Rusty junk

The crisp morning air had a nip to it . I had just returned to my parents’ home , after nearly an year or so .
Tramping barefoot in the garden , my toes hit a small , sharp edge of a piece of rusty junk. I hastily withdrew my foot , for I could feel the sharp jab . A small drop of blood oozed from the big toe .
“Ouch!” Said I . “Tetanus shot !” was the next thought . I hated tetanus shots. They made dead weight of your arm and gave you a strange taste in the mouth.
I found a hanky in my pyjama pockets , and I pressed it to my wound , cursing the gardener for leaving things around , and myself for having decided to walk barefoot.

I still can't fathom why I decided to uproot that piece of junk . Either it was total lack of purpose, or just plain curiosity ( that eventually let the cat out of the bag) or was it vengeance on that inanimate object that still had the ability to ruin my morning.

At first , I flippantly pulled it up. It refused to budge . Then I brought a trowel from the gardeners shed , and sat down to scraping the grass and soil around it . When it started increasing in dimension , as it became slowly unearthed , it became apparent that this was not an ordinary rusty junk . It was buried deep , and was a flank , or a small protruding tip of some thing immensely exciting . In short , I had been bruised by the "tip of the ice berg."

By now , I had got the household excited too. Someone had put a band aid on my toe , and my dad , the gardener and a few odd curious neighbours ( whom I always denounced as "nosy")had gathered around the rusty , odd looking, curved ,flat blade of sorts . Spades were called in , and the gardener was exhorted by breathless Mrs Suri, in her nightie , "not to hurt "the thing"".People gathered around, a motley crowd of the just awake , gawking , in pyjamas , some held cups of steaming brews in their hands . 

The spade got to work , and clods of moist mud with clumps of grass sticking to it , flew everywhere.

After sweating for nearly half an hour , there was two and half foot of a curved blade exposed to the air , and an ugly crater , the size of a manure pit had appeared in the centre of my mother's immaculate lawn . She looked accusingly at me , from the kitchen window , where she busied herself , making tea. "Don't worry , Mrs. Mullick, we will fill it up ." Mrs, Suri called out , her cup of tea , sloshing with excitement , as she winked at me , conspiratorially. 

My father got out his gardeners gloves , and grasped the blade . Few others grabbed the narrower base . We heaved and heaved . Mrs. Suri was hysterical -"Careful, careful , you will break it !!" 

Then it gave way , suddenly . We were holding a complete , ancient , rusted , sword with clods still stuck to it . It was brushed and washed under the garden tap . There were engravings all over , but too rusted to be deciphered . The grasp or the handle was even elaborate . Carved into what seemed like a lion head , and made of some yellow metal .
"Either brass or gold ." Mrs. Suri , the history enthusiast expounded.

Next day , Dad took it to the  Office of Archaeological Society of India. 

A receipt was given to us and the sword taken for restoration . We would be told later  which era it belonged to and its value , a small percentage of which would be awarded to us .

Next time I visited home , six months' later , my dad took us all out proudly , to see "my sword". 

In the enclosure meant for Gupta Era artefacts, it hung on the wall. along with broken pieces of armors, saddles , etc it stood out , polished and clean and whole . 115 cms from tip to rusty tip , 21.32 kgs in weight , with a gold handle , made of solid cast iron , the sword was a masterpiece of the Gupta Era, predating the Mughal Era by nearly 500 years . That made it  roughly 1500 years old. 

"Whoa !!" Exclaimed my nephew , breath fogging glass-case, nose -pressed ,overwhelmed .
Well , who knew , a piece of rusty junk , at that too!!

67

67 is a prime number , and it fills my heart with dread.
67% means 67/100, which being an impossible division, multiplies the dread.
68 would have sounded and felt much better.
The difference of 1% is colossal.
Like the difference between the taste of burnt toast , and that of buttered toast.
I got 67% in physics for my school finals.
I stood staring at my shoes and the carpet , in the staff room , as Mrs. Mathew stared at me for one complete minute, lips trembling , speechless with disappointment.
I didn't know then , but Mrs. Mathew was mourning the demise of my future, by keeping in tradition of a minutes' silence.(while I foolishly memorised the roseate patterns on the rug)
The incriminating document rustled guiltily in my clammy hands, growing moist with sweat.
I hated physics , and now I hated the number 67.
67 , like a prisoner's tag number, is branded onto your forehead.
"Physics honours?" The pan-chewing clerk at the college admission table jeers , "67%", kokhono na!"(never!) He guffaws . 
The number, has reached the ears of parents of 90th percentile kids' waiting in the snaky queue, for admission forms ,"67%?" they ask , "Peeche jayiye"(go back)
67%. They shrink in horror. They give pitiable , almost disgusted looks .As if I had contracted some terrible , unspeakable disease. 
The queue snakes out of the gate . We reach the main road .Millions are ahead of me .
I am just 67. Untouchable.In the rigid world of education , your marks are your caste . 95+ are the brahmins . I am not even a sudra.
67%

Recall

Last summer , I paid a visit to my older siblings . If one is in forties , the siblings generally tend to be in their fifth or sixth decade of existence. This is one place on earth, where you are still called by your childhood nick name ,which you have partly forgotten yourself ("Mummu",really , come on ,now). 

On a particularly sleepy afternoon ( you have just been treated to an excellent feast), the doorbell rings ,you open the door, and a face lights up at the sight of you -"Mummu!" The face exclaims with instant recognition. The face is familiar , only faintly , like a sepia shot, grainy with time , seen through cataract-ridden eyes.He could be a mug shot of a dangerous murderer you saw in your neighbourhood "thana" in your childhood. He waits expectantly , chewing his lower lip , teeth baring into "I-know-you-can't-place -me "dare. 

A resident comes to rescue , and takes him away , mildly glaring at you ,accusingly.

Recall becomes a frantic search for a lost name .As no one seems to be forthcoming , your quest becomes a lonely one and you turn into a "lone crusader".
A face peering , a voice jeering , you are on the verge of remembering the name , and then blank . Rightly said, “like stroke , one word at a time .”
For the life of you , you can’t. You are furiously rummaging the desks, drawers , rooms , mansions , junkyards of your memory . Zilch. You scale dizzying heights of frustration , and forget other things in the process. Picking up a child from school in time , grocery list,dental appointments . All the time , the cogs and wheels are whirring , clicking , “what was the name ? Come on , what was his name ?”
Recalling becomes an obsession.

Cars behind you honk in exasperation , as you fail to notice the green light at crossings. Your raddiwala  , noticing the faraway look in your eyes , does away with the usual "hisaab". Your spouse sighs at the dining table because you have  absently eaten the third bowl of kheer , which was meant for the late coming offspring. Your teenage son is maniacally jubilant , as you did not notice the spikes on his head  ,hesitantly turning pink at the tips.

At the subzi mandi , a behenji in pink salwaar kameez ,  elbows you and pushes ahead  , picks up a lauki and shouts "Hari hai ?"

Then , like an epiphany , it strikes you -"Hari , harikaka." 

And you race back home , laukiless, screaming into your landline -"I got his name , "hari , hariya, harikaka." 

My favourite pen

I learnt writing on those ink-pens with voluminous ink wells , which needed a refill ( a messy process, albeit fun) every day . After a couple of scratchy pages , the nib smoothened out at a comfortable angle , and off you went, a -sailing. Smooth , effortless words .

Then came barrages of ball-points , gel pens , micro tip pens , ink cartridge pens , markers , all of which passed me by . The other day , I came across this vintage , tiny glass pot of ink , sitting on the shelf of a busy stationery shop. I waited till the shop emptied , and the proprietor turned towards me . Turned out he had an ink pen , one with ink well , as well .
He brought out an ancient looking cardboard box full of them , and added wistfully ,”They don’t sell any more .”
I nodded .
We both belonged to a bygone era .
We chatted for half an hour about all things ancient , and how good they were etc . The kind of chat old people have , while shaking heads at the new generation. 

I walked away with a green and black pen , filled with black ink , my soul satiated . It is my current favourite pen .

Jumping Jack

They called him” jumping jack”, because he would perform staid dance steps with an exaggerated spring in his step.
Every bit a performer, he would jump , skip , whoop and break into manic laughter.
Everything that made the original “jumping jack ” so scary, endeared him to the movie goers. He spawned a generation of
hysterical fans , jumping and whooping at the numbers he danced to .
He gave crazy electrical energy to his song-and -dance sequences . That , and his toothsome smile , not to mention his white shoes , white cardigans and strange hairdo.
He was our Elvis.

Our own Jeetendra , jeetuji.

Museum

1. The kids saw the tusk.

   It was large . Tip to tip it measured three feet each ,they were told . Yellowing and full of fine cracks.
   A small sticker like plaque just told a date 23rd March 1921.
   “That was the date the elephant was killed ? ” The younger one asked , face upturned , breath fogging the glass case.
   “No, Idiot ! That was the date the ivory was brought here !” The elder one replied , all earnestness.
   I looked at neither.
   Watching the ivory , perplexed . What could have compelled men to fell such a huge animal ?

   Another room had a huge arching doorway . Cobwebby , smelling musty. Till a bronze plaque informed us that we were standing inside the jaws of a blue whale , and the cobwebby , dusty thing was actually its baleen.

   
   

   Speechless , the girls watched , goggle eyed.

   
   

   In the next room , in a glass case lay gigantic clam shells , tortoise carpaces , enough to seat a fully grown human .

   
   

   
   

Urmila

She went
and stood
silent
on threshold
waiting

A part of her
slept
the fitful fever
of half awake

Hands resting
on door
frame , she
waited
and waited

the plants
wilted
her hair
grayed
skin
wrinkled

she still
waited .

Eventually
she gave up
and turned in
with swirls
of despair
drying
in crinkly
heaps

She took off
her slippers
climbed the bed
and slept
the sleep
of the dead

nothing
no disappointment
no exuberance
no fireworks
could wake her up
now .

She had been
delivered .

When he came
he smelt
fear and longing
like lingering whiff
of a long lost perfume
and tasted the salt of
dusty tears
a cobwebby doorway
and pots full
of plants
long dead
with
neglect.

Weekend

Weekends are meant to be fun .
The kids are at home , home from school , and they sleep late .
At 11 a.m., one with tousled hair , scratches her belly and yawns “,What is for breakfast ?”
Gently , she is reminded , that she is closer to lunch. Breakfast has been long ago polished off.
But wait , there is still some batter in the fridge , and boiled potatoes curry . “Would she like a dosa?”
She makes a face .
“Cornflakes with cold milk? ”
Nope .
“Toast with cheese ?”
Turning up of pretty teen noses , sensitive to non-existent odors of fresh cheese and cold yoghurt.
The man turns the pages of sunday newspaper noisily , and grunts with ill-concealed impatience.

I give up. 

The teen potters around in the kitchen , and fixes herself a large tumbler of cold coffee. The froth threatens to overflow onto the freshly mopped tiles . I rush to fetch a straw. The man grunts . I stay put , on leash, and ineffectually mouth -"Plastic straw. Third drawer." 

The teen frowns , uncomprehending . Takes an enormous gulp . Wipes frothy moustache on shirt sleeve . I groan . Bury my head into weekly horoscopes.Mine predicts "paarivaarik vivaad"(familial dispute).I eye my better half warily . He is submerged in the sports section . Hopefully , there is no "vivaad" in his sign. I sigh. The teen smiles a frothy smile .

Morning breeze

The morning breeze is cool and laden with moisture . There is no time to savor the fragrance of impending rain . The parched earth is drinking its fill , somewhere close by . A streak of lightning splits the sky as thunder rolls “its barrels thumping down the stairs “, as Mark Twain puts it. That propitious moment when you bang your car door shut , and the skies open up ,simultaneously. Raindrops bombard the panes, seeking admittance . It is still dark . 

Remember when

Remember when
the earth was heaven
the goods cheaper
and prices even

Remember when
“gay” was cheerful
and lying was sin
swearing hurtful

Remember when
Santa existed
So did ghosts, spirits
gods and demon

The King's shoes

The kids ran out of gum . Gum as in gum paste , meant to stick things together . Tomorrow was the annual function . A kings’ shoes , normal tennis shoes , with great deal of gold foil stuck to it , was being prepared . Others wrote banners, stuck green chart paper leaves to cardboard cut out trees ,props for plays. A group of giggly girls stuck gota (golden border) to a sari , the saree being polyester, gota refused to stick , causing frustrating mess all around. 

An enthusiastic 6th grader was dispatched to school office , and he brought back a greyish lump of smelly gum made of flour-paste , which girls refused to touch . Boys took one look, wrinkled their noses and got back to doing what everyone does best under such trying circumstances , gossip . Movie stories , match-fixing tales , cricket scores and teleserials were discussed threadbare and debated hotly upon , as the pink sari sat forlornly on the floor , the gota lying unstuck .Paper leaves flew helter skelter, threatening to stick to the gummy border of pink saree and the King’s half golden shoes . 

King’s shoes were the first to be finished . The maker (King herself ) triumphantly placed it on the teacher’s table .

“Unthinkable !Sacrilege! How can you keep it there?” Deepa , the class brahmin monitor screeched, and no one paid any attention.
Wiping her fingers on a piece of newspaper , the” king”grinned .The shoes were golden . Regal tennis shoes.

Vinay , the class stand up comedian , rushed to the table . Gesturing dramatically , he swept the class with an exaggerated bow and puffing out his diminutive chest, yelled -“ladies and gentlemen , please bid for the kings’ shoes .”

Screams of laughter broke out . Few tired bids later , the shoes were removed and placed in the cupboard , where it sat drying in its moist, moldy solitude. 

By afternoon , the following day , the trees and the sarees also were complete and looked appropriately blingy and stage worthy.

The play was a success, except for the part where Dashrath stamps his foot in indignation at kaikeyi's  undue demands. A large piece of foil, stiff with dry glue ,fell off Dashrath's shoe , prompting immense hilarity from behind leafy trees , where "king's" classmates were stationed.The trees shook ominously.

Following week a visit to the photographer's shop was mandatory , to collect the school function snaps.

The bespectacled , paan-chewing , fellow came out , looked at the kids and wordlessly , went in . The kids waited for 15 minutes and again rang the bell . This time he came out , took out his specs , wiped them , and wore them .

 Then grinned , apologetically , saying "I have no photos ."

"How come ?Aise kaise shatriji?"

The kids were , understandably, livid .

"You see! On the day of your function , I forgot to put a film in my camera ."

Do not believe what you think (see or hear too )

Don’t believe everything you think , or see , or hear , for that matter.
I have been amazed at the sheer discrepancy between what our senses feed us , and what turns out to be the truth , beneath all those misleading layers of sensory input.

My neighbour was a dentist . Some days ago , her mother came down to stay with them . The dentist was about to deliver her second baby , and she needed a helping hand with the household and the elder one . The mother wore faded kolhapuri cotton sarees , hitched up high , and bathroom slippers that flapped sadly , as she chased her grandson across the terrace, feeding him cornflakes and milk . Whenever I saw her , she had a huge moist spot on her midriff , either milk sloshed from her grandson’s bowl , or obtained while doing dishes in the sink , or while cooking . Upon being asked as to why she chose to do these tasks that she was so evidently inept at ,she would laugh loudly , and her saree covered ample midriff shook with careless mirth. My thought was that she was an inefficient housewife (like me ) , and would remain so , and I would leave it at that.
It was much later that I came to know that the lady in flapping slippers was a maths wiz and had taught for several years at the regional college of engineering , having also gone abroad ,on several occasions, to attend global conferences.

Bhavesh Aggarwal was the nephew of one of our family friends , who managed the arable lands of his ageing maternal grandparents . All subservience and humility, he was often quoted to us as the ideal "son" material . He would be constantly at the fields , granaries , grain markets ,supervising crops , harvesting , and the sale of grains . Always transparent in his dealings , he would give a complete breakdown of daily expenses , and incomes garnered , flawlessly . One could hazard to add , selflessly . He lived in a one room tenement , like all other employees , except that he was not one . The only exception would be when he was called in at mealtimes , when kids would clamber up his back , and adults slapped him , on his back , for the goodness of his heart , and God bless him.

Four years later , both the grandparents were dead. The grandma died of a short and violent  illness, due to a virulent carcinoma , and the grandfather followed his spouse , shortly , of a broken heart.The younger generation shifted to the city , leaving the lands in "capable" hands of  Bhavesh. Left solely in charge ,Bhavesh waited for an year or so. When it became clear that the family wont be moving back , any time soon , he moved in swiftly. Stripping the house of important papers , deeds (under the guise of burglary), followed by furnitures , utensils, electrical fittings and door frames even. What was a majestic bungalow , reduced to a heap of bricks , in a matter of days.

Personal

He was an intensely private person.Even talking to neighbours would give him sweaty palms and jitters. He would shun social company ,and go to great lengths to avoid meeting anyone, wriggling out of party invitations , and excusing himself from reasons to invite people over. He was painfully shy, happy in his own personal space.
He was known to enter his own home from the backyard ,jumping over gourd vines, like a thief , to avoid feminine gaggle chatting with his wife at the doorstep.

Parent teacher meeting

“Oh Hello ! ”
I was in the habit of greeting people , even those who didn’t want to be greeted . By me , that is . Me , in my plain T-shirt and jeans , was the other end of the socialite spectrum .
There was a momentary confusion in the overdressed lady's eyes . Should she wish back , or shouldn’t she ?
She made up by an exaggerated purring ,_”Ohhh, hellllooo dear .” That accompanied by furious batting of eyelids and an insincere pout. The eye shadow was light green , matching her dress; and the lipstick blood red , as her stilettos.
A dream for a cartoonist . I made a mental note of the few drops of sweat on the tip of that heavily powdered nose . Perfect.

Last week , they had had a terrible fight . My daughter , and the lady's . They called each other names , threw some things at each other , and of course , the fight spilled the boundaries of the school gates . It reached their respective homes , where each child presented her side to her parent, and decisions, judgements were made and recorded in the parents' brains . I, in the true christian spirit , had forgiven , aided by my extremely scant memories for kids' daily  school warfares.  The others , as I routinely found out , were neither forgiving , nor forgetful. I sighed . It was the same story at every PTM . 

Teachers told me , my ward was doing extremely well , despite me  fully knowing the percentages garnered and the vast scope for improvement , which grew vaster each semester. The faces of teachers remained inscrutable, smiling , pussyfooting . Dangerous areas , like misdemeanours, fights , were side stepped . Not mentioned . 

One mother droned on and on about her sons' whatsapp addiction . She kept pleading with the teacher , "Please , please , please , do something . " 

The teacher promised to do some thing and tried , in vain , to look sternly at the boy in question , standing next to his mother . His shoulders shook . Once , twice . then continuously , spasmodic heaving . All other parents gasped . Thinking he was sobbing . he wasn't . he was hysterically laughing . After some time , the mother joined him and they smilingly went out of the classroom . 

They met scowling faces , on their way out . They had wasted teachers' precious time. The teacher took some time to regain her composure and shook her head as she took two large gulps of water. 

Downstairs , a  large blackboard told everyone of their class /subject teachers whereabouts. The teachers were dressed in sarees with nameplates, and welcomed you with folded hands , like air hostesses. Everything was sleek ,glamorous  and glitzy from shiny floors to kiddie murals on the walls.

My kid's teacher was having a bad day . After the laughing boy , came our turn . I had just introduced myself , when another mother swept in . She was dressed in a brown saree with zari border, and was sleepwalking. Literally. A fawn coloured bag swung in the crook of her elbow , and she had a permanent fake smile plastered across her face . Her pallu , draped on her arm , swept behind her , and got snagged on someone's purse zip. The purse owner ran behind her , trying to furiously dislodge the offending pallu , but the lady in brown swept ahead , oblivious. 

Monica ma'am , for that was the teacher's name , sprang up at the sight of her . I wondered if I should too . She might be an important personage , you never know !! Turned out she was the mother of a child who was a chronic absentee in  Monica Ma'am's  class. Apparently, the kid in question was a bright child , and was seen in all classes, excelling therein. Taking serious exception to Monica ma'am's class , when he would make himself scarce . The brown lady was a member of the school administration , making the poor boy's scope for fleeing  disagreeable classes, more thin.

Both talked at length about the boy , as one would about a jail escapee. Monica ma'am holding forth with increasing degrees of vehemence , so much so that her spittle flew across the table and graced the visage of several by standing , eaves dropping parents. Her frame , a bulky one , shook with indignation , and she grabbed the edges of the table to steady herself . A minor earthquake was unleashed on the table , and her penholder toppled over . Some pens rolled underneath the table , out of sheer fright . 

Several parents and kids took this delightful opportunity  to dive beneath the table and retrieve the writing implements , thereby getting a momentary reprieve.

A mother ,an army officer,walked in , in army uniform ,her arms laden with story books of all shades.  All eyes swivelled towards her . 

Having lost her rapt audience , Monica ma'am quietened down , and patted her shoulder pallu , adjusted her specs and smiled genially . The lady in brown , turned back , her plastic smile in place , and swept back , the same way. This time , her pallu snagged on a gold button in the Army Officer's resplendent uniform , and from the corridor, harried sounds of "excuse me ma'am", were heard , as the lady in olive green followed her , scattering enid blytons and harry potters on the way.

I smiled , signed in two registers and wrote satisfactory , where ever comments were solicited. There was nothing to be unsatisfied about the wholesome entertainment.