Akbarji

He was so large that he occupied the drivers' seat and half of the hump holding the gearbox in between the two pilot seats. It was popular joke, in somewhat bad taste, that Akbarjis posterior begins to steam after he'd finish the third of the three bus trips that our bus undertook every morning.
Akbarji was our school bus driver.
Like a ray of sunshine, his presence would brighten up even grayest of mornings.He would stand on the floorboard, lurching and swaying unsteadily, thanks to all the extra kilos he lugged around,and taking a look around , would break into a huge grin." Aa gaye bachcha log", he would say, displaying  all his paan stained, rotten incisors, heaving  into his seat .The bus would start and a paan scented breeze would waft in our direction.The front benchers were also treated to the additional aroma of his hair oil,which , some brats would swear was chameli ka tel. Others would differ'-it is definitely chuchunder (mole rat) ka tel.' This would prompt another round of hideous, rude mirth at Akbarji's expense. He would respond with another paan scented grin.
Being laughed at was one of the many things that he took merrily in his giant stride. He lost his first wife to cancer and had a houseful of countless, grimy kids running in and out , runny nosed .He had a heart condition which he jokingly would refer to as"mera dil bada ho gaya hai"(my heart has grown large).
Clad in his trademark white kurta pyjamas, which were never washed(as the legend goes)and turned an awful shade of brown by the year end, and  a skull cap that had seen whiter days,he was the charismatic trademark of everything that was rock steady in the rapidly changing world of our childhood.
That this pickwickian person could be astonishingly nimble, was revealed on the day there was an altercation at the school gates,  the principal and a drunk parent being the principal parties. Before we could even gather our wits, Akbarji had lumbered his huge self and planted himself between the warring parties.
That was the day someone compared him to Santa Claus.

The souvenir

It  hung on a nondescript , plain whitewashed part of the wall. Almost garishly ornate against the backdrop of stark whiteness. 'Like a heavily done up bride with a Buddhist monk."she thought to herself and smiled . She would often have these private conversations with herself, a small secret of hers.
They had bought it together. A pair of ornate Rajasthani jharokhas. Shaped like the onion domes so prevalent in the east, mimicking the jharokhas of yore ,where from coy members of the royalty, would give 'darshan' to the commoners. To further enhance the mystery , the window part would be covered with 'jaali'or lattices so that no one actually got to see the Maharani eye to eye.A flash of gold and red maybe as she breezed past, in all her snooty highness.She almost chuckled to herself, imagining people falling one on top of the other to catch a glimpse of a bejewelled hand waving or a flash of jingling gold, as someone turned away.
The jharokha itself cost a small fortune in packaging it and getting it transported all the way here, where it sat on the wall,in all its gold and brown, maroon, and shiny green, gaudiness.
Like a small magic carpet from the east, it had brought all the colours and chaotic bazaar noises, smells, to the grey stillness of the cold climes.
It had large, showy flowers, with their petals cheekily hanging out, intertwined vines , and scrolls with strange undecipherable chantings carved on it. It lit up the place and must have triggered many an animated conversations.She sighed wistfully. It was a good thing she decided to buy it on her last trip to India.

Home coming

It was difficult to pinpoint. Was it the grey sky threatening to burst into an unpredictable dust- thunderstorm, or was it the sight of numerous baby mangoes hanging from the low lying branches, waiting to be plucked- at once nostalgic and comical.?Was it the warm breeze blowing into his face, ruffling his hair, reeking of summer blossoms , paddy fields, cow dung all at once? Was it the sight of mini dust whirlwinds on the road ahead swirling up clouds of dust, and rubbish? This he knew deep in his heart, as he watched, fields, trees, huts speed by him, it was all this and much more that had dragged him back home.All the way to his ancestral village.
Leaving a comfortable job in a cushy apartment, in the concrete jungle abroad . Each of those days he would look out upon the neat array of blocks upon blocks,orderly roads, geometrically laid, gleaming cars and immaculately- dressed office goers, and wonder what he had been missing out on. Life couldn't have been better. That was when it struck him.It was too perfect, too orderly,too squeaky clean for a person with a past that was grimy , dusty,' dirt-poor' and imperfect to boot.
He took a deep breath, sniffed the familiarity of it all, and smiled.Like a dog reaching for his kennel- he had come back .Home.

World beyond my window

 One of the main reasons for loving this room  is this window . It opens to a patch of greenery. There is a concrete pathway for people to sit and laze in the warm sun . the concrete stretch is interrupted with tall. comically frail looking trees whose only identity(as told by the gardener) is it being of ficus family.
Bottom half of the window panes are still fogged over from early morning dew.
A small vegetable garden greets your sight,beyond the concrete line. Tips of the cabbage leaves are ringed with dew. The trees are sprouting new foliage,gossamer thin, rust coloured , baby leaves, curled up in their nascent glory,shivering in the early morning breeze.
There is a family of squirrels running about ,in gay abandon ,on the floor, scampering up the tree trunks, stopping to sniff the morning air with their quivering little snouts, bushy tails held aloft.
Repeated attempts to build nests in the windows have been thwarted by diligent humans. Hence , the highest branch of the tallest tree has been inhabited by a large, bushy, nest, nestled comfortably in a fork .It comprises of all the fibres in the world you could think of, or not think of, for that matter. For days on end, the presence of a pair of moth eaten black socks ,on the ground beneath the tree kept baffling me.Everyday I would throw it in the garbage bin and everyday it would mysteriously reappear in the same spot. Some times one of them would be festooning a low lying branch. That is when I discovered the gigantic nest and the connection dawned upon me .
There is more to life outside the window.Stray parrots, mynahs ans some unidentified colourful birds stop by to say hello,filling the air with their gay choruses and chirpings.
 A lizard is hibernating on the window sill for the past two weeks.It looks dead for all practical purposes, so deep is its slumber,deigning only to move slightly when poked by curious and heartless humans. "Even the chest is not heaving" exclaimed my small one the other day, breathing heavily into its realm of tranquillity. After shooing away all nosy parkers, I saw(or imagined)it half open a lazy eye ,shift a bit and settle down in peace again; eyes blissfully shut.

My Grandmother

At the very beginning, it would do the memories of my grand mother a whole world of justice by knowing that I was brought up by my grand parents. 
              As with all journeys ,I take the liberty of thinking that my journey was special.
             So far as special  goes, it doesn't even begin to cover her. Clad in a white blue bordered sari(almost like the Missionaries of charity), she would flit around, from one place to another, lending an ear here, a helping hand there.She was addicted to supari(betel nut). Her clothes would smell of cloves and supari. Even now, nearly twenty years since her having passed away, the smell of cloves brings tears and memories flooding back.
              In keeping with the spirit of all great leaders she was a path breaker, a pioneer of sorts. In a world where girls were married off at the age of 13+, where girls going to college was deemed synonymous with promiscuity ,she put her foot down and gave all three of us sisters decent college education. The fact that these very girls brought home doctorates from reputed universities, domestic and foreign, and the fact that today i sit here blogging about this diminutive lady, is a befitting tribute to her great and progressive convictions.
               This of course did not deter her from laying emphasis on the importance of housework and "shunning laziness". She was a feared and admired "whip cracker", who had little regard for shoddy work.She ruled her home, hearth, fields, gardens,fish-ponds and a vast retinue of children and servants with an iron hand, proverbially velvet gloved.
                We addressed her as" thamma" (a shortened version of thakurmaa- bengali for granny). She was friend, philosopher, guide and "ringmaster" for all those whom she chose to take under her wings. We were proud to be the chosen ones.
                  Like all human beings, she too had a failing. She was more fond of her male offsprings. When my brother(her piece of the moon) descended into the chaotic and dark world of schizoprenia,it grieved her beyond words. She was shocked to be confronted by a problem whose nature was beyond her comprehension,solution beyond her means(she'd never agree to ECT).She passed away shortly afterwards 
                  I would like to think that she died because she was heart broken, not being able to fix things ,for once, rather than the simple explanation of old age.