Happiness Was Born A Twin!

Any act that can bring even a single ray of happiness is like the rain from heaven on a parched summer field .. it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, upon the place beneath it is twice blessed, it blesseth him that gives and him that takes....such is the power of this emotion that it has to be shared at its very realisation. So much moral science and preaching has gone in instilling the value of making some person happy---so many slogans follow the dictum to give weight to the value of the act---for parents it requires many bed time stories for the child to learn the art of making another happy, till the whole act comes under the banner of "a good act." A good act can be anything---helping an aged or feeding a poor hungry child---it is an immense range, but I feel ,happiness is a bliss that surpasses all---and if any such act can make a heart happy , it can be crowned as the best of good acts.

I, too, have enjoyed this magic on many occasions, and the hangover of it has left me happy too....I gave happiness and got it doubled in return to myself. One evening, in the month of July, when the sky was overcast and the downpour was heavy, I sat in my porch viewing my 'kerchief sized garden, enjoying the poetic beauty all around--the mind full of many thoughts that go with solitude.My trance broke as my phone rang breaking the music of the rain drops. It was a call from my uncle and aunt in another city.Both of them are above eighty, staying alone by themselves, braving the hazards of age and depending on small phone calls from friends and nieces, once in a while, to break the monotony that envelops at this stage of life.

It was raining at their place too, and I could sense the gloom that was around them in a dark rainy evening that prompted them to make a call to break the lull of boredom there. We spoke on the same usual stuff, on the regular problems, power cuts, blocked drains, the helping maid not turning up....making our voices lively at both ends to pep up the air around. Exchanging a few more well-being questions we cut off. As I sat reviewing our talks to myself , I realised that though they made the call to bring some cheer in their dull rainy evening, yet their monotony did not much break by the talks ....they perhaps have learnt to live this way...taking it all in its stride, and may be, I too, am quite used to it when I think of them. Lazily thinking on all this, I recalled an event, that, I felt, will make these two aged get some spark of happiness in their lonely evening..some happy food for thought if not anything else. I took my phone and dialled their number. My aunt received it...least expecting that it would be me in line. I said I have something good to tell you both and I am sure it will make you both ponder on sun and sunshine and cheers in this drab rainy evening. She, at once, as if got charged up...I heard her calling out to uncle to come soon as their niece has something good to share with them. Her eagerness expressed how much in want they were for some thing good to hear or share...I too got boosted hearing her happy response. It was a simple message.....but it was a compliment that would ring tingling bells in their ears of by-gone years. I related to her an evening of friends that I had organised at my place some weeks back....in that gathering they all sat with our family album as I got busy with the serving. As they went through the album they came across some photos when uncle and aunt got married..some wedding snaps. My aunt as a bride was a beauty...and my friends remained rapt in admiration seeing my aunt's snaps and kept repeating sweet compliments for me to hear. Hearing it from my friends was itself a happy and pleasant moment for me and I had thought that I must pass this simple piece of compliment to my aunt if I get the chance....and I appropriately took the opportunity of this dark gloomy rainy evening to brighten up the rainy dusk of two lonely hearts. I told aunt the whole story of that evening....it was music to hear her ripple of laughter from the other end--- as the saying goes, " praise the sweetest of all music makes most of us uneasy" so she too, sounded a bit embarrassed, a bit taken aback and yet happy.... she seemed to get back to that day of her life...her quiet world suddenly seemed to bring in the sweet melodies of shehnais, the laughter the warmth that this day had carried to her heart years ago. Her cheerful response seemed to wash away her little innumerable problems that hovered round her present life and which had buried the cheer of these years in her heart almost forgotten. My purpose was fulfilled. She jokingly said her evening was made complete...but I knew there was no joke in her saying...I knew she would be musing on the happy times of her life full of colour years ago.

After cutting off, I myself remained in a happy frame of mind thinking that I had been able to make two lonely hearts happy in their solitude in a rain washed dark evening. Somehow not only on feast days, but all the life long through, the joy that you give to others is the joy that comes back to you...so this was no feast day..nor any big occasion...just a rainy lonely evening and I once again realised that happiness was indeed born a twin.

The Thrill of a Win!

May be, it is just a small three lettered word---- but in it are pent up many thrills and swirling butterflies in the stomach; its enthralling power has forever stirred ripples in many a heart, thumping in a small child or in someone matured and advanced in age---it has shaken all happily--- and you need just a WIN to feel its magic.

Winning , at any stage, leaves a deep impact in the mind---we never forget that moment of being chosen as the winner in a crowd of competitors...how thrilling that single moment is.. From the first rays of awareness, a child loves to win, be it snatching away a toy or running ahead of all, the spirit is to win. The addiction to this thrill is so intoxicating that the crave for it stretches through all the years of aging; then when one sits back to see all the years gone by, the highlights that shine out and glitter are the moments of a WIN.

Some days back, I got one of those much desired ,yet rare, urges to de-clutter my clutter of so many nothings that had piled up in my corner of sentimental stuff. I knew the urge had its drawbacks, for such impulses for de-cluttering sentiment ends up in keeping back all clutter and coming away with a heart brimful of memories both happy and sad. So that afternoon, after lunch, I sat with my old stuff with a determination to throw all that had no meaning anymore.Many things came to my hand as I fumbled through my bundles, each stuff had its own story, each of them spoke out some event from the past, small stray incidents that had held grave meaning then.In the jumble, my fingers touched a silky soft material, more like a broad sash, tapering at the end---long, all crumbled,a pale shade of the glaze that it might have had when it was new----reddish brown with white diagonal stripes. As I pulled out the whole length of the stuff---I could hear, as if, from the distance of decades, some thrilling cheers and claps and shrieks and yoo hoos of crowds that lay hazily in my memory of more than fifty years.....it was a neck tie belonging to my uncle.

St . Mary's Convent was having its annual sports....of the many events of drill, P.T., March Pasts, gymnastics,.... running races was a very much awaited event in the programme. To get a chance in your class race was the dream of many in the class. That year I got a chance to participate, it was "Running to Office, Tie the knot of my tie" race.I had to have a partner too. Being chosen did not end the motive, I had to know how to make the perfect knot and that too before any of my competitors would be able to do, all standing
in a row. It seemed a lost battle for me, as wearing a tie to office was not a practice of my father, so from whom to learn? It was my uncle's tie and he was out of Allahabad. I entreated one of my friends, who boasted having an executive brother donning suit and tie every day....to teach me the art. The tie that now lay in my hand all limp and lifeless in a dirty, clutter full room was then a most shimmering length of the best of of silks potent with the fulfilment of all my dreams of a WIN.

Today we read in ads---"you eat pepsi, you sleep pepsi, you dream pepsi",for me tying the knot race became my "eat sleep dream"----my practicing became a 24 into 7 ritual. With no neck to practice on,I took my Father's study chair with its erect back resting bar as the stern neck to bear all my practices of tying the knot. I would bribe my mother to stay up in her sleepy afternoons with loving entreaties to blow the whistle, as I would, tie in hand,run the length of our long verandah panting and heaving as if the world lay at the end of my run where stood the forlorn chair to get the coveted knot. At the end of each practice , as the tie slipped down the wooden bar of the chair and fell listlessly at the bottom, I would see my dreams shattered in that crumbled bundle of silk, with no perfect knot to pride on.

Seven days went off with my untiring practices all alone in our verandah; I could hardly see any spark of hope in my efforts, while my partner, who would adorn the tie on the final day, remained oblivious of my anguished rehearsal sessions at home.
The Final Day came. Dressed in white , with an expression of cool confidence covering a quivering heart underneath, I stood in line with my competitors in the sports' field surrounded by crowds of spectators, teachers, parents, friends and students---the air filled with the buzzing hum of excited voices from the arena. I could see my partner standing mid-way in the field, in waiting for me to run and tie the knot.
The whistle went off in its highest pitch and our whole line sped ahead, as if, for our dear lives, towards our partners waiting with abated breath, neck crooned forward, as if that would speed up our tying. I reached my other half and almost banged into her, holding my tie around her neck. My fingers went about deftly, loop inside and out, pulling at its fastest, while my companion whispered in heavy excited breaths "fast fast' panting away her panic. Suddenly, all seemed to move in slow motion for me, all sounds from the crowd seemed a far off drum beat, holding on to my breath I pulled the final knot---and Lo ! behold ! there slowly rose at the push of my fingers, a perfect knot along the length of the silken tie stopping just at the collar joint of my partner's shirt. It was a perfect one ! ..but no time to stand and stare....I held on to my friends sweaty palm and pulled her off to the end of the field, not daring to look at the others.----and it seemed as if as the rope reached me than me reaching the rope --the cheers and the shrieks and the yoo hoos and clapping became louder---till I realised I had made it !! Some teachers pulled us forward to stand on an elevated platform while the runners up followed in...the loud speakers blared out my name as the winner and the cheers and claps dinned our ears, red hot with excitement. That was a thrill that till date stands no comparison to any other joy that could have rocked the heart of a school girl.

So back to my task of de-cluttering, as I held that tie in hand I could feel the life that lay dormant in its crumbled folds, the agonising hopes, the tiring efforts and the practices that lay entwined in its silken threads...each thread, that with me years back, had dreamt of a WIN to rejoice on. Such is the thrill of this simple three lettered word that wants itself to be relived again and again..be it a simple cup in a school race or a huge golden cup in World Sports..the thrill that pervades through the heart remains the same in all....and here I am penning down that Thrill of a Win that shook me decades ago in the fields of St Mary's convent. !!

Grandmother's Plight Which Amuses Me To This Day!!

The name grandmother conjures up an image of a loving cuddly friend, silvery silk hair...soft wrinkled face...loving smile ...a bit of a mother a bit of a friend...and so much of a confidant..always ready to give in to our demands and always there to shelter us from mother's rebukes....a perfect soul mate to be in bed with and hear the best of bed time stories.

Such was my grandmother too--- an efficient tower of strength and responsibility for the whole household. She was married to my grandfather at the tender age of eleven, did not know anything of school or studies, only bedtime stories that she had been able to assimilate by the side of her own mother were the only wealth of knowledge that she had. On the other hand my grandfather, much older to her by years was an extremely bright scholar all through and his merits got him laurels and scholarships from the early years of his learning days. Being such an extremely meritorious scholar he naturally got into the teaching profession, as that was a most esteemed career in those times....and reached the highest pedestals in a span of a few years--from teacher to professor, the Dean of university, very renowned for his intellectual input in the educational field.

All through these years, his wife, my dear grandmother meticulously guarded his domestic world, attending to his demands, bringing up their children in accordance to the high academic environment created by her own husband...looking into everything from home, garden, servants and a dear pet dog,Baagha,...all this she did very well, lack of schooling or education did not hamper in any way. The environment made her learn the basics of literature and cultures. Her enthusiasm to keep up with her husband, to rear up her children worthy of such a father , was so strong and determined that she tried to grasp every bit of knowledge she could and her children too helped her to know many things of the academic world. So, though not well read, my grandmother knew most of the works of Tagore, Kalidas, Byron, Keats, Shakespeare. She often went to plays and movies with her children of Tagore, Kalidas, but English movies she did not dare as she knew she would not be able to follow the accented tongue...and that, for her was a big deprivation.

From her son she had often heard of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, and had developed a romantic fancy for the play and would often ask her son to translate portions of the play to her. One winter the movie Romeo and Juliet came in the halls of her city. Her son wanted her to go and see the movie with him as he would then be able to translate it to her in the hall itself. This was her best chance to get to hear English in the true accent and follow it too and then she would be able to discuss it with grandfather on equal level at last. So on the request of her son she grew excited to go with him. her thrill knew no bounds--suppressed excitement rippled inside her as she finished her chores of the morning.

The show was after lunch, so she was stress free as she knew that the house will be taking its afternoon siesta, husband would be in the university, while she would be going off with her son to the show.Seeing Shakespeare's play, and that too, Romeo and Juliet and that in English was like an achievement for her,and achievement that she had never thought she would be able to add to her accomplishments, when she got married in a remote village of Bengal at the young age of just eleven. So lunch got over, she dressed herself in a starched cotton sari, maintaining a cool composure as a mother should adorn, yet a childish thrill fluttering in her heart, waited for the tonga to come..tongas pulled by horses were a common conveyance those days.

As the time drew near, her pet and beloved canine--Baagha-- sensed that his lady would be going out and he became restless...as is a common trait in this breed, they just do not like being left behind by their master or mistress at any time. and would just start all their acrobatics to cart along with them. Same was the emotional state of Baagha that afternoon when grandmother stood to leave for the esteemed movie--Romeo and Juliet. Seeing Baagha's activities my grand mother sensed the risk that was lurking, so she told my mother to take Baagha inside the house while she propped up in the tonga with her son.

My mother shooed Baagha indoors, and as the cinema goers left, she bolted the front door and went for her relaxed afternoon nap, content with the thought that all was in order. Now Mr Baagha, with his luck, found the back door open and just slipped out to catch up with those that left him behind victoriously. My grand mother sat in the back seat of the tonga with a content expression as the road at the rear seemed to lengthen making her destination nearer....feeling herself almost a near kin to the Juliet of Shakespeare. In that pensive mood, suddenly her eyes screwed up as she saw her Baagha almost galloping towards their tonga. She could not believe what she saw...in full leaps and bounds,tongue hanging out dribbling down saliva on the road ..there was a Baagha with a mighty victorious expression trying to catch up and leap in the tonga to take his seat by authority.

As if out of the blue, all the peace of mind and contentment on grand mother's face just flew off, and in came the expression of frenzy and panic and full hearted efforts at making Baagha go back home. But Baaga wanted to show his full loyalty on this trip only. No coaxing, no throwing papers, no scoldings, no shouting would make Baagha retreat his steps. It was a scene for passers-by as grandmother and my uncle, almost half hanging out of the tonga flinging their hands in wild frenzy, scolding shouting at their beloved pet. Roads, crossings and turns all went off in speed with people watching the show going on...many confused whether it was some street dog bothering them or was it a pet dog not wanted anymore. As the tonga neared the movie hall, the crowd on the road became denser, and tonga had to slow down to Baagha's great relief, he just jumped on to the foot board and straight at grand mother's feet, tongue hanging out its full length and he most satisfied by his successful accomplishment and perhaps dreaming of Romeo and Juliet soon in the hall. Next what followed can be summed up when mother heard the door bell ring at an odd hour of her afternoon siesta---opening the door, her jaws almost dropped at the sight in front of her---Baagha standing with a job-well-done expression, tail wagging in full glee and behind him stood grandmother,starched sari all dishevelled, salt and pepper hair all standing on edge like flame on cinders, a complete contrast of what Baagha had on his face, muttering away---" Never will I ever go to see Romeo and Juliet in a hall".

Uncle returned in the evening full of praises for the movie while grandmother lay in bed eyes tightly shut, not wanting to hear a word of Uncle's profuse praises on her Romeo and Juliet. Such was her tragedy to be at par with her learned husband....a tragedy which still makes me laugh even after so many years and grandmother no more !!

Homework Done!! Can We Play??

Can I go and play? I have done my homework Mumma?
Can we play?
Come lets play. !!!

So familiar these sizzling baby questions sound and bring back chirpy memories of childhood. The child and play are two sides of a golden coin. Play is the child's first lesson of social life...and this lesson starts from the first moments of awareness for the babe in the crib, and it stays with him all through his growing years and later takes the form of matured games of an adult---but all through PLAY, teaches, thrills, relaxes the whole system of the mind and body.

Simple games of childhood that at one age needed nothing extra to make it a game, has in this modern age taken a very technical outlook---all our childhood play with pebbles, mud and twigs has changed into hi fi games of Lego, Power ranger guns..Nintendo and the list goes on and on. Our children of today have no idea what charm and magic lay in our simple plays of mud and sand..under trees in summer afternoons. What was that tremendous thrill of our games and plays that till today send ripples of childish excitement through our nerves even now. I often remember my play sessions with my cousins, friends classmates and it feels so good to know that all those with whom I enjoyed my games they too remember those very days of our enjoyment together.

Hide-n-seek, Blind fold,Seven stones, Land or water,The farmer's in the den, I spy, seeing marbles roll in dusty play fields or the name goolli dunda....do these games now seem base and low before our modern games played in air conditioned rooms with highly modernised video games and electronic boards? may be so....but then the magic of those old games surpasses all in thrill and fun. .......memories of these games bring back such carefree days of childhood and it is quite a time pass today to relive those memories.

Sitting back on lonely quiet evenings I often indulge in letting my mind wander in those happy days and our games together and unknowingly a smile dances on my lips at the memory only. Of all the common games then, the one that stands out as uncommon, was a game that we had named "Black Out'---it was unique in its category of excitement and thrill and the more the players the merrier its fulfillment.

What was it ? --well, I can say it was Hide-n-seek and "I spy" combined; the novelty of it was that it was played in the dark...not out in the garden at nights..but was played indoors at night, in a room all closed and lights put off. No restrictions on the number of players...the bigger the number and the smaller the dark room the merrier would the game be. So you can imagine what the chaotic thrill would be with ten to twelve of us stuffed in a small room and that too, we would choose the room with closets, linens and mattresses to add to the confusion and make our hiding more easy...and very much to the annoyance of grandmother at home.The game would be set usually after our dinner was over, and of course yes,after home work was done.All of us would get into the specified room with lights on....we would decide by lott as to who would be the spy and do the searching and the rest of us would hide. The spy would stand near the switch board with eyes shut, counting till 100 while we would quickly in hurried hushes hide under mattresses or linens.The count would get over, the spy would switch off the light and then would start the thrill.The hushed excitement with hush hush whispers and suppressed giggles from us in the darkness was a thrill that you must experience to feel it. The only sound in the abated breath filled air of the room was the spy moving and groping in the darkness with outstretched hands like the blind trying to get hold of anyone, be it just a part of the dress of even a strand of hair. The shuffling and giggling amongst us to dodge him was the best part of the game, breathing over her shoulders and then gliding away in the dark....and to be caught by the hair or dress and then pulling ourselves out of the clutch without letting out a single squeal for him to catch on, was the peak of excitement. The tussle then, was the real game...the spy would try to run her hands over our hair or nose our ears to be able to spark of any recognition and before being caught we would just vanish in the pitch darkness of the room... if she failed the lights would be switched on in the midsts of our shrieks and laughter, while the spy would again go to the switch board to start on the count again.

Today as I think of those screaming Black-out games, my heart just yearns to run back over the years and find all my playmates to come and play another game in a dark room. Gone are the friends, gone is the house where we had our dark room, nothing is left to fall back on, but the memory is so strong that in this modern world of toys and hi tech games, our game of Black-out stands supreme in its simplicity and untarnished enjoyment--it still seems to beckon us over the years....."Come lets play". !!

A Bonding Through the Years

Indian mythology provocates many sermons on staying away from maya, moh,to lead a nirlipt, detached attitude towards life, as the present is all transient, we have to leave all and go to the world "beyond". We hear such sermons with deep faith and reverence, but, honestly, are we able to follow it? On the contrary, this maya and moh seem to cling to us till our last days. We cannot at all detach ourselves from earthly pleasures and comforts. Leave alone comfort and pleasure, I have seen we get hooked on to things by sentiment and memory too...and find ourselves tagging along many things that are of no meaning in the present, but hold a lot of affectionate memories and stories.

We had to leave our home town and move to another city after my father passed away, Our house, my home , was full of those very things that made up my world since birth. Many things had to be disposed off-----there was no other way than that.. I moved from room to room looking at all the things that had seen me grow up--books, cots, tables, lamps, chairs, racks and so many more. Suddenly, at the far end of the room my eyes fell on a wooden arm chair, quite worn out with the years with its cane work and cushion still intact. This arm chair was with us since years., and I had not given much notice to it; but that day suddenly, the thought that it would be disposed off churned my heart inside out. Sudden sparks of memory took me years back when I was a child and two new easy chairs had come to our house. It was an occasion for us children as we waited in our front veranda looking for the cart to bring in two easy chairs from the show room...father and uncle had purchased them for my grandparents to sit out in the evenings. The picture is vivid to this day also----the cart entered our gate carrying the two chairs covered under sheets of plastic to protect them from the dust of the roads. In our portico, as I stood eagerly to see them, the vendor pulled out the sheets and out stood two shining teak wood brown arm chairs with caned back rest and seat. They looked so majestic and relaxed in their build-up. They were placed in our front veranda and since that evening I had always seen my grandfather and grandmother sit on them in the veranda every evening chatting with each other, we thronging their sides once in a while amidst our play sessions. Rainy evenings, moon lit late evenings, winter sun-bathed warm mornings, on all such days these chairs gave a relaxed comfort to both my grandparents. The chairs had earned a respect and esteem of their own and it never came to my mind as a child that I too could sit on them---they were grandparents' chairs not to be belittled in anyway.

The familiarity with these chairs took a place in the family to be present on every occasion as our grandparents would be wanted in every occasion of the family. In hot summer months of May and June, these chairs would be taken out in our lawns where all our petty cane chairs would be set around them.

How wonderful those gossip hours were when grandmother in her easy chair, my mother and aunts would sit in a circle in the lawn and make such pleasant domestic little talks. At the far end sat grandfather in his chair enjoying the light breeze of his lawn, well watered and cool, while one of my aunts would be rendering a soft Tagore song for him to hear. The easy chairs saw it all through each summer and every winter. In rainy August noons,grandmother would sit in her easy chair in the veranda with eager anticipation, while my mother would finish off her kitchen chores and draw up a cane chair near grandmother and read out poetries and stories of Tagore. What cherished and fond those hours were, which perhaps the easy chair too felt. Time and years moved on. Grandfather, then grandmother passed away, the easy chairs got separated ,one stayed with my father and the other went to my uncle. Slowly I saw my mother using the chair when she would sit to read her books all by herself or would sit to write her diary. Again a familiar sight it became as age slowly started making itself felt over her limbs and hair and physique.

So that day when all furniture was being disposed, I could not muster up courage to to give up this easy chair. With all our things, the single easy chair came to our house in the new city. It slowy became one with my mother--a loving familiar image became a daily picture, seeing my mother sit back on it, facing the advancing handicaps of age. She sat alone for hours in a dreamy state, sometimes looking down intently at the arms of the chair, rubbing her trembling hands along its wooden worn down length, as if to console herself that something was still left to feel and touch of her wonderful lively past and youth. Sometimes she would have her tea while sitting on it, sometimes her meals too, as I fed her while she sat reclined on the chair----that same chair, now so worn, no shine yet every streak of its brown shade had so many stories to tell of years and years gone by, of so many loved ones who sat on it, around whom we clustered to hear tales, to get handfuls of snacky tit- bits amidts our hillarious plays, so many things the chair saw all through. It still rests in my mother's room though she is no more. All those with whom I live now, have no inkling of this wonderful past that remains entwined in the cane and cushions of this easy chair, and often when I hear or am told to get rid of this old fashioned worn-out antique piece, my heart wrenches with fears and pain thinking that will the world really snatch this piece of 'maya' and 'moh' from me? Is it a sin to have this sort of a 'maya' and 'moh which our mythology strongly discourages.? As i remain in this dilemma, my forlorn easy chair looks at me with an affectionate benevolent look of age, asking me to bear up with the demands of a brutal world around and live on.

Delimma of the Two Worlds for an NRI Homemaker

If I am asked to sum up my two years' stay in India, I really would not know where to start from .....

My first dilemma would be, why am I placing myself on a dais, where I have to sum up, make an analysis of a stay in my own country, my homeland?, as going to India, for a vacation, every second or third year was a very much awaited holiday for my husband, children and myself. The vacation was a two to three month stay, meeting parents, getting pampered with love and affection, relaxing to the hilt, shopping bagfuls, enjoying sight-seeing of the best tourist-spots ----- a stay that charged us up for another three to four years stay in the USA ---- India felt wonderful. The negatives of the country never got a chance to surf up amidst our waves of fun and relaxation. So when this project for a stay of two years came in the forefront, I don't know why my thoughts started wavering with many "whys", "ifs", "hows" .....many hidden fears suddenly loomed large in imagination.

Now when I am looking back at my two years, I am trying to strike off a balance between the positives and negatives on the basis of comparison between India and USA. My comparison stands its test between India, my origin; and USA, with my stay of thirteen years in the country of glamour, riches and an air all through that it is the country of super powers on world stage.

My life after marriage started in America. Here I first adorned the roles of spouse, housewife, a mother of two, a daughter-in-law, a married daughter, a married sister, a social figure, and some times a small part-time earner. In all these roles, I experienced the weight of responsibilities which go with them. And though very apprehensive in the early months as to how I would manage, I realized in no time, that it was almost a smooth cake-walk to accomplish my responsibilities. New country, new people, new accented tongue, yet it offered everything with ease and sincerity, with a sense of security all through. Soon, I found myself doing all chores with absolute liberty, independence, and, once again I repeat, with a tremendous sense of security and confidence of success in whatever I would attempt ---- every way I felt the truth of USA's motto touch my life ---- "Truth, Freedom, Justice". This was in full bloom in all my thirteen years, so moving to India came as a jolt with fears and doubts as to, whether I would be able to sail smoothly in my own country too as I am doing in the strange foreign land.

Crime and corruption is thick everywhere in the world, so India cannot be pinned down with such accusations, but there was that "something", may be an unknown fear, that kept bothering me as the days of our move approached closer -------- and now after two years of stay I can feel myself very well informed of the pros and cons of our stay in India with children born in USA and my lifestyle set in USA for 13 years. My positive and negative highlights of the stay are many - and it is each ones individual choice what his or her judgement is at the end.

So on landing at Mumbai international airport in the last week of June 2005, my mind was open to accept anything that my country would offer, be it positive or negative. It was the year when Mumbai was hit by a flood that broke all records ... it was chaos of the highest order in the metro then. My husband was stationed in an IT hub near Mumbai, an Indian city with a western hue----a furnished apartment was kept reserved for us where we moved in initially. There was unrelenting rains for weeks, weather was damp and news was full of the havoc of the flood in all the encircling areas. Though we had moved into a furnished apartment, but most of our shipped luggage lay stranded in Mumbai in trucks, during which time many small items got lost from the trucks.

We had to settle down. This was no vacation stay, so everything had to be set up from scratch, yet going for any errand was almost impossible. All roads were closed due to water clogging, taking hours to reach anywhere. Suddenly, I felt myself clipped off, no more those flapping wings by my side. I told myself ---- "hold on, things take time", I clutched on to my patience, but try as much as I could, all my tenacity of patience would just snap off, when I saw my two kids, 8-year old daughter and 5-year old son trying to find their pleasures in the new place, feeling stuffy and hot, sweating away to lethargy, with no fan nor AC working, due to long hours of power-cuts. Scratching away their hands and legs due to mosquito bites which for them was like a deadly attack of bugs, and as is, initially, expected no friends in a new place, no entertaining drives and to top it all both of them would get sudden bouts of fever and tummy-upsets ----- their world for them had turned upside down. We as elders always feel that children are young, they will soon adjust and learn, but it just built up frustration for me, seeing them so awestruck in the new environment. Outings too, were not fun for them in anyway initially in pressing crowds, seeing people so different in ways and mannerisms, some stopping to stare at us in the car, touching the window panes, some begging for food and money, were sights that left them dazed and dumb.

The residential house where we finally moved in, was in a very good locality, with green palm trees encircling the garden --- I just liked it. It was so different from our USA homes, where air-conditioned houses, all air tight, with picturesque landscapes in front does not allow the breeze to come in .. but here, to feel fresh breeze running through the rooms was an exhilarating feeling --- the sun, moon air seemed so close and life felt bathed in freshness --- but that had its drawbacks, as with fresh air swarmed in swarms of mosquitoes and rain bugs and insects which made it impossible to have doors and windows open all the time --- and some evenings went without switching on our lights as some insects had the instinct to throng around electric bulbs and tube lights.

Unlike in USA, we had much domestic help in India --- a driver for our vehicle to take us out as needed, a maid to do the dusting and mopping around the house, a washer-man to wash and iron our clothes, a gardener to tend to the big lawn --- suddenly I felt all my branches of domestic life being managed by others --- a luxury much advertised by all in India, a good incentive for many to move to India itself. I was dubious of the real depth of these luxuries, for every domestic task I was becoming dependent on others, and I knew all this help was by no means omnipresent. Many-a-times, my maid would not turn up without any prior notice, my gardener would be absent for weeks and it can be any fine morning with a day full of agendas, I would suddenly face a situation when my driver would not turn up or the car would be help up by some gas strike. An ongoing irritant was the power cuts for hours on end, which paralyzed every area of work at home --- be it the kitchen appliances like the toaster/microwave/grinder/dishwasher, or the hot water geysers in the washrooms, or the computer/TV that kept me in touch with the world outside, or the air-conditioner in the sweltering heat --- it was a weight on our patience. The fact that unpredictability was a major way of life here in our day to day agendas gradually seeped into our minds.

The vegetable markets were full of those organic vegetables which in USA are coveted in a separate aisle, most costly and rare. Here in India, the marketplace was full of fresh organic vegetables, so organic, so fresh that almost all items were smeared with mud and silt of the soil, or sometimes washed haphazardly in the drain nearby full of gushing muddy rainy water. So getting these vegetables home needed extra washing and it was not rare when a lively earthworm would wriggle out from these fresh green brunches. The grain and cereals that I stocked in my pantry would soon get infested with bugs, sugar would become lumpy, same with the ever-flowing salt - such unexpected trivia's would often hamper my daily work.

Apart from this there those insect that are so much part of our homes in India - lizards, house-flies, scorpions, centipedes. We would have to watch our steps each morning when we got down from our beds. Well, life has its different colors, I would preach myself.

Outside home, the roads were so bumpy and dusty, that going out was no longer a pleasure. My children, not being used to such roads, were nausea tic every morning, when they went to school by bus. So, most of the days then would either throw-up on the way or have to go to school empty-stomach, so much so that the short touring we did to nearby spots got tarnished by the motion sickness of the kids. It took me many doctor visits, and months of accompanying them to school till they got over the ailment; moreover the traffic being most unruly, a drive of 30 minutes would end in an hour's bumpy drive till destination.

Some rare things that I liked getting addicted to, was that I could get my grocery brought to me at my door by a phone-call, not to mention, if of-course the phone line was in order. I could have my clothes washed and ironed brought to my door. I could get a tailor who could repair and alter most of our clothes which we had to give away in charity in USA, the land of plenty. These were rare luxuries of India which we could never dream of in glamorous USA, where labor was not so cheap.

A major reason which motivated me for this move to my home country was that I would get a good opportunity to let my children live through the festivals of this country and hence be much exposed to the varied rich culture of the India; an age old culture of which we are proud of, and which is on of the many reasons why Indian parents outside India want their children to spend some of their growing years in the land of Vedas, Ramayana, Mahabharata and Shravana Kumars.

So in my years I could enrich both my children with the values of the festivals of India, the depth of Rakshabandhan; the spirit of righteousness which pervades through Dusshera and Diwali; what it means to visit elders on such occasions, lessons of humility and respect through the custom of touching feet of elders, and what did blessings mean for such gestures. The significance of meditation, penance and fasting during the days of Navratri and Ganesh pujas, were just steps towards a disciplined and rigid lifestyle - a completely unknown aspect for them in the glittering glamour of the West. Not that these festivals are not celebrated in America, but to live through these occasions at its very origin, gives a completely different meaning to the gravity of each festival, to witness oceans of humanity rejoicing and dancing on the roads with idols of gods leaves a deep impact in the budding minds of children - what is the true meaning of "unity in diversity" they learn here.

Staying in USA they know only "plenty and plenty" of everything - that a part of the world is thriving with children of their age deprived of the bliss of childhood, children growing up in USA will never know. My children saw what poverty, hunger and deprivation meant, they learnt how to give away a morsel from your mouth to a hungry child at your door, and they learnt the value of gratitude to the Almighty for having bestowed on them a life away from such curses.

The good things that kept me sailing were that I had my extended family in the same country. That I would reach out to my parents when they needed me - this sense of proximity gave a very satisfying feeling, which helped me overlook many of the negatives that hovered all around me in my parents, and I was happy that I could be of help to them, specially my aged grandmother who had no one other than her daughter and we grand kids. I could bring my grandmother to my house and stay with me, a thing that would never have been possible for me if I were in USA. I could take care of her, and tend to her age-related problems, let my children get a glimpse of the patience and love required when dealing with age. I could tend to all her needs to my full satisfaction till her last dying moments - a God sent privilege for me, for which I can overlook all the hardships that I had been going through during my stay in India. This stay in India brought me closer to my roots.

Summing up, I can say that staying for two years in India added many colors to my life and my family. I tried to make the most of my stay - two years were strewn with good and bad, many happy moments to go down memory lane, and many soul-touching experiences dotted the days of the stay, the memory of which shall stay with me till eternity, yet despite all the pros and cons, I will admit that I am happy to be back in USA, but I miss India often in my day to day life in this country of ease and plenty. My love for my country stands strong, and I would continue to place India frequently on our vacation list --- a vacation that I shall look forward to with love and longing ----- as all the glitters of Americas, Europe and the like, stand nowhere when it comes to my love for the soil of my origin ------- India.

Have We Lost Those "Saperas" of Blissful "Saawan"?

The seasonal changes in India are so distinct and well-marked that we develop our special likings for special seasons. Every season has it charm and beauty. When after the scorching summer of May and June we get to see dark clouds piling up at the horizon, the heart at once yearns for the rainy season to come in pouring over fields and plains and drench us all over.

Like many, I too, love Saawan, the rainy season. The earth takes on a new look and the beauty is such that poets create their best poems in this season. Yes indeed, it is beautiful, but I am no poet and nor do I get poetic in the season. My impression of this season is very different and I can say I look at this beautiful dark clouded season with a bit of aversion and fear.

I have grown up in the outskirts of the city, were grass plains adorned our sprawling bungalow. Lush green lawns made it a pleasing sight to see all year. With the rainy season it would become a tough task keeping this well pruned lawn under check and often the lawns and garden were over grown with tall grass covering everything and this for me became a source of constant terror , for often we would shriek at the sight of a glistening slithering reptile slipping away---a snake !!!

Snakes and rainy season go together for me. The jhoolas of saawan never made me happy....as for me, all that was fully shrouded by fear of snakes and snakes.In our times rainy season and snake charmers went, almost, hand in hand.

Snake charmers were seen almost everywhere, that was their money minting season.
Every region of India has its typical name for this man, donning a colourful heavy turban and flowing kurtas, cane baskets tightly closed hanging on either sides of a wooden fat stick which in turn would be balanced on his shoulders, roaming the streets playing their flute...the 'been'. Some called him Kalibelias, some Joginaths, some Irulus and common to all, was the name saperas and some places called them ojhaas. It was an interesting cluster of elders and youngers, when the sapera would be called in, and after a bit of higgling and haggling on the the payment, he would sit down to open his baskets one by one, letting out his valuable collection of cobras, pythons,scorpions and the like, while his "been" would be playing that popular note of the film then most popular, "Nagin". It would be thirty minute show, we would sit hypnotised watching it all---the sapera would take his earnings and move off to other streets..his sweet melody from the "been" slowly fading with the distance.This was a full time profession then, their livelihood and families thrived on his earnings from these petty displays of these reptiles.Apart from this, they were often called in emergency when anyone would be stung by a snake...by the sincerity of their clan they would almost immediately reach the spot and amid amazed crowds of people, he would recite mantras and blow his "been", the snake would come in slithering to the victim lying almost dead, and suck out the poison from the spots where it had stung and poured in his venom. These were stories we had heard in our growing years, but with the passage of time these interesting anecdotes got lost, lost too were the sight of saperas in the streets in the rainy seasons.Their thriving business dwindled down to almost complete eradication. Major reasons for this extinction was the coming in of the TV,nature documentaries which extinguished the fear and mystery of the wild and extensive deforestation all over has made the existence and spotting of snakes very rare. Today's children will hardly get to know the mystified magic the snake charmers created in the dark clouded rainy season, our saawan. But I feel myself fortunate to have lived in those times when snake charmers were given so much importance and were so much needed at many critical moments.

I remember one incident, which in today's life can be labeled as unbelievable or impossible, but I have seen it, hence it stands as a true incident for me , which till date sends a chill down my spine. It was Panna, a small city then, in Madhya pradesh...not well developed....mostly forests full of wild animals and reptiles. One evening, while it was raining, we children sat on a mat in our courtyard---"aangan" playing a hilarious game of Ludo. Suddenly, my cousin screamed out looking at a long crack along the side of the floor and before the scene changed we saw a black slippery shiny tail vanish into the crack. We all saw it, so there was no scope of blaming my cousin that she had imagined, At once, we as if got charged up, sprang to our feet with shrieks and screams that brought out all elders to see the cause of the uproar . It became a terror for all, the snake was inside the crack and the crack was all along the side of the courtyard---where had it disappeared was the cause of all the screams and questions. Each one had to say his version, all stood wide-eyed gaping at the crack not knowing how to get the snake out. In the confusion someone was sent to call the ojha.. the sapera.Each one there seemed to know every detail of the crack....where it led to, where did it open out. At last came our 'know-it-all' Kallu, the Man Friday for all of us.With a hurried serious expression he dispersed our panic stricken little crowd, and then what he did was a lesson I learnt for life. He took a thin stick and a small rag which he tightly cupped around one end of the stick, soaked it in kerosene oil and set it on fire and then waited for the fire to extinguish. We too waited, hardly daring to breathe, hearts almost not beating , waiting to see what would Kallu do next. As soon as the fire died out and black thick smoke rose from the burnt rag, Kallu thrust that whole end into the crack. He thrust it so well that we could see nothing of the smoke anymore. Thin streaks of black fumes started coming out from various curves of the crack and with each streak we felt
that it was the snake. After a few minutes kallu pulled out the stick and moved away; asking all of us to move away too. We could not follow what was to happen, and then suddenly, as if by magic,from the crack that was oozing out smoke, shot out a black shiny cobra straight out of the crack at a height and then fell with a whipping slash on the cemented floor and slithered like lightening on the ground. Our screams and shrieks knew no bounds at the sight before us. It was helter skelter with all of us as Kallu tried to push the reptile out of the courtyard.
At this juncture came in the expert ojha. His appearance, itself, deepened the fear and mystery of this reptile still slithering on the floor. The ojha with a voice of authority asked all of us to move away, we should not be in the vision of the cobra he said. We, like meek obedient pupils, at once went off to take a safe place inside, behind doors and windows, kept a bit ajar to let us see the show that was to build up in the aangan. The sapera , then, with tremendous speed opened his bag of dirty linen, took out his "been" and an earthern round pot that was tightly covered with a piece of cloth. The snake was still there, trying to find a place to disappear.

Then started the sapera's mantras, chanting loudly, in a varied series of shrill volumes..... sometimes low and sometimes almost near to a shriek, holding the pot in which he had now made a small opening at one end.
It was as if some magic flew out from his loud mantras, we could not believe what was happening before our eyes. Slowly the electrifying slithering of the snake slowed down. It swayed slowly as if charmed by some potion and in its slow meandering movement it began to move towards the pot. The mantras became louder and louder as the reptile kept nearing the pot---and as it reached the pot, the sapera tilted the opening towards the snake. Gone was the swift lightening like slithers of the reptile, it moved slowy as if drugged heavily and unbelievably, before our eyes, it just slowly slipped into the earthern pot. As soon as the tail vanished inside, the ojha swiftly took up the pot and immediately secured the opening tightly around the neck of the container. His mantras stopped at once . We, too, as if broke out of our trance of fear and awe, stepped out of our rooms and looked with chilling fear at the tightly secured pot.

My grandmother went ahead to pay the sapera, but he refused to take anything, as by their profession they should not take any cash in return for such acts. Grandmother gave him some rice and flour to last for a few days. She asked him what would he do with the pot ---he touched the container to his forehead to show his reverence for the reptile and said he would throw the pot in the jungle--" we cannot kill him, he is our source of livelihood".saying this he collected his belongings and the pot and moved out, while, we still in fear, saw him mingle into the forest.

Where have such saperas gone? Will our children ever get to see such shows of live magic--nothing hidden or tricked , just in front of our eyes. We have lost all this in our march to prosperity in modern life. The forests,the greenery, the unknown thrill of the wild , the mysterious charm shrouding the saperas have all been lost forever. Saawans no longer can hear those lilting eerie music of the "beens" of saperas in the streets in the rainy seasons...good or bad is for you to decide---but my childhood cherishes the memories of those days of saawan.

Wishes Need Not Be Horses

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride"---is a proverb, that perhaps, all of us had learnt in our school days...and we had often given ourselves up to imaginations that led us into a world of impossible dreams fulfilled.

With growing years the reality dawned that horses cannot fulfill our
dreams...it just needs an ardent sincerity of wishing that makes a wish come true....so deep should be the sincerity that it would seem it got fulfilled from heaven itself...I have seen it happen..if language permits I can say wishes can be fulfilled "posthumously" too. I have experienced it.

My masi-in-law brings before me, the picture of a bone slim, middle aged widow in her late sixties, fit as a fiddle, very confident, punctual to the tick of a clock, very efficient as a housewife, running her domestic life with full perfection as the empress of her simple ordinary empire--her home.

I simply admired her way of life, very meticulous about every angle of her role as the Lady of her house. Her larder, her pantry was a very tempting corner in her home, and it was not rare when she would serve out some delicacy from her store..her home made jam, jellies, pickles on a spoon or a simple plate..no ostentatious presentation...her loving informal presentation made up for the best crockery.

Masi had a soft heart for me, felt me as her confidant in many matters---so it was often, on relaxed afternoons , when she would visit me and give vent to her pent up grievances which she could not open out to any other.I would lend her an attentive ear, just hearing her without much commenting or remarks, she loved this attentive hearing of mine and slowly there developed a strong bonding that deepened with the years...me, the single 'audience' and she the 'speaker'. This friendly relationship made its way through many ups and downs of her life as well as mine; but both of us enjoyed each other's role of "you hear I say".

As age advanced , there slowly clouded the dark shadows of the end of the journey of this relaxed friendship of ours...she was detected of cancer and that too in its last stage. The news came as a jolt to the whole family.Being my mother in law's younger sister the shocking news shook us all. Masi was admitted in hospital, she was not in visible pain, though it was clearly seen how the killer disease was gnawing her from within. Despite many relatives, many well wishers, it was me who attended her in hospital....it was a willingly accepted duty by me when I saw no other come forward easily.

So started my session of sitting at the bed side of a person whose days were numbered. I went daily and just sat as if we both were again to ourselves gossiping, me again the 'audience' and she the 'speaker'. She seemed so out of place away from her home--her pantry...I tried to pick up such topics that her spirits could be revived.... so would ask her to relate some old funny incident or teach me some yummy dish of hers. She spoke, but her smile had lost its vivacity and spirit; she would relate about her pantry, her jellies, her pickles, all that were now lying unattended for so many days. She would relate all this with a sad nostalgic note---as if all lost, never to be lived in or returned again, I could feel the weight of her painful emotions as she spoke of her so well equipped pantry, her own little pleasures that she found in setting everything, she would perhaps visualise how all this will soon be waste for outsiders to plunder and throw away. It was then that she may have felt a suffocation at her helplessness to fight destiny that was drawing to a close for her. Perhaps it was this strangulating feeling that made her make a simple wish, it perhaps came from the core of her heart-- she said " I wish I could have given you my own made jam and pickles before I came to the hospital, but a thing that I would love to give you are my own hand made dal baris, you will love them...tell Geeta(her daughter) to give them to you"----I , as always, heard her, just heard her, and let it go down within me. I did not want to tell this to anyone, it was a simple wish of a dying person that would have no any meaning for anyone else.
Days moved on, her condition deteriorated----we knew the the end was nearing, as she slowly moved on to state of coma. Doctors, close relatives hovered around her as the end stalked in, and I took backstage to see it all happen. She passed away.
More than being shaken emotionally I was flooded with memories of my gossip sessions with her---what all she spoke, what all I would hear.I was deep down in memory while her own kin were there to see into her belongings, her house, her home and her beloved pantry. Years moved---her daughter, Geeta, who resided in a different city would come in six months to look into her mother's house, would dispose off the furniture, draperies or carry some of the best items in portable bulks. She often told me that she would deal with the pantry last, as it was full of grains and jams and pickles which she would have to throw away as all must be infested by insects and termites in these two years. I just heard her, there was nothing for me to advise in this. All household things were gone.

It was the last day, Geeta made her last trip to her mother's house to throw off the last items of her mother's pantry,clean the house and then come to me before leaving us. By evening she returned tired with the whole day's exertion, holding a few bottles and bags and paper wrappers, things that she wanted to keep as sentiment. While keeping her things, she handed me a newspaper wrapper packet, saying, "you keep this and use it up remembering Ma". As I held up my palm to take it, a huge surge of memory gushed in within me--- in the packet were ten to twelve pieces of dal baris!!--those same baris which two years back masi had asked me to take from her pantry, as she lay in her hospital bed counting her last days. As I opened the packet and looked on to the neatly shaped baris, crisp dried, not a single termite or insect in them, I remained amazed at the reality of the moment, felt it some super natural hand wielding the whole thing, some unseen force that lay in the wish of a dying person--- a wish of a person who did not have a horse to ride on and wanted to get it fulfilled, it came from the depths of the heart of a loving masi whose love defied death and destiny and had her wish fulfilled. I thanked her in silence as my mind once again relived my days of gossip with her, only that I was still the audience, but all alone with my speaker no more.

Those Were the Days

"Memory is the only paradise in which we can live again and again" is an old Chinese saying ... and Allahabad for me remains a paradise where the heart yearns to go again and again.

Allahabad! A name that conjures up for me years and years of memories entwined with my growing years in the city of Prayag, on the Ganges, at the Jumna, making it the holy pilgrim place of Sangam, a name renowned, revered and mentioned since time immemorial. Yet for me it is just a simple name that spells home and just home, a fountain of young childhood memories that fail to leave me in the race with time.

Marriage brought me out of Allahabad to be set in the soils of Madhya Pradesh, yet going to Allahabad every summer was an eagerly-awaited vacation, thus the familiarity with the place never faded, it in fact deepened my nostalgic love for the soil of Prayag.

Allahabad, surely, had its own enticing charm with its serene quiet, air. There was a Victorian spell enveloping the city, a grave culture breathed in and out of its road and lanes... and the names added a certain identity to it...Alfred Park, Minto Park, Elgin Road, George Town, Clive Road...names that only spelt discipline and grandeur and thus the place itself needed no separate introduction.

Every summer it remained for me a haven of relaxed enjoyment in the lush green lawns of 18 Tagore Town, enjoying the moonlit nights, the air with the fragrance of wet lawns, the cool breeze so typical of Allahabad in summer nights after a scorching day spent in khus-cooled rooms, quenching our thirst with chilled earth-scented water from earthern surais, buying the best mangoes of the season. So relaxed and stately was life then. The city oozed an endearing air, making my young mind want nothing above these luxuries. The years rolled by, age took its toll, and those closest to my heart left me. Suddenly, Allahabad was snapped off my calendar only, broken off, as if all roads to my dream city were closed to me for ever. Ten years piled up, one over another, and Allahabad seemed lost in the distance of time--- a hazy memory wanting to get back its colour often knocked at my heart, yet I could not make it to the same Allahabad again.

Finally, when my heart stood bereft of all those dear ones of Allahabad, I took the firm decision that once again I must tread that soil on my own, all alone, with just memories as my companions to draw on the lost strands of love and familiarity that Allahabad had for me. So this winter I made it to Allahabad again. My heart was heavy, eyes were moist, but somewhere a hope quivered in me that maybe my Allahabad too was waiting for me.

As I stepped out of the station, I felt myself losing my identity of the place--- everything seemed so strange, so new. I kept searching for some familiarity somewhere, but nothing of that old warmth could I find anywhere. That calm, serene, majestic beauty of the city with its quiet roads, huge sprawling lawns, cool, dark, long-veranda bungalows was nowhere...all was lost to modern stingy suffocating flats and small accommodation with modern touches---as if that lilting tune of soft music that seemed to blow through the lawns were lost to crackling, ear-dinning loud horns of posh cars, autos, a hoarding race to rise above all was strangulating the air, each house trying to grapple with it. The serenity of the city, the broad quiet roads bordered with thick foliage were no more, the passing through these roads in the quiet itself had been a royal pleasure---nothing was left of that. Residences, shops, clinics over crowded all over. Those old, friendly rickshaw pullers, mouth-watering aromas of sweet marts of Civil Lines all seemed lost somewhere, all drowned under a modern Allahabad.

My vacant eyes went searching here and beyond for that same greenery, that same peace of moonlit nights, the sound of rain on thirsty green lawns, but all seemed a forgotten story, yet it was still Allahabad. Maybe as loving to some young heart as it had been to me when I was young. It was the same Allahabad, the city of Ganga-Jumna and Saraswati, may be its soil still beckoned to me to reassure me, "I am still there, please search me out". But I stood lost, gazing at this new city through a haze of memories far off in the horizon.