Growing old

All that you cribbed about, appears nice and rosy.
Every crappy note scribbled , seems pretty prosy
Every struggling rhyme ,sublime poetry
Every common person is a veritable gentry

Your textbooks, school, your songs of old
you are still , completely out and out,  sold
What are you? Some peddler of fool's gold?
Methinks you ought to stop , you should

Every age has its day
You have had your way
Now let the lads today
Have their own say.

Look around your ankles

(Written when needled by my daughter's accusation that 'mama, you don't even have an opinion of your own!!)

As you stepped
So did I
I was not
ever
in doubt
about
following you
not only
blindly
but
dumbly.
Neither did I
see
where I
went
nor did I say
anything
I had silenced
my
senses
and taught
myself
to dream
your
dreams
think
your
thoughts
loyal
in all
ways
possible
you couldn't
even
see me
as you
stood
straight
and tall
for
I
resided
somewhere
around
your ankles
sitting
like a
patient
dog
waiting
for
scraps
of
attention

The bus ride from Gurudwara

"Just because there is a free bus ride doesn't mean we have to avail it."
My daughter won't let go , of the thread of argument which began outside the "langar-hall" , the communal dining hall.
All packed and dressed for  travel, we still had to cover our heads with cloth, as technically, we were still in the gurdwara precincts.
No one replied her as we busied ourselves, hauling up the strollers and duffel bags onto luggage racks.
A large man in dirty white kurta-pyjama poked his large black bearded head in, with a worried look on his face, and almost shouted-"Is this the bus to the station?"
Not trusting my fluency in punjabi, I just nodded my head in assurance.
He gave me a look of disapproval as he took in the jeans-t-shirt-on - a -middle-aged-woman-in -the gurdwara look and disappeared.
Soon we heard him announcing loudly, "this bus is to leave for the station."
Minutes later, an entire group of salwar-kameez clad women crowded at the entrance.
A lady in pale green took charge. Scores of bulging suitcases, bags, and duffel bags were loaded onto the bus. None made their way to their rightful place on the luggage racks. All were stacked up on the seats, piled up on the passage way, higgledy-piggledy.
I could sense a storm of protest brewing up in my husband's throat.
Impulsively, he grabbed the nearest duffel bag; stuffed to the point of bursting; and shoved it unceremoniously up , onto the empty luggage rack overhead.
'Na,na paaji.'
Came a mild protest from the green salwar-kameez.
Then the ladies boarded.
Reeking of ghee and sugar, wearing unwashed clothes, the group of arthritic pilgrims,all in their mid-forties, stood awkwardly, some sitting on seats with legs splayed atop bulging bags.Some sat on the sea of bags itself , on the aisle, too tired to lope their way to the seats.
The bus driver, another bearded and saffron turbaned Sikh,  hauled himself in,took a look behind him, and started the engine.
"Ruko, ruko,!!!""Preeto nahin aayye halle"
A cry of alarm arose from multitude of female throats, almost simultaneously. Wait!!Wait for Preeto!!
Disgust, disapproval and impatience writ large on his face, the driver turned back, still revving the engine,threatening to take off any moment, Preeto or not!
"Kithe gayi Preeto?"(Where is she ?)
Someone gave words to a pertinent query.
"She was buying sweetmeats!"(Gurpare kharid rahi sigi)
Someone ventured to reply.
A vision in yellow and orange fluttered at the footboard.A pretty, nubile girl made her way in, a small brown paper package clutched to her chest, silencing all and sundry.Preeto had arrived.
She was immediately followed by a couple of young men with backpacks ;who steadfastly refused to take their eyes off her throughout the journey.
Preeto was gently chided by a few elderly ladies.
The driver adjusted his rearview mirror, focussing on Preeto's face , and roared off, full throttle;scattering stragglers, beggars, and rickshaws .
As we exited the massive gates of the Gurudwara, the driver bellowed in joy-"Jo Bole So Nihal!!"
The motley group in the bus was joined by pedestrians in answering-
"Sat Sri Akal"
(Blessed is he ; who takes the name of Lord)
My eldest daughter hid her face in her hands; embarrassed beyond words ,by this sudden show of religious fervour.

I come from

I come from seeing the blue sky darken with the portend of fulsome monsoon.
I come from smelling lush ears of long grain basmati ripening in the golden green fields.
I come from hearing a fresh cob of corn being roasted over an open fire, crackling, sizzling popping and hissing.
I come from tasting spicy pakoras with sweet tea on a wet rainy day.
I come from feeling the calloused palms of my grandmother as she soothed my fevered brow with balms and whispered prayers.
I come from a land that gave the concept of compassion, brotherhood, tolerance and nonviolence to the world

The secretary

She breezed into the room on a waft of an expensive perfume. All eyes turned towards her.
Clad in a knee length skirt and a chintzy, flimsy , sheer top with various georgette flaps that waved this way and that with her each movement; like the gossamer fins of a showy coral fish; she grabbed all eyeballs. Then her rose coloured lips,dripping with gloss, parted into a perfect, toothy smile. The entire hall sighed audibly.
Hugging a clipboard to her ample bosom, she clicked-clacked on her stilettos to our bench and announced-“Mr. Shaw?”
“Yes?”
The man sitting next to me answered. All looked in his direction.
“Humph!! Overdressed secretary!!” my sister audibly hissed in my ears.
I was not sure that she wasn’t overheard, for I saw the lady’s back stiffen.

The last time

It was a typical busy street , on a weekday morning.
The narrow strip of asphalt was choked with honking autos, carts laden with gunny bags, pedestrians, commuters rushing to catch buses, school children, scrubbed and dressed, ready to
board their school buses, hawkers calling out their wares.
Streetside chai-shops doing brisk business, as plumes of sickly sweet vapour arose from boiling pots atop kerosene stoves.
Then I saw him.
Stout, slightly unkempt , in his crushed white shirt, large baggy trousers,almost balding, a dark stubble on his chin,unpolished shoes, walking rapidly away from it all.
His eyes fixed ahead, almost robotic in his step.
He had said he was going for a walk.
He never came back home.
Deep down in my heart, even at that moment, I knew.
I was seeing him for the last time.

Double -trouble;Boil and bubble

"Where is your case-book?"
"It is on Ma'am X's table".The reply was muttered ever so timidly.Almost inaudible.
"Sorry!!."She cupped her right ear with her manicured hand, almost yelling. "God! I really wish I could slap her now." The girl thought and smiled  at her own private joke.
Wrong move.
"What are you smirking at?" Red painted lips glistened and quivered with an oncoming storm of rage.
"You!! girl!!female!!(she spat the words here), have the temerity not to submit your case-book in time , and smile at my face!!"
Alarmed the girl took two steps back, eyes wide with fear.
She was positively roaring now, breathless with rage, leaning across the desk,pointing one long quivering,red painted fingernail towards her face.


Every fourth year student had to face this quagmire.There were two teachers for the same subject,and both were equally demanding, hard task-masters. This produced lot of awkward situations like the one mentioned above,but had a pleasant fall-out. Our batch produced the greatest  number of distinctions in that particular subject, put as we were through twin grinds of endless tests and vivas, presentations and questionnaires, over and over again,by the two of them.

Matters were complicated by the fact that both couldn't see eye to eye. Both thought that she was superior to the other in her knowledge of the subject, both considered the other a first-class pretender and nincompoop.


No one asked our opinion. Privately, we all agreed; both were insufferable, blood- drinking vampires.

There were but several differences between them. One was a social butterfly, the other happily married (given her treatment of the girls, there were serious doubts as to the happy part).


The differences were glaring during parties. One loved to bat her mascara-ed eyelashes and pout luscious lips painted dangerously red: another, without much make-up or ado , stuck to her spouses' side, way taller than him, in her stilettos ,warily sipping her drink, keeping a lookout for batters -of -lashes and pouters-of-lips.

One was trying very hard to have a baby, the other trying very hard to get hitched.Their famous single mindedness coming to their aid, one ended up adopting a beautiful baby girl (after years of agonising fertility treatments), the other almost got hitched to a businessman(widower with two cute boys),who literally followed her around like a pup(who wouldn't);unceremoniously dumping him when the father raised the religion issue(devout christians versus brahmins).

Later,we would come to know that this wasn't the first troubled affair in her life.She was at the pinnacle of her career,she chose what she knew best. and that was how to 'sort out"erring students.

With alacrity,and no trace of heartache or remorse: she went back to her work and her rise there was phenomenal.

The other teacher went onto greener pastures abroad,where her husband continued to accompany her to stuffy parties, He became rotund,jovial and sported a beer belly. the wife turned thinner, sterner and continued to sip her wine with a hawkish air.

The daughter meanwhile blossomed into a pretty young thing herself. But that is another story altogether.