Tuesday, 23 March 2021

I want

It was a crisp morning . Last night's howling winds had not entirely died down , so occasionally , small eddies  caught her unawares , and whipped Dolly's long hair around . Some strands got caught in her mouth and came away , saliva streaked . 

Freeing some gooey strands from her cheek's surface , I found the opportunity to continue with my homily " See this is why you should let me tie your hair, and keep your mouth closed ." 

This habit of mine drove her father nuts . "Oh shut up , for heaven's sake ! " He would bellow from the driver's seat . "Let the child be ". 

Dolly was adamant . No combing of hair , and no shutting of mouth . 

It was cold . I shivered . Sun had begun peeking from behind banks of spent clouds . But the wind didn't let up. There was warm toast and eggs in my belly , and I could still taste coffee in my mouth . Dolly too had her share of toast . But she was still hungry . "How can you say such a thing ?" Kami ,her sister , would ask . Her doubts piercing the dusty wool of "motherhood " I always tired to pull over her eyes .I know because I can hear the faint grumbling in her tummy . I know because she hasn't had her fill at the table . I know because I am her mother . " Humph !" I can see her sister marching away .

"You should let her go hungry ." Dolly's father would say . "Only then will she appreciate the value of food." Sage advise . Everyone nodded their collective heads , including my elder one , yolk dripping from his mouth , as he chomped on his fifth egg. Easier said than done . They have not been mothers . A mother fighting against the whole world trying to bracket your child into "retard" and "goner" slots . I felt sudden stinging of tears . Hot and burning . "You should be tough. Only tough mothers can raise kids like yours . You are too weak . Emotional. Gullible." Harsh words spoken long ago , swirled with the cold wind . I let my tears flow . Stood at the roadside and blew my nose . 

Dolly stood too. Grabbing my hand with stubby fingers , she gently jerked my hand . That was her way of telling me "everything is gonna be alright ." I looked down at her . Spittle flew from her open mouth , as she looked up in consternation . The wind blew the spittle into streaks on her cheeks . I dabbed at her cheeks with my tear stained hanky , she gave an open mouthed smile . People walked past , without even noticing us . I suddenly swooped her into my arms and took her into my lap . She loved it and cackled loudly . 

Some people turned back , from their fast lives , cushioned existences , unseeing eyes and unfeeling hearts . Looked at me , and Dolly , gave quizzical, judging looks . But we continued laughing . Me and my baby . Both misfits , imperfects .


We crossed an eatery . It was morning . Hot samosas were being fried in a wok full of iffy oil . Suddenly Dolly stopped . She too had smelt fragrant samosas . 

"I want " She said , pointing towards the glass enclosed rack full of the savoury goodies. 

"You want samosa ?" I spoke unnecessarily.

Dolly nodded , taking my three middle fingers and trying to braid them with both her hands , That was her  way of saying "Please".  She was staring at the halwai and her spittle ran free . The halwai smiled at her , she smiled back . I had no choice . These were the first words she had spoken since morning . It had to be celebrated . 

As I took the greasy paper plate back to her , She had found a worn out concrete step , entrance to someone's house . She was swinging her legs , another sign of joy and anticipation . 

So we sat there , in the dusty shade of someone's home , eating forbidden food . I can hear my sister say " You bought her what ??" Wiping her greasy fingers off on her saliva streaked pink frock , my baby says , hesitantly , "I want . One more."


Monday, 1 February 2021

How not to get "Soleiman-ised"

 Moni Mohsin , the amazing author of that delightful book " The Social Butterfly " describes how the narrator , got fleeced by an AC technician by the name of Soleiman , who just switched on an Air conditioner , claiming to have repaired it , and how the narrator , in her blind ignorance of all things technical , believing that an out of order AC had been fixed , paid him handsomely . 

This story has gone down in the annals of our anecdotal history , not because the narrator was stupid , but because it finds resonance in so many of our own day to day dealings of similar nature , with people , mostly of the male gender , allegedly bestowed with "higher technical know how ." It is generally assumed , not unaided by women who rise to these stereotypes , that we , females , have no knowledge / inkling / desire to learn/ IQ to fathom how machines and other "more technical things" work .


The story begins on a wintry morning . Mildly foggy , sun bursting out , and loads of optimism in the air .  

On my way back home from my kids' school , the car wobbled , listing more to the left ( Remember Prof.Calculus of Tintin ) . 

Quickly jumping to the worst possible diagnosis , I assumed that I have a puncture , and that the tyres being radial , it is not visible in a standing car . Promptly I called up a neighbouring tyre puncture repairman , whom we shall call by his initial K . Now that I had already informed him of puncture , he swung into action and said that he will drop by shortly . 

It is important to note here that a visit for a puncture repair to his modest , hole-in-the-wall shop , and a visit by K to your residence for repairs , were two different propositions . The difference in charges could be almost 400/- rupees. 

That explains the eagerness to come over . 

Now , that I had glimpsed the red flag , I decided to go to the parking lot and take a closer look myself . They tyre didn't look flat . I asked the opinion of my neighbour , a retired colonel , and an avid driver ( and buyer )of cars. He took one look , circumambulated the car , while humming to himself , punched the tyres , closed his eyes and whispered something . Then loudly proclaimed it to be a case of "less air ". And that I should proceed to K's shop post haste . In fact , try hard to beat him . 

Thanking my stars for living next door to car whisperers , I quickly took my ailing vehicle to K's shop . At the shop sat a surly looking son , who informed me that K had gone to fix someone's puncture at home . I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was to my home that his progenitor had headed to . 

After a short wait , K arrived on his motorcycle , looking mildly miffed .

Taking a look at the tyres , he quickly proceeded to drag a jack out . I stopped him and explained my present , changed and enlightened thoughts . His eyes widened . 

He wanted to know "which Colonel ?" had imparted this wisdom to me, the hitherto gullible female . With a look of total dejection about him , he checked and filled air in my tyres and accepted his meagre 20/- bucks with shoulders stooping with resignation .

I had narrowly escaped being Soleiman-ised. 


There are  several other stories which can be chronicled under the head of " near Soleimanisation . Like the time I got a mere 60/- (instead of 460/-)back from the shopkeeper who suddenly became very busy on the phone . He later clarified he thought I gave him a 100/- rupee note  , instead of 500/- rupee note. Not to mention , his regret filled apologies that followed me like flies , outside the shop too . 



Wednesday, 13 January 2021

Come Here

It was a harsh winter . That year it was particularly harsh . It rained almost every other day . Dry firewood was hard to come by . Mai used to stack ours by the door . She had a meticulous method . Large logs at the bottom , Thin twigs at the top , flanked by heavier branches for all – day cooking . Mai used to guard it jealously . To the novice , the heap seemed a hotch potch of firewood . But Mai knew exactly how many were there . 

  1. How else do you explain the inexplicable wars she waged against aberrant neighbours , winning every time , with the culprit restocking her pile , under her supervision . 

    Then there was the perpetually drying clothes . Babies clothes were pilfered or worse , burnt as kindling . Woollen leggings were favoured as they burnt easily , like dry paper or hay . In those scarce times , woollens were hard to come by and Mai had kept a strict lookout for them as she sat rolling chapatis or boiling tea by the wood-fire. 

    Once she saw the neighbour’s son throw in a black coloured woollen scarf , and got up mid -roti. That was not a good sign . She grabbed a stick from her pile , walked quietly to the neighbour’s fire , fished the smouldering scarf out , beat out the wisps of flames against the cold hard floor , looked at the culprit in the eye , and said “Come Here.”


    The poor waif had no choice but to follow . We all followed them with our eyes , rooted to our respective warm spots , with fear and winter. Only didi moved silently , saving the roti on the fire from being charred . Even her eyes were glued to the spectacle . We braced for another war or at least few smart slaps .


    Contrary to all expectations , She pulled out some dry newspapers from beneath our bedding and gave it to him . As the boy meekly made his way to his bonfire , she also handed him over the stick she had used . A thick one .


    When she resumed her roti making job , She was quiet for a moment , and staring at the orange yellow heat , just said " What ? Kids shouldn't be beaten , they need to be taught ." 


    After a while , when rolling out the next one , she dusted the flour off her hands , straightened her scarf and said "He just wanted some kindling."


Sunday, 3 January 2021

Morbid poetry (Part one ) :)

 tick tock tick tock 

relentlessly spoke 

the old clock 

" Not to mock 


Not to block 

your job at hand 

your handiwork 

I just remind 


That it is slipping 

the sand trickling 

the hours ringing 

sun's setting 


Hurry 

scurry 

flurry 

worry 


Your eyes a-blurry 

Your looks a-bleary 

Oh dear dearie 

whom did you bury 


Tonight 

sun light 

tomorrow night 

your turn , right ? 




The tales of square tails and round tails

 ” I think it is time we got rid of them . Finally . This is our chance . ” My friend , V ,was breathless with excitement and rage and a certain indefinable animalistic urge . Maybe it was just violence . But it was infectious , loud and overpowering . Like forest fire . All alarm bells ringing . I felt like running . Away from the fire . Save myself first . Shouldn’t be sucked into this fire . Shouldn’t . 

“What are you talking about ?” I asked . Trying to appear calm . The person on the stage was bellowing some filthy phrases . There was vile wickedness and breathlessness in the air . Like powdered explosive accidentally thrown into the air . Acrid . Full of foreboding . 

“Can’t you see ? ” V was beside himself . He seemed to be a different person now . Not the gentle soul I had always known . Almost as if he had sprouted horns. It was the worst decision . To have agreed to come to this gathering . 

Now I was stuck .

 Suddenly the calming aroma of freshly fried samosas filled the air . Phew !! S walked towards us . His arms full of the savoury goodies , oil slick lips , hissing slightly as he bit into the spicy goodness .
“Leave you guys for a minute and you start an argument . ” He said , comfortably plonking himself on the grass .
“You know this is not the perfect place to…” I began and was immediately silenced by a raised greasy finger .
“Someone might have pissed into this grass few moments ago…” Began my outraged friend , but one bite out of the hissing , steaming samosa and his demeanour changed . “Good stuff dude , where did you …?’ He too was silenced by a raised finger . The crowd was clapping enthusiastically . We weren’t . Our hands were occupied with food . Brains were awash with carb-laden -hyperglycemic fogginess. 

“By the way , have you heard the tale of squaretails ?” S began, amicably  . Most of the people had started shuffling out of the grounds . It was getting dark and common sense told people to reach back home before the fog hit. Some raised slogans . One was going around starting a signature campaign of some sorts . Three of us polished off the delicious samosas . 

“Now we need to drink something . This is the trouble with samosas . ” I spoke in between hisses . My mouth was on fire . S , the samosa buyer, got up and crumpled the oily paper bag , now empty . Tossing it into a dustbin , he said “Come on now , I know a place where we can get hot tea .”
“Where ?” Lazily intoned my erstwhile rebellious friend,V , reclining on the grass , hiccuping .

“Your home ? ”
“What ?”

"Yeah . You heard me right . " 
"But ..." 
"You have milk at home ? " 
"Yeah . But ..." V raced to keep up with us , on the road . Dry grass sticking out of his hair . 
" Tea leaves , sugar , water , sauce pan , cups ."
" Listen dude ! You can't just march in like that inside my home for tea . My Mom will kill me ." 
"Better she than some bigot . You were marching the Hitler way bro , a few minutes pre- samosa time . " S sniggered , rightfully . He had heard all our conversation . How could he ? The samosa stand was quite far off . 

"And that also cured you of your hiccups . Thank me later ." S grinned , a coriander leaf green stuck in the incisors . I just loved this guy and how he defused the terrible situation . 

"Saale !" (scoundrel ) , both pounced on each other good naturedly . I stood at a distance . This is the trouble with boys . One moment they are cheerful , good natured and sensible humans , next moment , they become neanderthals . 

"A is judging us . " One of them sniffed, breathlessly, out of the entangled mass of arms and legs . 

"You both are already judged ." I sniffed and walked away , arms crossed , nose in the air and promptly ran into an obese , good natured lady staring down at us trio , with mild trepidation and amusement .




Minutes later , we were seated in V's sitting room , with his Mom offering us the best ginger tea in the world . She was used to  boys rough housing all the time , having raised an army of them . V had two older brothers and numerous male cousins , who kept walking in and out of his home .

In between sips , S told us the story of squaretails . 

"In a forest , there were three kinds of birds , the forkedtails , the roundtails and the square tails . 
There was peace for many years and every year they used to elect one amongst them as a leader . It could be anyone . Either of the three . 

One night , a terrible storm hit the forest . Nests were destroyed , hatchlings fell out of the tree . Eggs got smashed , branches broke . Terrible mayhem . 

Next morning , a roundtail couple who lost their nests , like countless others , were sitting at the site of their damaged nest and wondering what to do. Their nest was broken , the pieces strewn all around . Depressed and woebegone , they stared out in despair and saw a squaretail fix their broken nest too . 


The squaretails worked in tandem . The female swept up all the broken pieces with her tail , the male picked it up in his tail , like a shovel and slapped it in place . Working jointly , they had fixed their nest before long , and a cosy little tendril of smoke emerged from the tiny chimney stack , as the female squaretail started a cooking fire .


Slackjawed with amazement , the roundtails watched and wondered. Slowly , in the bitter aftermath of the storm , the admiration was tarnished with envy . Whispered from tree to tree , branch to branch , the glow of happiness turned into a raging fire of hatred . 

The squaretails are few . Shouldn't be difficult to get rid of them . Said one of the goonda roundtail. If they are so efficient , let them leave this forest to us , roundtails . Some raised slogans , others followed . Hatred filled posters appeared on the tree trunks . 

Higher up , in their perch , the forktails watched warily . They didn't like it at all , but they decided it was between roundtails and the squaretails . We have no truck with either of them . 

And so , one fine day , the leader , who happened to be a roundtail , read out the decree , banishing the squaretails from the forest forever. 

There was some protest , some squealing , some rebellion . But it was expected . And it was quashed . Effectively . Some square tails lost their lives , some hatchlings too . Lot of nests were destroyed or occupied by the invaders and fearing for their lives , the squaretails fled . Some continued to live on the edge of the forest , in an endangered zone , where they had to contend with slingshots , gunshots and photographers coming in from the human villages surrounding the forest . Most of them went to unseen , unheard of places , where they retrained themselves , to survive amidst new predators and amongst alien trees . 

Life went on . But now , the forktails were wary and kept out of the way of roundtails , having seen what they can do to birds who are not of the same feather as them . In fact they gathered around each other , huddling for solace and comfort among each other . 

The forest was divided into colonies . Larger roundtail colonies , smaller , forktail colonies , higher up in the eucalyptuses . They had little interaction with each other .

Several years passed by . One year , a terrible drought filled summer hit the forest . At the peak of the heat filled month , a spark from somewhere lit up the giant eucalyptus trees like giant flaming torches . It was a terrible forest fire , it burned up everything that lived there . The animals on ground , the birds in the tree. It was an inferno like no other . 

Some roundtails and a few fork tails survived , they flew southward , which was away from the fire and flames , ashes and death . They flew and flew , some just dropped dead out of sheer exhaustion and were swallowed into the flames . For the forest was huge and it was difficult to find an edge to it .

Finally , tired , hungry and singed , the birds found the edge of the forest . Finding a tree , still green and alive , they plopped on the branches and fell into a deep and troubled sleep . 

They were roused to the sounds of fluttering wings and that they were being warily watched. No one seemed to be in plain sight . There was verdant greenery around , abundance of fruits in trees , nestable branches , a stream gurgled closeby , yesterday seemed like a bad and distant nightmare. 

As they took a dip in the sparkling waters to quench their thirst and rid themselves of soot and ash , they heard an ominous fluttering  . A group of young squaretails perched close by , watching them .

"Well , well , well. See who's here ? " 
"It is our good old neighbours , the round tails ." A second , more scary looking bird , ruffled its feathers and spat out , with venom accentuating each word.

"Ah well." Began a middle aged roundtail , who was interrupted by and impatient young gent " What place is this ?" 

" Well , brother".. drawled the scary one . " It is called " Going back to square one ." This was met with a cackle of laughter that echoed endlessly through the now silent and forbidding forest. 




With this peculiar ending , S sat back and drained his cups of last dregs of ginger tea , now gone cold . He stared into the bottom of the cup. V's mom , who carefully and silently sat with us to hear the tale , got up , gathered the tea things , and marched off , declaring as she departed " I'll get some more tea " 

She knew the tale was not over . 

"What happened to the roundtails ?" V asked the obvious . 
"I don't know . You tell me . " Shrugged S , lifting his shoeless legs off the floor and stretching on the sofa , as if it was his own home . "This is , as they say , your party ."
"Stop sounding so "Dumbledoreish." 

"I am not . You tell me what should happen , and that will happen . It is fiction , anything is possible ." 

"Truth is stranger than fiction . " I sagely announced and the guys laughed . That at least broke the tension in the air . 


Finally , we all came to different conclusions . V thought roundtails should be punished and meted out the same treatment and driven off from the new forest and forced to look for newer pastures . S thought that after few skirmishes , all will be well and they'll learn how to live amicably . I thought that no skirmish was required . They all had a round table meeting of sorts , laid down some rules and lived together in calmness , if not happiness . V's mom thought all lived happily together . 

"Utopia " sniffed V as I got up and left for home .




Friday, 25 December 2020

Stockings

"I want one too . "
"Ok? " I just about managed a doubtful ok . It was more of a sigh of resignation . I already knew what was to follow . I had just bought a pair of ankle -to-thigh woollen stockings for my aged and arthritic mother . My neighbour, Mrs S has just seen it peeking out of its polythene bag . 
Acting childish , she is as old as my mother but is fit as a fiddle . Except for her runaway blood sugar which she doesn't help by sneaking on sugary treats . On insulin for the last 26 years , she treats her illness like a joke , and fate has been hitherto smiling . You never know when it might run out of patience . 

I had bought two . Luckily . I offered her the brown one . Kept the black one for Maa. 
She opened it , examined the washing instructions ( in impeccable chinese ) and asked me to translate . I professed ignorance . Result , plain indignation . "How can you not know ? " 
"See carefully " "Read and tell me " .
I pretend to read an unreadable script and hum and haw about cold water wash , no spinning , no drying in sun ,etc . Concocting instructions out of thin air . She is satisfied . Looks borderline impressed. 

"Is it nylon ? " "I can't wear nylon . I can wear only woollen . Nylon gives me allergies ." This from her aged sister -in -law , who had trundled into the room , pushing her wheeled walker ahead of her . Today is geriatric special day . She has a squint in one eye . The other eye blinks furiously behind coke bottle glasses . 
Jumping into the stocking fray . She seeks to hold the stockings . She is denied by Mrs S., who quickly folds it and replaces it into its transparent cover , crinkling furiously. "Yes , it is nylon . You can't wear it ." The air is thick with unsaid hostile retorts . I feel like a BBC reporter at  West bank. Ignoring her sister-in-law , she looks at me squarely , "How much ?" 

"Hundred rupees." I stammer . The sister - in -law refuses to be outdone , holds the packet , feels the fabric from top of the plastic cover , and plonks it back on the table . Sniffing ominously, she declares ," This is woollen . Bring me one too . Take the money from me ." She holds her nose and dignity high up in the air and trundles off into the TV room ,. 
Mrs S's face clouds over . I can hear distant thunderclaps . I grab my money and beat a hasty retreat. 

Upstairs , in my home , my  mother refuses to wear them . 
I recount the war downstairs .
 She says , " You give it to them . It is too tight for my thighs ." 

I force her to wear . She declares it is snug and warm . Thanks me , somewhat meagrely .

Next morning , the coveted stockings are lying in a heap on the floor , and my obese , arthritic and old Maa , is happily snoring beneath her quilt , stockingless. 



Cake

 Everyone has their own quirks about cakes in my home . The younger one loves chocolate cake , any shape and size will do . If I do not slather my cake with chocolate icing , she makes her own version of chocolate sauce and is very happy using it. Elder one professes to love vanilla and strawberry , but she has been known to raid the fridge at ungodly hours for a bite of her sister’s gooey chocolatey brownies.

I , for one, do not go for colour or flavour . Anything sweet will do . My cakes are sweet , as in veering towards ungodly levels . My husband keeps a constant check on the amount of sugar , before I turn a baked goodie into “poisonously sweet substance “.
This Christmas , I had vowed to bake plum cake . I wanted to soak the dry fruits in rum , but having teetotallers around didn’t help much . As a result , I baked several cakes with the dry fruits soaked in orange juice .
Got complimented for them , so I guess I did ok .
Eating cake , warm from the oven is a ritual in our home . Papa cuts the cake up into bite size pieces and places them into plastic containers , for he does it best .
Now , that he is away , his daughters do the honours , and we miss him .
Chocolate cake eaters demand vanilla ice cream to increase the sin quotient . After the double dessert , most of us teeter on the edge of a food coma, and my daughter becomes hyper -charged . It is a guilty pleasure we all indulge in .