distance from our place for the convenience of God-Knows-who. 

Here's how they worked in my favor. (I know.... sounds oxymoronic, public utility in favor of citizens, I'm laughing as I type)

Our electricity meter has not been working since the beginning of last month. The meticulous EB professional who came to take our meter reading promptly noted that all the ceiling fans in our house were running but the meter, not so much. He asked me to take copies of the Electricity Bill Payment cards, draft a letter requesting a new meter and submit all the documents to the nearest EB branch. 

I do not know if it was Chennai heat or the meticulous EB professional's observation which made my blood whoosh to my brain. Frankly, I like a lot of other people, do not like the idea of going to any government utility office.

After about two years of being with my husband, my mind is somehow getting conditioned to think positive in the scene of adversity. I was already seeing pandemonium, so I started looking for solutions and those silver linings that I've been trained to look for.

Wallah!  My "walk for 45 minutes" was taken care of. 

The plan was simple. I walk to the EB office at stipulated timings, absorb all the "can't-do's", the "come-later's", the "not-in-stock-yet's" they shower on me. After a few futile efforts of reasoning with the customer service official (I know, I'm laughing again)-  I walk back. 

Who's smiling this time?? They bestowed the 45 minutes walk on me without their knowledge. Yehahhaha..... in your face EB...

But my husband being the "Man-who-wears-the-pants", "system-needs-to-be-fixed", "I-pay-my-taxes", "I-have-some-rights", "let's-think-of-solutions" guy - will in a few days, I'm sure, discuss-deal with-explain-call superiors-give them a ear-full  and solve the problem.

Thus, alas! I'll have to look for another somewhere to walk to. 

I know where; The internet connection has been acting funny as well. Guess who provides us that service? 

I'm smiling again.

What part of "NO" Doesn't make sense to you??

This is a question I've been wanting to ask the bigwigs of North Korea ever since they've started having trouble with South Korea again, or to be more precise ever since they've started this "hooliganism" of test firing their wares.

Hold this against me if you want to, but I do not like the idea of another war, doesn't matter if it is between North and South Korea, between terrorist and the tormented, between Naxalites and the government, for oil, for land, for ransom, for whatever man wants.

I am risking the criticism of those pro-defense people and of the paranoids, that we, in the name of X number of reasons, have created post 9/11's and 7/11's of the world. I don't even want to go to the world wars and the "mushrooms".

Believe me when I say I don't like the idea of running underground each time a siren shrieks, and I'm sure at least a handful of you out there would agree hands down to this proposition of mine. I only say "No war".

I don't want anyone out there to be a victim of a suicide bomb in Pakistan or Afghanistan. It is a nightmare to think of people practicing with some newly fashioned automated weapon, when they, at least in their subconscious know that the enemy is another human being.

I remember my mom telling me stories of the emergencies and wars she's seen during her college days in Ambala, Punjab, and about the black paper and blankets that were plastered to the windows, about the undercover candle lights and trenches into which they scurried each time a siren sounded and warplanes flew overhead dropping bomb shells on any signs of life that they sensed from their vantage points.

As if all the rest of the trouble in the world has already been sorted out, people have started bringing out spy satellites and flashing nuclear weaponry. Why, in God's name, don't they understand that all of us, irrespective of what part of the Earth we are on, will be on the receiving end.

And again, I read the story of another 3 year old kid in California shooting her one year old sibling to death with a .45 that the parents left under their bed. My first take on it was "Really? you leave a gun around the house within children's reach?"

Where will this end, when the last two survivors of the homo sapien species kill each other over some trifle which would anyways be off reach when the drama winds?

 

Life's a comedy, if you have a good sense of humor :)

My husband is a thorough believer of the "glass half full" doctrine. He feels nothing can deter you from seeing the silver lining, provided you are determined to look only for the opportunity that each problem presents. I cannot refrain from saying it's true, and it has worked in his favor in each context that he's applied it to.

Of late, I have been choosing to ignore both the cloud and the silver lining and take a different route altogether. I have chosen to give in and admire the completion of a larger picture.

This larger picture can only be a masterpiece. Each masterpiece requires it's own time to attain completion. Each color plays it's part and stays in oblivion or becomes obsolete at the end of the errand.

But a thought that refuses to let go is: Isn't there always another side to each story, another interpretation of each tale. Yours, mine and everybody else's.

I bet at least one interpretation would be in a lighter vein. 

I never thought death of a near or dear one could bring in tears of joy. Now here's what defined that aspect, a novel manner of looking at a loss.

A very close relative of mine, whom I dearly love, told me recently that she missed her mother terribly. Her mom had battled against cancer till 2004, her mom's body finally gave in to the illness.

Me and a lot of her well wishers were sad that she missed her mom. We couldn't go beyond consoling her and telling her to hang in there.

But she in her turn had an entirely different spin to it. 

This is what she said "Thanks guys, don't worry I am not sad at all I just miss her, I feel her in my life every day, my bro and I think of all the fun things 3 of us used to do, I am glad Binu and I were blessed with a great mother who gave us good values and who was very strong and very very funny, thinking about my mom makes me laugh more than get depressed... she was that hilarious :).. but thanks a lot for u r concern :)".

Need I say more and ruin this way of looking at such a huge loss. Each of us is a philosopher, it is the philosophy we use that counts.

Life's a masterful comedy, we just need to have a great sense of humor to appreciate it... 

In the driver's seat.

Today has been a great day for me so far. I got up early, coaxed into doing so by my alarm. I went to the ATM near where I live, it was working. I saw my bank balance, it was a huge figure thanks to my last employer.

It doesn't stop there. I achieved the unachievable after that. I negotiated and convinced an auto driver to take me to a place for the right price, without him cursing me or me frowning at him.

After that, I went to the RTO. I've been a licensed bike flyer (without gear), I wanted to add a new found talent to it, flying the car. Hence I stood in the queue for half an hour. After that a middle aged lady fought for me and shoved me ahead of the rest. She said "this amma has been standing here for long, please allow her to pay the fees." I paid the fees but they gave me the receipt in my maiden name. For a moment a scene whizzed through the spacious setting called my mind - that of me spending another hot and sunny day at the RTO to get my name changed. I quickly told him my surname had been mentioned wrongly. He, a government official, 'advised' me to get it corrected when the actual license got developed.

By the time I took the advise and jostled out of the sweaty crowd that was waiting to pay their fees, I got late. The candidature was already full for the day. The representative from my driving school asked me to go and get the signature from the inspector's office inside. I went to the inspector, after ignoring me for a bit he actually did approve my candidature for the test. Wallah! have I died and gone to heaven?

After that the actual test began. I see the car in which I practiced came for the test. This car is the peer of the first Maruti that Suzuki and Sanjay Gandhi wanted to launch in India. I knew exactly how to manipulate those extensions that dangle in the name of clutch, brake and accelerator in that car. The engine was already on, I just needed to put it in first gear and move it. Believe you me, somebody was praying real hard for me, the car started moving very smoothly. I maneuvered the steel contraption into second gear, again because of someone praying real hard, it shifted smoothly. The inspector looked at me then announced to the people in the back seat "this is how you need to drive."

"What, me, really? Oh! I had always dreamt of this day, I'd like to thank the RTO, the driving school, my driving instructor, who always scolded me in Tamil, and the entire driving fraternity for not driving on that stretch of 200 ft where my driving test actually happened." And just as the inspector had finished applauding me and was about to grade me, the car jumped slightly. I gave my broadest smile to the inspector and moved the gear to neutral.

Hey, but I was the best among the people who had come for the driving license test today, or that was what the inspector had just said. I proudly live by the compliment.

Then without much delay I went to take my picture for the license, which lived up to the standards of all government issued identity cards. I will not complain, because the photographer-cum- license document development personnel was willing to correct my name.

What the heck, I'm a licensed driver, and to me it means the government should stop constructing medians on the roads, or for that matter side walks: I have a natural tendency to go and hit medians and sidewalks. And for all those driving Audis, Beamers, Mercs and Lexuses -  yehahhahahaha (my evil most laugh). With the powers vested in me by the RTO, I shall try not to nudge your bumpers. And to all you who want to come and bump into the bumper of whatever match box I'll drive - WTF!!!

Hey, I could drive for 200 feet what more proof do you need from me, 'the best of the lot',  to brand me a reliable driver. 

Yes, the world will be a very different place when I'm in the driver's seat. (no puns intended)

I wish I could fly

"I shouldn't have stepped out of the house today. Damn this traffic. Why did I ever take this route? These buses. Can't they ask them to run on CNG instead of diesel? Can't they at least ask them to fix their engines? Look at this, here comes another monstrosity right behind me." 

These were my thoughts as I sat jammed between an ocean of buses on a weekday when I was supposed to attend a meeting in another 10 minutes.

"Oh my God! If you are around here somewhere, this is my wish for today, 'I wish I could fly'."

I decided to first lower and peep out of my car window and then step out to check what was wrong. Why was there such a huge commotion ahead of me. What is it all about?

I stepped out of the car and felt something I had never experienced before - "Zero Gravity". I started flying. I floated away and joined the rest of astounded humanity that was sky diving against gravity.

I said to myself "Great! should have asked for a billion dollars instead".

As soon as I reached the nearest person I asked " What's happening? Why is everyone flying? Was there some kind of warning about this on the news?" She smiled and answered " If there was one, I never heard it. I am enjoying the fare free flight."

I butted in " How do we all get back to the surface?" She looked to where my car lay crushed like a huge roll of metal.

I yelled "That one is going to court for this, my car is not even one year old. Damn these rash bus drivers ". She smiled and looked down again.

They were pulling me out, lifeless and full of gore.

I looked around there was no one else, just a light that hit and transformed me into a flying seed, and then I got caught up in a wind and got blown away to my next life.

Train to Chennai

This title reminds me of a legendary title by Khushwant Singh, "Train to Pakistan". 

The title or this post of mine has nothing to do with the gore and riot in Singh's "Train to Pakistan". 

This post is about my feelings and thoughts when I first came to Chennai.

My first trip to Chennai was when I had to attend a job interview. I really can't describe the thoughts I had in my mind. Did I feel nervous, was I anxious, was I scared? I cannot really put my finger and tell anyone what was it that swept my mind as I boarded my train to Chennai.

There are always a couple of young men who are bored, and, who always find a seat next to yours in a train, and who always talk to you though you don't. I would term it unwanted co-incidence. This time around the unwanted coincidence brought to me a young man who without any prompting from my humble self, introduced himself as a Naval Officer who was on his way to Orissa. He started telling me why he took this particular train, (in my mind I said "Why God Why?"), why he had to travel to Orissa via this route, why he was traveling to Orissa, who his parents were, where his family was, what the rest of his siblings were doing, why he likes the navy....... I do not know who trained him to converse incessantly, but there it was. There was no dearth of topics. Do not mistake me for the one who prompted even an article of this conversation. The gentleman went on talking while I read my magazine.

After a bit when I didn't respond to any of his questions, he looked at me and delivered the classic line "I didn't get your name". 

I am not the hottest desi girl in the world. I am an average looking commoner. If this is my plight, I can only sympathize with the rest of the fairer sex which is endowed with the looks to wow.

Anyways, in my attempt to shoo him away I told him I have an interview and I'm trying to prepare for it, so incase he didn't mind I'd like to be left alone.

And the story continued, he started asking me about the interview.

The next time I came to Chennai, it was to take up the job. I was full of anticipation. I felt elated, I was about to be a salaried individual. I was more fortunate than many others who had not made it. 

At a certain point when you are very close to Chennai Central station there emanates a bad stench. I'm not sure if it is from the factories or the handiwork of civilization, but it hammers your senses.

That is the feeler Chennai gave me sometimes. 

Each time after this bout, whenever I reach the stinking spot, there is this rush within me, which wants me to take the next train and go back home. 

I've been in Chennai for a while now, I'm settled here, but I still don't call it home. 

My home is a different place, it is the place where this train starts from. If we go back some 800 kilometers on the same railway track we'll come across a green expanse. A backwater logged somewhere, some chinese nets on the way, where small kids imitate movie stars, where a regional daily rules the thought process of an entire mass, where English is still alien, where people dream of going to foreign lands to bring back gold and wealth, where children go to school in crisp, starched and bright, white uniforms, where the muezzin calls, the church bell rings and devotees chant auspicious mantras. Where there are houseboats, sea-food, and small rivulets for amateur swimmers. Where there are sweets and delicacies and an elderly mother waits with love in her eyes to see her weary children come back home.

My home is where there are feuds, where there are flags: red, orange, white, green, black, where people laze during the day and go on strike to protect, or protest against, egos. Where there are paddy fields bursting with crop, but only demanding workers, who would do everything else but harvest, where work is considered torturous and contemptuous and people love living on another's mercy. Where quacks thrive, where bribery flourishes, where selfishness prevails and truth lives in silenced by - lanes. Where daylight robbery, murder and slander are not uncommon, such is my home.

God's own country.

Thats why I had to take the Train. The train to Chennai, which leaves behind home and hearth. The train which took me to the place where I earn my livelihood. The stench now reminds me of sweat, of toil, of hardships, of life.

In my mind I hear my mother singing a very old lullaby, and when the pitch surpasses the deafening roar of this mill that ages me, I'll return, wiser, never to board another train to anywhere.

what we see , what we ignore

I finally watched "Slumdog Millionaire". 

It came recommended by a friend, and I had to watch it because she said it's worth a watch. Now for all those who think its because of the hype created by the incessant rant of Indian media (which makes false, true and the trivial, news) at the movie doing an astounding round at the Golden Globe awards, or because Anil Kapoor jumped up from his seat enthusiastically when an award was announced for the movie, no, that was not the reason why I watched it.

There is something about movie making and literature about India which strikes me as strange, India's poverty portrayed in its disgusting originality is always award winning material. Don't get me wrong, I love the movie, I love Indian literature and I love another's perspective of India, but what really stands out is the poverty, the slums, the hunger, the struggle for survival, the violence, the corruption and the crimes.

I really needed a reality check, am I choosing to look at only some part of it and missing that part of India which comes under the microscope and becomes a big hit on big silver screens or becomes a bestseller across the globe? 

A small 10 minute  walk away from my place is a river, (or used to be a river, now it's mostly a drainage), there's a huge bridge on it (courtesy: the corporation or the British) and below the bridge are 6' x 6' x 6' shelters made of bamboo sticks, tarpaulin and plastic sheets, which serve as homes for a few members of homo sapien species. I use that name because they have the same physical form, exhibit similar physical processes, but their method of survival, their lives and their worlds seem to be dramatically different from the rest of us. They worry about their daily bread while those plying on the bridge are in a rush to capitalize on someone else's loss.

They live by the streetlights and cooking fires, the stinking river is the source of their drinking water. They bathe and wash there as well. I fail to fathom at what cost do they keep themselves from starving to death.

One evening as I walked back home, from a vantage point on the bridge I saw an India amidst those dwellings which I wouldn't like to remember, the India painted by the literary world. As I walked ahead on a dark by-road where there are only huge bungalows, a small distance away like no normal kid from the "civilized" India I know, there stood a girl probably 12 or 13, dressed gaudy, colorful clothes, face all made up with cheap colors. I saw her face in a feeble light, that of her expensive mobile, which she constantly monitored to check for calls. I walked past her. A motorcycle stopped close to where she stood, she talked to the person, got on his bike and rode off.

As I watched the movie, I had a sense of deja vu, I had seen this before, not to its entire extent or capacity, but in glimpses.It was from the India that we all choose not to see, to consciously ignore, India described by Rohinton Mistry and the likes of him.

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On a brighter note, I felt extremely happy as I saw A. R. Rahman steal the spotlight for the beautiful music he rendered to the movie. I told my husband, "its kind of inspirational, his story." I would love to read a biography of his life. My husband says he must have faced his own struggles to reach where he is. But I feel he is gifted too, there's a talent, a creativity, which was required to make it to this stature.

The best I could get was his story the way Wikipedia puts it. But I cannot contain my joy as I read his birth date: 6th January, the same date on which yours truly made her whining entry into the world. 

Now I wave my hands over the crystal ball and gaze into the future to see if this magic number weaves magic for me :)