What is that white powder

 The burden of forgetfulness, which we often blame on genes, are , in all genuineness, an indicator of age . 

In good humour, it is just TMI . Overloading your brain with too much information. Like cramming your shopping cart with numerous useless items, and forgetting a really important stuff . 

The other day , I was unpacking my card board packages ,packed  a few months ago. Having lived a transferrable life , packing and unpacking seem as normal as having your early morning tea in the balcony . 

We are forever traveling, on the move, on the go . Though it may seem a headache to most people, and to even us , it becomes fun after some time. You stop crying buckets over broken crystal ware , fragile items or missing things . 

Going back to that day , I came across a medium sized , transparent plastic box containing a white powder . For the life of me , I couldn't remember what it was.

It could be spare from a packet of salt I bought to keep in its designated container.

It could be white watercolor paint which had dried up in its tube and I like a good Asian/ Indian, decided to rip the tube , scrape the paint and store it elsewhere.

It could be the white rangoli powder borrowed from my generous neighbour, on a haphazard diwali evening.

It could be bleaching powder which my maid had been requesting to be sprinkled over the open drain that led away from the kitchen and attracted arthropods of five different species .

It could be white cement that was leftover after filling millions of nail holes that the previous occupant of this house had hammered on the walls , crucifying his / her artwork on the walls . 

It could be white chalk powder.

It could be maida . Leftover after baking my last chocolate cake in a pressure cooker, whose bottom half got burnt and stuck . Thereafter eliciting promises of " never again" . 

It could be rice powder. Left from the time I befriended a Tamilian and she pointed out the inarguable importance of this vital ingredient in one's kitchen. I said " achcha?"to myself and thoughtlessly blinkit- ed a packet , only to realise the futility of the purchase. Lending it once to a Bengali relative to make alponas .

It could be atta . From the last packet of Aashirvaad. Its position having been forgetfully usurped by a new 5 kg  packet of Pillsbury. 

It could be dry dosa batter . Instant. Ready to use. As advertised on WhatsApp. Replicated in a moment of inspiration and almost instantly forgotten. Because someone bought a packet of MTR mix for me.

It could be glucose powder. Enriched with vitamin d. Taken from a cracking vessel and stored here.

It could be baking soda, baking powder . From the time I gave up baking. Turning up like bad coin , to remind me that my kids are going to be home shortly, and that I need to start baking. Again. 

Finally it was time to subject it to tests. Sniff test . No result. Finally taste test . 

The white powder clung to a few of my granulated tissue on the tongue and set it in fire . I spat it out instantly and rinsed my mouth, several times . 

Limestone powder!! Or chuna.

For the life of me I cannot remember when or why I bought it, or it was a simple case of " chuna lagana" ( cheating )

On buying eggs . During Navaratri .

It is eleven in the morning, sun is beating down, bright and hot. 

The vicinity of the milk shop always stinks of sour curd, despite all supplies arriving in sterile, leak proof , brightly coloured plastic pouches . 

When I ask for a tray of eggs , she winces, as if I had asked a wrong item. I notice that the heap has dwindled from when last seen. Then I realise that fresh supplies have been 

 stopped for Navaratri. 

I wonder if they are ok to eat. But I know the answer already if I voice my doubts, so I accept my eggs quietly.

Next on my list was a picture of the Goddess for my quasi devout Mom. She just wanted a picture to look at while she recites her prayers ( very audibly) every morning after bathing. My mother is 81 plus and is mostly stationary. She cannot indulge in the calisthenics involved in offering incense and flowers .

Hence liberating herself from the performance of rituals involved.

Lo behold. Right opposite the milk shop was a tiny shop which had put out a bench onto the street, arrayed with the pictures of the Goddess.  It is a framing shop , as I can tell . The framed white horses , splashing in pristine surf , jostle for space with the various Gods and Goddesses of the Hindu Pantheon . There are large Radha and Krishna paintings /prints , framed in gilt , and tinier Durga , astride the lion , wielding all weapons in a kind of halo . I have been asked to get one picture of the Goddess by my ageing mother. 

Not one to refuse demands from the elderly , I find myself trying to adjust the egg tray , on one corner of the bench , which is completely God free . A hysterical cry springs from the dark , hitherto , unmanned bellies of the shop . 

"Usko wahan mat rakhiye . " ( Don't keep it there ) , too scandalised to even name the eggs . I quickly pick up my offending item . This time I decide to hold it aloft , away from the human touch , like a shrine . 

An indignant face appears , smeared on the forehead with the tell tale red tikka , of the devout . 

One look at my trousered legs , and shorn locks , and he has already concluded my religious affiliation . Possibly christian , he is thinking . 

"Aap Hindu nahin hain ?" ( Aren't you a Hindu ?" 

"Bilkul hain ." I answer quickly . Why else would I be buying pictures of the Goddess , in the festive season ? 

"Isko yahan par mat rakhiye , I have to supply the gift wrapping papers to the temple . " He offered as a means of explanantion .

"I have to buy eggs for elderly at home . " I too , offered as an explanation . The same elderly , who has sent me on this ironical errand . I wanted to add , but refrained .

"Oho ? I see . Anyway , these ( pointing to the eggs ) are not fertilised anyways , so it is veg only . " He laughed , I could see two rows of paan stained teeth .

I laughed back in relief . 

Carrying the bag containing the goddess in my right hand and eggs held aloft in my left hand , I have actually run out of holding spaces .

Next stop , a bindi shop . For the very same elderly . By now , people have started avoiding coming closer to me . Women deflect the upper half of their body , so as to not be defiled in the presence of such an obnoxious item in my hand . 

I create a minor commotion in the bindi shop , which is narrow and crowded . Everyone skirts around my egg tray , and I have been asked not to enter the shop . 

After fifteen minutes of pointing at "Yeh wala " , "Nahin woh wala "  (this one , no , that one ) ,

I give up . 

The sales girl is new and she can't find any thing . Besides , the pooja rush ensures a thick stream of ladies asking for cosmetics , combs and other items , not only for the Goddess ka shringar , but for themselves as well . It is hopeless .

People are giving me disgusted and frankly angry looks . "Look at his woman , can't survive without eating eggs for even ten days , shame on her . " I can hear them think . 

On my way back , I enter a grocery shop . To buy flour , again , for the very same elderly . People look at me askance , wondering "What is wrong with her ?" 

There is an empty stool by the door . I ask the shopkeeper if it is ok to keep the eggs there . The shopkeeper , a fat Pickwickian personality breaks into guffaws . He nods , then offers me frozen chicken from his freezer .

"No , I just want a kilo of atta . " 

"Rice ?" 

"No." 

"Dry fruits ?" 

"No. Doctor has forbidden us from having dry fruits . " I try to joke .

"I eat medicines , and continue to eat dry fruits . A car needs petrol . We need fuel . " 

He is either a non believer , or a very good salesman . But I am thankful for him to have accepted my eggy presence . The atta arrives , I pay , and leave . 

Now , I have to walk with atta sitting on top of the egg tray in my left , and Goddess in my right . I have arms splayed , almost like the Goddess herself . Perhaps , in a twisted sense , I am carrying weapons . 

I make a beeline to the car . still holding my offensive cargo aloft , and people scatter .

I might as well be carrying grenades . 

 

A bump and a car(ess)

 So , an absent spouse , a posting in the remotest island , and a car that is greying around the temples , falls under my care . I had serious doubts about my own abilities , not to mention the colour of my own hair , which , just like the car , is greying around the temples . 

The car and I went along pretty well for a few weeks after the departure of the husband to far off isles . Sharing jetty walkway  with seagulls  , he posts breathtaking pictures upon pics , of pink , mauve and orange -yellow sunsets  and ships both moored  in  the harbour and adrift at the sea  . Red crabs and tetrapods . Coconut trees and dense forests . 

Back here on mainland  , car and I carried on well for some time , before the car realised that it was being driven up the precipitous slopes of flyovers of  state roads and National Highways by an imposter . A usurper , who looked and smelt different from its earlier , more  caring  and pampering owner . 

The car broke out in a series of psychosomatic disorders . 

One fine summer morning , it refused to start . As I cranked the key again and again ,  a friendly , familiar face poked in on the window . He took the steering wheel , sliding his slight frame into the cavernous dent in the seat ( left "behind " by my better half and me ) and "jump started " the car . Meaning , whipped the reluctant car into starting . 

Taking care not to switch off the ignition , anywhere on the way , I reached my destination . I switched off the ignition , out of sheer habit . The car , on the way back , stubbornly , refused to budge . Again , an enterprising gent got the car to start , forcibly . The car reached back home , as the battery shop was closed . 

A friendly neighbour sent his driver and car for the purchase of the new battery . Thereafter , I triumphantly drove the car to be" inspected " by the battery wala .  The owner , helpfully , advised me to get the water levels of the battery checked after three months . 

The new battery was bought in the month of May , I reported in September duly, for the checking up . All ok . 

My both visits to this battery seller , resulted in my sitting in the air conditioned office with a polite "Madam ,please sit inside " . I was plied with cold water and engaging small talk by the owner in chaste english . I was highly impressed with the service . 

Shortly after this visit to the battery guy , the car stalled again . This time it couldn't be jump started too . 

The car was stuck . Company service guys arrived in their van and opened the bonnet with complete confidence and fanfare . 

The copper shaft connecting one of the battery terminals  to the rest of the engine , had come undone . That was the undoing . So much for the religious trips to the battery wala . The clamp that held the battery in place was found hanging in the forest vines of cables entangled beneath . 

It was a case of criminal negligence .  So much for the hospitality  , and "good service ." I made a mental note never to sit in any office , while my car was being tinkered with / attended to . The final glass ceiling of fake chivalry needed to break . 

A certain sized nut ( which was required to tighten the clamp ) was unavailable even in the impressively stocked company van . 

Solution ? Drive all the way to the company workshop , some 6 kms away , get the nut fixed , and pay the rescuer , 100 times the money that the nut cost . Not to mention the fuel guzzled in the process. 

 There is a row of nine  cars parked in front of our block  . Mine is the fourth. A sleepy guy opens up a hose of water and starts sprinkling the cars with water at precisely 0630 AM . Then he starts wiping the cars down with a rag . He begins from one end , and by the time I arrive at 0645 AM , he has done only the first two cars in the row . Others , dripping , await their turn . Nine times out of ten , I drive out with water streaming down my windshield , wipers on full blast , and spray slapping my right cheek , as if I have just escaped  a hurricane . 

Repeated reminders , gentle and rough , to do my car first , have fallen over deaf ears . So , now I keep a spray bottle and a rag of my own , to wipe down the remnants of the "hurricane " water spots and dust . 

And finally , today morning , I had a flat tyre , front right . Luckily , I remembered a petrol station , where I was told by the air boy that I had  punctures . Four of them . Two large and two small . 

Counting quickly on his finger tips , he said that would cost me 200 bucks . I nodded but reminded him that I will pay via UPI . I wasn't carrying any cash . The boy appeared crestfallen . However , he did his job quickly and efficiently plugging the apertures with strips of rubber and a pink glue . Hardly eighteen year old , the boy had a younger assistant of his own , who pumped in air into the tyres , cranked the jack , fetched supplies etc . 

Despite the car's repeated attempts to fall ill , the providence always put it back onto its tyres , with a pat on its back . 

In the defence of the car , a stately , white Wagon R , the apple of  one of my hubby's eye , ( the apple of the other eye belongs to his daughters ) , the real culprit is the pot holed road which I drive on daily . 

It is the potholes that jarred the battery and loosened its connections . It is the sharp edge of jagged gravel that pierced the tyre. Hence absolved , the car has grown progressively fonder of me . It even purrs , on occasion . 

A revolution

( Bloodstream is loaded  with caffeine adequately 

You have just asked a question , politely 

So I am not going to ignore ,  less likely 

Would you please repeat it ? Blimey 

Memory has nothing to do with stimulation , 

Automobile on a parallel highway , a simulation 

We watch ourselves speeding , a collision 

Possibly sparks , inspiration , an explosion )

Who'd have thought of quiet neighbourhoods 

Harbouring intense destruction under fleece hoods 

Sweep them in , don't speak , on guard they stood 

Don't think , don't write , don't sigh , don't brood 

Contained violence . What does that even mean 

So twisted , so dark , we talk in oxymorons 

Someone paints the sidewalk , blood red crayons

Someone else clings to half truths , crimson curtains 

Do not open your window , else the poison 

In the air , enters and blackens the moon 

the walls soak up prejudice and depravity 

It smells like a war , without the gravity 

All words float in the jet  black air 

Invisible , unreal , here and there 

the screams silenced in a cannon glare 

 they said it wont harm , just water 

See , it has swept us all , plywood ferries 

adrift in the blackening sea of queries 

The sky rains smoke , red hot rocks , ashes 

A volcano has just erupted , Vesuvius 

History fond of repeating itself , has bayonetted 

 Pompei , and you , and you don't even know it yet .

Not a cat person

My neighbour has a new cat . People tell me it is a male , so I have to believe them . Not being quite a cat person myself , I have found myself locked into staring competitions with the feline .

We are both wary of each other . He , of my shriek , and the hand that quickly flings a slipper in his direction . I , of lurking , unwanted feline company , that rummages ( and ruins ) dustbins , tears garbage bags , even if they do not contain edible material ; noiselessly  enters your home (their famous pussy footing ) without you being aware , and scares the bejesus out of you . 

Once , I walked into the kid's room , to find him perched onto their bed . Purring , possibly , with the intent of taking their place , in my home, heart  and hearth . 

Sorry . I told the cat so much . Not in his feline tongue , but in three distinct human speak  . He stared back , defiantly , with his hypnotising green slits , then blinked in the sunshine . He blinked twice , I swear . Once for the" f "word , and twice for the "off ". 

If something is cooking in the kitchen , he will leap onto the window ledge , with nary a sound , and stare , demandingly , into the depths of the kitchen . If you look at him , he will meow in anticipation . It is not as if he is pleading for food , he is demanding it , as if it is his birthright . No wonder the ancient Egyptians worshipped cats , and mummified hundreds of them , along with the corpses of the nobility . There was a cat  Goddess too , by the name of Bastet . 

Most of the time , when you meet him, it seems to be , uncannily , reading your mind . 

Claustrophobia  , and  fear of possible death has stopped it from entering the lift .  One wintry morning , the door to the lift opened , the cat ran towards me , took one look at the open metal box , and unthinkingly , leapt into it . The metal doors swiftly shut on him , and he wailed all the way down , all through the four floors of slow , unimaginable agony . He learnt a valuable , and luckily , an indelible lesson that day . (Or else , imagine enclosed in an airless tin box with the cat . I remember a similar torture device in existence , in Europe , during the middle ages .)

He always takes the stairs for his excursion , thereafter . Lurking at various corners , like a bundled up blanket , which unfolds itself , gives you a long languid stare ( mera kya bigaad loge tum ) and then yawns in a true cat fashion . Slow , and unbothered , revealing , in the same innocuous breath , all his sharp teeth , and the possible damage that can be inflicted by the same . This is tantamount to a road side mobster  casually showing you his gun , holstered and safe , but menacing all the same . 

If you happen to excite the cat , producing some unfortunate shooing sounds , it will stretch its limber body and scratch the door mat furiously with its claws . Occasionally , stopping to see , if you are still lingering around or have taken flight . This is equivalent to the mobster unholstering his gun , and brandishing it in the air  . 

Now , if it  leaps at you , with all her weaponry , in full functional mode , the mobster has fired . If it misses and lands behind you , it was a gunshot in the air , a dire warning . One would be dumb not to take the hint . 

My maid chucks water at him. Apparently felines abhor water . He makes a run. As if  a river of scalding lava has been directed against him . When it rains , the cat is miserable . As he is not allowed inside his master's house too . They believe in "once a stray , forever a stray " adage . He takes refuge in the driest part of the parking lot , safe under a large SUV , confident in his belief that water won't find him there . In the rare case that the rain floods the parking lot , he climbs up a window ledge , and licks his paws clean , nonchalantly.

In fact , I can now safely blame the lack of rains in this part of the country to this particular cat .He must have really prayed for a dry season . 

Sorcerers . No wonder the Egyptians worshipped them . 

My religious relatives warn me , don't throw slippers at the cat . Or what ? Or , if he dies ( by lucky perchance ) , you will have to offer a cat made of gold at a  Hindu temple , and feed a hundred brahmins . What ? Why ? I know lot of hit and run cases , in which humans have done little , even after having killed other humans . 

They say a lot of one's life and existence depends on how one markets oneself . The cat walks , tail in the air , with the complete haughtiness of a general inspecting his troops .  There is no trace of any fear or subservience in those eyes , that stare into the depths of your murky soul . I know your deepest fears , you coward !! say those green and gold eyes . 

Even my plants are not safe . There is a bushy , pretty ,palm , whose soil happened to be bit sandy . The cat used to pretend that it was its litter , put there for her . Abandoning her master's pretty and roomy  plastic bin , it had resorted to clambering up the uncomfortable confines atop a terracotta pot , underneath substantial foliage to relieve herself. This unfortunate accident , became a daily event , till my maid discovered that wet soil deters the clean freak cat . OCD stricken , it won't do anything, knowingly , to muddy its paws . 

Secondly , my neighbour's potted plants have been elevated one foot above the ground , in an attempt to keep it out of reach of inquisitive / mischievous paws . I had no such qualms , hence my lush caladium and Chinese evergreen leaves are discovered shredded every morning . An old Hindi saying goes "khammat billaya khambha noche " , meaning , a disgruntled cat is likely to vent its frustrations on a wooden pole . On another occasion , my newly transplanted ten o'clock was found sprawled and withered on the ground , uprooted from its new home, and the soft ( unwatered ) mud , sprinkled in decorative spirals around the pot , which was itself lying on its side . 

My neighbour , I forgot to add , also has bulky , ceramic pots , incapable of being overturned by cats , who have nothing better to do . 

Here , my maid pointed out that , the cat in question , being a male , might have been blinded into a fit of inexplicable, plant -directed , rage , because of an excess of testosterone . 

I have begin deluging my plants , and have bought , bigger , non -pushover pots . Now I just need to elevate them . I also intend to barricade my balcony .

My neighbour is deeply offended by my plans to wall-in  my plants and balcony , from the unwanted  feline intrusion . 

"You are not a cat person , I believe . " She says curtly. 

"No , I am not , ma'am ." 

Meditation class

 The day started off with a mild drizzle. That cooled down the air and set the ambience, so to speak. 

Today's meditation goals were achieved via a series of breathing exercises and relaxation techniques. Once the breath had slowed down and become regular, the entire demeanor of the body and mind followed. 

After the overall calming, came the relaxation technique, in which each part of the body is named and focussed upon. That brings the mind to present, leaving no room for the constant chaos of thoughts that clamour inside the skull, non stop.

For once, you are here and in your own body. For once, you have allowed waves of tranquility to wash upon yourself. For once, you can hear the universe around you, and the peace in the morning, rain drenched breeze. 

Back home

 So, i am back at my home after a long-ish hiatus . A month and a half , to be precise . There are lots of changes that have occurred in my absence . And a lot hasn't . 

The house still holds ground , thankfully . But looks old . Inside as well as outside . The plaster is peeling at places , and there is an inexplicable sewage like odour emanating from one of the rooms . The house is , as if , like an old retainer , tired of waiting for the inmates to return . You can almost hear it breathe a a sigh of relief , as a whoosh of fresh air enters the house through one end and exits , from some where near your right ear . Hah . Don't worry old chap , we are back . 

Parents stare down at you sternly , still , from their assigned places on your walls . You really are home . 

Some of your plants have grown , some withered , and some have finally given up the charade of living and are just waiting to be chucked into the dustbin . 

So much like life itself . 

The trees on the outer periphery have burgeoned into giants , and you can no longer see over their tops .

 One of the  dried up plants , has been quickly colonised by an unknown bird , whose tiny , spotted , oval eggs , three of them , rest comfortably in the nest made out of , the dead plant , still rooted in the dried up soil . One life lost and other gained . Or not . The pigeon mother , having made the mistake of laying eggs in my  pot , made a couple of rounds , found us humans milling around in a place , which until recently , was entirely her own space. Finally , decided that her kids could not be saved , and abandoned them to their doom . 

The gas cylinder still hisses faintly , with dark portends , as it is unlocked . Thankfully , there is no odour , and that hissing is dismissed , like many other noises for a figment of my overripe imagination . 

Talking of overripe , an orange , tired of sitting out on the dining table , turned green with rage first , and then the blackness of disappointment took over . That a  hard rotting ball of black fur , could have been a luscious orange at one point of time , is unbelievable . There are residual verdigris , on the brass fruit bowl , very much green . Stubborn at that , it required lot of elbow grease , and cussing power from the maid , to actually scrub out of existence . 

The bedsheets have a resentful layer of fine dust on them . Loyally preserving the creases we left on them in haste . The dripping wet  clothes , thrown upon the stand in haste , have dried like so much unfulfilled promises , to a crisp . 

The furniture is still welcoming and so is the garbage man . He has , however , lost his front two teeth , which make him look very old ,  all of a sudden . 

Then I crossed a very tired and wrinkled visage in the passageway , I stopped , and turned and saw myself in the mirror, staring back at me , almost crossly , unsmiling . 

Art of living

To begin from the beginning , my first encounter with yoga, yogic asanas and meditation was at the behest of a friend at Gorakhpur . 

We , being in the services, were posted to that part of the country , then . This was probably , 2010 or 2011 . 

My friend was "into" Art of Living and she insisted that I try doing the  "Happiness Course " . She had a car , complete with a driver, at her disposal . So , I , tagged along . It was autumn , a few random showers , interspersed with days of stifling humid heat . However, the classes were held , in the cooler evenings , in a large hall , in the backyard of an IPS officer's bungalow . It was dimly lit and sheltered with leafy trees.

We were taught various yogic postures , breathing exercises and certain mind  cleansing  practices. 

All these years later, I still remember the stark effect of "disha pranayam " , which exhorts you to forgive people and instances . Incidents and memories which one has carried inside one's own self , which unresolved , leads to several mental unrests and undesirable physical manifestations . I remember copiously , and ( in my opinion) needlessly crying while doing this . I wonder if it made me a better person , but it certainly lightened the burden on my shoulders . For this , I am eternally grateful to AOL . 

Another , remarkable Yogic practice was Sudarshan kriya . A breathing exercise that is known to have amazing health benefits , including lowering of blood pressure, regulation of breath rate and  slowing down of  heart beat . It has been scientifically proven to have precipitated these positive effects on regular practitioners . 

There are lot of flip side reports in the media about art of living . I guess it is like everything else in life . It depends on what is your take away lesson . 

My personal take away lesson  from the happiness course was to control one's own breath . That is a tiny  action with profound impact on one's life. It takes the edge off anger and other negative emotions . It nullifies stress and promotes harmony .

In the end, I am grateful for the happiness course for having opened my eyes to several basic truths about forgiveness, letting go of one's own ego, and  cultivation of compassion for fellow beings. 

Personally I would recommend happiness course(s) , to growing up kids as well as grown up adults. 

 

The Soul Yoga

 The Soul Yoga is the unassuming name given to a quiet health revolution , taking place in a tiny corner of Jalandhar , Punjab. 

We , i.e., me , my husband and my two daughters have all benefited from The Soul Yoga at different points of time in our lives . Throughout the years 2018 to 2021 , we grappled with unprecedented stress in our lives . The kids  were dealing with academic pressures . 

We googled Yoga and got lucky . A class was being held at 58 , The Mall . The cheerful voice of Suraj Sharma Sir answered the phone , and we were won over . 

Then came the torrid days  of COVID . Both of us , my husband and I were hospitalised . I required supplemental oxygen , and he underwent intensive steroid therapy . We also suffered grievous personal loss of loved ones . Riddled  with sleeplessness  and grief , we again turned to Suraj Sir , and his unique brand of ebullient yoga . 

Though there are various class timings , two sessions in the mornings and one in the evening ; we have traditionally stuck to the early morning sessions . 

I have been attending classes for quite some time now , and the pattern doesn't waver . Neither does it disappoint . 

There are stretches , followed by asanas ,  culminating in cooling down  breathing exercises . Sometimes , some childish game play is incorporated to bring distracted minds , back to the present . Or to break the tedium . 

Suraj Sharma Sir has laid down a profound example . he is never late or absent , come what may . Not only does he do the counting , he also demonstrates what needs to be done , thereby performing alongside us . His infectious enthusiasm attracts a myriad cross section of people . There are businessmen , professionals , health service providers , wives of influential people and students . I personally  know  a certain vigilance officer . They may be from the services or maybe civilians . 

Everyone gets equal attention , and special cases are given special attention . 

However , encouragement and praises are heaped on all . Regardless of one's actual abilities . Potentials are spotted and praised . Particularly amongst the youngsters . 

Finally , on benefits of yoga . 

The most obvious effect is the gradual and inevitable increase in energy levels , aka , stamina .

 You can work for longer , consequently , have greater patience . 

One's   hasty , irregular , jagged breath slows down , and regulates  . It is as if a turbulent flow of air has streamlined , and your inhaled breath marches in a straight line,  into your lungs , and a quiet disciplined breath is exhaled out . No rush , no break in rhythm , just disciplined slow stream of air , regularly flowing in and out of your lungs . No need to emphasise the magic that is wrought to the process of oxygenation . 

Exercise tolerance is built slowly , like everything else in life . It takes time , and persistence . You will find you fingertips touching your toes , in "Surya Namaskara ", the tip of your nose touching your knee in "Pawan Muktasana ", your back bending over , in the "Camel pose " . 

However, Yoga , unlike the popular western belief, is not just contorting one's body into impossible  configurations . It is much more than that .

 It is about finding yourself , back , in the bustle of life . It is about discovering your own breath . 

It is the tiny changes to your health that you , sometimes , even fail to notice . Your nagging sinusitis disappears . You feel calmer . A tiny pulsating headache , which one almost took for granted , loses its edge and slowly disappears . Your joints feel freer . The early morning stiffness of the fingers is no longer there . Consequently , positive changes are noticed in Hypertensive patients (as myself )  . In other words , the health effects , creep up on you , almost unawares . 

It is about doing "Thoda kum zyada "  (Do less or more ) , as Suraj sir says . It may sound like an  oxymoron , but what it really means is to push yourself to do a bit more than what you think you are capable of . It is a wonderful everyday encouragement . Another is to regulate motion with breaths , pairing them , in tandem with your bodily movements . 

A big shout out to The Soul Yoga  for one hour of sweating every morning , to leave one refreshed throughout the day . To be cheerful , to sleep soundly and to feel a bit younger , everyday . 

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 .