The cough

(Last month , my  81 year old mother developed a cough . A cough that mutated from "cold and cough" to "chronic bronchitis " , to COPD ( Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease ) . The last one being a honorific given to the familiar (garden variety ) asthma. Another possibility was cardiac failure , as she wears a pacemaker, aiding her old ticker , for the last two years . There are other , unspeakable possibilities too , but let's not go there . A hasty decision was made to bring her to the idyllic countryside ( where I currently reside ) from the hustle -bustle of a megacity (where she lives ) . The thought was that the change  would do her good . )

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Early morning was a tad bit schizophrenic . The weather I mean . Last evening , there was a duststorm followed by a brief drizzle . At the fag end of the five minutes' drizzle , few tiny hailstones tumbled out of the clouds , as if by mistake . The clouds weren't in the mood to give us those gems , as if . Some aberrant hole in the proverbial bag of goodies . 

But the morning promised sunshine . Brilliant , white , dazzling , drying up all traces of last nights' mistaken largesse by the sky . The sun shone into the eyes with frowns permanently sitting atop them . Air heated up , slowly braising the inhabitants , just like Yudhishtira described it , so many aeons ago . 

So , a trip to the garden , for a walk , was thwarted . 

Shaky resolutions further fractured by elderly parent declaring , seated atop lofty towers of concrete opinions , "How can you walk in this weather , pshaw ?" 

This final salvo , followed by guilt inducing bout of undiagnosed cough . A cough , that travels thousands of miles across states ( national and emotional ) , a cough that has not responded to a government hospital's indifferent but efficient -sounding treatment , a cough that stops ambitions of acquiring a "shilpa shetty -like figure , mid -pranayam , a cough that flushes out sleepy and irate youngsters from their permanent dens , a cough that skips  down four floors ( via the stairs ) and makes an elderly retired colonel unentangle from his cow pose , and raise his head heavenward and scream "hot water with saunf" into the thin morning air . 

By now , everyone I know in the colony ( not too many , thank God ) has heard of my mother's cough , or has heard her coughing . Some have had the (mis)fortune of having witnessed it first hand . 

Red in the face , short of breath , my mother coughs her heart away ( literally ) . All the flab , acquired gradually , over years of affluence , shake like jelly , turning slowly, and alarmingly , purple . My daughter runs to get some water , I run to grab her inhaler ,and cough syrup , both in one hand , while trying desperately to look for saunf ka dabba , in my chaotic spice rack with my other hand . 

"Saunf water " yells the colonel , for the fourth time in a row . 

"Yes yes , Uncle " My quick thinking daughter yells back , pacifying him , while my mother roars into our ear drums , hammering away at our rib cages holding already racing hearts . 

Finally , all the ministrations take hold , and the cough , miraculously , like an unbidden hailstorm , stops . The sun smiles benignly at the dishevelled inhabitants of our home . 

Everyone seems to have an idea , what her cough is about . All , except the cough itself . Like a rogue vehicle on a busy highway , it upsets patterns , defies diagnosis , and is notoriously recalcitrant . There are a few , lucky , cough free days , followed by vengefully profuse hacking . 

"Dry , not a drop of phlegm ." It is her cough my mom describes fondly , on phone , to relatives , distant and amused . 

"She might , as well, be describing  a shot of martini. " is one of the many "dry " humorous comments that abound . 

The cough has persisted . Through a vast gamut of injectable / oral antibiotics , anti tussive agents , anti histamines , steroids .opiods , and mostly everything allopathy has to offer . 

It is a survivor . And not a benign one at that . In the 1990s , this undiagnosed  hacking precipitated two hernias ( on either side of the classical caesarean scar ) in my mom's corpulent tummy . 

One can only picture , what havoc these bouts must be wreaking on her insides , protected thinly by a polyester mesh , that too , government hospital provided . 

As we battle this unbeatable opponent , we have an increasing arsenal of home remedies . Patanjali made honey-lemon-ginger syrup , my neighbour's trusted kadha comprising of fifteen spices ( practically all spice ever known to mankind ) , myriad jars of "churans " , sniffable , swallowable , drinkable , and applicable remedies . Various tablets , capsules , and inhalants , in their colourful and white avatars .  We have enough medicine to start a pharma shop of our own . I, by default , am a miniature expert on cough and its various manifestations . Cough drops of all hues and brands , even a tiny square of camphor ("Put it on her upper lip when she coughs " said a concerned friend . As if upper lips were kitchen shelves . Anyway , the intent was good ) 

Allergens abound . Even in the countryside where we live . The crops are being harvested , flowers are blooming . So it could be the chaff , the pollen , the cold air , the dewdrops , the hot air , the newsprint , the lint , the cloth she is wearing , the food she is eating . 

That is the thing with allergies . They manifest out of thin air . Like misfortune . They are also infamously difficult to pinpoint . Like the perpetrator in most of the crime shows . There are twists and turns . It could be perfume that I use , to the cooking oil I bought last week . The fish she ate yesterday , to the new dress , fondly sent by a daughter . Anyone , and everyone , is a suspect , until proven guilty . Is it the detergent , or the dettol , the new brand of hair oil , or the tomato puree that was a day old ( but used anyway , economising !!) . The peanut brittle or the tea leaves , the ginger cookies , or the atta bread !! 

Perhaps , she is missing the pollutant -laden , densely populated city air she has been deprived of . Who knows ? Perhaps , her mind is allergic to the bucolic peace and quiet we have foisted upon her , in a misplaced desire for a "break " .

Mrs Sangha

 With unfathomable love and  immaculate care 

she prepared feasts fit for kings , regal fare 

Her scramble for the flimsy dupattas , hair 

in mild disarray ,  a bit grayer ,every year 

She got up to greet and talk to you , listen 

Your own woes , when she had million(s) 

Of her own . A cup of tea , sweeten(ed) 

 for all , with indefatigable affection 

Bottomless pit , nature's  beauteous wonders 

Of unending giving , to strangers , stragglers 

Friends , neighbours , servants , beggars 

the benevolence never ceased , do ponder 

How destiny turns against the very source 

How fragrance in a cupboard full of succours 

Maddens , saddens , inexplicably lingers 

there are no more fidgety fingers 

No more sunspot ridden fair crinkly skin 

No more complaints of a heart flailing 

No more hysterical, hypoglycemic sweating 

Scary portends in the dark midnight

A breath that was taken by sheer power 

Of will , a heart that beat just in order 

to see kids , faraway , on distant shore(s) 

A metabolism so messed up , in disorder , 

Whenever the bell rings , even now 

What does your eye seek ? Blow ! 

That  radiant face framed in springy white 

A smile ,in pain , yet  so much of spright 

A motherly face , her wings transparent 

invisible , so wide , sheltering beneath it 

You , me , us and them .

Missing you , forever , maam . 

In the dead of the night

 Tis the middle of the night

 many  needless fright(s)

Time grows a couple of feet 

Marches endless around your bed 

Tick tock tick tock precision beat 

A footfall ,  a scrape,  a thud 

It's all in your head

You saw a fleeing shadow

Right outside your window

If  you are alone , you might 

Make a mountain out of a bite 

A relentless bite of a  wood termite 

Only audible at the dead of the night

A sparrow makes its nest , why I wonder 

Of all places,Beneath the airconditioner 

It is safe and secure of that I am sure

What about me subjected

To tiny flutterings 

Comings and goings 

Enlarged, magnified

Multifold, 

Oh god 

In the dead of the night

Silence kills . That's right 

But tiny noises too just might 

If it scares you out of your wit 

My sister's kitchen

 My sister's kitchen is her fiefdom. It is her kingdom and fiercely guarded territory . 

With age , her defences have proliferated and become rigid as hell. Earlier you could sneak a peek, lend a hand , cook something ( for which you might be grudgingly thanked) , or even fetch a glass of water without the threat of being chided. No longer. Now , you might as well levitate on entering the hallowed premises . 

You are not permitted to leave footprints on the shiny floor, no handprints on the glass door partition,  no splotches of water in and around the sink , and heaven forbid, no soap residues in hastily washed pots .

Like a hardened criminal, you learn to wipe surfaces down , mop the floor , dry the dishes , then dry the kitchen duster , and pray that you have not left a single evidence of a sneaky omelette , which you had the audacity to make .

Like a sniffing bloodhound, she knows, just by looking at nano particles of crumbs , which snacks box has been raided in her absence . Then ,it is " off with her / his head " time .

An incriminating trail of these nanoparticles also reveal , magically , to her astute senses , where the purported crime of consuming the stolen goods took place . On the balcony ( hastily) , on the sofa , in the sitting room ( God save you) or in the kitchen itself ( no imagination) . 

Her hawk eye and extraordinary nasal glands reveal to her all the information which should have , by all means,remained concealed.

Not only is her kitchen off limits , to hungry humans prone to snacking , it is a formidable citadel for the maid too . This, allegedly, is her workplace . She has all my sympathies , as my sister corners her everyday and points out her innumerable flaws in yesterday's washing .

The  negligent soap spots , the faulty piling of the dishes , the inadequate washing of the scrubber , the criminal scuffing of the floor , the wasteful running of water , the aberrant water scales left unscrubbed in some hard to reach corner of the sink ,the glaring omission of spoons stacked erringly , so on and so forth . 

Everyday , when she enters her fortress , I pretend to bury myself in the day's wordle and spellathon, keeping one eye and ear cocked for a yell and a reprimand .

 For courageous and suicidal souls like me , who keep trying to breach the outer walls and slay the dragon everyday , so to speak.

A few jabs of the javelin and a few tongues of searing flames are only too expected . 

Playing peekaboo with goodbye

 Recently , I was in ICU for some strange reasons . An acquaintance , who may also be called a distant relative , had had a cerebral stroke , after having undergone a hip replacement surgery a couple of years ago , and being wheelchair bound as it is .

He had been sick for quite some time . The family gathered in the foyer . Grieving siblings , silver haired , and anxious . Other relatives , distant and cold during better days , flew in from really "distant and cold " climes to see how he's faring, now that a troublesome mouth had been silenced , and a bitter mind laid to rest . Well , almost  . 

 The person departing was not very popular . However , his spouse had powerful and rich siblings , who kept a hawk eye on her . Ensuring her well being . In good times and in bad . 

Solidarity with a capital S , was quite visible . 

It wasn't clear how many had gathered to bid goodbye . Or just come to watch Tamasha . 

Some conferenced with the treating physician . Others , impatiently clear , just wanted to know , " how much time was left " . Still others , stoically , kept vigil . 

Modern science , if anything , has muddled up the "going away " process . Quite terribly . There are hits , and then there are misses . Near misses . Close shaves . And "I don't know whens " . "Can't say how long ?" "Please take him home now ." 

A hefty  guard /ayah closely monitored visiting hours , down to the last minute , and last teary eyed sullen faced relative. She had taken it upon herself to shove in visitors , one by one , whether willing or not , and to extricate visitors from the bedside of the patient , whether willing or not . 

Needless to say , like life , and strange things in it , she was the conscience keeper , of the entire family ,and ensured the balance of life . Like nature .

Doctors , with their limited abilities , despite the burden of degrees professed , hummed and hawed over sticky questions with unpredictable outcomes . 

The patient himself , his reputation notwithstanding , didn't help matters . He waxed and waned , and how . One day , he , suddenly opened his long shut eyes , took a long and enquiring look at all the sullen faces around his bed , and proclaimed his  teary -eyed love for long estranged people . Next day , with his parameters WNL ( within normal limits ) , he obstinately shut his eyes and refused to communicate . 

Third day , he waved his arms around , trying desperately , to articulate sentences , through the endotracheal tube lodged into his throat . His parameters went askew again . 

Within a week , however , he had "stabilised " enough to be discharged home , when all the relatives , disappointed , did the vanishing act . Enter "professionals " who fed him evil looking nasogastric feeds . changed diapers and positions , emptied urobags , and adjusted the volume of oxygen flow , all in a home setting . 

Charging a kidney almost , these professionals , raised alarm , when in the wee hours of a weekday , the oxygen levels plummeted. However , life , playing peekaboo , didn't depart till late that night , giving enough time to absentee sons to mark their presence. 

The body was kept waiting , while the rest readied themselves for the final departure . 

One last look , a sigh , and one final "so long , old man . " 

Keeping everyone guessing , on their toes , in life as in death , a maverick character , whether "to be or not to be " . Whether he loved someone , or didn't , whether he was going to go or stay , leaving the living counterparts in a quandary . Whether to celebrate the departure or to mourn the loss . Whether be  relieved or anguished . Dark glasses come in handy , in such situations , and breathable cotton masks , disguise and deceive . 

spring

 A solitary peanut , ashamed of its nudity 

new found freedom , springs sprightly 

from the shelling fingers,

rolls ,scampers swiftly 

and hides behind the microwave .

A thick carpet of dried peepul leaves 

in midday slumber , suddenly heaves 

feet scupper , the crisp dry  rustle

the babblers , browse in group , hustle 

Lifting leaves with their beaks , bustle 

Noisily feeding on invisible insects , 

seeking refuge 

in nature's refuse 

Sun will blaze shortly like a flame thrower 

every living thing will pant and perspire 

Then they gather around terracotta pots 

with warm saline water 

Left over 

from the days yester 

a whoosh of the myna 

rebuking from the tree top 

A whooping jackal , a mocking hyena 

A barbet sets up a racket 

talking to the spring air , perfect 

"I Love yous " from the apex 

a beetle dashes in futile masochism against 

the wire mesh door , humming hurtfully 

And a black and white great tit 

busy building a home , a nest 

in all earnest , sharing notes 

with a purple sunbird 

its beak buried in the hibiscus 

A red banner , protestation 

against the yellow abomination 

Both the sun and the tree , at war 

of colours , against each other 

 a drongo flies past , sashaying its glossy tail 

like a movie star at met gala , masked and caped 

A woodpecker is busy , hammering out termites 

from the trunks where hide they might 

Ha ha . we rhyme , finally , 

and the rose finch specifically 

chooses my window 

to throw down glass blades 

 challenging me to a duel 

of who builds   a nest in the blinking of an eye 

so what  if you can , from inside your glass see ? 

The bulbul , content mostly , 

is now complaining , for daily 

the pot is bereft of water 

the babblers , drink and scatter 

tree bullies . No manner!!

Sparrows hold urgent meetings 

inside flower bushes , and beetles 

in psychedelic colours fly 

 blink and miss . 

 

Rainforest rain

  It has been  raining since last night .

This is a tropical rain forest , and this is how it rains . A uniform bank of clouds forms overnight , regardless of the current weather . So , this layer of clouds prevents the usual escape of the heat waves into the atmosphere , and you sweat . This layer of clouds is totally oblivious to your predicament . Whether you are hiding beneath a thin 'chaddar ' or a thick mink blanket , you are doomed to feel hot . Momentarily . Then it starts . 

The drizzle . A tiny innocuous shower , that wets your verandah and the kitchen towels  you set out to dry the previous evening . Then it tightens its grip . The rain . Slowly , and imperceptibly . The rain goes on . Endlessly . The holes in your umbrellas are needlessly revealed . 

Your carefully grown petunias and marigolds , gazzinias and dahlias , chrysanthemums and bryophyllums take the beating . Some still stand tall , even after 10 hours of continuous pitter patter , other just throw in the towel , and lie down to hug the earth , flatter the better . 

"Phshaw ! This rain !! It is nothing , it will just go away "  This boastful remark from a son of the soil , product of the land , a local inhabitant . These words , spoken in the early morning , were eaten , soggy and dripping , in the evening . By this time , the so called local inhabitant' s jacket was sodden , the mood not -so-ebullient and shoes wet and clammy . 

The rain persists , and the jackals are quiet tonight . There are no war cries , no skirmish amongst the dog-clans , no protests amongst the babblers and the woodpecker has not been out to peck the wood . 

The forest is wet and muddy , silent and moody . By now , even the driest areas of the trees have been rendered wet . 

The hard to reach trunks , the soil clutched in the tenacious fingers of its roots , the innermost branch , the new born leaves , the insides of flowering hedges , where sunbirds make their nests , and the densest foliage , where the cuckoo sidles to , to swallow its last morsel of semi ripe papaya, all are damp . 

The cars spray mud along with the crunch of gravels and the bird bath needlessly fills up , with the water from the heavens . 

     

"Try "assic Park

(Dinosaurs existed in three periods of the Mesozoic era . One of them was the Triassic period ) 

 In our modern world , instead of the fang baring  giant beasts , we have snarling traffic jams : instead of Goliath foliage ,  we have towering skyscrapers , and instead of hyenas , foxes , and such slinky , cunning scavengers , we have equally wily , opportunistic human car owners / drivers , who try to out manoeuvre and outsmart you by placing their insolently purring  tin boxes in your chosen place /path . 

So , a visit and an overnight stay at parents' home in a  bustling city turned out to be quite an adventure for us jungle dwellers , who have the luxury of a roofed , designated car park , attached to one's dwelling . Even otherwise , there is plenty of space where a car can be safely parked . 

The real struggle is parking it , safely , in a city ; where lot of other people have similar ideas . More people , less horizontal surface . Struggle for parking , parking lot for the fittest driver , to paraphrase Darwin . 

We had started at dawn , on a Sunday , to beat the week day traffic . Also , to beat the weekend revellers , who wake up around noon , and raise cain around evening . 

A family friend had promised us a safe parking spot between houses D12 and D13 of a certain government housing colony , opposite the parents' building . 

At 1203 hrs , precisely , we entered the 4 foot broad , bricked lane , inside the said colony . The narrow road was lined by grassy land bordering deep drains , choked with polythene bags . A four wheeler didn't leave any room for any other vehicle or person . At the end of this perilous road , the path broadened out somewhat , and we breathed trifle easy . We still didn't know where to go . 

Finally , after 15 minutes of crawling along , scattering chickens ,getting frowned looks from aged grannies oiling their wispy grey locks , hunched up on the thresholds of their" quarters "( possibly leased out in the name of their deceased spouses ,  by the government ,for 99 years ) . Suddenly the gully opened up like a revelation , and there lay the imposing structure of a temple . 

Some kids , enthusiastically playing a Sunday game of cricket , were stopped in their celebration of a sixer , mid whoop by our sudden appearance . They too , frowned silently . 

Apprehension turned to panic when we saw a tiny , furry creature disappear underneath the car . Brakes were applied jerkily , and a teenaged boy , heroically stationed himself in front of the engine , arms outstretched . The puppy was unhurt , and we had to make a U turn , after many , hasty consultations, on phone , with the said ex resident of this colony , who had offered us a "nice , safe , parking spot " . The latitude and longitude of this parking spot wasn't clarified even after prolonged conversations , hastily held over the phone , jerked from my sweaty palms by eager people , and continued in three different lingos . Neither were the landmarks . Considering it a diplomatic and a communications failure , we proceeded back onto the main road , cautiously and slowly , this time , dodging roosters , goats , dogs , cats and pedestrians . 

The main road had been reduced to a mere broad lane , due to the extent of encroachment on its precincts . There were slow poke totos ( e rickshaws ) , drunkenly honking , lurching , and rushing private / government buses , and myriad two wheelers , swanky new cars . All honked , swerved and lurched in your path . 

Positioned at the gate , I went to argue with an insolent watchman for a piece of parking spot . 

"My father lives here . We need a parking spot ." 

"Does your father have a car ?" 

"No , not now . But years ago he did. A series of cars ."

He smiled at me . A pitiful , sickly smile . Plus , he just had two front teeth in his grimy , wrinkled face . 

"No . no parking place . " He said decisively , and shut his toothless mouth , clamping his gums . 

"Come on now . My father was the president of this housing colony for so many years . " I swept around with my outstretched arm in a grandiose gesture . All it captured was dereliction , peeling off plasters , dying , dust coated trees , grimy houses. Before finally resting on jeering faces of men as old and crumbling as the buildings themselves . 

Another old watchman , trifle younger than the one at the gate , came up at us , and asked what the commotion was all about . He identified himself as Shukla ji from Barauni . 

He , with extreme compassion , allowed us to bring the car in . My daughter had , in the meantime , got out , and had raced three floors up , to meet her grandparents . 

We , with the aid of a very doubtful Shukla ji , parked our car at the side of a building marked "H " Block , narrowing the narrow road further , almost hugging the perimeter wall . He kept up with the ambiguity of our safety , by reiterating 

"Someone might come to park here , or someone might not . I do not know . In any case , you will be informed ." 

We exchanged phone numbers and were about to part company , amicably , when Shukla ji looked over my shoulder , and changing his lingo , burst into broken English . 

Telling us , how we were welcome here , any time etc . I looked over my shoulder to find my nonagenarian father , still standing tall , having come down from his home , smartly clad in pants , shirt and trousers , looking every bit the housing president he was , twenty years ago . My daughter chafed her hands standing next to him , whispering to me , "I told him not to come ." 

Seeing Baba , our toothless Buddha ran  to us from his watch post , and lied glibly " I told them , they could park wherever they wanted Sir . " 

Later that night , in the midst of cake cutting and gleeful chatter of a family reunion , we again got a call from a car owner , who claimed that the place we had parked our car at belonged to him . It was a "lawaaris " spot , up for grabs as Shukla ji had repeatedly and rightly warned us . 

We reached to find a well dressed person , apparently distressed at having his slot gone . However , my hubby launched into his full charming mode , like a true Sagittarian , asking his antecedents , revealing his , and exchanging phone numbers , shaking hands , dispensing  free ( mildly unsolicited ) medical advice , hence making (possibly for posterity ) staunch  friends out of mild foes . The cars ( his and ours ) remained unmoved , parked nose to nose , ready to pounce on each other like sparring wrestlers , and we retired to our respective homes for a night of fitful sleep . 

Next morning , when we arrived , his car was missing and our car was unharmed . 

Before we could breathe a sigh of relief , we had to manoeuvre the car from in between 5.6 feet broad road , hemmed in by sharp edged concrete buildings , with a road bump at every intersection . 

There was a group of teenagers , loafing at the lonely spot , who decided to film our distress the moment a bunch of resident pariah dogs decided to rebel against our presence . 

It was a nightmare , and that we managed to reverse a car which is roughly 5 and a half foot in breadth itself , with giggly boys videotaping us on one side and angry dogs barking at us on other , without scraping the sides , speaks volumes .

 Hats off to the people who do this nerve wracking manoeuvring everyday . 

We emerged unscathed and sped off to our jungle with a sigh of relief .