The three sisters

 Three sisters . We are three sisters . My eldest sister is older to me by seven years and my second sister is older to me by two years. Only the oldest was ever called didi, a respectful suffix . Meaning elder sister . The years between us just added to the spice . 

We had nick names for everyone. Including ourselves . We laughed at the silliest jokes , we still do ; and we had each others backs . In thick times and in thin , we were there for each other , and that is what made us click . Teen deviyan , or the three Goddesses ,  was the name of a popular movie . A bollywood hit during our growing up years was called Trimurti . 

We were rebellious in our own way . We got enrolled in courses , in colleges , away from home . The farther , the better . One of us crossed seas and wound up in University of Dublin , to do her doctorate . Other did her JRF( Junior Research Fellowship)  from the Indian Institute Of Technology  , a prestigious Institute in whole of India. Me , the youngest , became a captain in the Army , commissioned by non other than the President of India himself . Later , we would all fall prey to that disease of our generation . Wherein we sacrificed our careers to look after kids and families . But we had our moment under the sun . We all did . And we are proud of that .

What adventures we had . From running off to the cattle enclosure , unchaperoned , barefoot , to falling in love and marrying a person of our own choice . We all have been there, done that . We would write lilting poems in two languages  and read novels in a third language . We were expat bengalis . Having been brought up in Jharkhand , but being bengalis as per our roots , we had the best of both the worlds as we straddled two cultures , learnt english on the way , and worked our way through several dialects  . We laughed at the unctuousness of Sanskrit , the pretentiousness of English , the hilarity of bhojpuri , and the buffoonery of Hindi. We also laughed at the inability-to -laugh-at -oneself kind of self importance of bengali . Puffed up bhadraloks . 

We painted stunning paintings and cooked delicious food . We scaled peaks and travelled widely . We were all voracious readers . We were the incomparable three . 

The keys

 The story began when the ladies club was to meet after a long , enforced hiatus due to Covid.

It came to everyone's notice that the keys to a certain cupboard was missing. The said cupboard held immeasurable joy in terms of tambola cards, tickets, decorative items and extra stationery.

I was told by my friend who was also my next door neighbour that I should get it " most probably" from the mess office. 

She , in a helpful gesture, called up the mess office to find out, before hand . She was told that three ma'ams used to send their orderlies to a boy called Harsh . 

The secretary , who being in the family way , was relieved of all responsibilities , with immediate effect .

The second , who was known to , putting it mildly , " put a finger in every pie " .

The third , bluntly refused to have anything to do with the key , now or ever . Upon being asked , she threatened to take the boy Harsh to task . Rather harsh. 

Next , I went to the mess office and asked for Harsh . A tall strapping fellow uncoiled himself from behind a pile of British era drawers , from  where he was valiantly trying to extricate a file . The drawer clung to the desired object , and the wooden contraption rattled pleadingly . 

The said person wore a white coat , not unlike the medical fraternity , and it was monogrammed " Amit " . 

"Yes ,ma'am ." He smoothed his hair , kicking the drawer shut , after having declared a temporary truce . 

"I am looking for Harsh ." 

"I am Harsh ." He said with some finality .

"I thought you were Amit ." I pointed to his chest .

"I am also called Amit ." He held his hands behind his back , and came to a stand-at-ease position . 

This was getting confusing . I looked around and caught sight of Tyagiji . He was a warrant officer , and I was pretty sure he did not operate under various aliases . 

"I am looking for the cupboard key Tyagiji ." I asked him .

Immediately , Amit or Harsh , moved aside to reveal a small metal cupboard , painted olive green , bearing a number on its top right corner , and on the left corner the legend "Remove me first in case of fire ." I wondered why would anyone bother removing tambola tickets to safety in case of a fire ? In fact it should be allowed to burn to a crisp , while other important things are being saved . 

Keeping my focus , I asked again , as no answer was forthcoming . Amit aka Harsh stared at Tyagiji , Tyagiji looked at him back , and both turned their heads simultaneously to look at a new entrant in the mess office room , a nervous looking thin man , possibly , a cleaner . He stood frozen at the door , his face speaking for him" What did I do wrong , this time ? " 

Tyagiji finally pulled himself together , and shrug his shoulders apologetically . 

" We don't have it maam ." 

"We don't have it maam ." Echoed Amit .

The cleaner boy , still frozen at the door , nodded vigorously .

"Then who has it ?" I sighed . This was going to be very tricky .

Everyone looked at each other again . Everyone had an epiphany . Simultaneously .

"A K Ma'am has it ." 

"Yes, A K Ma'am has it ." 

The cleaner boy nodded his head again . The Gods had whispered into his ears too. 

A K or Wing Commander A K Singh was the mess secretary , and his wife shouldered many of the station's responsibilities . A woman of amazing abilities , she also ran marathons , in her free time . 

So, I scooted off to A K 's home . Delicious cooking smells flooded her various plants on the landing and on the stairs . By the time I had reached the doorbell , next to which lay a placard declaring all the names of the various occupants of the house , I was fairly drooling myself . 

The plants were , of course , drooping from a surfeit of stimulation .

The door was opened by the maid . "Madam hain ?" was answered by madam herself . She rushed out into her cerulean blue sitting room . Her hands were smeared with food . "She was feeding her daughter . 

Her daughter is in class seven . Ten years plus , gangly , tall , bespectacled . Just like the father . Mom right now , appeared very flustered .

The key , Mrs Paul ? I don't have it ." 

Rachna aka Mrs A K , quickly dialled some numbers , and breathed urgently into the phone . I was left admiring her sapphire cushions , bean bags , Buddhas . I even drank water from a sapphire bottomed  tumbler . 

Then she quickly dialled off and turned to me . Rachna does everything fast . She is like that boy flash from "The  incredibles ". 

Before I could gulp down the last sip of her blue tinted water , she had spoken .

Last ladies club function , the key was with her , at the end of which it was handed to a person called Kishore . 

I was glad I was onboard so far . I cheerfully answered "Lets ask Kishore." 

"I was talking to him , right now , Mrs Paul." Ah , the whispered conversation . 

"He says he gave it to Mrs. S's eldest daughter . Mrs . S has two daughters . One is tennish , other four-ish. 

I hated all Kishores of the universe at that moment . Why daughter ? Why not mother ? There is no telling what kids will do to keys . Specially , ones that open doors to suff that keep their mothers busy and away from them . 

Mine have done interesting things to keys , coins , jewellery , and other shiny things , in the past. Hiding them is a  small part of the problem. Easily accomplished .

I shuddered . 

And came back . Told my neighbouring friend that the key is lost to posterity , in such and such manner .

Three days later she handed me the keys . The keys were with Mrs.S . Apparently , she has raised  god fearing kids , or at least mother fearing ones .  

My favourite holiday

 When we were younger , we went to this meadow . It was a forest once . Long time ago . Now , It is a grassy ridge . Beautiful lush green grass in every direction , except the south . A thin line of trees guarded the meadow , jealously , like its own personal secret . You had to cross the clump of trees to reach the ridge . The trees huddled together , blotting out the sun , and looking angrily at us intruders . The wind whispered ” Go back , you fools .”

Then , abruptly , the crunch of the leaves underfoot , gave way to soft velvety dawn of the luxuriant grass . The shade gave way to brilliant sun , and the birds chirped happily , winging it in the blue sky . It was like an impossible dream .
We sat on the ridge top, and had sandwiches , coffee from the flask . Mostly , we just sat and stared at the breathtaking beauty around . There was not much to speak out there . You just drank it all in . Hungrily . A road ran some distance away , making occasional noise when some vehicle passed by .
The silence and the green and the sun were so healing and therapeutic .
It stayed inside us , long after the holiday was over . In the bustle of the day , going around a crowded city , doing endless , meaningless chores , somewhere , in our hearts , a patch of emerald earth , and a fragment of azure sky with happy birds remained . Like a tiny , secret refuge from the chaos of life .

Going out of the gate

 So the phone rang. Several times. A parcel awaits , at the gate. The "gate " lies 3.5 kms from residence. 

It was a sunny day. And plenty of dilemmas were roiling around. Posting has arrived so packing has to begin . Cardboard boxes have arrived and labels and tape are all here . 

But omicron is forcing colleges shut. So kids might come back home from college . The first boxes I had packed were the kids stuff. So it might have to be unpacked .

Not knowing what to do, I decided to soak my feet. It makes things easier for me. Gives me time to reflect and cleanses the feet in the process. It also drains all the blood from higher reaches of cerebrum to the heels of the feet . It will be very much in evidence, shortly.

But my leisure was not to be . Two interruptions. One , monkeys on the tin roof , who decided to accompany me in enjoying the Sun . And the pesky phone call. 

Heralding the arrival of an item ordered by my daughter. Which I didn't need / know anything about. 

In my multitasking mode, I had put on my reading glasses and was trying to make sense of Benedictine uprising in the mediaeval period. 

So I go to the key hook , grab my two wheeler key and a mask. Thankfully they are hung together , a thoughtful gesture by my husband to remind forgetful people like me that the" war against Covid is not over yet"

My wet feet get rapidly cold . I realise I didn't wipe them . Neither did I bother to wear a pair of shoes. 

Next I can't see anything clearly. What is wrong with the world? Everything seems hazy and out of focus. One kilometre away from home I realise I am trying to drive wearing my reading glasses. 

Next , I find the wind ruffling my hair . I find that odd. It has never happened earlier. I find the answer even as I come into the line of vision of the gateman. 

Everyday, this guy sits there with his machine gun, sandbagged and helmeted against possible enemy attacks. For hours , over dressed and immobile. His only entertainment being catching defaulters like me.

Two words leapt up into the air , like a flare , lighting up both our minds , simultaneously . Mine with dread and his with glee.

" No helmet" 

I was a memsahib wearing frumpy pyjamas . All the more better. I could hear him sharpening his blade .

In my hurry I parked the two wheeler opposite the sandbagman . 

Wrong move . 

Now not one, but two ill occupied Watchmen swooped down upon me . Oozing authority in their fatigues , they lost no time in chastising me . My helmet was missing, they cluck clucked, this was not the correct place to park my vehicle . I thought now they will proceed to reprimand me for my poor clothes , upbringing, gender etc . 

I had geared myself to apologise to them and the world . But they stopped at that.

By the time I had reached the Amazon chap, I was spraying apologies right and left. I even apologised to a pigeon whose path I crossed and she flew off , beating her wings with much disdain.

Now that the world was cross with me. I fully expected the parcel guy to be too. 

Of course, he asked me for the OTP. And of course, I had left the phone behind at Home. 

He glared at me, over his mask . Then turned the tiny parcel over and over again in his hand.  I wondered if he was about to chuck it at me , like an ineffectual hand grenade. 

Finally , when I made my way back , I was stopped at the gate again . By the very watchman who had chastised me a few seconds ago. 

He gestured  at a civilian who directed a gun to my head . I said to myself" This is it. " And I closed my eyes. 

Turns out, he was checking my temperature. Next the soldier, with a straight face , asked me" who are you?" .

Expression of incredulity must have been quite evident on my face, because he let me in . 

Stories are rife about how a ridiculously small trip outside the" gates" turns you into a total stranger whose identity is demanded by the very people who let you out in the first place.My tryst with the outside world lasted all of 2 minutes,31 seconds .

It was ridiculous beyond words. Besides, I wasn't carrying my I card, an immeasurable crime in the forces .

I was formulating long winded , and sincerely worded apologies  in .my brain even as I made my way back, lest a complaint is lodged with my husband, or worse, with his superior,  about his lawless better half .

All these laws and letting in and outs and checkings have made me feel very much like a pet dog owned by a group of people.

Next time I must remember to bark at everyone who stops me, and not wag my tail .

Goodbye

 Eventide draws curtains false

The jackal, in earnest hunger calls 

Kitchen counter is littered

Cake bits , veggies, eyelids shuttered

Too soon, there was no time

To brood and clean up the grime 

It's time ,I told him , I can feel

It in my bones . A gentle smile 

Your bones are 

Very old dear 

All the more reason 

To rest them , from prison 

Release them , cease work 

Breaths count and take 

Nothing much to fake 

Don't count spoons and forks

Immaterial , 

All things material 

You have left everything behind 

In locked cupboards , don't mind

Your dreams slumber 

You're already a mere 

Hope's glimmer 

Faint and afar 

An insignificant star 

In the multitudinous sky 

You didn't even get to say goodbye

getting ready for the party

 Trying to mask 

body odour 

with some musk 

or ittar 

trying to compress 

wide expanse of 

prosperity 

into tininess of 

 austerity 

tying pleats 

and  folds

of silk and muslin 

over corpulent 

odoriferous meat

plastering 

and laying 

layers of paint 

to cover up 

disdain , despair 

occasional evil 

trying to sweeten 

the tongue with 

honey and flooze 

be careful of  booze

that may let loose 

gossip and secrets

slandering 

and sledging .

Party

 Another party , gathering 

same faces , same kind

tiny , meaningless uprisings 

small hearts , narrow minds 

Storms in tea cups 

tin pot kingdoms 

overnight props 

despairing fiefdoms 

Mind games , pathos

small thoughts 

Like pebbles , noughts 

in ballooned egos 

What does one live for 

No real  greatness 

What does one die for 

a fistful of largesse 

Me , me , me and me 

Just I exist , or should 

No one else , could 

Vie , vie , oh fie , vie !!

Such selfish chants 

fill narrow 

low brows 

what a waste , such want 

Thick pasty pancake

cakes the real fake