Escape

 He ran, up the stairs , he  fled 

like a  tiny fluttering bird 

His gray oversized shirt ballooned 

Bare tiny feet , oh how they sped 

He thought it was a game 

he panted and he giggled 

As those who had trapped 

him , gave chase , in the face red .

For his spirit , he was to be broken 

For his ideas ,before being spoken 

In fact , all speech was banned 

You could only nod and bend 

He was born free , they said 

But  this day had come , sad

They put the small boy in chains 

His hands were tiny , handcuffed 

They forgot the leg irons 

And oh , how he fleed 

The dirt on the half finished 

stairs , kicked , stomped 

Heavy boots followed 

crooked beings . cant see 

a living thing fly free 

in the God's own sky 

He was born a bird , yeah 

He reached the parapet , poor thing , wrung 

Against the balustrades , his hands he flung 

Trying very hard to break the cuffs 

He just ended earning the scuffs 

He broke free , once again , though spent 

He held his hands to the sky , a scream rent 

To the Gods for mercy , Providence bent  

A speck faraway emerged , an eagle seen

The men laughed , cruel , mirthless , tired 

The boy kept running in circles , hands tied  

Beseeching , 

believing 

The strangest thing witnessed 

The eagle screeched , swooped 

Down and down , as if on an errand 

Holding the boy's handcuffs ,within seconds 

The boy was airborne 

the tiny frame gone 

dangling , swaying 

from the grip of the talon 

A delayed burst of kalashnikovs 

A curse , a medley of madness 

The boy had gone 

whooping , flown 

Whether he met a great end 

or a deadly one , still debated 

Or maybe some other world

where his songs were allowed 

where his ideas met applause

Maya Di , the water lady

 

( This is a fictional account of a lady who dispensed water in a suburban school in 80s decade . She may have been , however , inspired by real life characters )

 

Some heroes wear capes , most don’t .

The lady I am about to talk about was not rich , educated or powerful . She was just a kind soul full of such benevolence that she gave unconditional love to an entire generation of school children . She is still  talked about at every school reunion . Thirty years later , people still remember her soft heartedness and her simple ability to give .

She was the “water lady “ .

 In the days of yore , when electric coolers didn’t exist , or were prohibitively expensive , she just sat in a designated corner of the school verandah , offering colored plastic glasses of water to all and sundry .

She smiled at all , was infinitely patient and served everyone without fail . A budding entrepreneur or a kindergarten kid struggling with his  alphabets , both received the same degree of attention .

Then , she listened . She just sat weepy teenagers down , in her spare room , and listened to their angst ridden stories . No solutions , no backbiting, no relaying or replaying stories back and forth , just plain old  attention and  a  heart large enough . To her , everyone was important .

 Boy , had she opened up her heart , bestsellers could’ve been written , I am sure of that .

Clad in an off white saree , Mayadi sat in a shady corner of the school . All roads led to her . There must have been a magical charisma in her character . I don’t remember too many teachers , being showered with same degree of affection .

Every birthday child would rush to her to show off his or her new dress . She was offered the first toffee , first slice of cake , first potato puff .

She had a toothless grin of the elderly . A smile so charming , that even the principal would quote her “ you are getting an off tomorrow because Maya di requested “, rest of the speech would drown in a volley of screams .

 

When the Electricity operated water cooler was installed on each floor , teenagers raised money for Maya di . With the help of school authorities , a tiny room on the ground floor , next to the nursery , was assigned for  Maya Di . She became in charge of the “Lost and found “ .

With a memory so sharp and exact , Maya di knew which stationery or water bottle or tiffin  belonged to whom . There was no question of theft or wrong identity .

“Lost a ruler ?” Go ask Maya di .

“ Left your satchel at school ?” Don’t worry , Maya di has kept it safe.

“ So and so misplaced  an umbrella ?” Maya di certainly has it , kept safe for you .

Maya di had a tragic past . Like all great souls . She was married young to a village good-for-nothing , in a forgotten place and time . She lost her husband shortly after her marriage to a drunken brawl on the streets . Her in laws , not willing or unable  to feed another mouth , showed her the door . Her own family lived far off , ill informed , not bothered , hand to mouth existences .

Then , Maya di did something remarkable . As they say , our circumstances shape us . So she decided to work .

 She said” God had given me arms and a head , and hunger and thirst , I was sure He would provide for me too . “

In the places , she had lived earlier , a woman working for her living was considered a pariah . So , she set out . She walked for days on end , in scorching sun , under the rain filled monsoon sky , winds whistling in her ears .

Till ,one day ,  she was found by the Church door , burning with fever , dehydrated , malnourished . Father must have seen the spark in her , and employed her for cleaning the church . She earned a small pittance , “ enough to keep the body and soul together “ and stayed .

 For years , she would sweep the church cemetery . courtyard , gathered fallen leaves , Cleaned the brass artifacts till they shone , dusted cobwebs off the crucifixion , Climbed up the outer walls on a ladder , her saree bunched between her legs and dusted the Pieta , polishing it later with a wet cloth , till both Mother Mary and fallen Jesus gleamed in the evening sunshine .

She used to say later “ when all had forsaken me , Jesus took me under his wings . I am just repaying .”

When a new school was opened , years later , Maya Di of course , had to be roped in .

She loved us with all her heart , and the school reciprocated , right back .

Then one day , a case happened . In our collective memory , it was” The Case . “

A rich girl , as rich kids are wont to , carried a princely sum of money and lost it on the school premises . Weeping inconsolably , she went to staff room to complain .

The school was held back . Everyone’s bag was searched . That meant searching a roughly 1000 bags . No money was found . It had just disappeared .

 Till , Maya di stepped in .

The rich girl had been seen giving the said amount to some kind of shady person on the basketball court and the person had quickly disappeared .

The girl  was brought to the Father Matthew’s office and questioned . The answer rattled the authorities , and her parents were summoned .  The girl accepted her mistake and was penalized . She had to apologize to the school at the next morning assembly and  clarify matters .

Maya di got a nickname thereafter . She was called the School CCTV .

Nothing escaped her sharp eyes . She knew which child has been bunking classes , which child takes way too many bathroom breaks to sneak a smoke in the washroom  . She had an uncanny ability to detect liars in a roomful of innocent faces . Though this ability of hers made her more powerful and indispensable in the eyes of the authorities , it also made her fearsome and respected ,amongst the kids .

Everyone behaved in a crowded area , no pushing or shoving . Maya di knew exactly who shoved whom into the flowerbed of poppies , or who plucked the last of Father Mathew’s favorite black  roses .

Earlier she was the slaker of thirst and listener of problems , now she had become the nemesis of trouble makers and a power to reckon with .

But , time marched on , and Maya Di grew older . She walked with a stick , and  retired eventually.

There was a proper school ceremony held at her retirement . College going kids , businessmen , powerful politicians and  housewives , tiny kids whose lives she had touched years ago , turned up to bid her adieu .

A simple “water lady “ who had  conquered a mountain of hearts .

 

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On eating a mango

( This is a very controversial topic I have chosen to write upon . India , being home to one of the most delectable fruits ever , has been blessed with hundreds of varieties of mangoes . So , everyone has a favourite of their own . Mine is Langda . It may or may not sit well with another mango fanatic who loves , say , safeda . 

To each . his own , I must say . Lets bury hatchets and  praise our own mango sky high ) 

 Summer comes with blazing sun, sweaty people, flared tempers and sunburnt necks . Loo, the feared mid-day wind with baking properties , also downs shutters during daytime. 

It also comes with mango .

To any mango lover ,or for that matter, any Indian, all that was tolerable just for the yummy juicy deliciousness of mangoes .

Mangoes come in various shapes and sizes and colours. There are hundreds of varieties all over India. Some are so exclusive that they have foreign sounding names . Miyazaki, Alphonso . These conjure images of blonde beauties . 

Then there are the desi sounding ones .himsagar , bainganpalli ( safeda ) , dussheri , chausa , bijju , fajli , sindoori , totapulli and the long awaited boss of them all , langda . 

In my humble opinion, langda or malda is the best. Just the right amount of flesh, just the right amount of fibre and glorious taste . A taste that ( not unlike the food critic Anton Ego of Ratatouille) takes you tumbling across the years to a grass filled maidan of your childhood, where heaps of freshly harvested mangoes are piled up, adults are haggling over the price and you have already laid your evil eyes on the most rightly ripened , not too soft to touch , not too hard , just the right amount of yellow around the umbilical stump of the stalk . 

Then the sniff test . Every mango connoisseur swears by the sniff test . I swear,  every mango has its own signature fragrance . It not only identifies the correct mango for you , it also yields a lot of information regarding age , ripening status and of course the variety . 

Once , on  a long, summery, visit to the south of the nation brought about introduction of new names . Amaravati , Neelam and of course hapoos . Even there , the waxy filmed , green among the red -orange-yellow  coloured charlatans , was our reigning king . The superstar . Langda . 

Malda is a tiny hamlet / town in Bengal , mostly famous for dubious politics . However , the mango has made it a household name . 

Langda , its other , more popular name , specially in the north , is unfortunate to think how does a mango come to be named after a disability in a human is beyond me . The popular theory goes that a person , mango -besotted of course , climbed the said tree to fetch himself some ripe fruit , fell off the tree , broke his leg , and hence became Langda (lame ) . But it still leaves diehard fans like me scratching my head , as to when and how the moniker stuck to the poor produce , instead of the  greedy person . 

Long years ago , I think we were nearing Howrah railway station . We were driving on what maybe called a service road , underneath a flyover . A beggar was eating a mango . I have never ever seen any one relish a mango or any food that way . He shut his eyes against the heat , the sun , the dust and the honking , the pedestrians , the coolies , the chaos , and just focussed on licking the seed ( bone ) clean . The seed was already white from being scraped numerous times by bony teeth .It was akin to watching a dog gnaw a bone .  He would have cracked the hull open and eaten the dicot inside had it been edible

There are several ways of eating a mango  . People slice nowadays , and scrape off the flesh with a spoon . Wrong .They peel , dice and eat it daintily with a "fruit fork" or a toothpick. Sacrilege. They cut the beauty around its girth .(Aaargh. ) twist it and eat the two halves , the satan worshippers. 

Each of these is sin and veritable evil . 

A mango should be cut next to the stalk, wasting as little pulp as possible, then the hands and teeth should go to work . Even a single drop of mango juice dripping out through your forearm out via your elbow is a brownie point deducted . If you don't want Gryffindor to fail , you will slurp ,lick , do whatever you can, but every single bit of pulp , every fibre and every drop should be consumed. Inhaled, if possible 

That is how you will graduate out of the mango eating academy whose Dean was the beggar with shut eyes , devouring a single mango beneath the flyover in Howrah. 

To be busy , noisily.

 Right now, everyone is busy in this house. 

My parents are with me here, so they are busy. 

I am busy.My father is busy and my mom is busy too. My spouse who is normally busy in his government office, has come home and is busy . 

My father has bengali news channel blasting an animated discussion about a recent change of guard . But he is not listening. All the yelling and counter screaming is being broadcast. It dissipates in earnest to the general air of a placid bedroom. Rendering it volatile. Communal. Political. Vendetta roils in the air , coiling into corners like venomous snakes. He is busy folding his cotton towel. Smoothing out the creases . While Bengal burns . Not unlike the Roman emperor Niro . 

May I add, he is also hard of hearing. 

My mother is the eternal Bollywood fan . Her days begin with mournful love songs of Lata and others . "Mohe bhool gaye sanwariya "( my beloved has forgotten/ forsaken me ) the wails start pretty early. While a pretty dusk breaks over the green fields of Punjab, she mourns her Alzheimer ridden spouse. 

Quite aptly, my father has indeed begun forgetting. Years , events , details are blurring into each other. But he hasn't forgotten her. Not yet. 

Right now, Mohammed Rafi croons a lively shammi kapoor jiggly dance number. 

Sitting outside in the balcony, watching peacocks scuttling on the road , and hornbills sagely ensconced in high tree branches, her phone proclaims to the world " chahe mujhe koi junglee kahe" ( may the world call me a boor ) 

However, she remains chair bound , walking around with the aid of a walker . Slowly, dragging feet after feet , like a shadow, gradually melting away , feet first . 

My hubby after a long week, is lying prone on the cool tiled floor, slapping his chest.  Emitting a wheeze periodically. He is watching a slapstick comedy on his phone. Laughing. His laughter gets stuck somewhere around his diaphragm. It has to be brought out. Forcefully. Like a comical Hiemlich's manoeuvre.

 I am chasing a fly .A fly that won't die . After raucously replacing utensils on the shelves , after making countless teas  , as per varying tastes . 

Even tea making is an exercise in memory. One black tea , one green tea, one milk tea with mild sugar, one very milky tea with lots of sugar and one cup of lukewarm water. 

Even the accompanying snacks vary. The mild sugar tea has to be paired with one jam toast, the very sugary tea with two, lukewarm water with two sugar encrusted nice biscuits, green tea with salted ,oil free peanuts and the black tea is to be paired with whichever snack is most abundant.

The fly lands on my brand new cup. I wait for it to move. A dead fly and a broken cup do not go together. It lands on my nose .

I can't slap myself. Even if I want to. So I wait. 

As I continue to swat the black marble slab of the kitchen counter, I try to listen.

To my hubby's comic cacophony, to my father's impassioned speeches emanating from his phone, to Mohammed Rafi talking about unrequited love, and I can't hear anything.

An oriental magpie cheeps on a dead neem tree outside.

I walk , trance like, and watch the magpie. Fly swatter in hand .

Outside a house full of medley of noises .

All familiar. All strange. All inaudible. 

All at once. 

An auto ride to remember

 A thick mane of hair faces us . The locks curl up to the base of the neck in a fetching, well oiled , well combed fashion . It is also caressed lovingly by the right hand, which has three glittering gold rings adorning three fingers . The forefinger, the thumb and one other finger . It is difficult to keep track of the finger as we are careening down a road full of the usual humanity and their detritus, which one encounters in every Indian road .

There are numerous obstacles, women in chador, shuffling across, urchins darting in between adults legs , playing a dangerous game of either chase or hide and seek. 

Blind beggars straying into the main street , with arms outstretched, a doleful dirge on their lips. A shriek later , wide eyed and panting , they curse profusely , but we are out of earshot by then . 

A man in impeccable suit and tie . talking on phone , athletically dodges , and raises his fist aggressively , as seen in the rear view mirror . The driver chuckles . We can see his shoulders shake .

We cross giant cut outs of his inspiration , a moustachioed  , well built , south Indian movie star . A cigarette hangs limply from his fleshy lips . smoke rising in thin wisps , he is wearing an auto driver's khakis , sleeves rolled to display shining , bulging biceps , on which is balanced a tiny auto , daintily landed and almost missed like a yellow and black hornet . 

The driver bows , acknowledging the greatness of the wasp bitten , biceps wielder . 

In our country  , movie fandom is crazy . We take hero worship to a whole new levels . The movie stars  are venerated like Gods and have temples made after them . 

I wonder what happens to these temples once some scandal ( with unerring regularity, very paradoxically ) breaks out , concerning these "Gods" .

At bends , we cling to the rods provided above our seats , for this exact purpose . To prevent Passengers from being jettisoned out into the gravel and the dust . A lighter human would have been swept off his or her feet . Thank God for body weight .

At bends the three wheeler becomes a two wheeler , and we are dosed with the exact amount of adrenaline that formula one drivers possess when they " drift " . A drift is not to be messed with , as pariah dogs languishing in shallow pools discover much to their chagrin . Quick reflexes save them and we are followed by raucous barks . More shoulder shakes , more mirth . 

Our plaints of " bhaiya  dheere chalo / abhi bahut time hai " is met with stoic silence / stone walling / linguistic incomprehensibility . In other words , entreaties fall on deaf ears . 

Fervent prayers for our destination ( Railway station ) to materialise out of thin air , like the famous room of requirement in harry potter is answered and a cream and gold dome is seen rising in the distance . Several rapid swivels around bulls permanently seated like a living statues in the centre of the road ( now the driver curses , and smoothens his hair again ) , a hasty greeting shouted to a fellow auto wallah , a fellow monarch of the "kingdom of roads " , a heave of the bucking auto later , we have , incredulously stopped . 

We walk on jelly legs as we have been floating around the city , on a carpet of wishes , driven by a crazed khaki wearing genie , and  the terra firma feels mildly strange. 

Complaints

 So , it is a cold , wintry , windy day and you have been apprised of a perfectionist better half about a flush not working , an inlet pipe leaking and that a "complaint " has been launched and that people from the notoriously inefficient plumbing services are due to arrive midmorning .

Now , I have learnt a great deal about the anatomy and functioning of flushes , commodes , and facilities ever since we moved into this house . 

Something or the other always seems to malfunction . It is tragic ( for the residents and repairers ) , hilarious ( for a third party viewing from the outside ) , and irritating (for all) . 

Two weeks ago , we noticed a continuous stream of water falling from the WC into the commode . So , the plumber was called and the leak stopped . The leak stopped to the extent that the WC stopped filling up adequately . 

A complaint was raised again . Two over enthusiastic and ill informed individuals ( not plumbers ) got to work . They disconnected every possible pipe and reconnected it back again . Now the inlet pipe was leaking and the ball valve was found irrevocably twisted ( See what over enthusiasm does to lives and ball valves ) 

Another complaint has been raised . Ball valve and inlet pipe changed . 

Now the WC is not leaking from the inlet pipe , but into the commode , while refusing to fill up fully . 

Hence back to square one . 

In the meanwhile , we had several other complaints . Seepage on several walls , including the upstairs neighbours , water trickling down from the sides of pipes , seeping into walls , creating fungal patches everywhere . 

The largest patches are in the bedroom , where the severity of winter causes a very real fear of sinus inflammation and fever and malaise . 

In fact , people have been falling sick with alarming regularity . 

So much for a brand new house . 

Girls' college

 Girls' colleges in India suffer from a variety of malaise . 

To keep the girls "safe" , you have to keep them in covers . The quintessential quandary of burqa. How does a woman live and breathe in a world full of lecherous glances / thoughts/ people / vermin ? 

Malaise number one: in order to keep "vultures" from circling, they are located very far from the main road . So Google maps will take you off the National Highway, onto a single road , amid trees and foliage , nestled deep in the pind ( rural area ) , thereby making it all but inaccessible. Not just for the " vultures" but also for the girl students . 

Number two: the faculty should comprise of mainly women for obvious reasons . Plus the grade four and house keeping staff too . 

Isulate , if you can't insulate, at least pretend to. And cushion. Appoint old men as bus drivers , khalasis , chaprasis , gardeners . Of course, the principal should be a lady. 

I am in  one such college. A certain exam is being held here . 

That is all it is used for right now.

Examinations .

It no longer imparts any education to anyone . 

The college died during COVID when it was shut down. Some deaths in the senior faculty, drying up of funds and the college went belly up.