Austerity

The longest , prettiest tresses , ever seen on the planet were those that  were never seen . It belonged to nuns who taught me in my primary and high school , and kept it all neatly pinned into obedient buns , unseen , hidden behind a veil . That was one of the first lessons in contradictions of our life for me .

Another event that shaped my opinion was the day we were asked to collect colourful sarees for a cultural event . The sarees , tagged , numbered , were lying in a heap on the table . A gaggle of nuns entered the classroom , and excitedly talking in their native tongue , shifted through the colourful fabrics . Bright eyed and loquacious , one of them went ahead and wrapped one of the best , zari-bordered one , around her waist . There was a stunned silence . The nun , fed up of the  mono chromatic existence , had given in to the lure of colour . Unforgivable! The nun in question saw the look on her fellow nuns' faces , and slowly unwrapped and folded the saree , replacing it on the table  .  The rest of the class continued to do what they did best , make noise , and not take notice . The nuns resumed chattering , as if nothing had happened.

There was another pretty nun, a teacher of ours , of course , who used to wield tremendous power. She had complete sway over all the official decisions taken by the principal , a father. This was greatly resented by other , more senior teachers   . Only now , in retrospect , I realise that the influence must not be without its very human failings . Even priests are known to be swayed  in presence of gorgeous physical beauty , how much ever  cloaked in the mono chromatic religious colour /fervour that is visible to the outsiders like us .

Another sister (nun) once slit her wrists , and we were told an elaborate story about broken window panes and storms etc.
While this particular nun was known to be high strung and temperamental , the other nun who committed suicide by jumping into a well , was  of milk complexion, had a very sweet disposition and round black eyes . Again we were told a story of accidental fall .

Now , as I have grown up , and can see things from a  different perspective (and height) , the pain , isolation and human agony that these fine human beings underwent , is all the more palpable. The prison-like rigid world of archaic austerity which they are subjected to , or subject themselves to , seems agonising and unnecessary.

Riding my activa

( A scooter frees you , unlike a car , that enslaves you , imprisoning  you in a tin box. To the man who taught me this simple mantra of happiness and freedom , sincere and humble thanks)


The moment you take off
You know you are a show off
The machine knows you
and  minutely obeys you

Your arms are caressed
by the breeze
Your nose has started
to freeze

The chill bites
into your knuckles
The sun fights
outdoing your chuckles

You live in glee
You are totally free
for few precious minutes
flying without chutes

You breathe in grass
flowers and dung
In a life that is a farce
and high strung

there are pleasures few
that present to you
one of them, by far
is riding the "activa"

Come on in

Some how she always came to know, before hand , that we are about to pay a visit . In retrospect , I think Baba(my father) rang her up to tell that he is descending on her small flat with his ample brood . 

She stood on the narrow , dimly lit staircase , with a broad grin , and said “come on in .” Then each of us would be hugged , in turns , and commented upon our height and girth , before ascending the steps. Her flat was close to a Britannia biscuit factory . It was redolent with the smell of caramelised sugar , roasted coconut and baking cookies . The factory specialised in “Nice” biscuits ,containing coconut and with a sprinkling of sugar on top . Heavenly !! 

She kept her small red Godrej fridge stocked with pastries and sweetmeats . Lots of delicious aromas arose from her tiny kitchen as she cooked vast amounts of other-worldly chicken curry , fried fish and biryani for us . 

That was the only place on earth we could stuff ourselves silly , and then roll off to sleep on mats in her tiny balconies (she had three of them , each leading from a bed room ). 

I am yet to meet a person residing in such a miniscule flat as hers, but in possession of such a voluminous heart.

Auntie

My aunt drove in her enormous , air conditioned SUV , roaring through dust and potholes , to meet us . Or rather , meet my grandparents . As we lived with our grandparents , she had to meet us too , no escaping . She was rich and snooty . Everything about her dripped with opulence , making us feel like threadbare beggars in contrast .

She would come with a retinue of servants . One to fetch her stuff from the car , heat her bathwater , massage her feet , and the other to drive her beastly vehicle . She used air conditioning at a time when we had just about memorised its spelling . Everything about her was mesmerisingly foreign , and otherworldly . She used a vanity case to get dressed . We had definitely heard of one , but never seen one being used . She used innumerable lotions and powders on her pretty face , lipstick and lipgloss , mascara and other foreign -sounding things . She smelt heavenly ,like a God . We thought she floated on air.

She would make us feel wretched for days on end .We would take roughly a week to recover from her whistle stop visits (always unannounced), some of us would even miss school. My mother would mope around with a dazed look , embittered to the core.

Aunt was her sister-in-law , and it didn't help . Ma too had come from a similar  background of unbridled consumerism , and she was hit hard by my grandparents' parsimonious ways , and general austere outlook to life.

Remarks like "even Monu (the foot-massager) won't eat this stuff ", would cut her to the quick . Her wounds were deep , and never healed . We would go back to school , talk to classmates , make fun of Aunt , and get her out of our systems . Ma couldn't . Aunt was , all said and done , my grandparents' daughter . All that resentment kept sitting inside Ma , going bad .

Till one day , my grandmother found some of her own daughter's remarks very funny. We came back from school one day , and were surprised to see Ma and grandma , laughing their hearts out. It was a rare sound . In our tightlipped household , open laughter was welcome like the first rain of  monsoons . Ma was in good mood for a long time later , I remember . 

One of a kind

(People are wont to ask why I am not nattily dressed up , as they do ; and , out of kindness of heart , gift me their old but gaudy clothes. They also think that I am probably too poor to buy new clothes.)


life is lived
measured
in doses
aliquots

breathe carefully
measure and tally
each word each breath
i lost track of worth

in infinitesimal
calculations
lost amid infernal
speculations

Heck , I  even wear
clothes faded
 with a tear
lying un mended

My well wishers think
I am about to sink
in some depressive stupor
Or I am exceedingly poor

carelessly I abandon
the rules tight and wanton
let me breathe fully
break free of the gully

dont fit me in a rut
not your monkey to strut
no I am not one to bind
for I am ,truly, one of a kind  

प्रातः

भोर                                  
सवेरा
आया
अपनी
पीली
धुप के पहले
हलकी सी ठंडी
हवा वाली
रौशनी
फैलाई
जिसने
रात की स्याही
मिटाकर
सूरज
का रास्ता
साफ़ किया।

दिन चढ़ने से
पहले
स्कूली
बच्चों
की
तरह
चिड़ियों
ने समूह
गीत गया।

इतनी मेहनतों
के बाद
दिन चढ़ा
है
चकाचौंध
धूप  वाली
दोपहर
होते होते
सुबह
अधेड़ हो जाती
है
चौखट पर बैठकर
बड़ी बड़ी हाँकने
वाले
चौधरी की तरह।

ओ सूर्य देवता
मूछों पर ताव
देना
बंद  करो ,
अब तो
बस
लजाती
शर्माती
सांवली
शाम का इंतज़ार
है।

Bongwa

My cousin was adept at fart jokes and at poking fun at fat people, or imitating people with lisps. He would elicit uproarious laughter, and be smug in his contentment. But somewhere deep down , it was an exercise in distaste. We , even as kids, could feel it. 

There was a fancy dress competition. I dressed up as the local tramp , and was practicing his trembly lisp and wild gait (result of a childhood polio attack). My mother stopped me . She didn’t explain much. She just said it didn’t seem right, to make fun of a poor , unprivileged soul. I would have elicited laughs , no doubt . May be a prize too . But I listened to her. The tramp used to hang around the school. Sometimes helping in the hosing down of the buses. 

All the difficult and dangerous tasks , like climbing on the sloping shingled roof to retrieve last years flag , was done by him . He did it with his strange lisping-sobbing laughter , which sounded more like hiccups. He was probably unaware of the dangers , and no one had bothered to educate him. 

Then one day , my cousin was in dire straits. His pocket had been picked at the bus-stop , and he had to reach this neighbouring town , 15 miles away , at any cost . He had to attend an important job interview next day. Dusk had fallen , the bus conductor of the last bus had just refused his watch, as a surety. He was desperate. Help came from a very unexpected quarter. 

The conductor had boarded the bus . The driver was revving the rattletrap contraption . My cousin stood at the entrance , chafing his hands, when a lisping sobbing hiccup was heard . The tramp limped into view , grinning hard. 

The driver braked . 

"Arrey , tu bongwa?" Bongwa , or the dumb, was a common term for everyone who had any speech  impediment.

Bongwa had endeared himself all over the town , due to his helpful and risk taking behaviour. A homeless man with an entire town for friends , one of the many inexplicable truths of life.

"Kahin jana hai ka, be ?" ( Do you have to go anywhere , you rascal?) He asked , and gestured impatiently for him to climb aboard.

The tramp limped laboriously up the footboard , in the darkness. Then , from the top , he gestured my cousin to follow. My cousin hesitated, and the driver gestured , a nod with his head , to step up . My cousin was at the first step, and the impatient driver , roared away , already late . The bus lurched violently , and my cousin teetered . Some one in the dark confusion , grabbed his hand  , and pulled him to safety. 

It was the tramp. The bongwa. The butt of all my cousin's jokes . That was the last time my cousin ever made fun of him .